There was only one waitress in the diner, a thin-faced gray-haired woman in her fifties. She wore her hair in a ponytail. When she came to fill their water glasses, he saw that both of her forearms were tattooed—a deer and an eagle. She nodded hello. She tapped her index finger on the paper placemat when she saw he was looking for a menu. He said, “Thanks,” and she didn’t respond.
The men at the counter weren’t speaking, either. Bennie was glad when Helen returned from the bathroom. The diner posted a list of the winners of the town’s tomato prize on the wall outside the ladies’ room, and Helen reported her findings: a guy named Chester Millbridge had won the tomato prize for seven consecutive years, from 1922 until 1928. Then Molly Magavern unseated him, the first woman to win the prize.
The men at the counter were eating silently, and while they didn’t turn around, Bennie knew they were listening. When the waitress came to field their order, Helen looked around for a menu, so he tapped his finger on her placemat, and she said, “Oh.”
The tattooed waitress held her order pad and pen but remained silent.
Helen asked, “The tomato prize. Is it for size or quality?” “Weight,” said the waitress.
“Right. I guess quality would be harder to judge.”
“Nowadays it’s rigged, that prize. My cousin always wins it. He owns the scale.” The skin underneath her eyes was dark and sagged deeply. She stared at them.
“Hmm. That’s too bad,” said Helen.
“The pecan pie any good?” Bennie asked.
“Nope,” said the waitress.
“What’s good?” he asked.
“Hamburger. Fried clams.”
“I’ll have a hamburger,” said Helen. Close up, the tattoos were that long-ago shade of green: an eagle with its wings spread, holding arrows in its talons. The deer was standing proudly with a wide rack of antlers.
“I’ll have some apple pie,” said Bennie.
“Don’t have any,” said the waitress.
“Pumpkin?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“What do you have for pie?”
“Pecan,” she said.
“All right. I’ll have the pecan.”
“She just said it’s not any good,” said Helen.
Bennie looked up at the waitress and she returned his gaze, plainly. “You want it?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said.
She turned and walked through the swinging doors to the kitchen. After she left, one of the men reading the newspaper got up from his stool, put a few bills on the counter, and started walking toward the door. He stopped beside their booth. He had neatly parted black hair, long sideburns, and the clean look, clear eyes, and straight smile of a Cumberland County politician. He was wearing a turtleneck, and aside from his sideburns he was clean shaven.
“Hello,” the man said. “You folks passing through?”
“Kind of,” said Helen.
“Vacationing?” He clasped his hands together. His face looked chapped from the cold, which made his smile stand out. He seemed happy, but there was a hint of aggression in his cheer. Bennie was glad to let Helen do the talking.
“Not really. We’re here to see a friend,” she said.
“Are you in town for supper?”
Helen looked at Bennie, then back at the man. “We’re here for the evening,” she said. “But we’ll be with our friend.”
“Well, bring your friend along to the Grange. We’re having a gathering,” he said. “A Saint Patrick’s Day event. Lots and lots of folks—everyone I know, and some I don’t. We’ll have dinner, talk about some important issues. Issues important to everyone, not just us here in Tavis Falls, and those of us in my group.”
“Sounds good,” said Helen, in her quiet voice.
“Try us out. The name’s Arthur Page.”
They introduced themselves, and he gave them directions to the Grange. Helen asked him if he knew Martha.
“I don’t know any Marthas in this town, but who knows, there might be a Martha or two. I don’t know everyone. I’m relatively new to the area. What I can tell you is that if you’re visiting for the evening, you can’t go wrong. Afternoon’s a good time as well. Enjoy the beauty of the world, my friends. It’s a gift.” He looked out the window beside the booth, at the snowy field. The snowmobiles were still whining in the distance.
The waitress arrived with food. “Move it, Art,” she said. “Let these people eat.”
He smiled and said, “She gets a little cranky, but she’s a good soul. Aren’t you, Evelyn.”
She ripped their tab from her order pad and placed it facedown on the table.
