2006
Charlotte wasn’t home by five, so I tried her cell phone.
“Sorry, I’m having trouble getting out of here,” she explained. “There was this parent-teacher conference. This kid’s parents finally wake up and realize Brittany’s probably not gonna graduate. What are we gonna do to help her, blah, blah, blah… . Then I was trying to get these stupid journals graded so I don’t have to lug them all home… .”
When I mentioned beer with Toby, she said, “You ought to go. I’m swamped tonight. Go ahead.”
Atkins Tavern was packed that evening, and it seemed that about half of the clientele was on backslapping terms with Toby. We had a front table by the window. People kept saying hello to him, often coming over to chat for a few minutes. The window at least gave me something to do—gaze across the street to the old town green, which looked pretty under the setting sun. Growing up, I don’t think I ever really appreciated how idyllic Waverly would look to someone just passing through. Trees with little white flowers surrounded the wide green lawn, a small stone war memorial at its center. It was completely empty of people, which wasn’t a surprise. No one ever walked around the green, even on the most beautiful of days—just drove by it on the way to Stop & Shop.
“How’s married life?” Toby asked me between drop-bys.
“Really good, actually,” I said.
“How’d you meet your husband again?”
“College.”
Toby nodded. “So you’re like an old couple now.”
“I guess.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s works for U.S. Fish & Wildlife. He’s an… environmentalist.”
“I think Charlotte did tell me that once. An environmentalist and a potter?” Toby considered this. “Good combination.”
I shrugged. “Sure. If you’re going for a certain hippie-yuppie balance.”
“More hippie than yuppie, I’d say. But that’s a good thing. Is that a lucrative business, selling pots?”
I smiled. “I teach ceramics part-time at a community college with a fairly big arts program. Plus, I help run an arts co-op and teach a few noncredit night classes here and there. Between all that, it’s a living. Some money comes from the actual pottery, but very little.”
I was glad he gave me a chance to explain this. When my mother first heard my intention to study ceramics, I think she started picturing me sitting sadly by a roadside with a Sale sign and a wobbly card table full of lopsided ashtrays. I sometimes wondered if she still pictured my life that way and conveyed this image to others.
“How about you?” I asked. “You seeing anyone right now?”
“Nah. Since I stopped towing, I don’t seem to get the girls.”
“Since you stopped towing?”
“Yeah. My newest guy does all the towing for me. You meet women when you tow. They’re always so damn happy to see you. Women with flat tires, snapped timing belts, whatever it is. You’re like the knight in shining armor. They just hop right into your truck and there you go. Instant rapport. Instant conversation.”
“I’m sure a lot of women come into the shop.”
“Sure, but now I’m just the guy who charges them too much.”
“Maybe you should do Match.com or something. Meet somebody who doesn’t have car trouble.”
“Everyone has car trouble,” Toby said. “Just a matter of when. Anyway, I didn’t say I was desperate.”
“I didn’t think you were. I just know some people who’ve had some fun meeting people that way.”
We both sipped our beers in the awkward silence. I deeply regretted mentioning an online dating site. I was becoming one of those obnoxious married people.
“So… the police talked to you yet?” Toby wanted to know.
“No,” I said, surprised. “They wouldn’t know I’m in town.”
“Yeah, but they’ve been making the rounds on Fox Hill.”
“They have? Charlotte didn’t mention that.”
“They talked to my brother a little while.”
“Oh, yeah? And you? They talked to
Charlotte wasn’t home by five, so I tried her cell phone.
“Sorry, I’m having trouble getting out of here,” she explained. “There was this parent-teacher conference. This kid’s parents finally wake up and realize Brittany’s probably not gonna graduate. What are we gonna do to help her, blah, blah, blah… . Then I was trying to get these stupid journals graded so I don’t have to lug them all home… .”
When I mentioned beer with Toby, she said, “You ought to go. I’m swamped tonight. Go ahead.”
Atkins Tavern was packed that evening, and it seemed that about half of the clientele was on backslapping terms with Toby. We had a front table by the window. People kept saying hello to him, often coming over to chat for a few minutes. The window at least gave me something to do—gaze across the street to the old town green, which looked pretty under the setting sun. Growing up, I don’t think I ever really appreciated how idyllic Waverly would look to someone just passing through. Trees with little white flowers surrounded the wide green lawn, a small stone war memorial at its center. It was completely empty of people, which wasn’t a surprise. No one ever walked around the green, even on the most beautiful of days—just drove by it on the way to Stop & Shop.
“How’s married life?” Toby asked me between drop-bys.
“Really good, actually,” I said.
“How’d you meet your husband again?”
“College.”
Toby nodded. “So you’re like an old couple now.”
“I guess.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s works for U.S. Fish & Wildlife. He’s an… environmentalist.”
“I think Charlotte did tell me that once. An environmentalist and a potter?” Toby considered this. “Good combination.”
I shrugged. “Sure. If you’re going for a certain hippie-yuppie balance.”
“More hippie than yuppie, I’d say. But that’s a good thing. Is that a lucrative business, selling pots?”
I smiled. “I teach ceramics part-time at a community college with a fairly big arts program. Plus, I help run an arts co-op and teach a few noncredit night classes here and there. Between all that, it’s a living. Some money comes from the actual pottery, but very little.”
I was glad he gave me a chance to explain this. When my mother first heard my intention to study ceramics, I think she started picturing me sitting sadly by a roadside with a Sale sign and a wobbly card table full of lopsided ashtrays. I sometimes wondered if she still pictured my life that way and conveyed this image to others.
“How about you?” I asked. “You seeing anyone right now?”
“Nah. Since I stopped towing, I don’t seem to get the girls.”
“Since you stopped towing?”
“Yeah. My newest guy does all the towing for me. You meet women when you tow. They’re always so damn happy to see you. Women with flat tires, snapped timing belts, whatever it is. You’re like the knight in shining armor. They just hop right into your truck and there you go. Instant rapport. Instant conversation.”
“I’m sure a lot of women come into the shop.”
“Sure, but now I’m just the guy who charges them too much.”
“Maybe you should do Match.com or something. Meet somebody who doesn’t have car trouble.”
“Everyone has car trouble,” Toby said. “Just a matter of when. Anyway, I didn’t say I was desperate.”
“I didn’t think you were. I just know some people who’ve had some fun meeting people that way.”
We both sipped our beers in the awkward silence. I deeply regretted mentioning an online dating site. I was becoming one of those obnoxious married people.
“So… the police talked to you yet?” Toby wanted to know.
“No,” I said, surprised. “They wouldn’t know I’m in town.”
“Yeah, but they’ve been making the rounds on Fox Hill.”
“They have? Charlotte didn’t mention that.”
“They talked to my brother a little while.”
“Oh, yeah? And you? They talked to
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