Pearson’s General Store & Gunsmithery had been in Ben’s family for four generations in one form or another, and yet it wasn’t even the oldest business in the town of Prosperous, Maine. An alehouse had stood on the site of what was now the Prosperous Tap since the eighteenth century, and Jenna Marley’s Lady & Lace had been a clothing store since 1790. The names of the town’s first settlers still resounded around Prosperous in a way that few other such settlements could boast. Most had roots back in Durham and Northumberland, in the northeast of England, for that was where Prosperous’s first settlers had originally come from. There were Scotts and Nelsons and Liddells, Harpers and Emersons and Golightlys, along with other more singular names: Brantingham, Claxton, Stobbert, Pryerman, Joblin, Hudspeth. . . .
A genealogist might have spent many a profitable day scouring the town’s register of births and deaths, and some had indeed journeyed this far north to investigate the history of the settlement. They were received courteously, and some cooperation was offered, but they invariably left feeling slightly dissatisfied. Gaps in the town’s annals prevented full and thorough research, and making connections between the settlers of Prosperous and their ancestors back in England proved more difficult than might first have been expected, for it seemed that those families which departed for the shores of the New World had done so in their entirety, leaving few, if any, stray branches behind.
Of course, such obstacles were hardly unfamiliar to historians, whether amateur or professional, but they were frustrating nonetheless, and eventually the town of Prosperous came to be regarded as a dead end, genealogically speaking, which perfectly suited the inhabitants. They were not unusual in that part of the world in preferring to be left untroubled by strangers. It was one of the reasons their forefathers had ventured so far into the interior to begin with, negotiating treaties with the natives that held more often than not, giving Prosperous a reputation as a town blessed by the Lord, even if its inhabitants declined to allow others to share in their perceived good fortune, divinely ordained or otherwise. Prosperous did not invite, or welcome, new settlers without specific connections to the northeast of England, and marriages outside the original primary bloodlines were frowned upon until the late nineteenth century. Something of that original pioneering, self-sufficient spirit had transmitted itself down the generations to the present population of the town.
Now, in Pearson’s General Store, cards were exchanged, and bets were placed. This was nickel-and-dime poker in the most literal sense, and it was a rare evening when any man went home with his pockets more than a dollar or two lighter or heavier. Still, bragging rights for the rest of the week could be gained from a good run of cards, and there had been times when Ben Pearson’s fellow players had chosen to avoid his store for a couple of days in order to let Ben’s triumphalism cool a little.
“I’ll raise you a dime,” said Calder Ayton.
Calder had worked alongside Ben Pearson for the better part of half a century, and envied him his hair. He owned a small share in the store, a consequence of a brief period of financial strife back in the middle of the last century, when some of the townsfolk had allowed their attention to wander, what with the war and all, and ancient, careful habits had been set aside for a time in the hope that they might eventually be abandoned altogether. But folk had learned the foolishness of that way of thinking, and the older inhabitants had not forgotten the lesson.
Thomas Souleby pursed his lips and gave Calder the cold eye. Calder rarely went above a nickel unless he had a straight at least, and he’d flipped his dime so fast that Thomas was certain he was holding a flush or better. They always played with one-eyed royals as wild cards, and Thomas had caught a glimpse of Calamity Jane squinting at him from Calder’s hand—Thomas not viewing it as cheating if someone was careless enough to display his hand to all and sundry. It was what had made him a good businessman in his day, back when he worked in corporate acquisitions. You took whatever advantage came your way, and you milked it for all it was worth.
“I’m out,” said Luke Joblin.
At sixty he was the youngest of the quartet, but also the most influential. His family had been in real estate ever since one caveman looked at another and said to himself, “You know, his cave is much bigger than mine. I wonder if he’d see his way to moving out. And if he doesn’t see his way to moving out I’ll just kill him and take his cave anyway.” At which point some prescient seed of the Joblin clan had spotted an opportunity to make a percentage on the deal, and perhaps prevent some bloodshed along the way.
Now Luke Joblin made sure that real estate in Prosperous stayed in the right hands, just as his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather had done before him. Luke Joblin knew the state’s zoning and land-use regulations backward and forward—not surprising, given that he’d helped write most of them—and his eldest son was Prosperous’s code-enforcement officer. More than any other family, the Joblins had ensured that Prosperous retained its unique character and identity.
“The hell do you mean, you’re out?” said Ben Pearson. “You barely looked at those cards before you dropped them like they was poisoned.”
“I got nothing but a hand of cultch,” said Luke.
“You got nearly a dollar of mine from the last eight hands,” said Thomas. “Least you can do is give a man a chance to win his money back.”
“What do you want me to do, just hand your money over to you? I got no cards. This is a game of strategy; you gamble when you’re strong, you fold when you’re weak.”
“You could try bluffing,” said Thomas. “You could at least make some kind of effort.”
It was always like this between them. They liked each other well enough, but the pleasure each derived from the other’s company was directly proportionate to the degree of pickle he could give over the course of an evening.
“I brought the whisky,” Luke pointed out. “It wasn’t for me, you’d be drinking Old Crow.”