“Pecan pie,” said Arthur. “Finest kind.”
Evelyn rolled her eyes. She said, “Art’s from Massachusetts.”
“See you tonight,” he said, putting his hand on his heart and smiling again. Then he walked out into the snow.
The pie tasted like Aunt Jemima syrup and soggy bread. Evelyn was resting on one of the stools. Bennie asked her, “You know that guy pretty well?”
“Art? Sure,” she said.
He asked her what his “group” was.
She said, “Beats the hell out of me. Some kind of gladhanding, I’m guessing. You see, people come from out of town, say they like it here, and then next thing you know they’re trying to change everything to how they really want it to be.”
The man reading the newspaper at the counter laughed.
Helen chewed her burger. With a full mouth she asked, “You ever been to one of Art’s meetings?”
“Nope,” she said. “He’s giving out free food, though.”
“You know Martha?”
Evelyn looked at Helen skeptically. “I know a few Marthas,” said Evelyn. “But none of them is a Martha anyone would ask about.”
Helen seemed to think about this for a brief moment, then she nodded.
When they walked outside the temperature had dropped but the clouds were still hanging low in the sky, and what was falling now was that light, icy snow that sometimes falls for days at a time.
They drove into town, carving troughs in the deep snow, and parked on Main Street near the small green bridge that spanned the St. Jeremiah River just north of the falls. Portland had a big influence on Brunswick, and on their island as well. Inland Maine was a world apart. Tavis Falls was only thirty minutes from Brunswick, but its dark storefronts and boarded-up mill buildings were good reminders of this difference. As they walked down Main Street, the town felt like a shadow of the original model—maybe the mill had once brought color to the place, but now, especially in the new snowfall, everything felt muted and gray. The shops that had probably opened in the fifties were still there, and though they looked like they’d been closed for years, Bennie and Helen saw dim lights in the back of the shoe and hat store, and someone in the window of Wheatcroft’s Hardware arranging a bundle of snow shovels. The most active-looking storefront was Hilldreth’s Barbershop and Newsstand. The windows were clean, and someone had shoveled the walkway and the steps leading up to its door.
The metal rack by the door inside Hilldreth’s contained no local papers, only Car & Driver, Penthouse, and Juggs. The barber said he’d heard of Martha Doyle—but then he said, “Doyle? Are you sure it’s Doyle? I knew a Martha Pinkham. Married to my brother’s friend Jason Pinkham. He’s in lockup.” At the Shell station—where Bennie also asked about Martha and received a barely noticeable shrug in response—they bought a copy of the Jeremiah Bulletin. The lead article, “EAST HANCOCK LIKES IT INDIAN STYLE,” reported on the grand opening of an Indian restaurant forty miles away. They stood out of the cold while Helen read Bennie the story, which was full of quotes from the restaurateur such as, “We will be serving Tikka Massala, Korma, Vin-daloo, and other savory dishes.” She flipped through the rest of the paper and saw no mention of Ray LaBrecque, the search, nothing. In the Events Calendar, Arthur Page’s gathering at the Grange was listed in bold type.
“If the party’s big enou
gh, I bet someone’ll know Martha,” said Helen.
“Or how to find her,” he said.
The Grange was on the other side of town from Wendell’s Diner, on a bend in the road, at the top of a hill. There were no other cars parked in the lot, though there was a dim yellow light above the entrance illuminating neatly painted, gently curving black letters. TAVIS FALLS GRANGE. Bennie put his arm around Helen and he hopped with her through the snow to the door as she carried his crutches. Someone had plowed recently. The door was unlocked.
They stepped inside, the dry heat warming their faces, and saw a long hallway, golden light coming from a small overhead globe. The wood floors were clean, freshly varnished, and the walls were unadorned. They turned in to the first room, a kitchen, immaculate and foodless—Bennie checked the ancient refrigerator and it was not only empty but spotless. The place felt solemn and well cared for, alive, and all Bennie could say was “This wasn’t what I was expecting.” Helen ran her hand along the steel countertops, well worn and polished. The kitchen was connected to the main room of the Grange—the meeting hall—which had three podiums near the back, each draped with purple velvet, fringed with gold tassels. Otherwise, the place was empty. The size of a small basketball gymnasium, the room had tall windows, but the radiators along the walls kept the room warm, almost hot. They shed their jackets and stood in silence in the room, smelling the varnish.
