The Sisters from Hardscrabble Bay (38 page)

Idella laid strips of American cheese down the length of sliced rolls. This will make the
Prescott Mills Observer,
she thought. Certainly it’ll be in the Police Blotter section, maybe even the front page. They might want a picture. It’d be good to get a picture in—might pick up business a little. People going by will want to stop in and ask about it, and then they’d feel obliged to buy something. She sighed—maybe the publicity would help make up for the money he’d take. There was always something. Last week one of the beer coolers broke down. Yesterday a Coke bottle exploded out back. Someone could have been killed. At least they weren’t losing the beer license again—like when Edward sold that beer on Sunday. Jesus, she could have killed him. She was pushing the large torpedo of salami through the electric slicer. You work so hard to build up a business, try to make a little profit, day after day coming over here morning and night—and then he goes and pulls a stunt like that. Trying to be a big shot, selling beer to a group of Sunday hunters. Undercover men, every one. She sighed again and wrapped up the extra slices. There was always something. Now this.

The boy eased himself out of the cooler and slid the door closed. The meat slicer started, high-pitched and whining. It made him grind his teeth. It was like those damn paper machines at the mill. His mother had stood at them so long she didn’t even hear them. He wasn’t going to spend his life standing there listening to those machines and smelling cabbages. It’s the smell of money in this town, his mother said. But it was somebody else’s money, and it smelled like rotten cabbages. “About time you started workin’ in the mill, boy. Don’t you think it’s time to start carrying your load?” It was bad enough the old man had to barge back into his life and make things worse for everyone. He wasn’t gonna start running things. “You live in this town, you work at the mill.” That’s all he’d ever heard. No thanks.

He pulled out a beer, popped it open at the soda cooler, and took a long drink. It was so cold it burned his throat.

“You’re not supposed to drink that here.”

Two little boys stood staring up at him. He hadn’t heard them enter the store.

“You work here?” the older boy asked. He was about nine. His fist was clenched into a grimy swirl.

“Yeah, what of it?” He put his beer on the cookie rack behind him.

“We got nickels!” The smaller boy opened his hand. “Can you wait on us?”

He looked toward the sound of the slicer. She was taking forever.

“Come on, mister!” The boys were already in front of the candy case.

Stepping back behind the counter, he pushed the gun down further into his front pocket. If the old man found it missing, he was in big trouble.

“Mister!”

“Okay, okay!” He bent down and reached into the large glass-fronted counter. The candy lay splendidly before him—penny stuff on the bottom and whole boxes of candy bars filling the top shelf. He grabbed a malted milk ball and popped it into his mouth.

“Do you have to pay for that?” The older boy eyed him suspiciously.

“It’s part of my job. I get to take whatever I want.” He popped in another. “Now, what do you kids want? Hurry up. Who’s first?”

“Pete, what do you want?” The older boy gave his little brother a nudge.

“How much are those?”

“A penny. Everything down there is a penny.” He’d heard the store lady answering the same question while he had crouched behind the potato chips.

“How many can I get with a nickel?”

“Five.” He scooched down to look into the case. The little boy was staring through the smeared glass at him. “Hurry up and decide, or I’ll decide for you.”

“Get a Popsicle like me, Pete. You’ll want one when you see mine. Come on.” He led Pete to the ice-cream freezer, slid open the glass door, and peered in. “Do you want orange or cherry?”

“Orange.”

“Here.” He handed a Popsicle to his brother. “Hold on to it by the sticks.”

He reached in and pulled one out for himself. “I never seen you in here before.” He closed the freezer and stood looking up at the man behind the counter.

“Yeah? You live here or something? You know everything that happens?”

“Where’s Mrs. Jensen?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Here I am. Hello, Wayne.” Idella emerged from the back of the store carrying a stack of Italian sandwiches, each tightly wrapped in wax paper and secured with tape. “You kids got what you need?” She placed the sandwiches on the end of the counter in a neat pyramid. One was a little away from the others.

“Hi, Mrs. Jensen. I’m supposed to get a loaf of bread, too.” Wayne placed a wadded dollar bill on the counter. He reached into the bread rack and grabbed a bag of bread.

