by Winton, Tom
In half the time it takes to bat an eyelash, this truck from hell was right alongside me. I mean right alongside me—mere inches away. Even though I’d reflexively swerved as far to the right as I could, he was so close that I thought for sure the maniacal Mack was going to rip my outside rearview off. As weighted down as the truck was, I felt the road quaking beneath my wheels. The wind shear it created was so strong that when it rushed through the open window, it lifted the hair on my head—straight up! That I could live with it, but the tremendous gust also shoved the Volvo even farther to the right.
It seemed like forever before the truck finally passed, but the ordeal was still far from over. By this time both my passenger side wheels were rolling and bouncing on the grassy road shoulder. Quickly, I was being pulled toward the trees. Rigid as a corpse by now, I struggled and strained with the steering wheel, but the SUV would not react. It was like being on the back of an unresponsive, psychotic mustang—yanking and jerking at the reigns to no avail. This went on for a five-second eternity. I now thought I was going to lose the passenger side rearview, and my life, to the immovable wall of thick, brown tree trunks blurring alongside me.
But I didn’t. At the last possible second, I somehow managed to right the vehicle, just a bit. And with two wheels still thumping along on the grass, and me bouncing in the seat, I gradually coaxed the SUV back onto the asphalt road. And it’s a damn good thing I did. Another twenty yards and I would have smashed right into the first road sign I’d seen for miles. It was a worn and weathered thing that looked as if it had seen a hundred winters. About the size of a sheet of plywood, I had just enough time to read its faded black letters as I rolled by. It said:
WELCOME TO MOUNTAIN STEP, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Population 247—plus six old grouches
Had I not been so traumatized, I might have smiled, but at the moment the best I could do was shake my head a couple of times.
Up ahead there was another curve and just before it a few white houses peeked out from beneath the trees. There were two on each side of the road and all of them, except for one, were neat and tidy with freshly-cut lawns. All had porches and, since it was just two weeks after Memorial Day, one still had an American flag bunting draped across its railing.
As I got closer I could see somebody standing in the knee-high weeds in front of the shabby house. It was an old man, an overweight old man. And the only things he was wearing were a black eye patch and a Speedo that matched. He was looking at me as if I was the best thing to come down the pike in a long, long time. With eyes bulging and a beaming ear-to-ear smile he suddenly started bouncing on his toes, waving at me excitedly. Obviously the old-timer was on a different wavelength than most folks. The way he so enthusiastically waggled his hand and bobbed his head from side to side you’d have thought that, instead of me being a complete stranger, I was “Johnny” coming marching home again. As I drove by the poor guy, I flashed him a shy little return wave; then shook my head again, like I did after reading that sign. But this time I couldn’t help myself. I just had to smile.
Leaving the happy greeter behind, I steered around the curve and found myself on another straightaway. Immediately I knew I was heading due west. The early evening sun that had fallen behind the trees a few miles back suddenly reappeared way off in the distance. And as I squinted through the windshield, the fiery red sphere looked like it was wedged in the notch that the road cut into the tree line. Nearly blinded by its light, I pulled down the sun visor, and I did it just in time. There was a stop sign just ahead.
With the glare now out of my eyes, the red and white sign wasn’t the only thing I could see as I slowed to a stop. Right before me there was a small village. It was a quiet village, and the vision of it was absolutely amazing. The falling red sun casted a radiant glow on everything in sight. All of it was a luminescent pink—the two-pump gas station/convenience store, “Molly’s Mountain Step Café,” a general store, and a small weathered church. Beyond those buildings there were a few more businesses. But from where I was stopped, the only other two I could make out were a small shop with a “Used Everything” sign above its windows and a tiny library that sat beneath some tall oaks.
It was a quintessential New England hamlet. And in this magical early-evening light, it looked like a Norman Rockwell painting but with the kind of surreal illumination that could only come from a Thomas Kinkade brush.