Then Bennie put his arm around Helen again and they headed back to the kitchen. Beyond the counters and the old gas stove there was a small door, which took some effort to open—the doorknob was loose—but once the latch clicked free, they walked inside. It was a tiny room with a single window and a little bed. There was no radiator so it was cooler, but they kept the door open to the kitchen.
The dark blue light from the snowstorm had filled the room, and Helen and Bennie sat down on the bed. For the first few seconds all they heard was the quiet sound of their breath. Out the small window the spruce boughs were heavy with snow. He pulled her closer, then he shut his eyes to the little room, to its simple and spare perfection, to the waning light of the afternoon. After a few seconds he felt her turn toward him, and when he opened his eyes he saw that she was looking at him in a casual, familiar way. At first this made him feel uneasy—to know that she was in Tavis Falls for him, to help him, even though he himself didn’t know exactly why they’d come—but this feeling passed, and he gave in to the warmth of her body and her wet-looking eyes and he thought to himself, This is it, it’s happening, my life.
They watched as the daylight faded. He no longer felt hidden from Helen; he knew she could see him as clearly as she ever would. Since falling into the quarry, the world had been flooding into him, unfil-tered. He felt more awake, as though the brightness of the world had intensified, and despite the trouble with his brother, and with Vin, all he could feel was gratitude. His leg was still healing, but he was thankful for his arms, his hands, his fingers—where his skin touched Helen’s it was very warm, and the heat from the kitchen was now coming in through the doorway, but there was a small crack in one of the win-dowpanes, so when the wind picked up outside, swirling, rushing through the nearby trees, there was a thin draft on their faces.
Helen said, “Maybe we shouldn’t ever go back to the island,” and while he knew she didn’t really mean it, he thought about the possibility.
Then they saw stark white light spread on the trees outside. A car. Helen’s face was flushed and her eyes were shining as they stepped into the kitchen. Arthur Page and a woman who appeared to be his wife were knocking their boots on the steps outside the door. They entered the kitchen, both wearing blue knit wool hats pulled down over their ears, both smiling as though the snowstorm was too exciting to bear. They were carrying large trays covered in tinfoil, wearing oven mitts.
“Ellen! Bennie!” cried Arthur. “Fantastic!”
“Helen,” said Bennie, nodding his head in her direction.
“Helen, of course,” Arthur said, setting the tray down on the counter. “This means a lot to me, that you found your way here.”
He introduced them to his wife, Nancy Page, who said an almost whispered hi to them, and after Arthur put the two racks of lasagna into the oven, all four of them walked into the main room to set up chairs and tables. They made space for fifty people. “Who knows how many will come,” said Arthur. “But it’s always best to be ready.” He was wearing a button-down blue oxford shirt tucked neatly into his jeans; Nancy, too, was wearing jeans and a light blue shirt, and though she didn’t speak, she was jittery with anticipation—you could see it in her eyes and her dry red cheeks and easy smile. Whenever Arthur made a comment, she would nod in agreement. When they’d finished setting up the chairs and tables, Arthur and Bennie and Helen sat down while Nancy went to the kitchen to check on the food.
Bennie asked Arthur if he knew Ray LaBrecque.
He said of course he knew him. He was a quiet kid, but even so, Tavis Falls was a small enough town. He asked how Bennie knew him, and he said he didn’t, really, he just knew LaBrecque had gotten work on one of the islands down near Meadow, and that now he seemed to be missing.
“Got a job on the coast? I don’t think so,” he said, laughing. “He goes to school with my son. They’re not exactly friends, but they play on the same basketball team.” He stood up and pushed a few chairs neatly against the tables.