There were murmurs of agreement.
“Ayuh, this one’s a sippa,” said Calder, laying on the accent with a trowel. “Wicked good.”
Each man took it in turn to provide a bottle for the weekly poker night, although it usually sufficed for two evenings, and it was a point of pride to bring along something that satisfied all tastes to a degree. Luke Joblin knew Scotch better than any of them, and that night they were drinking an eighteen-year-old from Talisker, the only distillery on the Isle of Skye. It was a little spicy for Thomas’s palate, but he had to admit that it was far superior to The Glenlivet, which had been his selection some weeks earlier. Then again, Thomas had never been one for hard liquor, preferring wine. He gave the whisky a second swirl from habit, and took a small mouthful. He was starting to like it more and more. It certainly grew on a fella.
“Maybe I’ll let you off this once,” said Thomas.
“That’s generous of you,” said Luke.
In the end, Calder took the pot with a flush, just as Thomas had anticipated. Thomas was enduring a mauling that night. If things kept going the way they were, he’d have to break another dollar.
By unspoken consent, they rested for a while. Talk turned to local matters: business dealings, rumors of romances, and problems in the town that needed to be addressed. Tree roots were just about coming through the sidewalk on Main Street, and the Town Office needed a new boiler. A dispute had also arisen over the old Palmer house, with three families seeking to acquire it for their children. The Palmers, a private couple even by the town’s standards, had died without issue, and represented the end of their line in Prosperous. The proceeds of their estate were to be dispersed among various charities, with a portion going also to the town’s central fund. But living space was at a premium in Prosperous, and the Palmer house, though small and in need of repair, was much coveted. In any ordinary community, market forces would have been allowed to prevail, and the house would have gone to the
highest bidder. Prosperous, though, didn’t operate that way. The decision on the sale of the house would be made according to who was owed it, who had the best claim upon it. Discussions would be held, and a consensus reached. The family that eventually acquired the house would make some reparation to the others. Luke Joblin would get his commission, of course, but he would earn it.
In effect, the poker night functioned as an unofficial meeting of most of the board of selectmen. Only Calder Ayton didn’t contribute to the discourse. Meetings bored him, and whatever Ben Pearson decided was always fine with him. Old Kinley Nowell, meanwhile, was absent on this occasion, laid up in hospital with pneumonia. There was a general feeling that Kinley didn’t have long on this earth. Possible replacements had to be considered, and Ben now raised the matter with his fellow selectmen. After a little back-and-forth, they decided that some younger blood wouldn’t hurt them. They’d approach the elder Walker girl, Stacey, once the chief selectman had given her consent. Hayley Conyer—she didn’t care to be called a selectwoman, didn’t approve of that kind of nonsense—was not one for poker games or whiskey evenings. Ben Pearson said that he would talk to Hayley in the morning and sound her out, but he told the others that he didn’t anticipate any refusal, or any problems with the nomination. Stacey Walker was a clever girl and a good lawyer, and it never hurt to have lawyers on call.
Thomas Souleby wasn’t so sure. He felt certain that Hayley Conyer would object, and she retained a rarely used power of veto when it came to nominations to the board. Conyer was a strong woman who preferred the company of men, and had no particular sense of obligation to others of her sex who might be a threat to her position. She wouldn’t welcome the arrival of someone as young and vibrant as Stacey Walker, and Thomas believed that, in the case of the Walker girl, Conyer might well have a point. He had ambitions of his own to lead the board once Conyer was gone, whenever that might be, and had worked long and hard to ensure that he had as little competition as possible. Stacey Walker was just a mite too clever, and too ambitious, for Thomas’s liking. While he frequently clashed with Conyer, he would not object to her using her veto to shoot down the Walker nomination. Someone more suitable could be found; someone more substantial, more experienced.
Someone more malleable.
Thomas stretched and took in the old store, with its curious mix of expensive artisan products alongside the regular items that you could buy for half the price in a Hannaford or a Shaw’s. Ben certainly wasn’t shy with his pricing, Thomas would give him that, but there was also the matter of convenience, and exchanging gossip, and supporting local businesses to consider. It was important that money stayed within the town’s precincts wherever possible. Once cash started leaking out, Prosperous would be financially sound in name only. For the early settlers, the name had been part prayer, part aspiration. Now it was a reflection of the reality of the town’s situation: it had the highest per capita income in Maine, a fact that might not have been immediately apparent were a visitor to judge it on appearances alone. Prosperous maintained a low profile, and did not call attention to itself.
The four men were seated at the western side of the store, where Calder had set up some tables beside a picture window that looked out on his yard and on the woods beyond. In summer there were picnic benches at which to sit, but now icy snow still lay on the grass, and the air was pierced by a damp chill that made an old man’s bones hurt. To Thomas’s left, a locked door led into the gun shop, and behind that was the gunsmithery itself. A tattered and yellowed sign on the door advised that a deposit of thirty dollars was required for each weapon accepted for service, with a further twenty-five levied if the weapon was presented without the required magazine. Thomas didn’t even know why the sign was still in place. The only people who presented Ben Pearson with weapons to be serviced were locals, and they were hardly likely to forget that they’d left them with Ben. Similarly, if they neglected to bring along the magazine, they could just drop by with it later in the day.
