Winchester County
A Short Story
Excerpt D
Across the hall was a kind of parlor. He could see a high-backed chair with arms that scrolled into little wooden fists and part of a brown couch with a black pillow that had white stuffing coming out of the seam. The window shades were drawn and the air hung heavy and low and old along the floor. In the corner was a television console that stood on three wooden legs and a can of tomato soup. Tyler guessed that was where Winchester County came into Pillsbury’s world.
The Lemiski house had a smell. Like his apartment had a smell. Emptiness has an odor. Nothingness has an odor. Stillness has an odor. It made Tyler want to cry and scream and break things and tear the curtains off the windows in the parlor. It smelled like something no longer living, like dander and scurf. It smelled like death. The late Mr. Lemiski stared down at him from a gilded oval portrait on the wall. He looked like he wanted to speak but couldn’t. Somewhere a clock ticked out a thin memory of heartbeat. Tyler stood up went outside and sat down on the stoop and watched the sun set fire to the trees.