Lottie's Vacation, Chapter 1

LOTTIE’S VACATION
by
Maura Campbell


Chapter One

Vermont State Police Dispatcher Log
Saturday, June 29, 1995
Reporting: Dispatcher Elizabeth Ready

Received a phone call at 08:15 this morning from Mrs. Shelly Jacobs at 43A Sumner Street, Barre, VT. Her tenant, James Judge, was locked in his room with Mr. Jacob’s shotgun and she believes it is loaded. I asked if she had any reason to think he would hurt himself and she said, not really except that he was “kind of strange acting”. I asked her what she meant by that and she said Mr. Judge came and went at strange times and was behind on the rent. She had asked him to move out the day before and he went “ballistic” and then this morning she noticed her husband’s gun was missing and assumes he has it. I said if she is really concerned that she should get out of the house. I said I would notify an officer.

**
Lottie woke early on Saturday. Normally, she awoke at seven, but glancing at the clock, she saw it was only six-fifteen. Something was different, she realized, but for a full minute she couldn't remember what it was. Then it hit her. It was the first day of her vacation. A thud on the front porch announced the morning paper. I suppose, she said to herself, I could go downstairs and read it.
Lottie Thibodaux had lived in this house her entire life. Her mother, Mrs. Althea Thibodaux, went into labor while washing up the dishes after supper and,
assuming she had time to spare, became embroiled in defrosting the freezer.
She gave birth to Lottie on the kitchen floor. Fortunately, she had scrubbed it
that very morning. Mr. Thibodaux had disappeared some months earlier; Mrs.
Thibodaux had a private income that paid the mortgage, but not much else. She
went to work at the underwear factory when Lottie was six weeks old.
By the age of twenty-seven, Lottie was very much a creature of habit. She rose
every morning at seven o'clock, even on weekends, showered, tied back her
mass of curly hair, made a breakfast of grapefruit and granola, drank two cups of
coffee, and took her pills. Occasionally, one of the neighbors came by with either
muffins or doughnuts and she felt compelled to eat them. This deviation from the schedule always ruined her day.
Lottie got up and made the double bed her parents had once shared,
pondering for a moment whether she might change the sheets. It's not
Thursday, she reminded herself, and put on her bathrobe and went downstairs.
The living room looked much as it had last night before she went to bed.
However, in the light of six-fifteen, or rather, six-seventeen in the morning, there
was something a little sinister in the way the flower stems moved on the
wallpaper, and the hulking oak secretary dominated one corner of the room.
Only once in recent memory had she been downstairs this early when a stranger
had pounded on her door by mistake. He wanted 33 Grant Street, not 33 Grove
Street. Lottie hadn't noticed the wallpaper that morning, but then
her mind had been on other things.
Not that there wasn't some merit in rising at an earlier hour, she knew. But
Lottie's job at the drug store required that she arrive at quarter to nine, no earlier, and she couldn't think of a single reason to get up before seven. Fifteen minutes in the bathroom showering, hardly another minute even if she shaved her legs,
five minutes for the teeth, flossing included, shoulder length curly hair combed
and left wet, then dressed in one of several alternating outfits. Many mornings
Lottie noticed the second hand on the kitchen clock make its slow sweep across
the number ten as she entered the room. The minute hand was always on the number five.
At six-seventeen on this June morning, Lottie opened the front door to retrieve
the morning paper. She could see Mr. Poppie in the distance rearranging the
watering hoses in his yard. He looked up and saw Lottie, too, and he was
instinctively aware of the ripple in his morning fabric. She waved; he put up a
gurgling splash of hose in return.
Lottie went into the kitchen and put the kettle on for coffee. Two plump
grapefruit sat in a bowl on the counter, the coffee container sedately at its side.
She glanced at the bowl, spoon, cup and other breakfast paraphernalia that she
had set out the night before after washing the dinner dishes. All was still well in
the kitchen. She went back to the living room and sat down on the couch and
opened the paper. It was an extravagance, she knew. At work there were
several papers lying around in the lunch room each day, but frankly, she didn't
care to share a paper with anyone else. She settled into the cushions to read the
front page, but was interrupted by a series of raps on the door. Startled, she got
up to answer it.
"Are you all right, dear?" asked Mrs. Goldberg from Prospect Street. She
was fully made-up already, her cherry lips smeared slightly, brown penciled lines
just above the sparse hairs of her brows. Mrs. Goldberg had recently dyed her
hair an arresting shade of red.
"Why, yes. Perfectly," Lottie answered.
"It's just that Mr. Poppie saw you on the porch," Mrs. Goldberg ventured. "He
thought you wanted something." Her eyes floated down Lottie's bathrobe.
"I'm on vacation," Lottie said.
"Vacation? You?" Mrs. Goldberg's cherry mouth puckered in worry. She
craned her short neck around Lottie to peer inside the house.
"Would you like to come in?"
Mrs. Goldberg moved past her neighbor. Lottie was not a tall woman, but
Mrs. Goldberg, without ducking, might have walked under Lottie's arm had it
been raised, say, to point at a low branch of a tree. Mrs. Goldberg walked into
the living room and eyed the open newspaper suspiciously.
"I was about to read it, " Lottie apologized.
