“Howdy!” the woman said cheerfully. “Come on in and take a look around!”
“Wow,” Gwen exclaimed. Her expression changed from uncertainty to wonder. She stepped in and wandered cautiously down one of the aisles.
“It’s unbelievable,” said Todd, equally happy, and Oscar looked at him. What was wrong with them? This was the store of crazy people. This was the store of someone who was not right in the head. Then he saw something else behind the counter: a display of Green Bay Packers paraphernalia—Topps cards, schedules, four or five felt banners, pictures of players from Paul Horning to Charles Woodson, a Sports Illustrated cover from their Super Bowl win in 1997. In the center of it all was a huge life-sized cutout of Brett Favre, who looked about twenty-five. The whole display was ten or fifteen feet wide and extended from the floor all the way to the ceiling.
Todd walked over to the counter, smiling. “This is the last place I’d expect to find a Packers fan,” he said. “Are you from Wisconsin?”
“No sir,” the woman said. “I just love ’em. I’ve always loved ’em.”
She was like an oversized bird, all wings and splayed feet, dressed in overalls, with a plaited pink and white shirt underneath. Oscar thought he detected a Midwestern twang, but maybe this was just the sound of rural white people everywhere.
“I grew up in Oconomowoc,” Todd said. “About two hours from Lambeau Field.”
“Are you an Aaron Rodgers fan or a Brett Favre fan?” the woman asked. “We have a lot of debates around here.” She glanced at the men on the stools, one of whom nodded at Todd and raised his glass.
“I’m both,” Todd answered. “I loved Brett, but it’s kind of hard to argue with Rodgers winning a Super Bowl. Plus he’s a California boy.”
The woman nodded, as if he’d passed some kind of test. “That’s Henry and Carl,” she said. “We call Henry the mayor of Franklin. Of course, Franklin only has ten people, and two of them are dead, so it’s not saying much.”
Both men chuckled and sipped from their beers.
“And Carl’s the grandpa of the town, but don’t call him old. And I’m Annie.”
“Sweet Annie,” one of the men corrected.
“And that there,” she continued, pointing at the dog, “is Vince Lombardi.”
Todd grinned. “It’s nice to meet you all.”
Oscar slipped down another aisle to escape forced social interaction; he suspected that the men at the counter would take one look at him and try to drag him out to the fields. But even from thirty feet away, he could hear the conversation. He learned that the store had opened in 1918 as a train depot, and had been converted into a dry goods store in the 1930s. Sweet Annie’s family had always run it, and she lived in the small house in back. They operated on a cash-only basis, with the occasional barter arrangement for locals. Sweet Annie had never visited San Francisco or Los Angeles; the biggest city she’d ever been to was Fresno. “What do they have in those places that they don’t have here?” she asked. “Smog, crime, and traffic.”
And Todd said, “You’re absolutely right.”
“And we even have crime here, or at least we did once. See those?”
She pointed to the high windows above the counter, where there were three jagged holes in the glass, spaced several inches apart.
“Are those . . . ?” Todd started.
“Yep. Bullet holes. We had some excitement around here about a year ago. Did you happen to see those trailers across the street?”
“Yes.”
“Well, turned out some no-good youngster was cooking up some of that meta amphetamine. When the sheriff and his men came to arrest him—we don’t have police here in Franklin, on account of it’s so small—they got into a shoot-out. A deputy was shot and killed right out on the street there. And we got those three bullets in the window as a souvenir. I was hiding in the back—the cops told me to clear out—but the guys working in the fields next door had bullets whiz right past their heads.”
“Wow,” Todd said.
“It’s a real shame, if you ask me.”
“A real shame,” Henry echoed.
“All those drugs and things coming up this way where it’s always been so quiet. We haven’t had something happen like that my whole life,” Annie said. “But it just goes to show you, there’s good and evil everywhere. And you can’t get away from trouble if it wants to find you.”
“That’s for sure,” Todd said.
Now Gwen appeared at the end of the counter, looking hesitant. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I ask a question?”
Sweet Annie turned to her. “Sure, honey. Hey, where are you all going anyway?”
“We’re going backpacking,” Gwen said. “Up in the mountains.”
“Backpacking! Adventurers, huh? Which trail are you taking? Booth Valley?”
“No, actually, we’re going up to Cloud Lakes.”
“Cloud Lakes? That’s supposed to be beautiful, although I’ve never done it myself. Like I said, everything I need’s right here in Franklin.”
“We’re really excited,” Todd said.
“Well, it’s the bears that scare me,” Sweet Annie continued. “One of them made it all the way to Franklin one time. Walked in and helped himself to the worms right there in the refrigerator. You’re braver than I am, that’s for sure.”
Gwen asked, “Do you have any washcloths?”
Sweet Annie shrugged. “I think so, honey. We have just about everything. You just have to look a little while to find it.”
And seemingly, they did have everything else. Oscar found a display of mugs from national parks—the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, Glacier, the Everglades. He saw a box of daguerreotypes of unidentified people. Then a rack of back issues of Field & Stream and American Marksman, mixed in with Ladies’ Home Journal and Highlights. There were cleaning supplies in dusty packages that had never been opened. There was a toy rocking horse, a wood stove, a phonograph. He could not remember when he had ever seen such clutter. And yet Todd and Gwen looked totally content—Todd still talking with the proprietor and the men at the counter, Gwen picking up various handcrafted things, smiling, placing them back on the shelves. He didn’t understand this—what exactly did she find so charming? Why wasn’t she freaked out by these goofy rednecks?
Then Tracy swept past him, holding a flashlight and two bundles of firewood. “Let’s go.” She stood impatiently at the cash register until Sweet Annie noticed her and ambled over to ring her up.
Gwen paid for a washcloth and a little embroidered pillow that read, Every day is a beautiful day. Todd bought a postcard—the same picture as the one on the door—and fished in his wallet until he came up with a small folded rectangle of colored paper. It was the Packers schedule from last season. He handed it to Sweet Annie. “To add to your collection,” he said.
When they were back on the highway, Oscar shook his head. “Well, that’s not a place I need to go back to.”
“I thought it was sweet,” said Gwen. “It reminded me of the country stores my great-aunt used to tell me about in the South.”
“Really? That woman seemed a little off to me. And those two guys weren’t exactly rolling out the welcome mat.”
“Oh, they were fine,” Todd said. “They’re just locals. They’re probably not used to seeing city people.”
Oscar was about to ask what exactly Todd meant by “city people” when Tracy looked over her shoulder and into the back.