( Chapter One is here. Chapter Two is here)

Chapter Three (Welcome To Coldville)

Coleville - named for Laurence H. Cole, a skilled inventor with nothing much to show for his talent - is like many other small towns: dusty, friendly, isolated, and formal. The old New England rocking chairs call it being "proper", their philosophy being to keep out of other's affairs and the boat will remain calm and blissfully unrocked.

The town's namesake was little known among the more famous inventors and professors of his day and those that came after. His name is easily forgotten in that line of work, especially considering that no one knew of any particularly groundbreaking things that he'd done. His lack of recognition was picked over like a scab whenever the subject of local history arose, and most of those skilled in science sneered at the odd ideas that Cole so avidly pursued. With an almost defiant air, the town erected a hideous statue of their neglected hero outside the town hall, a requisite banner to any town of that size and disposition.

"Ayuh, he'll get what he deserves, you'll see," the townsfolk swore. "Then this place'll be famous! All the good ones were ignored till after they died."

Then the speaker would tap the side of his nose knowledgeably and tip a wink to whatever grocer or barber or bartender he'd been harping to.

The fact that it had been one hundred and ninety - nine years since Cole's mysterious death in 1804 does not seem to bother the people of the town. He was their genius, their golden boy - and quite possibly the only one they would have.

It is a hot morning, stunningly hot for May, a somewhat unwelcome preview of what their oncoming Maine summer would have up its sleeve. The new leaves hang thirsty from their spidery branches, seeming to pant with the breath of the dry sun. Cars roll by as if tired with the world, puffing out exhaust lazily, the mouths of their windows gaping wide to suck in the breeze. Only the tourists use air conditioning when the mercury is below ninety. The town over the past few days has seemed to be waiting, holding its breath for some oncoming unknown. The feeling has now broken along with the heat, but few seem to notice the connection.

Justin Starret pushes play and the small but clean café is filled with the lighthearted rock of Elvis. He spins the volume button on the black, ketchup-spattered stereo left over from a time when flattops and shoulder pads were the height of cool, letting the King fill in the morning groove. The doorknob to the supply closet emits a tiny squeak as he yanks the door open, revealing a tissue box-sized room with the hygienic necessities of any locally owned establishment: a bucket, a mop, a half-spilled box of Roach-Away, and a broom, which Justin grabs, shuffling backward as he sings along.

"I'm proud to say that she's my buttahhcup, I'm in love -" he plants his feet and cocks a hip in time. "- I'm all shook up..."

He dances through the kitchen, twirling the broom and occasionally using it, finishing up the chores he'd secretly neglected last night when he'd closed up.

The café is called Zalio's, a tiny and well-run local place with a fifties charm and blue and white checkered floors. The minute stream of tourists that trickles into Coleville for a peaceful summer getaway rarely notices Zalio's, but it attracts a fair current of locals, as the café has been there for too many years to count. The aging Yankees, some of which are reported to be older than God, have memories that can stretch back to the Byzantine empire, but on the point of when Zalio's opened, they all seem to be fuzzy. Wonders are dismissed, however, in favor of the magnificent cheeseburgers.

The mirthful tinkle of the bell is drowned out by Elvis's guitar and the door opens without attracting attention.

"Jesus Justin, willya turn it down? The dead are gonna wake up and be pissed."

Justin spins around to catch the bemused smile of Rieger Swick, the owner of Zalio's. He is a tall, well built man with white hair and beard, barely visible paunch and eyes that always seem to sparkle with a Santa Claus charm. By all rules of logic, Rieger Swick should be at least ninety years old now, the memories of Coleville[base ']s old men holding scenes of milkshakes and apple pie at Zalio's since they were but tadpoles, but he looked no older than sixty and he always carried an impression of great energy and wisdom.

"Sorry Mister Swick," Justin says, reaching for the volume knob and taking the music down to a less assailing level.

"Ah well," says Rieger, going to the back in search of coffee. "If it can't be good it may as well be loud."