"Is anybody here?" asked Mrs. Goldberg.
"Just us," said Lottie.
"What are you doing in your bathrobe?" asked Mrs. Goldberg.
"I was previously sleeping," Lottie explained.
"On the porch. You were on the porch."
"I'm on vacation so I'm a little bit… confused," said Lottie.
Mrs. Goldberg walked into the kitchen and stared at the single cereal bowl
and coffee cup. The kettle was boiling vigorously. In a sudden move, Mrs.
Goldberg turned off the stove.
"You'd better get a kettle that whistles. Otherwise you're likely to burn the
place down." Satisfied, Mrs. Goldberg prepared to leave. She turned to Lottie
once more before charging out the front door. "You look peculiar. I hope it's
temporary. Whatever it is." Mrs. Goldberg's jewel crusted flip flops smacked as
she walked down the porch steps.
"How is Mr. Goldberg?" Lottie called after her.
"The same," she answered without turning.
Lottie closed the door and walked back to the kitchen. For the life of her, she
couldn't remember whether she fixed coffee before or after she ate the grapefruit.

**
Marcus French was also awake before seven on this Saturday in June, but
that was not unusual. He woke most nights at three o'clock, but had long since
hidden the alarm clock with its eerie green glow under the bed. Often, he got up
at that hour and read; once in a while he went for a walk. That was risky, though.
The Chief liked to patrol some nights and Marcus didn't want to run into him and
explain why he wasn't sleeping.
He knew he was sick; it was only a matter of time before his mother and
father found out. At eleven o'clock the night before, his temperature was almost
one hundred degrees and now he felt rather worse. Leah had caught him in the
bathroom last night scrutinizing the thermometer.
"You thick?" she had asked in her high voice. Leah was six, white blonde and
bony.
"Huh? What are you doing in here?"
"You thick?" she repeated.
"It's an experiment for science. Checking temperature at different times of
day."
"Oh. Your pimples are bigger." And she pirouetted down the hall.
Marcus went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His pimples did look
bigger, the few that he had, but that was probably because lately his face was
dead white. He took out the thermometer, shook it down to 94 degrees, and
popped it back in his mouth. The pain was deep in his stomach; otherwise he felt
like he had the flu and generally hurt all over. He sat on the toilet and waited,
mentally counting the seconds until three minutes had elapsed. Through the
window he could see Mrs. Mudge getting into her car. At the age of eighty-two,
her back was sufficiently bent so that she had a close view of the shiny new
macadam that had survived its first winter without a single frost heave. Marcus
took the thermometer out of his mouth and looked at it. One hundred and one
degrees,it read.
"You thick?" Leah was once again standing in the bathroom. She wore pink
pajamas with feet, though it was the hottest month of the year.
"I might be a little sick," Marcus said. "But don't tell Mom and Dad. They'll
just worry, you know? Especially Mom. She doesn't need to worry."
Leah walked closer to Marcus and put a hand on his forehead. "You're thick."
She put her arms around his neck then and her little white blonde head on his
shoulder. "I could get my nurth's bag," she offered.
"Hey, what's this, a party?" Mr. French stood in the doorway of the bathroom,
his graying hair spiked from sleep.
"Marcus isn't thick," Leah said.
"You sick?" asked Mr. French. He grabbed the thermometer in Marcus' hand
held it up to the window. Leah blew out her cheeks and held her breath.
"I've got a touch of the flu, I think."
"A hundred and two!" said Mr. French.
"We didn't think he was thick, did we, Marcus?" Leah kept her arm
protectively around Marcus' shoulders.
"You go back to bed, mister. Honey," he called as he padded down the hall.
"Honey, Marcus is sick."
Leah took her brother's face in her hands. "Are we in trouble now?"
Marcus carried her back to his room. She weighed almost nothing, he
thought, light as a fancy, their mother liked to say.
Mrs. French rushed into his room as he settled into bed. "Marcus? What
have you got? Huh? Your father says you have a high fever."
He looked up at her unaccountably beautiful face. Most of her large and
extended family still lived a few towns west and had the sturdy, doughy looks that
revealed their peasant ancestry. She shared their coloring – dark blonde hair
and blue eyes – but seemed to be carved with a finer set of tools.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Just tired mostly. A little achy." Marcus looked steadily into his mother's
eyes. "Can you bring me some aspirin?"
"I'm going to call the doctor."
"It's the flu, okay? I mean, there's nothing they can do."
"Do you feel nauseous?"
"No. Actually, I'm hungry."
"Really?" She looked at him hopefully.
"I'm hungry, too," said Leah. She was sucking her thumb after two years of
abstinence. "Can we have Corn Pops?"
"You stay in bed today," Mrs. French said, tucking the sheet around her son.
"Leah, take that thumb out of your mouth." She stood up, still looking intently at
Marcus. "I'll bring up a tray, then I've got to go down to the church." Mrs. French
grabbed Leah's hand out of her mouth and pulled her toward the door. Leah
made her monster face at Marcus as she followed her mother into the hall.
Mr. French was already set up in the driveway working on the guts of Mr.
