The Writer (6 page)

It was one o’clock in the
afternoon, with a hot sun shining in a cloudless sky, when she
pushed through those old wooden swing-doors, into her favourite
place in town. When she was a girl those doors seemed daunting to
get through, but now they opened with a slight push. The darkness
of the room caused her to not be able to see the people sitting at
the bar when she first entered. They saw her without any problem
and it made them forget their present conversations. All of them
were pleased to see her.

Sammy Hendersen was known as
Two-Tooth and he still fancied himself a ladies-man. He sported a
thin moustache that he liked to think made him look suave but since
it was grey no one could see it. The name was given to him way back
when he still had any teeth left at all. Never once in his life did
he ever have a full mouth of teeth, and for about ten years of his
life he only had two. That was thirty years ago. He called out
Sophie’s name and raised his arm to give a small wave.

Next to him, Mortie George,
or ‘Elbow’, grinned and nodded his approval. He was somehow related
to Susan but no one had gone to the trouble of figuring out exactly
how. Details were never really important in Gendry. No one even
knew for certain why he was called Elbow, including Elbow himself.
Speculation agreed that when Mortie was a boy he would like get to
the front of a crowd by elbowing his way through, and since he was
a skinny lad he had very sharp elbows. Elbow himself laughed off
that theory, since he claimed to be raised to be too polite to ever
do such a thing. That only reinforced the opinion, since he was
well known to be a little pushy when he needed to be, and probably
did not realise that he was.

Eatery owner Sal gave Sophie
the best greeting of all by placing a plate with a bowl of mousse,
without any invitation to do so. The added bonus was that it was on
the house. As Sophie dug in, Sal proceeded to ask her as many
questions as she could think, about what had happened in town since
her last visit. Sophie knew it was a small price.

“Oh, hi, Sophie.”

Sophie turned to see who was
talking. His voice sounded familiar but she had no idea who it was.
She assumed that it was an old friend, so she smiled before she
looked. When she saw it was Craigfield her first thought was on
making sure there was no mousse on her face.

“How rude of me,” he
continued. “Didn’t see you were eating. I didn’t recognise you at
first.”

“I look different than I did
last night. And it’s bright and sunny today. And I have my hair
up.”

“Yes, but I would have
walked right past you. That’s me, I guess. Day-dreaming again. So
few people here and I miss one.”

“Are you having
lunch?”

“Yeah, I just finished. Nice
little place, this.”

“Everyone loves
Sal’s.”

“Is Sal a real guy? I
haven’t seen him in here.”

“That’s Sal over there,”
Sophie pointed to the woman now engaged in conversation with
Two-Tooth and Elbow. “She owns the place. Try the
mousse.”

Another cake caught
Craigfield’s eye, sitting by itself under a glass lid behind the
counter. He waved for Sal’s attention and while she saw him she
didn’t stop her conversation.

“You’re pointing at the date
fruitcake?” Sophie asked him, not believing what she was seeing.
She was about to tell him to choose something else but she was cut
off by his enthusiasm for it.

“Is it a fresh one?” he
asked as he caught Sal’s eye again. “I can’t see any slices
missing. Must have just been baked, right? Still warm? I love cakes
with an afterglow.”

“No, it’s old and cold,”
Sophie said. “Very old. You don’t want that.”

“How old is very
old?”

“What are you after, son?”
Sal asked as she slowly made her way down.

“A date fruitcake, I believe
it is,” he said to her with a smile that was not returned. “How
long have you had it?”

“That little wonder’s been
here as long as I have. Good preservatives in it, by the looks of
it. Got it from Peterson’s store. They closed down years back;
don’t remember how many, and have no reason to care.”

“I remember the Peterson’s
when I was a girl,” said Sophie.

“If no one wants the cake
then why keep it there?” asked Craigfield.

“Never got around to lifting
it,” said Sal, amongst an almost horrified silence. “Since it kind
of matches the walls, don’t see why it should go. Didn’t do anybody
any wrong, so it wasn’t its fault nobody liked it. Have some apple
crumble slice. I believe that’s a tad fresher. Wednesday, I
think.”

“That’s a classic,” said
Sophie.

Sal was going to give him
the slice whether he wanted it or not. What made it famous was that
the
crumble
was what it would do when it hit the serving
plate, when it would fall away into a flat mess. Tasty, but
flat.

“That’s a slice?” asked
Craigfield.

“It’s trying to be, if
you’ll let it,” Sal said with a tone that told the others she
didn’t like him. “Be kind, now. Remember, it’s not for looking, but
for eating.”

Sophie encouraged him that
it would be the best crumbling thing he would eat. Still
unconvinced, he took it back to his table and she joined him with a
coffee. As he discovered that their description was true they both
relaxed and chatted about the food. Sophie was amazed to hear that
his opinion of the crumble, although good, was not as enthusiastic
as she expected. He claimed he knew a place in the city that sold a
better one. She wrote down the name and told him she would check it
out, and maybe burn the place down on behalf of Sal.

Then they started talking
about the people in the town, and Sophie told him about Elbow and
Two-Tooth. There was also the old ex-mayor Gene Best who had been
trying to get re-elected for the past twenty years and still
remained hopeful of his chances, even though his doctor thought he
should have died at least ten years back. The doctor told him his
heart was weak, but everybody who ever knew him swore that the
doctor was wrong because he was all heart.

Craigfield smiled at what
she said but didn’t offer any comments of his own. He then wiped
his mouth with a napkin and stood up to leave.