"Hey!" Justin stops sweeping. "Mister Swick, this is the King, how can you say -"

Rieger Swick chuckles, patting the air in a defensive motion.

"Don't get your panties in a bind, son," he says. "I was only kidding."

With a soft "hmph" Justin returns to sweeping.

He should have known better than to jump on the defensive. Since he was sixteen he'd been working at Zalio's and getting to know Rieger Swick. Justin was at once calmed by his open personality, his blunt and casual wit, and his endless well of wisdom. He'd watched his boss load Elvis records into the old jukebox and even sometimes heard the same playing softly in the back room as Rieger counted out the drawer. Justin is nineteen now and over the years he's come to appreciate the quirks and complexities of his boss's nature.

"Has Frank called about his order yet?" Rieger asks, poking through the cabinets above the rundown percolator. "And where is our real coffee?"

"No, he didn't call yet," says Justin, sharing his employer's exasperation as Frank has been ordering groceries from Zalio's for years and calls every Monday to confirm his order. With larger city businesses this might be necessary, but with a place as tiny as Rieger Swick's, the employees have long since memorized Frank's grocery list.

"He's nothing if not thorough," Rieger Swick has said of Frank.

"We'll give him a couple more minutes out of etiquette," Rieger calls out of the cabinet, his precise, round voice nailing the "t's" with effortless grace. "But then if you could take his order over, I'd appreciate it."

"Ayup."

Though he never mentioned it, Frank's knees had been bad since the war and Rieger Swick, in his omnipotence, had insisted that Frank's groceries be brought to him every Monday.

"What the hell and the hootenanny...?" Rieger pulls out a crumpled coffee bean pack from the cabinet. "Decaf? Get it outta here!"

He tosses the pack over his shoulder and it lands with a thunk in the trash can.

"Does Frank usually call this early?" Justin asks, trying to persuade a stubborn bit of fluff to extricate itself from a corner.

"Seven o'clock, on the nose," Rieger murmurs, pulling out another packet. "Pumpkin Spice?"

"Don't even bother," says Justin. "Left over from last Fall and it tastes like cardboard anyway."

"Where's our regular regular, we tear through the stuff every day but when I look for it..."

Leaving his little pile of dirt and dust, Justin leans the broom against the counter and comes around the window to the kitchen where his employer is kneeling on a stool with his entire upper body hidden in the cabinet.

"Here let me," Justin says. "What are you looking for?"

"Something black," says Rieger, moving aside for Justin and settling into a stool by the grill. "Like ink. Better yet, like sludge."

"This is a change for you," Justin raises an eyebrow, pulling a coffee bag from behind the percolator. "What's up?"

Rieger Swick has never been a coffee man. He will drink the occasional cup, but never seems to be in great need of it like the twitchy morning regulars, and usually settles for a cool diet Pepsi, two ice cubes. Having nearly been killed in the fight to quit smoking many years back, which he did with a self disgust that he was not eager to experience again, he'd set his mind against any kind of addiction. Seeing the way some of his customers scrambled for their morning jump start, he'd erased any desire to start the habit.

"Couldn't find a piece of rest last night," Rieger says. "Bad dreams... and it seemed like everything was crawling, scratching at my walls and my windows. Then I'd really listen and there would be nothing. And I mean nothing, boy, no noise at all," he shakes his head slowly. "That's not a healthy sound, silence. Noise means life."

"That's odd, I slept okay. Maybe you're just getting to that age," Justin flashes a grin as he starts the coffee machine, filling the room with the gentle sound of hot water running.

"Hm," Rieger nods, ignoring the crack. "Well, Frank's late calling, you'd best get going. If he calls while you're out, I'll tell him you're on your way."

"You'll be cool to open on your own? I mean, if a lot of people come in..."

"Marilyn should be on her way soon. Go ahead, his bag's in the back."

"Okay boss."

Justin nabs the bag and says goodbye to Rieger Swick with the promise to be back soon, then leaves the café and his pile of dirt on the floor to get into his car and set off for Frank Lauden's house.

(Copyright Kit Fox, 2003)
10:42:32 PM    Comments?()