“Maybe we’re not talking about the same Ray,” said Bennie.
Arthur sat back down and put his hands on his thighs. “Ray LaBrecque. His parents live up the hill, on the other side of the falls?”
“I think the Ray I’m talking about was raised by his uncle,” Bennie said, straightening chairs on the other side of the table.
Arthur didn’t seem to be listening—he said the LaBrecques were a good family, and that he wouldn’t be surprised if they showed up for the program at the Grange that night.
Helen stood up and walked to the kitchen to check how Nancy was doing. Bennie asked Arthur what the “program” was, exactly, and he said Bennie and Helen would enjoy it—it would involve talk of peace and humanity and spirituality and destiny.
“Wow,” Bennie said, nodding.
“Thanks for backing me up, son,” he said. “I don’t suppose you could help hold a placard or two during my presentation? It’d be nice to have someone on the ‘outside’ assisting me.”
“A placard? Like a sign?”
“Thank you, son. Wonderful,” he said.
Two young couples entered the hall, and Arthur leapt up to welcome them. The two men looked as though they’d spent the day sleeping in a ditch. They were probably brothers—both were wide-chested and wore canvas pants with lashes of oil and dirt at the cuffs, and their red beards were the same hue. At first glance the young women accompanying them looked alike, too. All four were crimson-cheeked from the cold. One of the men said, quietly, “This where the free dinner is at?”
“Sure is. I’m Arthur Page.” He extended his hand and the two men extended theirs reluctantly in turn, and the two women nodded with gentle smiles. None of the four said another word—they didn’t introduce themselves and just stood in the back, waiting.
Just as Bennie was resigning himself to an awkward evening with the two ditch-sleepers and their wives, listening to Arthur prattle about world peace in this pristine wooden hall in the middle of the Maine woods, the doors opened and the crowd arrived. He looked for Martha, a desperate scan from face to face in the sea of new bodies. The throngs entering the Grange must have inspired confidence in Arthur, although nobody seemed to know why they were there. Bennie couldn’t wait to hear Arthur’s opening pitch. There were other “insiders”—earnest-looking, bright-eyed, well-groomed men and women carrying more trays of food—but most of the assembled crowd weren’t a part of Arthur’s organization. They looked hungry, tired, and drunk. The divide was easy to notice. There was Arthur and his wife and his well-scrubbed friends. Everyone else was forming into smaller groups, and most of t
hem looked like those first two: unshaven, large, and hungry. Helen and Bennie camped near one of the radiators.
Arthur approached. He appeared less jolly and self-assured. He said, “I think we will probably have enough food.”
Helen asked, “You must have advertised?”
“I put a small announcement in the paper. And I put up a few signs at the rec center. And at the sawmill.” He looked around. “Looks like word spread at the sawmill best.”
Behind Arthur was a man in a green baseball cap with a case of beer under his arm. He’d ripped a hole in one end of the cardboard and was passing the cans around.
An eager line formed for food. Arthur’s wife had driven into town to pick up a dozen pizzas, and she returned just in time; all the lasagna was gone, and the loud line curled out the kitchen and well into the hall. People who’d made it through the kitchen were starting to sit down. Helen and Bennie brought their plates to a table with two older men. The guy on their left had short-cropped hair and a long gray beard. They were playing cribbage and drinking cans of Busch.
When they sat down, Bennie asked, “How’s the grub?”
They didn’t respond, but when the man with the long beard finished moving his pegs, he said, “Sorry, what?”
“I was just asking how the food was.”
“Quite good,” he said. “Not as good as the beer, but quite, quite good.”
“Kind of weird to be eating lasagna on Saint Paddy’s Day, but it’s free,” said the man sitting directly across from them. He raised his beer and said, “Cheers,” then tipped it back, finishing it. Skinny and oddly tan, he had two packs of Marlboros in the breast pocket of his blue flannel shirt. He reached down into the red cooler at the base of the table and brought out four more cans, sliding two across the table for Helen and Bennie.
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