With no cars coming from any direction, I just sat there in the idling SUV for a moment. As my eyes still wandered slowly, I whispered to myself as if it were a secret, “Oh my God. This is it! This is exactly what I’d hoped to find. No! It’s even better.”
But then I felt a tug. That all too familiar ache. It was pulling at the dark part of my heart again. And I knew, for the first time, that I hadn’t been able to leave it behind in my empty apartment. My face tightened, and then I said, “Oh Elyse honey. How I wish you were here to share this with me.”
Sniffling twice, I lowered my head and slowly massaged my brow. But I caught myself. I fought back. I sniffled just one more time then cleared my throat. I forced myself to straighten up in my seat again, looked three ways, crossed through the deserted intersection, and turned into the parking lot alongside the general store.
The Woman
After pulling into the unpaved parking lot, I slowly nosed my Volvo up to the side of the old wooden store. Glancing out the passenger-side window, I saw only one other vehicle in the lot—
a hulking green Chevy pickup with a snowplow harness on the front. It was parked alongside an equally-green dumpster, beneath yet another tall row of elm trees. I could tell that the truck, just like the store, had seen its share of tough New England winters. The body had lost its luster and along with a dent in the door, there were two matching rust rings above its huge tires. I vowed right then and there that if things worked out for me and I stayed in New Hampshire, I would always keep a good coat of wax on the Volvo.
Stiff and road-weary, I made my way around to the store’s front entrance. Once there, I trudged up three stone steps and pulled opened a squeaky screen door. When I stepped inside and let the door go, the belligerent thing slammed me a good one right square in the behind. I gave it an unkindly look then just stood there a moment checking the place out. There was nobody in sight.
To my immediate right, a newspaper rack backed up to the end of a wooden counter that ran parallel to the front window. There was just enough room between the two for somebody to work what looked like an antique cash register. Down the counter, just past a small checkout area, a canister of beef jerky and a tall jar of pickled eggs stood next to a coffee machine. On top of the latter, there was a clean glass pot on each of the two burners; and next to the machine, four tattered chairs were lined side by side along a wall. Through a window above the chairs, I could see the black roof of my Volvo.
It was so quiet in the store that when I heard a female voice coming from somewhere in the back it startled me.
“Who goes there?” the woman asked in a friendly tone.
Still unable to see anyone, I answered, “Oh . . . ah, it’s just me, a customer. I wanted to poke around a bit, if that’s okay.”
“Sure! Go ahead. I’ll be right with you.”
“Alright. I’m in no hurry.”
Now noticing a refrigerated section along the back wall, I slowly headed toward the row of glass doors. And as I walked along a worn path in the oak floor, I glanced around some more. The low shelves on both sides of me were well stocked with many of the basic items local folks might need. Everything from canned green beans to bags of flour to red-and-white fishing bobbers were neatly arranged and strategically located. A few steps later I came upon a small hardware section and then I heard that voice again.
“Is there anything I can point you toward?”
Turning to the left now, I had all I could do not to jump two steps back. I was that shocked, because standing behind a small, three-stool snack bar, in front of a pizza oven, was
one of the most striking women I’d ever seen. New York City may well have more beautiful females than any other place on earth, but I’d never seen one quite like this one. Plainly dressed in blue jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and, believe it or not, a green John Deere cap perched on top of her head, she still looked absolutely elegant.
I was so entranced by this woman that when I spoke, I stumbled over my words and could hardly hear them. To my ears, my voice sounded like a short succession of distant distractions that had no meaning at all.
“Well,” I said, “I . . . I was just going to see what you had in the cooler. Thought I, um, might get a sandwich or something.”
The amiable smile on her face began to widen then. So did her eyes. They were sleek, gray eyes—more captivating than any I’d ever seen before. The more they opened, the more they put me to mind of glistening silver.