Grundy's lawn mower. Even in the cool morning shade, he was sweating. Business was brisk and everybody wanted it done yesterday, I've only got two hands and I work all week besides, not to mention there's a wife and two kids in the house. He muttered to himself a little as he worked, hands permanently grease stained and calloused. He thought about the fishing pole that he unearthed in the garage the other day while pawing through some old insulation, a wedding present from his father. Here, son, when she gets mad, don't get even, go fishing. Mr. French allowed himself a small smile, thinking about that, but the day he dusted it off in the garage, he had burst into tears.
"How's that mower coming?" Mr. Grundy stood at the foot of the driveway
with his dog, Penny. As so often happens when two creatures live together and
depend utterly on one another, they had become a matched pair.
Both had short legs, for example – undoubtedly a result of heredity since Penny
was a dachshund and Mr. Grundy's mother didn't quite reach the five foot mark.
Both were overweight thanks to an unchecked diet of snack foods. But
more importantly, they were compatible in their habits. Both were content to sit
for hours at a time looking at magazines and television programs, and they were
satisfied with the solitary walk they took each morning; Penny didn't care for afternoon walks, she found them too tiring. Mr. Grundy, who would have rather liked a second daily constitutional, compromised by increasing the time they strolled in the morning.
Both were inordinately curious about their neighbors, not to mention people they ran into casually downtown or at the veterinarian’s office. Their motivations came from different places, however. Mr. Grundy felt a desperate need for approval of any kind, and Penny possessed an incorrigible optimism that she might win something to eat.
Mr. Grundy stood with his feet apart, rather like he was riding a horse and
standing up in the stirrups. The buttons on his shirt strained but failed to contain
his large pink stomach. He asked Mr. French the question again.
"How's that mower coming?"
"I've got it out, see? Looks kind of chewed up." Mr. French pointed to several
mangled parts. "Gonna have to replace all that. I think I can bang out the
blades, though. But not promising."
"It's them kids!" announced Mr. Grundy. Penny looked around alertly. "They
planted a rock pile in my lawn just to screw me up." Penny, suspicious now,
trotted to the back of the French's house.
"Well, they did a job this time," said Mr. French, who had heard this story on
Wednesday when Mr. Grundy dragged the machine down the street to his
driveway.
"I'm tired of it, they terrorize Penny. I don't think she's had a decent night's sleep in two years, ever since they set a cherry bomb off behind the house."
"Well, if I've got all the parts here, I should be able to…" Mr. French tried to interject.
"Wait till Halloween. I've got a bottle or two of red pepper and I've got a mind to…"
Just then Penny began barking in the back yard, her hound's mouth making a
long string of doggy expletives, the persistent yapping of a tattle tale.
"What is it, girl? What have you got?" Mr. Grundy started moving, his arms
working vigorously as he waddled slowly in the direction of Penny's alarm. Mr.
French yawned and then squinted at a ragged looking bolt. A moment later
Penny hot footed it back to the driveway, a panting Mr. Grundy in pursuit.
"She's got something," said Mr. Grundy. "What have you got there, girl?"
Penny, mouth full, paused at the edge of Mr. French's driveway. She waited
until Mr. Grundy knelt with a crash on the ground beside her, and then spat out
what on close examination proved to be several golden yellow, if soggy, Corn
Pops.
**
Mrs. French and Leah pulled into the parking lot of the Wooden Church. It was
grand and white with stained glass windows two stories in height. Several cars
were already parked. I'm never quite on time, thought Mrs. French. Her beige
sandals pinched with every step as she dragged Leah along the sidewalk. I must
remember to throw these shoes out.
The Frenches were fairly new to this congregation; previously, when they had
lived down the hill, they had attended the Stone Church. Then one day a realtor
knocked on their door to ask if they'd consider selling. He had a hot prospect, he
said, willing to pay big bucks.
"A couple from the west," he said. "Want to make it into a restaurant. They
think what with the house being so close to the railroad tracks they could have a
train theme. You know, one of those trains that run around near the ceiling.
Must make a hell of a racket," he finished.
The couple from out west bought the house but as luck would have it, the
town select board and the zoning board got into a disagreement about variances
and clearances, plus they thought granting a liquor license to an
establishment so near the train tracks was asking for trouble, and how come
none of this came out before the sale, the couple from out west wanted to know,
and then it turned out that the select board member they talked to had all along
been hoping for a job as bartender, and there's such a thing as due process, and
no exceptions and that's that.
Andrea French had felt terrible about the couple from out west but what was
she to do? She and her husband, James, had already bought the house on the
hill. It had been the first piece of good luck she had ever had in her life. The
Frenches continued to attend the Stone Church for a few months, but Andrea was
acutely aware that all of her neighbors belonged to the Wooden Church. With not a
little trepidation, she resigned their membership and began attending the church
that would soon ruin her life.
"Now, you aren't to run around like an Indian," Mrs. French told Leah. "I'll find
something to amuse you, but in the meantime, you sit and don't make any noise."
Leah looked over her shoulder as she walked; across the street from the
church was the elementary school playground. Several of the children she knew
from school were climbing the monkey bars. One boy was spinning the empty
merry-go-round as fast as possible.
Leah and her mother descended the stairs leading to the basement of the
church where great food preparations were in progress. The church had helped
sponsor a pair of missionaries to Russia and they were coming that night to tell
all about it. The food committee had first thought to cook Russian food, but it
turned out nobody really knew much about it except that it involved beets and
lots of them. The committee decided that the missionaries probably had had
their fill of beets, but decided to add potatoes to the menu since that was very
Russian, too. One young member thought maybe French fries; it was settled on
mashed.
