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ought a pair of Wolverine workboots. On my way to the market, I kicked them repeatedly against
the curbing until the toes were scuffed.
The place was every bit as busy as I’d hoped, with a line at all three cash registers and the aisles full
of women pushing shopping carts. The few men I saw only had baskets, so that was what I took. I put
a bag of apples in mine (dirt cheap), and a bag of oranges (almost as expensive as 2011 oranges).
Beneath my feet, the oiled wooden floor creaked.
What exactly did Mr. Dunning do in the Center Street Market? Bevvie-on-the-levee hadn’t said.
He wasn’t the manager; a glance into the glassed-in booth just beyond the produce section showed a
white-haired gentleman who could have claimed Ellen Dunning as a granddaughter, perhaps, but not
as a daughter. And the sign on his desk said MR. CURRIE.
As I walked along the back of the store, past the dairy case (I was amused by a sign reading HAVE
YOU TRIED “YOGHURT?” IF NOT YOU WILL LOVE IT WHEN YOU DO), I began to hear
laughter. Female laughter of the immediately identifiable oh-you-rascal variety. I turned into the far
aisle and saw a covey of women, dressed in much the same style as the ladies in the Kennebec Fruit,
clustered around the meat counter. THE BUTCHERY, read the handmade wooden sign hanging down
on decorative chrome chains. HOME-STYLE CUTS. And, at the bottom: FRANK DUNNING,
HEAD BUTCHER.
Sometimes life coughs up coincidences no writer of fiction would dare copy.
It was Frank Dunning who was making the ladies laugh. The resemblance to the janitor who had
taken my GED English course was close enough to be eerie. He was Harry to the life, except this
version’s hair was almost completely black instead of almost all gray, and the sweet, slightly puzzled
smile had been replaced by a raffish, razzle-dazzle grin. It was no wonder the ladies were all aflutter.
Even Bevvie-on-the-levee thought he was the cat’s meow, and why not? She might only be twelve or
thirteen, but she was female, and Frank Dunning was a charmer. He knew it, too. There had to be
reasons for the flowers of Derry womanhood to spend their husbands’ paychecks at the downtown
market instead of at the slightly cheaper A&P, and one of them was right here. Mr. Dunning was
handsome, Mr. Dunning wore spandy-clean clean whites (slightly bloodstained at the cuffs, but he was
a butcher, after all), Mr. Dunning wore a stylish white hat that looked like a cross between a chef’s
toque and an artist’s beret. It hung down to just above one eyebrow. A fashion statement, by God.
All in all, Mr. Frank Dunning, with his rosy, clean-shaven cheeks and his immaculately barbered
black hair, was God’s gift to the Little Woman. As I strolled toward him, he tied off a package of
meat with a length of string drawn from a roll on a spindle beside his scale and wrote the price on it
with a flourish of his black marker. He handed it to a lady of about fifty summers who was wearing a
housedress with big pink roses blooming on it, seamed nylons, and a schoolgirl blush.
“There you are, Mrs. Levesque, one pound of German bologna, sliced thin.” He leaned
confidentially over the counter, close enough so that Mrs. Levesque (and the other ladies) would be
able to whiff on the entrancing aroma of his cologne. Was it Aqua Velva, Fred Toomey’s brand? I
thought not. I thought a fascinator like Frank Dunning would go for something a little more
expensive. “Do you know the problem with German bologna?”
“No,” she said, dragging it out a little so it became Noo-oo. The other ladies twittered in
anticipation.
Dunning’s eyes flicked briefly to me and saw nothing to interest him. When he looked back at
Mrs. Levesque, they once more picked up their patented twinkle.
“An hour after you eat some, you’re hungry for power.”
I’m not sure all the ladies got it, but they all shrieked with appreciation. Dunning sent Mrs.
Levesque happily on her way, and as I passed out of hearing, he was turning his attention to a Mrs.
Bowie. Who would, I was sure, be equally happy to receive it.