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off the rest of my beeyah and stood up. “Got to get moving if I’m going to meet my friends in Castle
Rock on time.”
“Well, take it easy on Route 117,” Anicetti said. “That road’s a bugger.” It came out buggah. I
hadn’t heard such a thick Maine accent in years. Then I realized that was literally true, and I almost
laughed out loud.
“I will,” I said. “Thanks. And son? About that Shirley Jackson story.”
“Yes, sir?” Sir, yet. And nothing sarcastic about it. I was deciding that 1958 had been a pretty good
year. Aside from the stench of the mill and the cigarette smoke, that was.
“There’s nothing to get.”
“No? That’s not what Mr. Marchant says.”
“With all due respect to Mr. Marchant, you tell him Jake Epping says that sometimes a cigar is
just a smoke and a story’s just a story.”
He laughed. “I will! Period three tomorrow morning!”
“Good.” I nodded to the father, wishing I could tell him that, thanks to Moxie (which he didn’t
carry . . . yet), his business was going to be standing on the corner of Main Street and the Old
Lewiston Road long after he was gone. “Thanks for the root beer.”
“Come back anytime, son. I’m thinking about lowering the price on the large.”
“To a dime?”
He grinned. Like his son’s, it was easy and open. “Now you’re cooking with gas.”
The bell jingled. Three ladies came in. No slacks; they wore dresses with hemlines that dropped
halfway down their shins. And hats! Two with little fluffs of white veil. They began rummaging
through the open crates of fruit, looking for perfection. I started away from the soda fountain, then
had a thought and turned back.
“Can you tell me what a greenfront is?”
The father and the son exchanged an amused glance that made me think of an old joke. Tourist
from Chicago driving a fancy sportscar pulls up to a farmhouse way out in the country. Old farmer’s
sitting on the porch, smoking a corncob pipe. Tourist leans out of his Jaguar and asks, “Say, oldtimer,
can you tell me how to get to East Machias?” Old farmer puffs thoughtfully on his pipe a time or two,
then says, “Don’tcha move a goddam inch.”
“You really are an out-of-stater, aren’t you?” Frank asked. His accent wasn’t as thick as his father’s.
Probably watches more TV, I thought. There’s nothing like TV when it comes to eroding a regional accent.
“I am,” I said.
“That’s funny, because I could swear I hear a little Yankee twang.”
“It’s a Yooper thing,” I said. “You know, the Upper Peninsula?” Except—dang!—the UP was
Michigan.
But neither of them seemed to realize it. In fact young Frank turned away and started doing dishes.
By hand, I noticed.
“The greenfront’s the liquor store,” Anicetti said. “Right across the street, if you’re wanting to pick
up a pint of something.”
“I think the root beer’s good enough for me,” I said. “I was just wondering. Have a nice day.”
“You too, my friend. Come back and see us.”
I passed the fruit-examining trio, murmuring “Ladies” as I went by. And wishing I had a hat to
tip. A fedora, maybe.
Like the ones you see in the old movies.