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Back Black Ambrosia Save as PDF
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

I closed the door and looked around at the empty house. It was just beginning to feel like home—the little personal effects we’d added during the past few months had warmed it. But suddenly it was empty and impersonal. It was cheap and echoing and dusty. I was quite surprised. Lewis made the house sing. I cleared the breakfast dishes and sat at the kitchen table to think about him.

But all I could think of was the night ahead. My fantasy had grown to such tremendous proportions that a part of me wanted to hold back, afraid that what I would find might not live up to my expecta­tions.

But that was silly; I had no expectations, really. I had only curiosity. Overwhelming curiosity. And it was only a bus station, I told myself. A bus station that I knew very well. It was merely a different aspect that I would see this night, like looking at an oil painting in the natural light instead of a fluorescent light. In the bus station, I would be seeing the night people in their natural light.

I went to draw a bath.

HAROLD WATERTON: “Sure, I remember her. She’s one a them whatchacallits. You know the kind. They’re weird about watching people. This one, I remember her. Tiny. Teeny-­tiny little girl, right?

“Yep. I remember her. Used to come in about eleven, eleven-­thirty, every day, stay until three. Just sit, pretend she’s reading, but she’s just watching.

“I been selling tickets in train and bus terminals for twenty-­seven years now. And you see all kinds. I seen her kind before, too. They’re getting something weird out of it, know what I mean? It ain’t exactly natural to be sittin’ in a bus terminal for four hours a day, just sittin’, now is it? For months, now, we’re talking months. I kept an eye on her, though, just waiting for her to do something. The weirdos always end up doing something. So I just waited for her to pull her stunt so’s I could throw her out. I even had the maid follow her into the john, in case she’s doing something in there, y’know? But nothin’. She never did nothin’.

“Then she stopped coming. I missed her, you know? You spend four hours a day looking at a pervert, watchin’ them watch others, and you kind of get friendly with ’em a little bit, in your mind. So, I missed her, and went to wondering a little about where she went to get her jollies that was better than the bus station. Westwater ain’t got a train station or an airport.