The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
“What do you mean there? Who are you calling for?” Flannel shirt,
pickup truck, inland New England accent, big Jerry Remy fan.
“I don’t know, that’s what I’m saying. This telephone number showed
up—”
“This is a pay phone, friend.”
“A pay phone?”
“You know, a phone you put a dime in, except now it’s thirty-five cents
’cause they keep jewing the price up. This is a pay phone in front of Arliss’s
place.”
I got out my notebook as Art raised his eyebrows. “Where is Arliss’s
place?” I asked the man.
“Trawbridge Road. Edge of Lincoln, not quite Stevens Bridge.”
“You mean that little general store just at the edge of Lincoln Common? I
never knew it had a name.”
He puffed, sighed, and growled all at once. “Well, it does, and that’s it.”
“Hmm.” If I were a real reporter, I would have known what to ask; instead
I just went “Hmm.” Inside my head, too: “Hmm.”
“So someone reported a death from here? Must have been the killer, right?”
I sat up straight, like someone had dropped ice cubes down my spine.
“Why do you say that?”
“Nothin’ around here, chief. This little store gets locked up at eight p.m.,
and nothing but empty fields and ponds for a good ten miles in every direction.
Town starts about half mile up, but why would you hike up here from
there to use a phone? Only people use this phone is Arliss and people driving
through somewhere. Back when, they used to say Trawbridge was the fastest
way out of Hanoi.”
“Why? Where does it go?”
“Chunk of Route 87, goes pretty much due north from Bridgeport at the
Long Island Sound. Goes through Massachusetts and Vermont, wild New
England country, no one around. Ends outside Drummondville, on the St.
Lawrence River.”
I looked at the New England map on Art’s wall. I didn’t see any St.
Lawrence River. “Where’s the St. Lawrence?”
“Where?” He snort-laughed. “You don’t do much fishing, do you? Good
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