The town of Walters was just a gas station, a bank, a combined grocery store/diner, a firehouse, and a post office. Orbiting around the tiny retail center were about thirty or forty homes on parcels of land that had been in the families since the French trappers had come down from Canada during the Revolutionary War.
As Lydia contemplated all the empty in her refrigerator, she decided to pull into the IGA’s parking lot. Before she got out, she took the Post-it from her bag and punched the ten-number sequence into her phone. She waited to hit send until she entered the grocery half of the building.
She loved Susan, the cashier. She really did.
“Oh, hi!” came the greeting behind the counter. “How’s things at work? What’s going on with you—”
Lydia smiled. Waved. Pointed at her phone in an exaggerated way. “Call.”
Susan nodded and made all kinds of it’s-okay with her hands. “You just talk, I’ll wait.”
Susan was pushing sixty, and still full of beans, a wind-up toy with plenty of strength left in her pull string. Sporting an elaborately coiffed platinum-blond hairdo and a full face of makeup, she was like a starlet waiting for a movie director who had never shown up—but she hadn’t just been sitting around. Married to the fire chief, they had raised five sons in Walters, and like so many, she and her husband were lifers here in the valley, never gonna retire, never gonna move, as they said. Plus she had a committed side-hustle. In addition to running the grocery store, she was both the oral historian and chief newscaster of the area. Which was a wonderful service, covering both the past and the present. Of everybody.
No, really. It was great.
As a second ring came across the connection, Lydia walked back to the shallow meat counter and then glanced around at the seven aisles of short shelves. The selection for everything was small, high calorie’d, and uninspired, especially as it was all she’d been choosing from for the last two years. As a fourth ring burbled in her ear, she gave up pretending she was any kind of cook and rerouted to the entry into the diner part of things. She was out of gas tonight, and the idea of cooking anything, even a can of Campbell’s soup, was overwhelming.
And that was before she stepped through the swinging glass door and the smell of chicken pot pie hit her.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she muttered. “That’s what I’m talking about—”
“Hello?” came a male voice into her ear.
Lydia stopped. God, the sound of that man was like jumper cables hooked to her butt. “Ah, hi, Daniel Joseph? This is Lydia Susi from the Wolf—”
“Oh, yeah, hi. How are you doing?”
In the pause that followed, Lydia frowned as the music coming across the connection registered. It was an old Eagles song. And the weird thing was that “Take It to the Limit” was also … overhead for her as well.
“Lydia? Ms. Susi?”
“Are you …” She glanced to the booths that were against the wall. Then turned to the counter where the stools were. “Oh. Hi.”
Down at the far end of the lineup of truckers and townspeople, Daniel Joseph was parked on a stool and taking up three spaces. And as his eyes swung over and crossed the distance of a dozen half-eaten plates of beef stew and chicken parm, she lifted her hand. He did the same.
“I guess we should hang up,” she said into her phone.
“Sure.”
Ending the call, she walked forward, nodding at the familiar faces, the husbands and wives. The widowers. In the back of her mind, she noted there wasn’t a person under fifty, evidence that the town was hanging on by a generational thread that was fraying year to year. The sad reality was that the world was getting more digital every day, and the economics were tough this far from any population center. Young people, who were starting out or raising families, needed good paying jobs in urban centers.
“Hi.” She slipped her phone into her bag. “I thought you were going back to Glens Falls.”
“So did I. My bike broke down so I’m here overnight. You want to sit?”
As he went to move his leather jacket to the stool on the other side of him, she shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m just picking up to go. Where’s your bike?”
“Some guy named Paul is fixing it as we speak. Or he will when the part gets here in the morning.”
“Oh, you went to Paul Gagnon’s.”
He lifted what looked like a Coke and took a sip. The straw that had come with the glass had been taken out and put on the counter next to his knife/ fork/spoon roll.
“That’s the one. So you wanted to speak to me?”
Lydia cleared her throat. “You’ve got the job if you want it.”