Idella stepped behind the register. The young man stood close to her. “Get those kids outta here.” She nodded and pushed the register buttons. The money drawer opened with a ping. “Don’t close that thing,” he whispered as she unwadded the boy’s bill and placed it in the drawer.

“Here’s your change. You don’t need a bag for that, do you?”

“Nope.” Wayne took the bread with one hand and pushed Pete through the door with an outstretched finger. Pete’s gummy Popsicle wrapper dropped to the floor as the screen door banged behind them.

“Those kids,” she said, shaking her head. She resisted her impulse to go pick it up.

“I want all the money in your drawer. All of it. I gotta get out of here. I’ve got this gun in my pocket, and I know how to use it if I have to.” He was glad not to be holding it anymore. He figured she was plenty scared already.

She wanted to tell him to hold his horses, she was doing the best she could, but she thought she’d better go along with him and keep calm. Still, there was something pathetic. She collected the bills from the register, automatically counting them out as she dealt them, like giving change. “Seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one. Eighty-one dollars.”

“That’s all? That’s it?” He stuffed them into his front pocket.

“Do you want the change, too?”

“Everything!” He held his front pocket open. She gathered the change and poured it in.

“Gimme those rolls of nickels, too!”

“It’s going to be so heavy.”

“I’ll worry about that. Clear it out.”

“You want all those pennies?”

“Everything.” He crammed the rolls of change into his back pocket. They were hard little sausages that pushed into his behind.

“You sure you want all these beer bottles?” Idella had opened up two large paper bags with a whoosh and pushed one inside the other.

“Do like I say.” He had to be tough. He was getting so hot his shirt was sticking to his back like wallpaper. That long swig of beer was the only thing in his stomach. He could puke. “Put the sandwiches in on top. Gimme a bunch, since you made up so damn many.”

He looked over at the pile of sandwiches. The one apart from the others was marked “NO” with black crayon.

“What are those marks for?” he asked.

Idella looked at him. “That’s ‘no onions.’ Some people don’t like onions. They give some people gas.”

The boy looked at the sandwich for a long moment. “Maybe I shouldn’t have any onions. I don’t want to get gas on the bus.”

“You never had any trouble before, did you?”

“No.”

“Well, then, it’s not likely. I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not me.”

“You are awfully touchy.” She placed three unmarked sandwiches into his bag.

The young man shifted his weight uncomfortably. The lady was right about all the change. He was going to have to tighten his belt. His pants were dragging down off his waist. Jesus, this was going from bad to worse.

“Hello, Mrs. Jensen!” The front door opened with a clang, and a hearty voice called out.

“Well, hello there, Rickie! What can I do for you today?”

“Them sandwiches is a sight for sore eyes! Been on the road for thirteen hours.” A burly customer walked past the candy and coolers and stood in front of Idella. His muscular arms were bare, displaying a large green anchor with a blue snake coiled around it above one elbow. “I could eat my truck, I think.”

“Oh, now, don’t go eating your truck.” Idella was nodding and smiling. “You’d regret it in the morning.”

“Ya,” he chortled. “I guess I would. Better stick to beer.” He walked heavily over to the beer case and yanked one of the sliding doors. “Nice ’n’ cold, Mrs. Jensen.”

“I try.”

“Why, hello, young fella! Didn’t see you had someone else back there. You finally got yourself some help, Mrs. Jensen?” He stood grinning at the young man.

“Why . . . yes, yes, I guess you could say that. For today anyway.” Idella and the young man were staring at one another. “This is . . . Dalton . . . my brother’s boy from down in Canada. He’s just passing through for the day, helping me out a little.”

“She could use you every day of the year, I bet. Mrs. Jensen works too hard.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be nice!” Mrs. Jensen said, smiling at the young man. “But kids have a mind of their own.”

“You don’t have to tell my kids that. They know it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rolled wad of bills. “Gimme . . . ahhh, hell, gimme three of them sandwiches!” Idella grabbed two from the pile. Her hand hovered over the one marked “NO.”

“Loaded! I hope they’re loaded to the top. Everything you’ve got.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, pulling the third from the pile.

“Dalton, huh? What kinda name is that?”