Thomas’s wife, Constance, used Ben’s services occasionally—she had been a competitive rifle shooter for most of her life, and hadn’t been far shy of Olympic standard as a young woman, although, at that level, the gap between what she could do and what was required might as well have been as deep and wide as an abyss—but she was one of the exceptions in Prosperous. Even allowing for those who hunted, the town had one of the lowest rates of gun ownership in the state. The gunsmith element of Ben Pearson’s business was little more than a hobby for him. He kept only a small range of rifles and pistols for sale, mostly high-end stuff, but he seemed to enjoy the metalwork aspect of the job, the threading and fluting and jeweling. He was also reputed to make very fine custom-built stocks, if that was what floated your boat.
Thomas yawned and checked his watch. The whisky had gone to his head, and he was wishing for his bed. He glanced to his right. The light from their table illuminated only a few feet of snow on the yard outside. Beyond was darkness.
Something pale flickered in the shadows. It looked like a moth. As Thomas watched, it grew larger and larger. It took on the form of a young woman wearing a stained white dress, the color of it nearly lost against the snow, so that he thought he might almost have been dreaming her. Her feet were bare as she ran, and there were leaves caught in her dark hair. Closer and closer she came. Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but no words emerged. He rose from his chair just as the girl impacted against the glass, shaking it in its frame. Her fingernails were torn. They left trails of blood on the window.
“Help me,” she cried. “Please help me.”
Her words turned to clouds on the air, and the wind snatched them away and bore them into the listening woods.
CHAPTER
III
Miles to the south, in the city of Portland, a homeless man was dying.
His name was Jude—no last name, just Jude—and he was well known both to his fellow street people and to those in law enforcement. He was not a criminal, although there were some in Portland who seemed to regard being homeless as a criminal act, punishable by the withdrawal of services and support until death took care of the problem. No, Jude had always been law-abiding, but he had been on the streets so long that he knew every nook and cranny of the city, every crack in the sidewalk, every raised brick. He listened carefully to the reports from others of his kind—the appearance of strangers among them, men of vicious demeanor, or the news of abandoned properties that had previously provided some shelter and were now being used by dealers of narcotics—and traded that information with the police. He did not do so for his own benefit, although there were times when the nights were cold and he was offered the comfort of a cell in which to rest, or even a ride to South Portland or farther afield if a cop was feeling particularly generous or bored.
Jude functioned as a kind of father figure to the homeless of Portland, and his relationship with the police allowed him to intervene on behalf of men and women who sometimes found themselves in trouble with the law for minor infractions. He also acted as a go-between for the operators of the city’s homeless services, keeping an eye on individuals who were most at risk, and therefore least likely to maintain a consistent relationship with anyone who might be in a position to help them. Jude knew where everyone slept, and at any time he could name the number of homeless in the city to within a handful of people. Even the worst of them, the most violent and troubled, respected Jude. He was a man who would rather go a little hungrier himself, and share what he had with a brother or sister, than see another starve.
What Jude declined to share with others was much of his own history, and he rarely sought anything beyond the most basic assistance for his own needs. He was clearly an educated man, and the backpack he wore on his shoulders always contained a book or two. He was well versed in the great works of fiction, but preferred history, biography, and works of social commentary. He spoke French and Spanish, some Italian, and a little Germa
n. His handwriting was small and elegant, not unlike its practitioner. Jude kept himself clean, and as neatly turned out as his situation allowed. The Goodwill stores on Forest Avenue and out by the Maine Mall, and the Salvation Army on Warren Avenue, all knew his sizes by heart, and would often put aside items that they thought he might appreciate. By the standards of the streets, one might even have said that Jude was something of a dandy. He rarely spoke of any family, but it was known that he had a daughter. Of late, she had become a topic of conversation among Jude’s few intimates. It was whispered that Jude’s daughter, a troubled young woman, had fallen off the radar again, but Jude spoke little of her, and refused to bother the police further with his private concerns.
Because of his efforts, and his decency, the city’s advocates for the homeless had tried to find Jude permanent housing, but they soon learned that something in his character rendered him ill suited to settling down. He would stay in his new home for a week, or a month, and then a social worker would respond to a complaint and find that Jude had given up his apartment to four or five others, and had himself returned to the streets. In winter, he would seek a bed at the Oxford Street Shelter or, if no such bed was available, as was often the case when the weather turned harsh, he would lie down on a thin mat on the floor of the nearby Preble Street community center, or take a chair in the lobby of Portland’s general-assistance office. On such nights, with the temperature at seventeen degrees and the wind so cold that it penetrated his layers of wool and cotton, of newspaper and flesh, right down to his bones, he would wonder at those who claimed that Portland was too attractive to the homeless, because it found a place for anyone who sought shelter. But he would consider, too, the flaws in his own personality that rendered him unable to accept the comforts that he sought for others. He knew that this meant he would die on the streets. He was not surprised, therefore, by the fact that death had now come for him at last, but merely by the form it had taken.
The Wolf in Winter Page 2