“You’re going?” Sophie
asked, a bit startled at his abruptness.

“I feel the need for a
walk,” he said absently. Then he realised he was being rude and he
changed his tone. “Haven’t stretched my legs for a few days. That’s
the main reason I’m here in town, to get away from the city and
take in all the nature you have up here. Time for a
walk.”

“If you want, I can walk
with you?” she suggested, wondering if it was a good idea or not.
She had not planned on befriending someone who wasn’t even from the
town, but from the same city she lived in. Then there was the
problem that she needed to spend more time locked in her room
facing that typewriter. It was very difficult to write with it when
she was nowhere near it.

“What about your lunch?” he
asked.

“I’m all finished. And if I
stay here too long I’ll only eat more.”

It was a nice day for a
stroll and they went at a slow pace, befitting the fact that there
was no traffic. The only people to be seen were off in the
distance, and they were too far away to think about on such a nice
day. Down the road there was a large open area were various plans
for development had come and gone over the years, and it now merely
served as a nice place for a lone flagpole. If someone ever brought
a flag, the picture would be complete. They came to a burnt-out
building, all boarded up, and the blackened roof was only half
intact.

“What did that place use to
be?” he asked.

“From memory, it was the
liquor store. If I remember rightly, Old Man Thrower leaned against
that wall over there, most days. Either leaning there or sleeping
there. He must have been very sad to see the store burn down. I
think he died not long after. Rumour was, his wife burnt it, since
she claimed he was more in love with the store than her. And he let
everyone know he agreed with her.”

“That ‘closed for business’
sign looks kind of old,” Craigfield said about another building.
“Wonder how long they’ve been closed?”

“I don’t know who owns it,”
said Sophie, mildly annoyed that he made no comment about her
story. She hoped it was not because she mentioned the word starting
with L. “Might be having insurance trouble.”

“That a common thing
here?”

“Insurance trouble? Can
be.”

“Oh really? No, I meant fire
closing down businesses. That happen much?”

“Not that I know
of.”

“Yeah, the reason I ask, I
know of this other town, a long way from here, that entertained
this firebug arsonist-type. Turned out he was just a local
shopkeeper who devised this devious scheme in ridding himself of
his competition. By burning them out of business. Worked good for
him too, until he accidentally burnt down his own place. Not a good
idea to drink and set fire to things.”

“We don’t have anything as
interesting as that here, I’m afraid.”

“The man did have a plan. I
guess he should take some credit for that. Took a long time to
catch him, too, as he was also the local fire chief.”

“Huh!” she said with
surprise.

“You didn’t hear about that
story? I thought a town like this would be alerted to stories about
small-town crooks. It seems the sleepier the town is, the more
likely something’s amiss.”

“No, I wouldn’t know; I’ve
been living in the city, last few years. The only news I get to
hear about is national controversy and slash, or international
politics.”

“‘
Slash’? What’s
that?”

“Hate crimes. Serial
murders, that kind of thing.”

“What do you do?”

“Currently I’m doing data
entry, but I’m actually a journalist.” She noticed that he hid a
laugh. “You’re laughing?”

“No, no. Just a little,
sorry. You really missed the firebug story?”

“I can understand your
mockery. It may sound like I’ve lost touch with my roots. If there
was a story concerning Gendry in the news, my ears would have
pricked up. But it never is. Gendry’s never produced anyone famous,
or been the centre of the nation’s attention. I wish it would gain
some attention, believe me, but only as long as it was about
something nice.”

“It’s a good old fashioned
quiet town,” he said after they had walked for a while without
feeling the need to talk.

Both soon wondered why the
other was still there.

“I’d like to ask what brings
you here, but I’m afraid you might be offended,” she
said.

“Not at all. I’m a little
embarrassed by the reason, and I didn’t want to go announcing it at
the party.”

“What is it?” she asked with
a sympathetic smile.

“I need the peaceful
laid-back climate, that’s all.”

“Are you shy?” she asked
playfully. “Or is there some other reason for keeping your big
secret?”

“All right. I’m trying to
write my first novel, that’s all.”

“Really?” she responded,
taken by surprise. “You know, so am I!”

“You’re kidding?”

“Not at all. I’ve been
planning this for a full year. Have all these notes I don’t know
what to do with, but I know they have to fit in somehow. I have a
room in the top floor of Grandmother’s, the old attic. You haven’t
heard me hitting that old typewriter? Loud thing, it
is.”

“You ... you use a
typewriter?” he asked with disgust. If she said that she used the
entrails of a dead cat to do her writing he would have had the same
reaction.

“Uh-huh,” she said, not
knowing what his problem was.

“Haven’t heard a thing
sounding like a typewriter. I don’t think I’d know what one sounded
like anyway. It’s a laptop for me. Couldn’t use anything
else.”

“Guess that’s why I haven’t
heard you, way down in the basement. Laptop keystrokes don’t echo
and carry on out the window.”

“That and the fact I haven’t
actually written anything yet.”

“You haven’t? Are you having
trouble starting?”

“Yes and no. It doesn’t help
when you keep getting called back to the office every few days.
Hey, I just realised something …”

“What?”

“Sal. That’s short for
Sally.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” she
said with a laugh. “What did you think it was short
for?”

“I don’t know,” he said,
also amused at himself. “What else could it be short
for?”

“Sal-ette?”

“I can’t think of
anything.”

“And you call yourself a
writer?”

“I told you I was
struggling. What’s your story about?”

“Why, so you can steal
it?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s about the break-up of
a marriage.”

“What’s it, a
comedy?”