Lottie, also a member of the Wooden Church, was on the potato peeling detail. After Mrs. Goldberg left her house earlier, she had dressed and gone for a walk. This bit of activity also aroused attention in the neighborhood because although she routinely walked, it was
never around the neighborhood, but into town and up Route 44 where she could
get a bit of a hill. Mr. Poppie, still alert after spotting Lottie in her bathrobe,
called Mrs. Goldberg again, but she had gone into town. Fortunately, Mrs.
Mudge had already sounded the alarm by calling the Chief who had other
business in the neighborhood, anyway. The Chief, siren blaring, pulled his
cruiser up to the sidewalk and rolled down his window to talk to Lottie.
"Need a ride, Lottie?"
"I'm sorry?" She held her hands over her ears. The Chief turned off the siren.
"Thought you might need a ride. You're out a little early."
"I'm on vacation," Lottie explained for the second time that day. She was a
little irritated, she realized with surprise.
"Where you headed?" he wanted to know.
"Just… around," she said vaguely. "Is something wrong?"
"Mrs. Mudge thought you looked a little peculiar. You know."
Lottie thought about it a moment. "No, I guess I don't."
"I'll give you a ride," the Chief said and reached over and opened the
passenger door. Lottie got in the car and settled on the seat. "Isn't there
something going on at the church?" he asked as he drove toward her house.
"Oh, I'm due there. That's right." She brightened for a moment.
The Chief waited while Lottie went inside. When she came out a moment
later, he was still sitting in front of her house. She looked at him curiously. "All set," she yelled.
"Come on. I'll drive you to the church." As a precaution, he turned on the
siren during the half mile ride downtown.
"I really appreciate the ride," Lottie said. For a wild moment, the Chief thought she was about to scoot over and kiss him.
Lottie had never been at the potato peeling table before. Apples, yes,
because apple pie was on the menu of every church affair. Sooner or later
everyone peeled apples, even the men of the church who put on the annual
Easter lunch. But potato peeling had always been headed up by one of the
Saturn Sisters, and Lottie was afraid of them both. This morning,
however, Lottie walked straight over to the potato table. She could not have
explained why.
Lottie was good with her hands. She had played piano as a child and showed
great promise, but abandoned the instrument when she was twelve. She took
the keyboarding prize in the tenth grade, out-typing the school favorite by a
staggering fifty-eight words per minute. However, she had never shown the
same enthusiasm for apple peeling, piano playing or even typing the way she did
that summer morning at the potato table. Mrs. French, who had deposited Leah
at a small desk, took up a station next to Lottie. The four ladies, Lottie, Mrs.
French and the Saturn Sisters, stood around the square table at right angles to
each other.
Mrs. French was handed a small sharp knife. Once she had suggested to the
other ladies that they buy potato peelers to make the job easier. She was
nervous, of course, being new, and had shouted rather than spoken. No one
took up her suggestion; Mrs. French was convinced that her outburst would keep
the issue from being raised again and consequently there was no hope of ever
expediting the task. The least she could do, she decided, was commit herself to
the potato table for the future.
"Are we on a deadline?" Mrs. French asked Lottie, concerned that her
tardiness was in some way responsible for Lottie's vigorous hand work. Mrs.
French admired the methodical way Lottie seemed to do everything.
"I just thought it would be nice to get it over with," said Lottie. She turned to the Saturn Sisters. "It is a beautiful day, after all, isn't it?" The Saturn sisters, both spinsters, were tall and waspish; one wore glasses and the other a neck
brace.
"Every day is a beautiful day," said the one with the neck brace. Then she
stabbed a very plump potato with her knife and went back to work.
"I say the same thing to myself every morning," enthused Mrs. French to the
table group. The other sister eyed Mrs. French over her spectacles and shook
her head slightly.
"How ever did you hurt your neck?" Lottie asked suddenly. The Saturn
Sisters did not look up, but their knives paused, poised.
"It's an old injury," said Neck Brace. "The least little thing makes it act up."
More might have been said, at least by Lottie, but at that moment a horrified
scream echoed through the church basement. Mrs. French instinctively knew
that it was in some way connected to her daughter.
"I just told her to make me a picture," gasped a blue-haired lady who had
been in charge of sticking cloves into the skin of the ham. A crowd had gathered
around Leah which Mrs. French had no trouble moving through; as soon as each
lady glanced at the picture, she quickly moved away.
"Dear God," said several ladies; “heavens,” said another. One lady, known to be susceptible to fainting, was intercepted before she could see the picture at all. Nevertheless, she asked someone to bring her a chair just in case. A great clucking of tongues and shaking of heads ensued.
Mrs. French stood over her daughter and stared with disbelief at the image of
a red crayoned penis on a stark white page. Lottie was also looking at the
picture; furthermore she picked it up to look more closely.
"Very realistic," she said to Leah, and then folded it and put it in her pocket.
"I'm so sorry," said Mrs. French to the ladies. Thoughts ran wildly through her
head, we should never have come here, we should never have moved up on the
hill. "I don't know-"
"Perhaps you should take her home now," said the blue-haired lady.
