yame (3 page)

A brisk snapping sound turned his head. How curious. Marching across the sun-baked lot was a tall, shoddily attired woman with lank black hair and a beaming smile. She looked weathered yet healthy simultaneously. Flip-flops snapped asphalt as her long, sturdy legs propelled her toward the store. Westmore tried not to peer too overtly, but the closer she got, the harder it was. A faded-blue smock was all that covered her physique, which itself seemed exotically feminine while also robust and honed by hard work.
A redneck,
Westmore presumed,
but a real one. One from the boondocks.

She was walking straight toward him.

"Howdy!" came a spirited greeting that was higher-pitched than he would've thought. That weatheredness blended with her curves made her age impossible to discern. She stopped and grinned right at Westmore.

"This here the 'lectric store?"

Westmore found the hillbilly accent fascinating. "Electronics store, yes. TV's, computers, stereos, stuff like that."

She sighed, then her smile turned frustrated. "Gosh, I come all this way'n now here I am, feelin' like a perfect ninny."

Westmore laughed. "Why do you say that?" but as he addressed her, his eyes kept dragging to her bosom
—quite an
ample
bosom. The smock's going-threadbare fabric made no secret that, one, she wore no bra and, two, her nipples were over two inches wide. He even got a ghost of a sexual twinge when a momentary glance downward revealed the shadow of a formidable pubic tuft.

"Oh, hail, I ain't never been in a store like this, and don't know nothin' 'bout it." Then she caught herself. "Dang, I'se sorry! My name's Easter!" and she extended her hand.

"Hi, Easter, I'm Westmore," but as he shook her hand, he found another twinging dichotomy. The hand was hot and moist, its palm callused from labor, yet the top graceful, elegant, alabaster-white. Eventually, he asked, "So, I presume you need something in the store?"

"Oh, yeah, what I need is, I need a
tape recorder.
I think they'se called
cassettes."

"They probably still have them."

She peered, concerned. "What'cha mean
—
still?"

"Cassette recorders are kind of antiquated these days. Everything's digital. Ipods, music downloads, digital Walkmans..."

"Aw, my. I just don't know from such things. I'se from the hills, as ya could probably guess." Now her look showed utter confusion. "Why, Westmore, if'n I cain't get me a tape recorder, I'm in
a fix."

"It has to be a
cassette?"
he asked, incredulous.

"Well, I don't rightly know. Just sumpin' that'll record a li'l bit of talking."

Westmore struggled against his captivation. Sweat sheened her cleavage like a glaze of honey, and the ghosts of her nipples were flat-out killing him. He thought of something a writer might think.
This woman is...unrepresentatively attractive.
From his breast pocket he removed his memo-corder. "Maybe something like this will do," and he held the cellphone-sized device up. "It's just a little thing for reminders."

"Re-mind-ers?"

"See, when you want to record, you just press this little red button and talk"
—he held it closer to her face. "Say something, Easter."

She stared, cogs churning. "Uh, uh, well, um
—hi! My name's Easter!"

"All right. When you're done recording what you want, you let go of the little red button, and when you want to play it back, you press the bigger black button that says
play,"
and then he did it.

The memo-corder issued: "Uh, uh, well, um
—hi! My name's Easter!"

Easter squealed as if she'd just witnessed a superior magic trick, and when she did so, she lifted herself off her heels in delight. It was Westmore's delight, too, to see the way her breasts bounced from the action.
Holy SHIT. This hayseed is ADORABLE.

"That li'l machine there is just what I need," she giggled. "You reckon they have one just like it in the store?"

"I'm sure they do
—"

"Oh-oh, and"
—she reached awkwardly behind her, leaning over slightly. That's when Westmore noticed a very old rucksack on her back. But he could've wilted because as she'd leaned, he caught a raving glimpse of her bare breasts and edges of dark, pink-mocha nipples.
Oh, man...

She'd extracted a fold of disarranged bills. "Do you
reckon fifty-six dollars
is enough ta buy me one?"

Westmore laughed. "They're way cheaper than that, Easter. Maybe ten bucks including batteries," but then he just shrugged.
What the hell?
"Save your money. You can have this one."

"Oh, I simply
couldn't?'

"No, take it. I have
lots
of these things." He urged it toward her, and with a long hesitation, she took it.

"Well I just cain't thank you enough!" she exclaimed. "But lemme pay ya..."

"No. Just take it. Believe me, Easter. I'll bet I have three more just in the car."

She stared amazed at the simple little device. "My
goodness,
what a nice man you are, Westmore. And now I don't even have ta go inta this store, where I'd likely as not make a blammed
fool'a
myself. Thank you very much!"

"You're quite welcome."

Her eyes
radiated
at him. "At
least
let me buy ya a coffee."

Westmore's senses seemed to fuse.
You've got the hots for her, you idiot. Don't do it!

"Sure," he said.

***

They sat outside at the Starbucks right across the street, Westmore with half of a ludicrous erection in his pants. The day's heat demanded iced-coffees, and more of Westmore's lust-tainted fascination itched at him as he watched her suck individual ice cubes as though they were ambrosial.

"This is so
good,"
she twanged. "We don't hardly never get ice."

We,
came his despondent thought, and then he cast a verifying glance at her ring finger.
She's married.
But what the hell could he be thinking?

"If'n we want it, we gots ta go ta Hull's and buy it by the bag. Hull's is the general store, not a mile from where we live."

He asked the ordinate question before thinking. "You mean you don't have a refrigerator or freezer?"

