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Sabattus? I think that’s it. Do you know that town?”
“Only my whole life,” Frank said. He jetted smoke from his nostrils, then gave me a shrewd look.
“Long way to come for a real estate closing.”
I returned a smile that was supposed to communicate if you knew what I know. It must have gotten
across, because he tipped me a wink. The bell over the door jingled and the fruit-shopping ladies came
in. The DRINK CHEER-UP COFFEE wall clock read 12:28. Apparently the part of the script where
Frank Junior and I discussed the Shirley Jackson story had been cut from this draft. I finished my root
beer in three long swallows, and as I did, a cramp tightened my bowels. In novels characters rarely
have to go potty, but in real life, mental stress often provokes a physical reaction.
“Say, you don’t happen to have a men’s room, do you?”
“Sorry, no,” Frank Senior said. “Keep meaning to put one in, but in the summer we’re too busy and
in the winter there never seems to be enough cash for the renovations.”
“You can go around the corner to Titus,” Frank Junior said. He was scooping ice cream into a
metal cylinder, getting ready to make himself a milkshake. He hadn’t done that before, and I thought
with some unease about the so-called butterfly effect. I thought I was watching that butterfly unfurl
its wings right before my eyes. We were changing the world. Only in small ways—infinitesimal ways
—but yes, we were changing it.
“Mister?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Had a senior moment.”
He looked puzzled, then laughed. “Never heard that one before, but it’s pretty good.” Because it
was, he might repeat it the next time he lost his own train of thought. And a phrase that otherwise
wouldn’t enter the bright flow of American slanguage until the seventies or eighties would make an
early debut. You couldn’t say a premature debut, exactly, because on this time-stream it would be right
on schedule.
“Titus Chevron is around the corner on your right,” Anicetti Senior said. “If it’s . . . uh . . . urgent,
you’re welcome to use our bathroom upstairs.”
“No, I’m fine,” I said, and although I’d already looked at the wall clock, I took an ostentatious
glance at my Bulova on the cool Speidel band. It was a good thing they couldn’t see the face, because
I’d forgotten to reset it and it was still on 2011 time. “But I’ve got to be going. Errands to run. Unless
I’m very lucky, they’ll tie me up for more than a day. Can you recommend a good motel around here?”
“Do you mean a motor court?” Anicetti Senior asked. He butted his cigarette in one of the
WINSTON TASTES GOOD ashtrays that lined the counter.
“Yes.” This time my smile felt foolish rather than in-the-know . . . and my bowels cramped again.
If I didn’t take care of that problem soon, it was going to develop into an authentic 911 situation.
“Motels are what we call them in Wisconsin.”
“Well I’d say the Tamarack Motor Court, about five miles up 196 on your way to Lewiston,”
Anicetti Senior said. “It’s near the drive-in movie.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said, getting up.
“You bet. And if you want to get trimmed up before any of your meetings, try Baumer’s Barber
Shop. He does a real fine job.”
“Thanks. Another good tip.”
“Tips are free, root beers are sold American. Enjoy your time in Maine, Mr. Amberson. And
Frankie? You drink that milkshake and get on back to school.”
“You bet, Pop.” This time it was Junior who tipped a wink in my direction.
“Frank?” one of the ladies called in a yoo-hoo voice. “Are these oranges fresh?”
“As fresh as your smile, Leola,” he replied, and the ladies tee-hee’d. I’m not trying to be cute here;
they actually tee-hee’d.