"It's a what?" asked the lady who was prone to fainting. Someone quickly
fanned her face.
"Yes, of course," said Mrs. French to no one. Her hands were slimy from raw
potato and she started to wipe them on her skirt.
"Let's wash our hands," said Lottie suddenly. She took Mrs. French by the
arm and led her over to the sink. Leah started to follow.
"I think you'd better stay right there, young lady," said the blue-haired lady.
Leah looked up at the old woman. She was brownish beige and fat, not unlike
the potatoes in various stages of undress on the table nearby. Leah directed the
tiniest bit of her tongue through her lips at Blue Hair.
"I'm so sorry," Mrs. French said again, back at Leah's side. "We'll just-,"
"Yes, that's fine," said the old woman.
The rest of the workers were back at their stations, but it wasn't until Blue Hair gave them a nod that they resumed their work.
"I hope," she said to Mrs. French, "that your daughter is feeling better soon."
"I'll walk out with you," said Lottie to Mrs. French.
"But what about the potatoes?" shrilled one Saturn sister.
Lottie walked back over to the potato table and looked in the bowl.
"I think I've done my share," said Lottie. And then she escorted Mrs. French
and Leah out the door into the sunlight.

**
The Chief liked working Saturdays, especially in the summer The kids were on the street, where he could keep an eye on them, the stores were busy, and everybody was usually in a good mood. The bakery had a display on the sidewalk in good weather and he was encouraged to help himself to a cookie, doughnut, or piece of cake. He didn't like being served free food at the counter, but on the street it was only fitting. Children who couldn't behave in the stores were often left on the sidewalk while their mothers shopped and they tended to hang around the baked food table. Little thieves, thought the Chief, as he strolled Main Street chewing a jelly-filled doughnut.
. The title of chief was an exaggeration. The town had eliminated the position of a full time police chief many years ago when their last chief died suddenly of a heart attack. An effort was launched to replace him but the Select Board couldn’t find a candidate they felt would “fit in.” At the time one, and later, two state troopers lived in Aiken. Their cruisers were spotted several times a day either parked in front of their homes or creeping slowly down Main Street as they headed to work and it was felt that their presence was a deterrent to mischief makers. The decision to hire a constable coincided with the return of Randy Borders from his service in the army where he had risen to the rank of corporal. Although he had enlisted at the encouragement of a judge who had threatened to otherwise jail him for disorderly conduct and possession of stolen property, clearly the army had made a man out of him. Upon arriving home, Randy moved back in to live with his mother, and in the first six months painted the inside and outside of her house, started a lawn mowing business and volunteered at the youth center at the Wooden Church. It was Reverend Nelson who had impressed upon the town officials that Randy might make a good constable. When the Select Board invited Randy in to discuss the opportunity, he jumped at it. Randy traded his lawn mowing business to Stub Perkins for a shotgun, a 1969 Chevy Nova, and two cases of beer.
Officially, he only worked during town events and school functions but like many part time officials in a small town, Chief Borders took his job seriously and was happy to work without full time pay. His living needs were meager. He lived in an efficiency apartment upstairs over the old Police Chief headquarters, where he had a small desk and two filing cabinets. He shared this space with the Zoning and Select Boards where they held their meetings. On the wall behind his desk was a picture of his father, the real Chief Borders, upon whose retirement the position was eliminated.
Main Street hadn't changed much since the Chief was a kid. The Classy Clothes
Horse was on the corner followed by the People's Savings and Trust, Al's TV and
Video, the Book Worm, and Chapman's Diner. On the other side of the street
was Progressive Bank, the Upstairs Boutique, Standard Drug Store where Lottie
worked, Bluestone Groceries, and Benoit's Gas and Deli. Two pizza parlors had
moved into town in recent years, and a Chinese restaurant that kept changing
hands (where did all these Chinese people come from?). Summer Street ran
parallel to Main Street; the underwear factory ran along for three blocks and at
this particular moment a health food coop was being built where an old lumber
warehouse had once stood.
There were a few specialty shops on Summer. The Crafty Owl displayed the
work of several town and out of town residents, but nobody could figure out when
it was open. Sometimes on Saturdays, once in a while on Thursdays, and an
occasional Friday afternoon. The same afghan had been in the window for
months along with several little knitted dolls. Then the display changed but
nobody on the street seemed to know who, if anybody, had bought the things.
Further down Main Street were the schools, both elementary and secondary,
and the churches, both Stone and Wooden, separated by a driveway. It was helpful
having them close together. Often the churches sponsored after school activities
and the few steps were convenient for the kids and a relief to the mothers.
Kilburn Library and Kilburn Music Hall were also at this end of town, both built in 1850 by a wealthy member of the Wooden Church. Mr. Grover donated them to the town with the provision that they be administered through the church deacons. Consequently, the cultural and literary offerings of the town were managed with moral authority, but because of the church's prevalent progressive philosophy, books often banned in other libraries, such as Huckleberry Finn and Catcher in the Rye, were proudly displayed on the shelves. Furthermore, the music hall regularly sponsored classical music and productions of Shakespeare, managed to book well-known musicians occasionally, as well as provide a stage to local talent. In fact, at this moment rehearsals were underway for the annual
Fourth of July musical; this year it was Camelot. Up on the hill near Lottie's
house was Armstrong Hospital; another three miles out of town was a small
business college. Neither the hospital nor the college were owned by the Wooden
Church, though most of the professors and doctors were members.
