no buyers.
Jake's gas station hunkered, oily and bright with reflected sunlight, in the far corner of the square. A rush of memory: Rourke could smell the engine parts in the garage, see the decrepit old John Deere tractor that stood rusting, year after year, out behind the station's single restroom. Jake, who had somehow inherited it, always said he'd get it running one fine day. Actually, Jake tinkered but rarely fixed anything or managed to turn a profit. He smoked cheap cigars, drank Nehi orange soda by the gallon and read cheap paperback novels about the old West. Jake's knuckles were mangled from years of toil as a mechanic, his hands stained with thick, green grease. He still wore that American Legion pin on the chest of his worn, patched overalls. No, nothing ever changed in Two Trees.
Rourke tried the radio, moved the tuner around, but heard nothing appealing. He turned it off again and continued his slow drive, whistling a Beatles song. He felt safe, which struck him as ironic.
Safe, where he used to have to hide. Where he'd tried to run away, again and again, to escape his father; slid through mud and under houses, crept down alleys and across small vegetable gardens, hoping to make it to the highway and somehow bum a ride. But he'd had Grandpa, then, to even out the score. God, how he'd loved the man. Hey, Rourke thought, turning the wheel. Do you suppose — I don't believe it. Am I that old?
Uncut weeds. The dusty outline of a once-green field and a pair of empty, splintered bleachers. No buildings; they'd probably all been hauled away for scrap.
The entire high school was gone.
Now this was a heartbreaker. Even for a guy like Rourke, who had seen Two Trees football as a dreary social obligation, one a big, strapping kid couldn't wriggle out of, not unless he limped convincingly. Nobody plays on that grass anymore, he thought. It's all dead.
Dead as Two Trees was dying.
Punt. I need to hear an old, familiar voice.
Peter drove past the sheriff's office and parked in the dirt near Martoni's Market. His back felt stiff. He slid out of the car, tried to crack his neck and caught sight of his reflection in Martoni's front window. He saw a big man in his mid-thirties with decent Irish features and a smattering of freckles. The eyes a little colder, maybe; reddish-brown hair now long and unruly. But all in all, not that different from the boy this town remembered.
Martoni's screen was stuck. Rourke tugged it open and got a puff of dust in his eyes. He entered the cool, dark grocery store. The bell rang, the door slammed behind him and: [Uncle Jeremy shoved the long hunting rifle into his small, reluctant hands. "Aim high and left. Drop the bastard with your first shot, or you'll be chasing a wounded deer for hours. Always respect what you kill," Jeremy had said. "Be clean. Quick."]
Rourke shook the memory away.
"Mr. Martoni?"
"You don't gotta yell, kid."
"You've got good ears for an old fart," Peter grinned.
Martoni appeared from far in back, behind the butcher counter, his body embraced by a stained white apron. Brown hair greying at the temples; blood-darkened hands and irregular teeth in a warm, soft face. He shook his wet fingers and sprayed the wall with crimson droplets.
"Good ears? My wife died years ago, kid. My hearing came back something remarkable after that. So you're home, Pete. I'm glad. It's been a while." Martoni, the gruff old man who'd once given refuge and fresh oranges to an odd little boy he hardly knew. Small-town grocer, unwitting savior.
"It's good to see you," Rourke said. He meant it.
"Quick, now! Swipe an apple while my back is turned."
Peter approached the fruit counter, boots clumping on the wooden floor. He chose an apple and crunched a bite. This had once been something of a joke; but now it felt sacred, a ritual that slowed and twisted time.
The grocer nodded in satisfaction. "I missed you, Pete," he said. "Years too long."
"Likewise, sir. Decided to come home for a
Jake's gas station hunkered, oily and bright with reflected sunlight, in the far corner of the square. A rush of memory: Rourke could smell the engine parts in the garage, see the decrepit old John Deere tractor that stood rusting, year after year, out behind the station's single restroom. Jake, who had somehow inherited it, always said he'd get it running one fine day. Actually, Jake tinkered but rarely fixed anything or managed to turn a profit. He smoked cheap cigars, drank Nehi orange soda by the gallon and read cheap paperback novels about the old West. Jake's knuckles were mangled from years of toil as a mechanic, his hands stained with thick, green grease. He still wore that American Legion pin on the chest of his worn, patched overalls. No, nothing ever changed in Two Trees.
Rourke tried the radio, moved the tuner around, but heard nothing appealing. He turned it off again and continued his slow drive, whistling a Beatles song. He felt safe, which struck him as ironic.
Safe, where he used to have to hide. Where he'd tried to run away, again and again, to escape his father; slid through mud and under houses, crept down alleys and across small vegetable gardens, hoping to make it to the highway and somehow bum a ride. But he'd had Grandpa, then, to even out the score. God, how he'd loved the man. Hey, Rourke thought, turning the wheel. Do you suppose — I don't believe it. Am I that old?
Uncut weeds. The dusty outline of a once-green field and a pair of empty, splintered bleachers. No buildings; they'd probably all been hauled away for scrap.
The entire high school was gone.
Now this was a heartbreaker. Even for a guy like Rourke, who had seen Two Trees football as a dreary social obligation, one a big, strapping kid couldn't wriggle out of, not unless he limped convincingly. Nobody plays on that grass anymore, he thought. It's all dead.
Dead as Two Trees was dying.
Punt. I need to hear an old, familiar voice.
Peter drove past the sheriff's office and parked in the dirt near Martoni's Market. His back felt stiff. He slid out of the car, tried to crack his neck and caught sight of his reflection in Martoni's front window. He saw a big man in his mid-thirties with decent Irish features and a smattering of freckles. The eyes a little colder, maybe; reddish-brown hair now long and unruly. But all in all, not that different from the boy this town remembered.
Martoni's screen was stuck. Rourke tugged it open and got a puff of dust in his eyes. He entered the cool, dark grocery store. The bell rang, the door slammed behind him and: [Uncle Jeremy shoved the long hunting rifle into his small, reluctant hands. "Aim high and left. Drop the bastard with your first shot, or you'll be chasing a wounded deer for hours. Always respect what you kill," Jeremy had said. "Be clean. Quick."]
Rourke shook the memory away.
"Mr. Martoni?"
"You don't gotta yell, kid."
"You've got good ears for an old fart," Peter grinned.
Martoni appeared from far in back, behind the butcher counter, his body embraced by a stained white apron. Brown hair greying at the temples; blood-darkened hands and irregular teeth in a warm, soft face. He shook his wet fingers and sprayed the wall with crimson droplets.
"Good ears? My wife died years ago, kid. My hearing came back something remarkable after that. So you're home, Pete. I'm glad. It's been a while." Martoni, the gruff old man who'd once given refuge and fresh oranges to an odd little boy he hardly knew. Small-town grocer, unwitting savior.
"It's good to see you," Rourke said. He meant it.
"Quick, now! Swipe an apple while my back is turned."
Peter approached the fruit counter, boots clumping on the wooden floor. He chose an apple and crunched a bite. This had once been something of a joke; but now it felt sacred, a ritual that slowed and twisted time.
The grocer nodded in satisfaction. "I missed you, Pete," he said. "Years too long."
"Likewise, sir. Decided to come home for a
Similar Books