“Oh, it’s a family name. It was my brother’s name.”

“Is that so? Unusual. Well, nice to meet ya, Dalton.” The boy nodded. “He’s the quiet type, I can tell that. My kids are always talking.”

“He talks when he wants to, don’t you, Dalton?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Polite, too. I like ’im. You oughta try to keep him on! Now, what do I owe ya?”

“That’ll be three dollars and twelve cents with tax,” she said, calculating in her head.

“Well, all I got is a ten.” He slapped it on the counter. “Gimme some extra quarters, too, if you can. They’re good for those damn toll machines.”

Idella looked over at the boy and opened her eyes wide, as if to signal him. She coughed a little dry cough. He looked back at her blankly. She nodded her head toward the empty register and raised her eyebrows.

“Hold on there. Gimme a carton of those Camels. And a carton of Winstons for the old woman. That’ll keep her from complainin’. Gotta keep ’em happy if you wanna keep ’em!” Rickie slapped the counter with the palm of his hand. Dalton’s shoulders rose an inch. “Well, Mrs. Jensen, I bet I owe you something else now. Gimme the word.”

“It comes out perfect, Rickie. Ten dollars. You don’t owe me another penny.”

“Now, that don’t seem right somehow. It don’t seem as it’s enough.”

“Oh, yes. Ten dollars on the money.”

“If you say so. You’re the boss. Take care of yourself, Mrs. Jensen.” He turned to the boy and winked. “Don’t you let her work you too hard, now.”

“I won’t.”

Rickie grabbed his bag of sandwiches and cigarettes with a crunching grip. “Nice ’n’ cold!” he roared as he hoisted his six-pack under an arm and marched to the front door. “Well, look who’s here!” he called out. “I got the police after me, Mrs. Jensen. Officer Abbott’s come to check up on me. I seen him hiding in the bushes down on the interstate, and I blew my horn at him.” Rickie held the door wide open and roared. “I think I woke ’im up!”

A Prescott Mills police car had pulled up beside Rickie’s semi, and a thin young officer was leaning against the front door and laughing, his arms crossed over his holstered black belt.

Idella looked over at the boy. He had turned white. “Why don’t you give Officer Abbott a cold soda, Dalton? Go get a Coke out of the cooler and open it. Save him the trouble of coming in to get it.”

The boy pulled out a soda and handed it to Rickie.

“Well, that sure is kind of you, Mrs. Jensen. I guess it’s smart to keep the police happy.”

The door closed behind him with a crash, jingling the OPEN sign that hung by a chain.

“Jesus.” The boy was in a state. “Now I’ve got to wait till those guys have lunch. Is there a window I can climb out?”

Idella shook her head. “I have got to sit down. I have just got to sit.” She sighed like the last bit of air was being pressed from a balloon and walked to the yellow chair by the candy counter. She seated herself slowly, holding on to the counter for support. “You take what you think you need or go wait upstairs, even, I don’t care, but I’ve got to sit down. This is too much for me.”

She crumpled like an old Kleenex right before his eyes. “Hey, you want a drink or something?” he said. “A ginger ale? I’ll get you a cold one.”

She was staring into the candy case. She suddenly looked old, with her hands crossed in front of her, one draped limply on each knee. Her head was shaking back and forth slowly, just an inch or so in each direction.

He walked over to the soda cooler and slid back the cover. The ruffled tops of the bottles stared up at him: orange, cherry, chocolate, Coke. Ginger-ale caps were dark green with white letters. His mother used to give that to him when he got sick. She’d bring him a bottle of ginger ale and let him lie in her big bed while she was at the mill. She worked the night shift then and wouldn’t come home till six in the morning. She’d be so tired she’d just take her shoes off and whisper, “Move over,” and lie on the bed beside him, on top of the covers, even, with no pillow. That was when it was just the two of them—before the old man came back.

He plunged his hand into the cold water around the bottles. The cooler gurgled in response. He might as well get a soda, too, to water down the beer in his stomach. It was getting to him, fogging things up. He shouldn’t have chugged it like that. He had to keep a clear head. He pulled on a purple cap with one hand, grape, and a ginger ale with the other. The bottles squeaked and shifted.