Death of a Sunday Writer by Eric Wright Read Free Book Online Page A

would not disappear without a trace, like Willy Loman. There was an article there, surely. The
Examiner
might run it, or one of the racing papers. A little essay. She thought about titles. “The Last Race,” she thought; then, more irreverently, “Death of a Bad Bugger.” She would talk to all his cronies. Surely a man’s life was worth a thousand words? And as thescheme came to her, she knew that she had found the answer, the perfect excuse that would let her do what she wanted to do, which was to stay here, and see what happened next.
    She postponed telling The Trog until after dinner. She was coming to a decision that she felt The Trog, and everyone, would try to talk her out of because he would no longer be able to count on her being alone in Longborough when he came off a mission.
    The presence of The Trog in her life had been Lucy’s first proof to herself that she had earned the right to a larger existence than Geoffrey had allowed her. The Trog had arrived one night on her doorstep in the early days of her bed-and-breakfast venture, looking for a room. His name, he said, was Ben Tranter. He was in his early fifties, shortish, bald, brown-headed, with a lot of white teeth set in a broad, short face divided by a large, sharp-edged nose. His car had broken down on Highway 28, and the garage had suggested Lucy’s establishment as a good place to stay overnight while they fixed the engine. He asked for dinner, which she advertised that she would provide on request. Usually, she required a few hours’ notice in case she didn’t feel like offering it, but there was a raffishness and a carefree air about her visitor, as if he was descended from a race of tinkers or gypsies, that intrigued her, made her want to take chances, and he clearly seemed to want to find himself at home here. While he was in the shower, she slipped out and bought a chicken pot pie and some tabouli salad (he looked slightly middle-eastern) from The Moveable Feast, a takeout shop where the cooking was a lot more interesting than hers, and had her instincts about him confirmed when he produced two bottles of wine to drink with the meal.
    Afterwards, the last of the wine drunk in front of a little log fire, he asked for her. It was the first time anyone had propositioned her for fifteen years, and even then it had been only the occasional colleague of Geoffrey’s. The whole situation being presented now was so close to that of the travelling salesman and the farmer’s wife that she immediately rejected the idea as absurd. She laughed and sipped her wine, and thus allowed second thoughts to come. For although she was out of practice at even the most rudimentary flirting, and although Tranter was not the sort of man she was familiar with, she had known he was going to ask and she had made no attempt to keep her distance. Setting aside the farmer’s wife, she felt also that their situation was very similar to one that a Longborough friend had confessed had happened to her in Oslo when she had been on a tour of Scandinavia: she had been propositioned by a shopkeeper who contrived to find out her hotel and room on the pretext of promising to deliver a catalogue of his leather goods. “I decided then and there that if he asked me I would, because no one would possibly know about it. I’ve never heard of anyone from Longborough going to Oslo for a visit. So he did and I did, and I had a great time, knowing I would never see him again. I’ve never regretted doing it with my Norwegian. I expect he has two or three Canadian ladies a week in the high season, but that’s all right with me.”
    And then, between sips of wine, Lucy was reminded of something that had happened to her the year after high school, the only time she had ever been in love, and she had said no and he went away to college and she had never seen him again, and she had regretted saying no ever since.
    So now, as she became aware