Demonology Read Online Free

parents and dead siblings, has gotten more and more frail? Have I mentioned that I have
     some news about Brice, your intended? That his tune has changed slightly since your memorial service? Have I mentioned that
     I was out at the crime scene the next day? The day after you died? Have I mentioned that in my dreams I am often at the crime
     scene now? Have I wondered aloud to you about that swerve of blacktop right there, knowing that others may lose their lives
     as you did? Can’t we straighten out that road somehow? Isn’t there one road crew that the governor, in his quest for jobs,
     jobs, jobs, can send down there to make this sort of thing unlikely? Have I perhaps clued you in about how I go there often
     now, to look for signs of further tragedy? Have I mentioned to you that in some countries DWI is punishable by death, and
     that when Antonio at Hot Bird first explained this dark irony to me, I imagined taking his throat in my hands and squeezing
     the air out of him once and for all? Sis, have I told you of driving aimlessly in the mountains, listening to talk radio,
     searching for the one bit of cheap, commercially interrupted persuasion that will let me put these memories of you back in
     the canister where you now at least partially reside so that I can live out mydim, narrow life? Have I mentioned that I expect death around every turn, that every blue sky has a safe sailing out of it,
     that every bus runs me over, that every low, mean syllable uttered in my direction seems to intimate the violence of murder,
     that every family seems like an opportunity for ruin and every marriage a ceremony into which calamity will fall and hearts
     will be broken and lives destroyed and people branded by the mortifications of love? Is it all right if I ask you all of this?
    Still, in spite of these personal issues, I was probably a model employee for Glenda Manzini. For example, I managed to sort
     out the politics concerning the Jewish wedding and the Islamic wedding (both slated for the first weekend of April), and I
     did so by appealing to certain aspects of light in our valley at the base of the Adirondacks. Certain kinds of light make
     for very appealing weddings here in our valley, I told one of these families. In late winter, in the early morning, you begin
     to feel an excitement at the appearance of the sun. Yes, I managed to solve that problem, and the next (the prayer mats) —because
     K-Mart,
where America shops,
had a special on bathmats that week, and I sent Dorcas Gilbey over to buy six dozen to use for the Muslim families. I solved
     these problems and then I solved others just as vexing. I had a special interest in the snags that arose on Fridays after
     5 P.M. —the groom who on the day of the ceremony was trapped in a cabin east of Lake George and who had to snowshoe three miles out
     to the nearest telephone, or the father of the bride (it was the Lapsley wedding) who wanted to arrive at the ceremony by
     hydrofoil. Brinksmanship, inthe world of nuptial planning, gave me a sense of well-being, and I tried to bury you in the rear of my life, in the back
     of that closet where I’d hidden my secondhand golf clubs and my ski boots and my Chicken Mask —never again to be seen by mortal
     man.
    One of my front-office associates was a fine young woman by the name of Linda Pietrzsyk, who tried to comfort me during the
     early weeks of my job, after Glenda’s periodic assaults. Don’t ask how to pronounce Linda’s surname. In order to pronounce
     it properly, you have to clear your throat aggressively. Linda Pietrzsyk didn’t like her surname anymore than you or I, and
     she was apparently looking for a groom from whom she could borrow a better one. That’s what I found out after awhile. Many
     of the employees at the Mansion on the Hill had ulterior motives. This marital ferment, this loamy soil of romance, called
     to them somehow. When I’d been there a few months, I started to see other