“My, that was good!” he said. “What was it, Mister Monroe?”
“Just some lemonade and sugar, frozen up. Not bad, hunh?
“It was great! Um, do you have any more? Sir?”
Rick laughed, thinking of how he had made it this morning, for a dessert after dinner.
Not for a boy not even ten, but so what? “No, ’fraid not. But come back tomorrow. I might have some then, if I can think about it.”
At the kitchen sink he poured water into the cup, and the voice returned. Why not, it said. Tell the boy what he’s missing. Tell him how it was like, back when a kid his age would laugh rather than eat frozen, sugary lemonade. That with the change in his pocket, he could walk outside and meet up with an ice cream cart that sold luxuries unknown today in the finest restaurants. Tell him that, why don’t you?
He coughed and turned, saw Tom was looking up again at the photos. “Mister Monroe…”
“Yes?”
“Mister Monroe, did you really go to the stars? Did you?”
Rick smiled, glad to see the curiosity in the boy’s face, and not fear. “Well, I guess I got as close as anyone could, back then. You see—”
The boy’s father yelled from outside. “Tom! Time to go! Come on out!”
Rick said, “Guess you have to listen to your dad, son. Tell you what, next time you come back, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Deal?”
The boy nodded and ran out of the kitchen. His hips were still aching and he thought about lying down before going through the mail, but he made his way outside, where Tom was up on the wagon. Henry came up and offered his hand, and Rick shook it, glad that Henry wasn’t one to try the strength test with someone as old as he. Henry said,
“Have a word with you, Mister Monroe?”
“Sure,” he said. “But only if you call me Rick.”
From behind the thick beard, he thought he could detect a smile. “All right… Rick.”
They both sat down on old wicker rocking chairs and Henry said, “I’ll get right to it, Rick.”
“Okay.”
“There’s a town meeting tonight. I think you should go.”
“Why?”
“Because… well, there’s some stirrings. That’s all. About a special committee being set up. A morals committee, to ensure that only the right people live here in Boston Falls.”
“And who decides who are the right people?” he asked, finding it hard to believe this conversation was actually taking place.
Henry seemed embarrassed. “The committee and the selectmen, I guess… you see, there’s word down south, about some of the towns there, they still got trouble with refugees and transients rolling in from Connecticut and New York. Some of those towns, the natives, they’re being overwhelmed, outvoted, and they’re not the same anymore.
And since you, um—”
“I was born here, Henry. You know that. Just because I lived someplace else for a long time, that’s held against me?”
“Well, I’m just sayin’ it’s not going to help… with what you did back then, and the fact you don’t go to church, and other things, well… it might be worthwhile if you go there.
That’s all. To defend yourself.”
Even with the hot weather, Rick was feeling a cold touch upon his hands. Now we’re really taking a step back, he thought. Like the Nuremberg laws, in Nazi Germany.
Ensuring that only the ethnically and racially pure get to vote, to shop, to live…
“And if this committee decides you don’t belong? What then? Arrested? Exiled? Burned at the stake?”
Now his neighbor looked embarrassed as he stepped up from the wicker chair. “You should just be there, Mister uh, I mean, Rick. It’s at eight o’clock. At the town hall.”
“That’s a long walk in, when it’s getting dark. Any chance I could get a ride?”
Even with his neighbor’s back turned to him, Rick could sense the humiliation. “Well, I, well, I don’t think so, Rick. I’m sorry. You see, I think Marcia wants to visit her sister after the meeting, and I don’t know what time we might get back, and, well, I’m sorry.”
Henry climbed up into the wagon, retrieved the reins from his son, and Rick called out.
“Henry?”
“Yes?”
“Any chance your wife is on this committee?”
The expression on his neighbor’s face was all he needed to know, as the wagon turned around on his brown lawn and headed back up to the road.
Back inside, he grabbed his mail and went upstairs, to the spare bedroom that he had converted into an office during the first year he had made it back to Boston Falls. He went to unlock the door and found that it was already open. Damn his memory, which he knew was starting to show its age, just like his hips. He was certain he had locked it the last time. He sat down at the desk and untied the twine, knowing he would save it. What was that old Yankee saying? Use it up, wear it out, or do without? Heavy thrift, one of the many lessons being relearned these years.
One envelope he set aside to bring into Glen Roundell, the General Store owner. It was his Social Security check, only three months late, and Glen—who was also the town’s banker—would take it and apply it against Rick’s account. Not much being made for sale nowadays, so whatever tiny amount his Social Security check was this month was usually enough to keep his account in good shape.
There was an advertising flyer for the Grafton County Fair, set to start next week.
Another flyer announcing a week-long camp revival at the old Boy Scout camp on Conway Lake, during the same time. Competition, no doubt. And a thin envelope, postmarked Houston, Texas, which he was happy to see. It had only taken a month for the envelope to get here, which he thought was a good sign. Maybe some things were improving in the country.
Maybe.
He slit open the envelope with an old knife, saw the familiar handwriting inside.
Dear Rick,
Hope this sees you doing well in the wilds of New Hampshire.
Down here what passes for recovery continues. Last month, two whole city blocks had their power restored. It only comes on for a couple of hours a day, and no a/c is allowed, but it’s still progress, eh?
Enclosed are the latest elements for Our Boy. I’m sorry to say the orbit degradation is continuing. Latest guess is that Our Boy may be good for another five years, maybe six.
Considering what was spent in blood and treasure to put him up there, it breaks my heart.
If you get bored and lonely up there, do consider coming down here. I understand that with Amtrak coming back, it should only take four weeks to get here. The heat is awful but at least you’ll be in good company with those of us who still remember.
Your pal,
With the handwritten sheet was another sheet of paper, with a listing of dates and times, and he shook his head in dismay. Most of the sightings were for early mornings, and he hated getting up in the morning. But tonight—how fortunate!—there was going to be a sighting at just after eight o’clock.
Eight o’clock. Why did that sound familiar?
Now he remembered. The town meeting tonight, where supposedly his fate and those of any other possible sinners was to be decided. He carefully folded up the letter, put it back in the envelope. He decided one more viewing was more important, more important than whatever chatter session was going to happen later. And besides, knowing what he did about the town and its politics, the decision had already been made.
He looked around his small office, with the handmade bookshelves and books, and more framed photos on the cracked plaster wall. One of the photos was of him and his friend, Brian Poole, wearing blue-zippered jumpsuits, standing in front of something large and complex, built ages ago in the swamps of Florida.