Aiken, Vermont was a town of a certain size. It was large enough to boast an insular economy and very few families had to look elsewhere for employment. A resident of Aiken could be born, educated, married and buried within the town limits. While many people enjoyed ordering out of the Sear’s catalog and even taking trips to Burlington an hour north for novelties, it was possible to fill one’s entire Christmas shopping list downtown. At the same time, it was small enough so that everyone “knew each other”, as small town residents everywhere are wont to say. There are no secrets here, was the prevalent attitude and in truth, there was very little the residents of Aiken, Vermont did not know about each other.
In addition to the Stone and Wooden Churches, there were five others including
Catholic, Christian Scientist, Baptist Fellowship, Faith Assembly, and Seventh Day Adventist. These congregations combined, however, did not equal the memberships of the Stone and Wooden Churches. This might have been because of their locations; though the other five churches were nice enough, they did not have the advantage of being in the
center of town. A family looking for a new church might choose the Wooden or Stone
for that fact alone, unless, for example, they happened to be Jewish or Muslim, in
which case they were out of luck altogether.
The Stone Church believed in Hell, but thought God was too nice to actually
use it. The Wooden Church subscribed to the prevalent progressive philosophy
that said nobody actually went to Hell. Hell was a state of mind, and like all
states of mind, it could be changed at any time.
In fact, Mrs. French was quite certain she had entered such a state
as she left the church with Leah and Lottie. Her head began to pound as soon
as she got in the car to drive home. Leah sat in the back seat chattering
while Lottie sat in the front and helped keep the steering wheel steady. Lottie
didn't drive herself, but remembered doing this as a child when her mother
let her.
Mrs. French pulled into the driveway and almost ran over her husband who
was still working on Mr. Grundy's lawn mower.
"Jesus Christ, Andrea!" he yelled as he dove like a superhero out of the way.
Leah got quickly out of the car. "Daddy, can we go swimming today, huh?
Can we? Can we?"
"What the hell is the matter with you?" he barked at his wife. Andrea still had
her foot on the break.
"Put the car in park," said Lottie sensibly. Andrea did as she was told. "Now
turn off the engine."
The two women got out of the car. Mr. French picked up Leah and stared at
his wife.
"Your daughter drew a penis at church," she said. She turned to Lottie. "I
think I'm getting a migraine. Thanks for your help." And she went into the house.
Mr. French put Leah down and walked a few steps sideways. He began
pulling the short stubbly hair at the crown of his head. "Was it some kind of
raffle?" he asked Lottie.
Leah turned her lips in like a chimpanzee just then, and began to roll her eyes
around. Lottie giggled a little then quickly clapped her hand over her mouth.
"Sorry," she said to Mr. French. But he had already moved back to the driveway
and was examining something that might have been a spark plug.
Lottie walked a few steps closer to Leah and knelt down to look her square in
the eyes. "You draw well. Can you draw me something else?"
"I can draw a ballerina."
"That would be nice," said Lottie.
"After I go swimming," said Leah, and she ran into the house.
Lottie began walking the few blocks home. Once she turned and looked at
Mr. French. He was back at work, shoulders hunched. For a moment Lottie's
mind scrambled and she could not have said what was a man, what was a tree,
what was a house, she only saw a shape moving silently, making no impact on
the larger shapes around it. She walked quickly home.

**
Standard Drug Store where Lottie worked was directly across the street from
the People's Savings and Trust. Senior citizens found this convenient because
they deposited their social security checks on the same day they picked up their
monthly prescriptions. Many, of course, had their checks directly deposited from
the government, but even still they liked to stop at the bank for confirmation. Half
a block from the drug store, on the same side of the street, was Bluestone
Grocery and mothers appreciated this layout because most days it meant they
could do all their business without dragging their children across the street where
they all but fell into Al's Video.
Of course, the drug store sold much more than drugs. Health and beauty aids
took up one entire wall, everything from make-up and hair dyes to weight loss
plans. The middle aisles were mostly toys and snack foods, there was a jewelry
counter (locked), high priced perfumes behind one of the cashiers, magazine
racks, gift cards, everything that one might need in a bathroom, vitamins, a blood
pressure machine in one corner, another locked cabinet with blown glass
figurines, another wall with humidifiers, dehumidifiers, vaporizers, hair dryers,
curling irons, if it could be plugged in, you might find it on that wall. What with the supply of vitamins, bottled water and snack foods, one might survive a life time in that store.
This was especially true since it was bought by a chain six months ago. Mr.
Price surprised everybody when he sold out and moved to Florida. He had
inherited the store from his father, who inherited it from his father, who actually
started it with his father. Every Mr. Price in the town's history had managed to
drop dead at work, and when the current Mr. Price moved away, presumably
to die on a golf course, everyone in town felt a little cheated.
