I TAKE A DEEP breath after I get out of my car and tilt my head toward the morning sun before walking up the steps to the general store. This is my favorite time of the day, the time when everything is calm. When you can hear the birds chirp before traffic comes barreling down the road, and when you can still make out a four-legged friend who is grazing on the dewy grass across from the store. Everything looks fresh in the morning sunlight, which gives me hope that things are going to be okay. And I need a lot of hope these days.
Every morning, the same two men—John and Steve—sit on the porch in the white rocking chairs the store provides. They sip their coffee and carry on like two old ladies on a Sunday morning. They know everyone in town and absolutely everything that goes on. They are the unofficial mayors of Pittsfield. I say, “Hi,” as I pass by, earning a whistle and a wink. Some think they’re dirty old men, but I believe they’re being nice. They make a lady feel good about herself whether they mean to or not.
I open the door and cringe at the creaking sound it makes. We’ve tried to oil the hinges and even replaced the door, but the same thing happens each time. The guys say it’s the ghost of the previous owner making sure we don’t change the character of the store since it’s on the historical preservation list—not that we would do anything of the sort. There’s something about an old general store that takes people back to the quieter days of the world. The inside doesn’t fare much better with its old floorboards; they tell a story of age each time they’re stepped on. It’s a sound of history and you get used to it over time.
“Good morning, Amy,” Laura says, handing me a steaming cup of coffee. Holding it between my hands, I inhale deeply. I love the smell of her home roasted coffee. She sells it specifically for the store, along with an assortment of cakes, pastries, cheeses, and meats. Her little store is a tourist stop and is often too busy for just the two of us, but we make it work. According to Laura, her first year of ownership was a struggle, but after putting in the breakfast and lunch counter things picked up. And when she started featuring local products to help out the farmers and independent businesses in the area, people really started to come in. By the second year, her business had grown and it’s still thriving fifteen years later. I’ve been working for her for four years now and know just about everything there is to know.
I tip my head back and welcome the warmth as the coffee trickles down my throat before I answer her. Yes, this makes getting up early worth it.
“Morning, Laura. How are things?” I ask, coming around the counter to place my purse in the drawer and grab my apron. I do everything here: cook, clean, stock shelves, serve the lunch crowd, and chat whenever someone needs an ear … and believe me everyone has something to say. I’m everyone’s favorite history teacher’s wife, and when your husband is highly respected you do what you can to keep up appearances.
“Can’t complain. Now that you’re here, I’m going to run and do the banking. I’ll be right back.”
With a flurry, Laura is out the door before I can respond. It’s normal for her; once she has her mind set, it’s moving a million times faster than her body and she probably feels like she’s already late. The nearest town is about forty minutes from here, so her “right back” means two or three hours later. I don’t mind, really, since everyone who comes in are either locals or tourists.
One of the best things about my job is that I get to talk to people from all over. I get to hear their stories and pretend it’s me having the grand adventure they’re enjoying. Tourists love to share. They love that you care. I want them to feel welcomed, even if this isn’t their final destination.
And when they leave, I move on to the next person and their adventure because deep down talking to them makes me miss where I came from, makes me long for the warm air, the ocean and sand between my toes. They make me question my existence and I often find myself wondering how things could’ve been different.
I set out and start the daily chores around the store. Laura has already dealt with the early morning rush, leaving me to clean up and make sure the store is presentable. Our busy times vary, but between five and six in the morning you can guarantee a trucker or two will be in here eating before hitting the highway. The state lacks the necessary highway system to help them get from point A to point B. This is where small towns like Pittsfield come in. If you create the atmosphere, they’ll stop and become regulars.
One of the farmers from down the road walks in, grabs the newspaper, and takes a seat at the counter. After pouring his usual iced tea, I set it down in front of him.
“Thanks, Amy.”
“No problem, Adam. Let me know when you’re ready to order.”
He nods and opens the paper, getting lost in the news. The paper here is nothing like I’m used to. You can read front to back in under an hour, or just ask one of the guys on the porch what’s going on and they’ll tell you. Not a whole lot happens around here, and for that I’m thankful. The less excitement we have the better I feel.
“Unbelievable,” Adam huffs, grabbing my attention.
“What’s that?”
He shakes his head and ruffles the paper to straighten it out. “Just that senator from Florida.”
I’m not sure what Adam is talking about, as I haven’t been keeping up with the news lately. There was a time in my life when all I did was watch the news, but lately it’s depressing with all the children being murdered and the terrorist attacks. Each time I hear about one, I want to crawl into bed with Chloe and hold her. She wouldn’t allow that, being almost ten. Apparently it’s no longer cool to do those types of things with your mom.
“I hadn’t heard. Do you want the usual?” I’m not trying to rush him, but don’t want to get caught if more people come in. When he nods, I set off to make his roast beef and bacon grinder.
“This guy’s a real piece of shit.”
“Most politicians are. They’re liars and thieves, taking the taxpayers’ money for hammers and toilet seats that they put in the books for an exorbitant amount. I’m not sure I’ve met one who doesn’t lie.” Bringing his sandwich and a bag of chips over, I rest my hip against the counter.
“Nah, this guy is the scum. Says here he’s being charged with all kinds of crimes against children, like prostitution and rape.”
I cringe at what Adam says. Being a mother, it’s our job to protect our children at all costs. I know I do. I’ve taken measures before to protect Chloe. These men and even woman that sexually harm children … I have no words for them. They should not be walking amongst us, I know that, but as I stand here I have to keep my opinions to myself because Ray doesn’t believe in the death penalty.
“I’d like to get my hands on this guy and squeeze the life out of him,” Adam states in between bites.
“What’s his name?”
Adam returns his focus to the paper before replying, “Lawson. Says here he’s being charged with rape and pedophilia. What a sick fuck.”
Everything around me stops and my body grows cold. I’m having trouble forming a sentence, or getting my mouth to move. I want to tell Adam that he has no idea how deranged this man is, but I can’t. It?
?s my secret to keep and mine alone. It’s been years—six and a half to be exact—since I’ve heard that name, and I could’ve honestly gone the rest of my life without ever hearing it again.
“Amy? Amy!”