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Asylum for Nightface By Bruce Brooks CHAPTER ONE
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From the stone doorway of what used to be a dim hardware store and will soon be a bright video rental center, I watch with surprise as the sunlight slants into Ninth Street, reaching between the four-story Wheeler Hotel and the slightly taller spire of the Episcopal church at the east end of downtown, to light up the gutters. The streets are wet. Must have rained last night. Nice sight. But surprising. I expected no surprises today. This is a day I have planned. It must unfold along critically placed lines creased in advance. No variables; already thought of everything; I know everything. But I did not know to anticipate this rain, which fell while I slept. It is a small thing, it means nothing, it changes nothing. I simply did not think of it in advance. I am angry with myself. But soon enough I realize this may be the effect of nerves; I am not often angry at anyone. The sun lifts a bit, and the lower edges of the shop windows begin to shine, and now we have moved into the familiar. An alert watcher can see the orderly sequence of illumination, proceeding along the northern side of the street from right to left, as if a silent lamplighter touched a wick at each storefront in turn: the furniture store, the shoe store (full price), the social services agency, the Christian Science Reading Room, the sporting-goods store, the donut shop, the (former) bookstore (now empty, soon to be a chain sub shop), the bank, the coffee shop, the drugstore, the other shoe store (discount), the other bank, and, on the corner, the tavern. In the middle, between the sporting-goods store and the donut shop, one window breaks the chain, refuses to light up on cue, registers as a dark blip in the center of the sequence. This is because its windows are angled more sharply back from the sidewalk into a deeper doorway: They do not catch the light. But in just ninety seconds, as if in an afterthought, the sun returns to fix this last spot of night hanging on too long. The angled window is found; its low edge gleams thinly; the line of light grows broader; and the shop joins the rest of the street. Eventually the light reaches a name stenciled on the window, in red paint over silver foil: Kollektible Kards.
If you liked chapter one of Asylum for Nightface, find out more about the book.
Go back to the index of first chapters of new books for Fall 1999. |