"Oh, goodness, no," she replied, amused. "Hillfolk don't have need fer such modern things. We smoke our meat, jar our fruit'n vegetables, pickle whatnot, and don't hardly
never
have ta spend cash money at the store."

"I guess there's a lot to be said for that," he suggested, and semi-longed for a simpler life. But it was her body he longed for more. The lambent white skin of her face, her cleavage and her bare shoulders
—it all coalesced to something like an aura. Now the sweat misting on her bosom made her breasts and nipples even more apparent.

"'N'fact, just yesterday we'se smoked some muskrat'n squirrel. My husband, Noot, he built the smokehouse."

"That's quite an art." He paused. "But...you don't have electricity?"

"Oh, shore, when we'se need it, which ain't much." Her elegant fingers picked up a plastic card advertising a plethora of
lattes
and frappes to fan herself. "We gots a wood-gas generator ta watch the old TV sometimes, or when my husband Noot need ta run his tools."

"A
wood-gas
generator?"

"Ain't never heard of "em?" Each stroke of the make-shift fan caused black tendrils of hair to puff as she leaned back in the chair with her legs crossed, A flip-flop hung off the foot of her crossed leg; she wagged it back and forth. "Noot built it hisself from my Grandpop's 'nstructions. He just take a old hot water-heater, then put two more littler metal drums in it, which ya fix with copper tubing'n set over a wood fire, but first ya fill that heater full up with wood chips'n seal the lid. Instead'a burnin', the heat turn the wood chips inta
gas,
and then through the tubes the gas go to a little pull-motor which runs the generator. S'how folks droved their cars in the War, Grandpop Orne say, 'cos they had somethin' back then
calt gas rationing."

World War II,
Westmore guessed. "That's fascinating," he said, but thought,
YOU'RE fascinating...
"Modernity definitely makes people"
—he chuckled— "especially people like me, take things for granted." But, next, he nearly moaned aloud when she plucked a single cube from her drink and daintily glided it over the hollow of her throat, then...lower.

"This ice just feel so dandy on a day hot as this. See, it don't get too hot where's we live on account'a the shade from all the trees..."

Westmore stalled, watching the ice-water trickle down her cleavage in shining rivulets.
Is she trying to seduce me? GOD, I hope so,
but he knew it was folly. She was just a simple woman from a simple life.

"But tell me sumpin', Westmore, if'n a'course, ya don't mind my askin'." She picked up the memo-corder and smiled at it. "You say you have a bunch'a these machines, but...why?"

"For my job." The ice cube had melted away, leaving her upper bosom
gleaming.
"In case I think of something when it's not convenient to write it down, I just whip out the memo-corder and say whatever it is I'd thought of. I'm a writer."

Her brows rose. "A writer? Like...a
book
writer?"

"Yeah," he answered rather sheepishly. "Get ready to laugh, but I write non-fiction books about...haunted houses."

She sat up straighten keen on what he'd said. "Ya don't say? Why...I never met a book writer before!"

"It's no big deal. I got lucky, had a bestseller several years ago"
—he chuckled once more—"called
The Hildreth House of Horrors.
It was about a mansion in Florida supposedly haunted. It did well, so now my publisher wants the same sort of stuff, Amityville for the new millennium, my editor said."

She squinted, still fanning. "I don't know no Amityville, but I once knew a gal named Amity, Amity Pierce...but she die, poor thing, from drinkin' bad moonshine. Evil stuff, that 'shine. Lotta folks swear it was Amity's husband, Delany, who put sumpin' in it so's ta kill her
—varnish, maybe. See, Delany had his-self a lover on the side, and, well"—she leaned over and whispered—"his lover? It were a fella, not a gal."

Westmore could summon no response.

"But there's more'n a peck of bad houses 'round here," she went on. Her eyes found his, and her smile sharpened. "You
believe
in such things? Ghosts'n such?" Westmore might've blushed. "Let me just say that I don't disbelieve anything that hasn't been confuted by my own eyes."

She laughed. "Well
that's
a fancy way'a puttin' it!"

It took conscious force not to stare outright at her bosom, whose moistness had traceably darkened the fabric of her smock. The size of her papillae were surely the size of his pinkie-tips. "But it's one house in particular my editor wants me to write about
—the problem is, there's virtually no records or documentation of its existence. It was some eccentric guy who owned it: no birth records, no tax records, no financial trail, no house title—it's all based on hearsay. Evidently this guy had some kind of holding fund that always paid the property tax, like he didn't want anyone to be able to find him. His name was Crafter—
"

Easter interrupted with a deliberate nod. "Aw, yeah. Ole Crafter, I 'member him-"

Westmore gagged, lurching forward, and actually hacked out a mouthful of ice-coffee. He began to cough. Half-alarmed, half-amused, Easter leaned over. "Why, Westmore! What ever is
wrong?"

"Ice-coffee down the wrong pipe," he gagged, recovering.
"
You took me by surprise
—"

"Huh?"

Dizzy
in exuberance, Westmore re-harnessed his composure. He was shaking.
Too good to be true, too good
—
"Easter. This means a great deal to me. I've been trying to trace Crafter for six months, and there's
nothing
on him. All I have are little bits of conjecture from antiquarian book collectors and antique dealers. But you're telling me that"—he gulped—"you
know
something about Crafter?"

"Why, shore. Ain't no big deal." She rolled an ice cube around on her tongue. "He was a old coot'n weirdo, pretty much. Had a funny first name, some-thin' like...Eff-ree-ham..."