South of Superior - Ellen Airgood [19]
5
Paul Garceau stood in the general store in Halfway, sipping a cup of coffee. He didn’t have time for the stop, really—there was never enough time for things—but he liked Lily Martin, who owned the place. She cheered him Up. She wasn’t trying to. It was just that she never complained, and she could have. The store had to be nearly profitless, the building was desperate for repairs, and most of the merchandise was old. But Lily took life as it came, never seeming to wish things were different.
Paul found this humbling, and tonic. It reminded him that his own problems were probably not that bad, and if they were, he’d survive them. So despite his chronic shortage of time, he sometimes stopped for coffee on his way from one job to another. Besides which, as far as stops went between Crosscut and McAllaster, this was it—this or the bar next door. Halfway was just a wide spot in the road, a place where the trains Used to take on water and where mail and supplies had been dropped off for the lumber camps, back in the day. All that was left of it was Lily’s store and the Trackside Tavern, two desolate establishments that most of the tourists flew right past on their way Up to the Gitche Gumee, the Big Water.
Paul glanced at the clock that hung behind the register. He had maybe five minutes before he had to hit the road and make the fifteen miles Up to McAllaster himself. He was listening to Lily at the same time as he considered how fast he could push the Fairlane and gain a minute, maybe.
“I asked Roscoe to pick me some of those flavored creamers when he was over at the Soo yesterday,” she was saying. “The Soo” was shorthand for Sault Ste. Marie, ninety miles away and the nearest city of any size. “The tourists like ’em and I got hooked on the Irish cream myself. He forgot, so I guess I get a lesson in self-denial.” She laughed as she said this.
It was such a small thing to want. And it was something he could fix. That was rare, these days. “I’ll order some for you on my next load. I’ll drop them off on Friday.”
“Oh, don’t bother yourself, it’s nothing.”
“You’ll Use them if I bring them?”
“Can’t stay away from ’em when they’re around.”
“Okay. Consider it done. And now, sorry to say, I’d better run. Thanks for the coffee. I needed a break between jobs today.”
“I’ll bet. That place has got to get you down.”
“It’s a job.” Paul worked in the prison cafeteria in Crosscut five days a week, five a.m. to eleven. Today had been bad. Maybe the full moon, who knew, but the prisoners were at their worst, yelling and scuffling and banging their trays, starting fights, throwing food around. He hated the job but it was a necessity.
Paul heard the door open and took that as his cue. Time to really go. He dug in his pocket for change, which Lily waved away. “I’m not charging you for that slop. That coffee’s been sitting there since Emil left.”
“No, it was good. I like it strong,” Paul said, putting a couple of dollars on the counter. He turned to leave and bumped into the woman who’d stood Up to Terry Benson in the SuperValu the other day—Madeline Stone, he knew her name was. Just as he was about to say something, the door opened again and Randi Hopkins rushed in.
“Paul. Thank God you’re here, I can’t find Greyson.”
“What do you mean?” He wasn’t too worried. Greyson was a smart kid, five years old and acting like fifty half the time, but anyway about ten times as levelheaded as his mother. She’d had Greyson when she was seventeen and dropped out of school before she graduated. Nowadays she worked nights at the Tip Top Tavern, enlisting whoever she could find to