house, and was spending more time on the road than ever before. He’d even begun hunting for new accounts as far north as Presque Isle and Fort Kent, just to give him an excuse to spend an extra night or two in a motel, and was branching out into one-off pieces by local crafters in an effort to expand his range, which offered him further opportunities to travel. Norah didn’t seem to mind. They both knew that the time was approaching when they’d have to discuss a separation, and divorce. Maybe things might have been different if they’d had a child, but perhaps not. They were just wrong for each other, and kids would merely have made an unpleasant situation sadder and more complicated.
He wondered if Norah was having an affair. He didn’t think so, but he was surprised at how little he was troubled by the possibility. As for himself, he wasn’t the kind, not that any women were currently throwing themselves at him, demanding that he take them in interesting ways. If – or when – he and Norah divorced, he’d try again, but until then he’d just do without significant female comfort, whether physical or emotional. He didn’t believe he could handle the stress of his troubled home life and a second, secret existence as an adulterer. He’d give himself a heart attack.
The gas station was a comparative rarity, which was why he’d chosen it for his respite: a mom-and-pop operation, with none of the brash, impersonal neon of the big providers. The building itself was painted red and white, so that it looked more like a small coastal diner than anything else. A mural of two dogs had been added to the wall at the far right, and beneath it was a water bowl and a second container filled with dog treats. Inside, the registers were to the left, and to the right was a seating area with pine tables and stools, and a ledge that looked out over the forecourt. Burnel had stopped there for gas on a few occasions, but never stayed any longer than was necessary to fill up and pay. He recalled that a sign beside the coffeepot identified all muffins and pastries as homemade, and they sat on wooden shelves, resting on the paper on which they’d been baked instead of sweating inside plastic wrap.
Burnel parked at the side of the gas station. The dampness in the air hit him as soon as he stepped from the car, and by the time he stepped inside the first drops had begun to patter on the ground. The interior was warm, and smelled of fresh coffee, with a faint underpinning of gasoline. Music was playing: some light jazz that wouldn’t frighten the horses. From behind the counter, a man in his late sixties and a girl in her twenties who resembled him so much that she could only have been his daughter were engaged in conversation with an elderly woman who was leaning against the empty newspaper stand, holding a cigarette pack in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other, which she was using to emphasize a particular point and guide the argument, like a conductor wielding a baton before an orchestra. The older woman was wearing mismatched carpet slippers and a raccoon-fur stole that looked like the contributing raccoons had departed this life many decades earlier, but put up a good fight before they went. All three greeted Burnel as he entered, then returned to their discussion, which centered on the price of heating oil, always an issue in Maine as winter loomed.
The older woman’s name was Kezia, judging by how often the man behind the counter was being forced to say ‘Now look, Kezia’ and ‘Don’t go all wrathy on me, Kezia’ in response to her diatribe. Kezia, in turn, referred to him as Bryce, and seemed to be appealing to his daughter as a voice of reason, as in ‘Paige, you tell your father Bryce here …’, as though the older man were suffering from some form of selective deafness, or had forgotten his station in life. It was all pretty good-natured, though, and both of the old-timers struck Burnel as serious
He wondered if Norah was having an affair. He didn’t think so, but he was surprised at how little he was troubled by the possibility. As for himself, he wasn’t the kind, not that any women were currently throwing themselves at him, demanding that he take them in interesting ways. If – or when – he and Norah divorced, he’d try again, but until then he’d just do without significant female comfort, whether physical or emotional. He didn’t believe he could handle the stress of his troubled home life and a second, secret existence as an adulterer. He’d give himself a heart attack.
The gas station was a comparative rarity, which was why he’d chosen it for his respite: a mom-and-pop operation, with none of the brash, impersonal neon of the big providers. The building itself was painted red and white, so that it looked more like a small coastal diner than anything else. A mural of two dogs had been added to the wall at the far right, and beneath it was a water bowl and a second container filled with dog treats. Inside, the registers were to the left, and to the right was a seating area with pine tables and stools, and a ledge that looked out over the forecourt. Burnel had stopped there for gas on a few occasions, but never stayed any longer than was necessary to fill up and pay. He recalled that a sign beside the coffeepot identified all muffins and pastries as homemade, and they sat on wooden shelves, resting on the paper on which they’d been baked instead of sweating inside plastic wrap.
Burnel parked at the side of the gas station. The dampness in the air hit him as soon as he stepped from the car, and by the time he stepped inside the first drops had begun to patter on the ground. The interior was warm, and smelled of fresh coffee, with a faint underpinning of gasoline. Music was playing: some light jazz that wouldn’t frighten the horses. From behind the counter, a man in his late sixties and a girl in her twenties who resembled him so much that she could only have been his daughter were engaged in conversation with an elderly woman who was leaning against the empty newspaper stand, holding a cigarette pack in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other, which she was using to emphasize a particular point and guide the argument, like a conductor wielding a baton before an orchestra. The older woman was wearing mismatched carpet slippers and a raccoon-fur stole that looked like the contributing raccoons had departed this life many decades earlier, but put up a good fight before they went. All three greeted Burnel as he entered, then returned to their discussion, which centered on the price of heating oil, always an issue in Maine as winter loomed.
The older woman’s name was Kezia, judging by how often the man behind the counter was being forced to say ‘Now look, Kezia’ and ‘Don’t go all wrathy on me, Kezia’ in response to her diatribe. Kezia, in turn, referred to him as Bryce, and seemed to be appealing to his daughter as a voice of reason, as in ‘Paige, you tell your father Bryce here …’, as though the older man were suffering from some form of selective deafness, or had forgotten his station in life. It was all pretty good-natured, though, and both of the old-timers struck Burnel as serious
Similar Books