But she was studying the top of my head now, and that was why she’d become so wide-eyed. Suddenly she looked as if she was about to lose her composure and crack up laughing about something. I didn’t know why, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit foolish. You’d have thought that a second nose or a third ear had sprouted up out of my hair. Then she lost it. She couldn’t fight it any more. She started laughing hysterically, as if I were the funniest thing to come down the pike in a long, long time. She tried to stop herself but couldn’t, and finally, as she was still breaking up she said, “I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry, But it’s your hair! It looks like somebody took a vacuum to it. It’s all standing straight up. What happened? Did you just go through a wind tunnel or something?”
Now feeling like a little boy whose pants had just fallen down in front of the prettiest girl in the class, and also feeling the blood rush to my face as well, I hastily patting my hair down and said, “Ha, ha, very funny. It just so happens that a few minutes ago I was almost about run off the road by a logging truck from hell. I had my window open and when he passed by he was so close that . . . .”
“I’m sorry,” she cut in, shaking her head, “It’s just that you look so neat and tidy. The doo didn’t work with the rest of you.”
“Cute, real cute,” I said, reaching into the back pocket of my jeans for my comb. Then, as I ran it through my hair, I said, “Let me tell you something. I’m not the only one around here who looks kind of funny. I don’t know if you know it or not but just around the bend, coming into town here, there’s a jolly old guy in a Speedo who looks kind of funny too.”
No longer laughing, but still with a smile wide enough to dimple her lovely cheeks, she brushed aside a long wisp of black hair that escaped her Deere cap and said, “Oh, you mean good old Bobby Bard. Nooo, he’s okay. He’s Mountain Step’s answer to the Welcome Wagon is all. As a matter of fact, he owns this store and used to be the town’s first selectman. But he had a serious accident a while back, hasn’t been the same since. His son, Hank, runs the store now. I just fill in for him two days a week.”
“Hmm, that’s too bad about the old guy. What was that you said? He was a first selectman? What’s that?”
“I knew you were from away.”
“Away?”
“Yes, up here away means from another place.”
There was a pause in the conversation then. And as neither of us spoke, our eyes locked together. This silence only lasted a second or two, but it felt far longer. Those two silver jewels of hers didn’t just hold my eyes, they seized them. And while that made me more than a little uncomfortable, I was enjoying the connection we had made. It was one of those rare, intense moments when two virtual strangers know exactly what each other is thinking, and they allow the connection; welcome it, savor it, and lust for more. I might have been able to look away. And I thought I should have. But I didn’t. Instead I let it continue. And the longer it did, the more I felt like I was committing an adulterous act.
Finally we both fought back the intensity. As if she had snapped out of a deep thought, actually looking a little embarrassed, she said, “A selectman! Well, a selectman does pretty much the same things a big city councilman does, probably a lot more. And a first selectman, he or she is like a mayor.”
It was now my turn to try to appear calm and collected.
“Oh, I see . . . interesting.”
“I’ll bet you’re from a big city. You sound like you’re from New York.”
“Yes, I am. I was born in Brooklyn, but I’ve been in Manhattan for quite some time now.”
Not wanting to get too deep into my personal life, I quickly changed the subject. “I just stopped in for a bite to eat.” Glancing at the cooler to my right now, I asked, “Do you have any sandwiches or anything in there?”
“Sure do, but they’ve been in there since this morning. I’m about to take a pizza out of the oven. Want a slice or two? They tell me they’re pretty good.”
Looking back at her now, just beginning to get over the look we’d exchanged, I thought, Small town, general store pizza! Yeeesh! How good could that be? Probably tastes like cardboard.
I was about to tell her I’d check out the sandwiches instead, but she’d already spun around and was sliding the pie out of the oven with a big aluminum pizza peel. Since she was a few steps away from the snack bar now, and more of her was visible, my eyes suddenly acted as if they had minds of their own. I couldn’t help it. I had to take a better look. And boy what a site she was. The way all her curves and rises were wrapped tight in that plaid shirt and faded jeans, each and every one of them was as spellbinding as her face, possibly even more so.
”This one has cheese only.” she said, sliding the pie onto a flat pan before me.