Lottie was especially upset. She had worked Monday through Saturday since she was nineteen. Other employees had come and gone; there was always a high school senior or two after school, plus a part-time pharmacist to help Mr. Price. Housewives occasionally became clerks in the store, working while their children were in college, or until their husbands were called back from a layoff. Lottie trained everybody, except the pharmacists, though she had helped Mr. Price enough that she could have done that, too, if asked. She was a whiz at the cash register, and was sorry when bar code technology was adopted by the store. Most of the customers were sorry, as well; everyone used to enjoy watching Lottie's fingers fly all over the keyboard.
Lottie had never taken a vacation from the store. When she worked for Mr.
Price, she just couldn't see how it could be managed. He was always short of
help, and besides, there was nowhere she actually wanted to go. Mr. Price felt a
little guilty about the fact that Lottie never took time off, but once when he tried to insist, she had burst into tears. After that, he never brought it up directly again, but made a point to talk to her about places one might go, the beach, for
example, or a European city. He described what it would be like to take a canoe
ride down a fast river, or camp somewhere with hiking trails and bathroom
facilities. While Lottie remained unmoved, it was all this talk of travel that
resulted in the sale of the store and Mr. Price's move to Florida.
Mr. Meadows was the new store manager. He had worked for the chain for
several years and was particularly good at these kinds of transitions. One of the
biggest problems was getting the customers to write the new name of the store
on their checks. A few refused to do it altogether. He showed these recalcitrant
customers a stamp specially made with the store's name on it. They would not
have to write the name of the store at all, he announced, just leave it blank and
he would take care of it. They all thought he must be out of his mind.
The other problem was the rearrangement of products in the aisles. Mr.
Meadows explained that the chain wanted all the stores to be laid out in the
same way. There was an intelligence to it, he explained to Lottie, it made the
shopping easier for the customers and they actually bought more. Lottie couldn't
see the intelligence at all since nobody except Mr. Meadows knew where
anything was. It was especially hard for people like Mrs. Mudge who had
shopped there for decades.
"You're out of corn pads," Mrs. Mudge said to Lottie one day.
"I think they're in aisle six," said Lottie, though the aisles had never been
numbered when Mr. Price owned the store.
"I don't go to that part of the store," said Mrs. Mudge. "I don't need anything
over there."
Lottie had a line of customers backed up to the shower caps in aisle three.
One customer, who asked that her place in line be saved, ran over and found the
corn pads. She handed them to Mrs. Mudge.
"They're not the right brand," said Mrs. Mudge. The customer brought her an
assortment. She picked out the one she usually bought. "I've never paid this
much in my life," she said and walked out of the store.
This particular Saturday morning in June, Mr. Meadows worked the cash
register. Lottie's replacement, a senior high girl named Barbie, had failed to
appear. He was the only one working and the orders were mounting. He
decided to close at noon and reopen at two so that he might catch up. The urge
to call Lottie washed over him every five to ten seconds, but he didn't feel that
calling her into work before the first morning of her vacation had passed would be
quite the thing to do.
An examination of the employment records had revealed to Mr. Meadows that
Lottie had never taken a vacation. She had come to work here at the age of
nineteen, was now twenty-seven, and had never missed a day. Had she never
been sick, he asked her? Not too, she had replied. Had she never gone to a
funeral or to an out-of-town gathering, he asked her next? She didn't like
funerals and didn't have any family that she knew about. Besides, she didn't
drive. ”You don’t drive?” he had practically shouted at her.
He, like Mr. Price before, had tried to interest her in some kind of trip. He
talked to her about caves, roller coasters, underwater adventures, bird watching,
just about anything he could think of to spark some kind of wanderlust. Lottie
had remained unmoved. Finally, he told her that she’d have to take a vacation, whether she wanted to or not. It was company policy – a two week vacation. Otherwise, he would have to let her go.
The blood had drained from Lottie's face.
"You'll fire me?" she asked.
"Company policy," Mr. Meadows said gently. He would never have fired her.
Lottie moved around the store for the rest of the day like a ghost. Or a
poltergeist. She mixed up the suppositories with the face powder, flipped the
open sign on the door to closed, gave out the wrong prescriptions (an elderly
gentlemen alerted the store when he called to say he couldn't get the blue pill out
of the wheel, and why were seven of the twenty-eight pills pink?)
This was in late April, when it seemed like a good idea for Lottie to take her
vacation in June. Mr. Meadows was sorry now he had not suggested she go in May,
before summer was in full swing and the part time help was more reliable. He
pushed away the urge to call her again, and suddenly she was standing next to him
at the cash register.
"What are you doing here?" he said sharply.
"I only-"
"You're not to come in here on your vacation." The customers in line perked
up their ears at the conversation.
"But I needed to-"
"Company policy. Didn't I tell you company policy?" He was bar coding like
mad now. With his free hand, he opened a shopping bag and tossed in the purchases.
"Lottie, you shouldn't come in the store on your vacation," said someone from
the back of the line.
"You've got my contact lens cleaner mixed up in there," said the number two
person in line.
"What?" asked Mr. Meadows.
"That's my contact lens cleaner. Sally here doesn't wear contacts."
"What's it doing on the counter then?" asked Mr. Meadows. "How do I know
it's not Sally's?"
"Mr. Price would have known," said the number two person stubbornly.
Mr. Meadows voided the contact lens cleaner and continued bar coding. After
a few minutes, he was face to face with Lottie again.
