The Book of Old Houses by Sarah Graves Read Free Book Online

foolishness,” the storekeeper went on.
    The coffee was good. “What kind of foolishness?”
    â€œObjects,” the storekeeper answered. “Unidentified flying ones,” he added. His tone suggested that it was the flying part he found especially irksome.
    â€œGuy swears he sees ’em. They land in his backyard, the little green men get out and talk to him. So
he
says.” The storekeeper turned to Dave. “Your friend’s a few pecans short of a pie.”
    â€œUh-huh,” Dave agreed. Merkle always had liked the air of harmlessness created by his I’m-so-crazy act.
    Extraterrestrials, though; that was a new wrinkle. “Did he,” Dave asked, “ever mention to you what the little green men say?”
    The storekeeper looked scornful. In the boat basin, a spry-looking old gentleman in a navy peacoat was urging a small black dog to jump from a pier into a wooden dory.
    â€œNope,” said the storekeeper, lighting another smoke. “ ‘Take me to your leader,’ I guess. What else?”
    The dog jumped; the man followed. As the man settled himself and began to row, the dog sat in the bow, barking.
    â€œWears tinfoil hats,” the storekeeper went on sorrowfully of Merkle, as if reciting the bad habits of a troublesome relative. “Been around here twenty years, started out no more crazy than any of the rest of us.”
    Something about the way the storekeeper said it made Dave think personality quirks were pretty common in Eastport, and that a live-and-let-live attitude might be fairly widespread, too, as a result.
    And that Bert’s recent behavior was stretching even this elastic standard. The storekeeper’s next words seemed to confirm the idea. “I mean, a lot of folks here, they’ll . . .”
    The man thought a moment, considering how to put it, then went on. “Let’s just say conformity’s not an absolute requirement for bein’ a well-respected member of this community, you just manage to take a shower, brush your teeth, an’ put on some clean clothes oftener’n once in a blue moon, you get me? This guy, though. Takes his individuality seriously.” And when Dave tipped his head inquisitively:
    â€œGets up on his soapbox down here right across from the post office every Saturday morning,” the storekeeper said. “Shouting about how the aliens are going to get us.”
    Shaking his head, he went on. “He’s got all the gory details down pat, too, Bert does. How the worst ones’re already here and they’re going to come up out of the bay one fine day, all black and dripping.”
    He turned to Dave. “With tentacles, like, growing out of their heads. And gills. And about how we’re related to ’em, some of us, only we don’t even know it.”
    â€œThat’s pretty wild, all right,” Dave said, not letting his voice betray any emotion. He wondered what else Bert Merkle had decided to shout from the rooftops.
    â€œDon’t happen to know where he lives, do you?” he asked, as if the answer weren’t very important to him.
    Unfooled, the storekeeper shot Dave a sideways look. “Not a cop, are you? Or the tax man? ’Cause I’m no fan of Merkle but I’m also not in the habit of turning in my neighbors.”
    He stuck his second cigarette butt into the sand. “Fellow wants to tell stories, his own business, way I see it.”
    Dave finished his coffee. “No,” he replied easily, “I’m not either of those. I went to school with Bert. A friend of ours has died, one of our classmates, and I came to talk to Bert about it. That’s all.”
    â€œNo kidding. Hey, sorry about that.” The bell rang again and the storekeeper went inside, then returned.
    â€œSchool buddies, huh? Funny, I’d of thought Bert was a lot older’n you. Guess seein’ little green men must age a person.”
    Not