I was amazed. It really looked good.
“You know what,” I said, as she began slicing it with a steel roller knife, “I think I just might try a couple of slices.”
Smiling again now, she nodded at the snack bar between us and asked, “Are you going to have them here?”
“No, no . . . I can’t stay. I’ll take them with me. I’ve been on the road all day and have to head back to Conway.”
I could tell she was disappointed. Her lips were still pulled into that smile but it was gone from her eyes.
Oh.” she said, looking down at the pizza now, picking up the first slice with a sheet of waxed paper, sliding it into a paper bag. “Are you staying there with relatives?”
“No, I have to get a motel room. I’m planning on spending a few days up here, poking round a little.”
Laying the bagged pizza on the counter before me now, she said, “Oh,” as if it were a question. She was also looking at me again.
Keeping my eyes on the bag, fumbling around with it, I said, “Yupper, I just might be relocating to the area. Thought I’d come back up this way tomorrow and take a closer look.”
Looking back up at her now, I could tell she was thinking about something. I thought there was a hint of relief on her face. Dismissing the thought as silly, I said, “How much do I owe you?”
“What? Oh, sorry . . . two-fifty even will do it. Let’s go up front to the register.”
As I walked along the wooden floor in front of her, I felt self conscious and clumsy. I thought for sure she was looking me over.
When we got to the front of the store I laid the bag on the counter and she slid around to the back of it. I was reaching into my back pocket for my wallet when she said, “You know something? You don’t have to go all the way to Conway for a room.”
Oh Lord, I figured. You’ve got to be kidding me. This can’t be hap . . . .
But she quickly severed that thought by saying, “My Mom rents out cabins. They’re all neat, clean, and cozy. And they’re less than three miles from here.” She then turned to the window, pointed and said, “You just go back to the four-way stop there and make a left. It’s only about five minutes up Portland Road.”
“Hmmm, really? You know something . . . I just might take you up on that. Do you know if she’s got anything available?”
“Let me give her a quick call. Being i
t’s a Sunday she should.”
She then reached past the register, picked up a phone, punched in the number, and gave me an assured smile as she waited. I smiled back politely, and my eyes started in again. I glanced at her left hand. She was holding the phone to her ear with it, and I could plainly see there was no ring. Quickly, I looked to the left, acting as if I was checking out the pickled eggs for the first time.
“Hello, Mom.” she said, as we looked at each other again. “I’ve got a nice fella here at the store that needs a place to stay tonight, maybe longer. Do you have a cabin for him?”
As her mother answered, the woman bobbed her head and gave me an affirmative little wink. A moment later she said, “Good. That’s great. I’ll send him right over. He’s tall, has nice, neat, dark brown hair, killer blue eyes, and is quite handsome.”
Feeling my face heat up again, totally disgusted with myself now, I turned my head and stared at the beef jerky this time.
You’re almost forty years old, shit for brains. That’s twice in ten minutes you’ve blushed in front of this woman. You are one hopeless case!
But that was okay. Even though I was almost positive that she’d noticed, she didn’t mention it after hanging up the phone. Instead she just took my two dollars and fifty cents; then introduced herself as Gina. After that, when I opened that vengeful screen door to leave, she told me one last thing.
You won’t be able to miss my Mom’s place. There’s a sign that says The Contented Moose Cabins. And just before it, there’s a small dirt road running back into the trees. That’s where I live . . . way in the back.”
After I left the store, that last sentence kept playing in my head. Over and over like a skipping record, I kept hearing, “That’s where I live . . . way in the back.”
Though there are times when a man can’t quite grasp the intentions of a woman’s words, I couldn’t help myself. I knew that what she’d said certainly hadn’t been a loud and clear invitation to visit her or anything like that, but part of me couldn’t help thinking it might be an invitation just the same. It seemed like she had opened a door for me. It was as if she’d said, “If you stay a while, we just might get to know each other better. And I’d like that.”