South of Superior - Ellen Airgood [47]
Madeline agreed. Their conversation wandered from there, from fishing and making maple syrup to Mary’s memories of the old lumber camp days. Madeline loved hearing about that. This was turning out to be a perfect afternoon. After a while she thought about having a ginger ale. She sat Up to pull one from the cooler just as Mary said, “Listen, now. I’ve been thinking, and I’ve been going to tell you—” A county sheriff’s truck eased to a halt in front of them and Mary didn’t finish. A tall man in a brown Uniform approached with languid steps.
“What do you want?” Mary asked in her road-gravel voice.
“I’m afraid I’ve got to ask you to pack Up and leave, ma’am.”
“Is that so.”
“This is Village property, Mrs. Feather, and you haven’t got permission to peddle here.”
“I ain’t a missus as you well know,” she said, looking Up at him without moving. “And as far as I know, it ain’t Village property, either.”
“The Village is responsible for the Upkeep of this parcel in the absence of the deeded owner.”
“In other words, Lillian Frank ain’t bothered to mow these lots in thirty years and don’t give a damn what happens on ’em. Isn’t that what you mean?”
“In the absence of the deed-holder, the Village may elect to perform certain Upkeep.”
“Running me off, that’s Upkeep?”
“Ma’am, regardless of ownership, the Village has an ordinance barring Unlicensed peddlers.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Jim, stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ Since when do they have this so-called ordinance?”
“Since the fifteenth of May, as I believe you’ve already been informed by letter.”
“I ain’t gotten no letter.”
“I’ve been informed that a letter was duly written and sent.”
“Well I ain’t duly received it, you young son of a pup—”
“Let me see that ordinance of yours in writing.” Madeline felt shaky with anger. Here they were, enjoying the day, selling a little syrup, a little fish, visiting with the tourists, and along comes this jackass to ruin things.
The man barely glanced at her. “I don’t need it in writing.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Madeline began.
“Ah, don’t bother,” Mary said.
“Mary—”
“Give me a hand packing Up, Madeline.”
“I appreciate your cooperation, Mary.”
“I knew you when you was a snot-nosed kid couldn’t balance a bike and don’t you forget it, Jim Nelson. Don’t you Mary me.”
“Well, I’m sorry that you feel that way,” he said.
He drove to the fruit man’s stand, all of a hundred feet or so, to deliver the same news. Madeline stood with a gallon of maple syrup heavy in each hand, watching. Albert threw his hands Up in the air and his face flowered into anger. He shook a finger in the sheriff’s face, and the sheriff leaned forward and put one hand on the butt of his gun. Gus came around from the back of the van and began to shout. Madeline couldn’t hear his words, just the nasal whine of his Uplifted voice. She saw how ludicrous he looked—the bandy-legged old reprobate in his pointy-toed oxfords and silky windbreaker probably out on parole for some Unsavory activity. The breeze lifted a plume of Gus’s hair Up and held it there. The sheriff advanced and suddenly, a balloon pricked with a pin, Albert subsided. His shoulders sloped and his big hands fell to his sides.
“This is terrible,” Madeline said. “It’s not right.”
“He’s just doing his job,” Mary said with resignation that surprised Madeline after the way she’d argued with him. “You know his mother died when he was just a boy.”
Madeline did not know what to say to this apparent non sequitur.
They were quiet after that. When Mary had driven off in a cloud of exhaust, Madeline spent a long time leaning against her car, gazing at the hotel, feeling blue. Sad, mad, lonely. She hated seeing Albert and Mary defeated, hated not being able to help or change anything. Abruptly she headed past the bank of lilacs and through the orchard to the back door. This was a bad habit, but