Knucklehead & Other Stories by W. Mark Giles Read Free Book Online Page A

over and looked out between the slats of the blinds. “Neat yard,” he said. “Very nice indeed.”
    Beverly stood by the stairs, watching as he moved through the space. His shivering seemed to have subsided. He ran a hand through the strands of his hair, then looked at his palm slick with the rain. “I’ll get a towel,” Beverly said. When she returned, the man was standing by the sound system console next to the fireplace. She watched as he ran a finger over the stacks of CD s. He pushed the Eject button and checked the disc that was cued.
    â€œHere’s a towel,” Beverly said.
    â€œHmm,” the man said. He stayed by the stereo, pushed the CD platter closed, then punched Play. The first couple of bars played, then the voice. Tom Jones. “It’s not unusual to be …” The man cocked his head like the RCA Victor dog, and adjusted the volume up a couple of notches.
    â€œPlease,” Beverly said. She moved across the room to pick up the remote control from the worktable and turned off the music. The man shrugged and turned towards her. She flicked her wrist and tossed him the towel. Carefully, he dried his hands, the palms, the backs, between the fingers, wiped his face and brow, then drew it over his hair. He examined the items on the table. “Making clothes?” he said.
    â€œYes,” Beverly replied. “No, not exactly. Costumes.” It was an important distinction to her. Gaddie was always calling her a seamstress. “For a children’s theatre.” She moved so the table was between them. “That’s what I do. I sew costumes for theatre. Actually, I design and sew costumes. I’m making a mermaid costume.”
    â€œVery admirable,” he replied. The man looked at her sewing machine. “Pfaff. Beautiful,” he said. He kept his eyes on the machine as he handed the used towel to Beverly. She snatched it.
    â€œWhat about your lunch,” she said. She folded the towel in her hands. “The micro wave’s by the sink.”
    He smiled, showing teeth brilliantly white and even. “Right,” he said. “To lunch.” He went to the kitchen, rummaged in his paper sack and pulled out an old margarine container.
    Beverly sat at the worktable. She realized she was still kneading the towel, and let it drop to the carpet. She picked up the piece of cloth she had been working with. The play’s director had asked for flesh-coloured spandex. Whose flesh, she wondered. Not this man’s chalky flesh. Not the coffee-brown of the clerk at the fabric store where she had purchased it. She had tried to describe what she was looking for, tried not to describe it in terms of skin; finally the clerk had exclaimed, Oh by all means, we have lots of flesh-tone. Like flesh-coloured crayons, or the colour of dolls, not really the true colour of anyone’s flesh, but a colour that suggested a certain kind of flesh. She wished she hadn’t told him what she was doing. Very admirable, what was that supposed to mean?
    Beverly made a few practice seams, working with scraps of fabric before she started to cut the pattern. A bodysuit for a mermaid’s costume. She had finally settled for a blend of cotton-poly reinforced with Lycra. She needed it ready for a fitting tomorrow. She fingered the shiny remnant, stretched it between her hands, and watched the man.
    He put the food in the microwave, then stood, examining the panel. “How does this —” he said. She cut in on his question: “Hit Reheat, then enter a time, then hit Start.”
    The appliance beeped, then whirred to life as he operated the controls. “These things are all a little different,” he said. He kept his back turned to her, staring through the little window as his food rotated on the platter. The aroma of canned beef stew filled the room. Beverly thought she could smell the salt, the fat, imagined the congealed gravy turning soft