"What did I tell you?" he asked a little breathlessly.
"I'm here to get my prescription filled." And she handed him a small bottle. "I forgot all about it. I'm completely out."
Mr. Meadows took the bottle from her hand and their fingers touched.
Occasionally when she helped him in the pharmacy, their fingers touched in the
same way. He looked into her brown eyes.
"Come back at two o'clock," he said. Everyone watched her walk out of the store.

**
By noon the ladies at the Wooden Church were done with the food preparations. Several would return at three o'clock to put the bread in the oven and make the salads, but the potatoes were done, the pies were made (they could be reheated later – couldn't cook everything at once, after all). The hams were in, and then there was just the coffee and Kool-Aid.
There were only enough seats for a hundred and fifty; members of the Stone
Church were invited, but hopefully, only a few of them would come. They could
have had their own dinner, thought the ladies on the food committee. Of course,
when what's-his-name from China came last year, one of those Buddhists
making all the money on the lecture circuit, the Stone Church managed to book
him. It was a major coup. There wouldn't be room for more than two hundred,
said the entertainment chair at the Stone Church to the entertainment chair of the
Wooden Church. Why can't we have the Buddhist in the high school auditorium,
demanded the Wooden Church Chair. Because it's not holy enough, said the Stone
Church Chair. This went on and on. Finally, the Wooden Church had its way. One
of the more wily members pointed out that the driveway separating the Wooden
Church from the Stone Church was actually owned by the Wooden Church, even if
they shared the parking lot. So how about that? The Stone Church booked the high school auditorium but it turned out to be a huge letdown. The Chinese Buddhist sent a replacement who wasn't even Chinese, though he did have a shaved head. Nobody felt much like chanting and the speakers on one side of the auditorium weren't plugged in. Turn the goddamned speaker on, somebody finally yelled. Things really fell apart when the Buddhist insisted everybody meditate. One row of senior citizens
fell asleep and several began snoring; fortunately the Chief was on patrol and
prodded them awake with his stick. But it rather broke the mood.
It was felt by the members of the Wooden Church, then, that probably not too
many would show up from the other side of the driveway. Actually, it was feared
that not too many would show up at all; Russian missionaries were known to be
rather depressing, returning with stories of deprivation and asking for more
donations. At least it was summer so they might not be too stuck on stories of
children dying of frostbite, etc.
Marcus French had volunteered the previous Sunday – or rather his mother
had volunteered him – to pick up the flowers at the florist and put them on the
tables. He was feeling unreasonably well as he walked across town carrying
three of the six bouquets, thanks to the bottle of Percodan he had found on the
bathroom counter. Take two every four hours for pain, it suggested. Refills: 2.
He took six. There were four pills left in the bottle. Marcus decided to get it
refilled and replace it before his mother noticed.
The Saturn sisters were pulling out of the grocery store as Marcus lurched
unsteadily across the street. "Drunk," they said in unison, and sped home to call
the Chief.
Marcus approached the church and made his way down the stairs into the
basement. Six long tables were set with dinner plates, paper napkins, silverware
and coffee cups. Huge empty serving platters were neatly lined up on one end
of the counter; bowls of rising bread dough sat on the other side. From the oven,
Marcus could hear the sharp sizzle and pop of roasting fat. He placed the
arrangements on three of the tables and suddenly felt dizzy. Probably shouldn't
have taken all those pills, he thought. There was a playroom off the dining area
with a small bed. He began walking carefully toward it. First his ears began to
ring, then his peripheral vision left until he could only see a small circle of light
ahead. Then that, too, disappeared and he fell solidly to the concrete floor. He
was still unconscious when he was dragged into the playroom, but came to just
as he was being lifted onto the small bed.
"What are you-" Marcus started, but the man put his hand gently over the
boy's mouth.
"Sh," said the man.
Marcus might have said more, or protested when the man stood up then and
hurriedly unzipped his trousers. After all, they were in the playroom at the Wooden
Church and not at the swimming hole or alone in the man's house. However,
due to the fever and the Percodans Marcus did not actually care where they
were. What did become clear in the next few moments was that Marcus could
not this time take the man's penis in his mouth without choking, so the man
hurriedly pulled down the boy's pants, rolled him over on his stomach, and
entered him from behind.
Marcus did not hear the door click open, but was still conscious when he heard the man say to someone, "Go on, now. Get!" Whoever it was "got," and the man continued to pump away at the boy until he heard the outer door open and slam. This time the man hurriedly pulled his pants up and hid in the small closet, making a certain amount of noise as he went.
"Stan?" Marcus heard someone say on the other side of the door.
Marcus didn't know any Stan and couldn't think of anything to say, and anyway he had begun to float high above the cot, and from this distance could see another man come in the room, and run out of the room, and the man in the closet come back
out and… then he seemed to float higher and was no longer in the room. Instead
he could see the world below him, the town he lived in, there was his father
working on Mr. Grundy's lawn mower, there was Mrs. Mudge walking slowly
along Main Street, there were the little kids on the playground at the school. He wondered briefly about his sister Leah and felt a dreadful darkness but then the town was gone and Marcus wondered if perhaps he had died. And then he remembered what else he had seen from that great height and he opened his mouth to scream, but by that time he was completely alone.