weeks.”
“Too bad. I was going to buy you a soda. Say, there’s a lawn mower on the edge of town that won’t start.”
“Bring it over sometime next week.”
“The woman who owns it doesn’t have a way to get it here,” said July. “It’s a big one and she doesn’t know anything about motors.”
“You can show her,” said Jacob, opening the door to the craft shop and returning with a can of soda from the refrigerator on the other side of the cinder block wall. He handed it to July and turned on the radio.
“Thanks,” said July, “but I want you to show her.”
“Don’t have time.”
“Poor thing’s lawn is getting away from her.”
“Don’t have time.”
“Jacob, this is a good idea. She needs your help.”
“How old is she?”
“I don’t know how old she is. Ask her. She’s at the end of the first road after the bridge, right over there,” and he pointed behind him. “Her name’s on the mailbox: Gail. Tell her I sent you. If she isn’t
home, go back. Her schedule is hard to predict. Gail Shotwell, don’t forget.”
“Clarice can call her.”
“Don’t do that—she’ll say she doesn’t need any help.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t like talking to women I don’t know. I just don’t think—”
“That’s your whole problem, Jacob. Think less, do more, that’s my motto.”
PROTECTING PAPERS
G AIL SHOTWELL WORKED THE NIGHT SHIFT AT THE PLASTIC FACTORY in Grange and drove home in gray light. She made a piece of toast with peanut butter, ate half of it, partly undressed, slept three hours on the sofa in the living room, woke up, and ate the rest of the toast. She played a CD and felt pretty good then in a sleepy kind of way. She thought about eating another piece of toast, but before she could get a slice of bread into the toaster a loud knocking arrived on the front door.
Gail had so few visitors that at first she did not recognize the explosive sound. Then she had no idea who it could be. There were only thirty or forty people living in Words at any one time, and she was on speaking terms with only a few of them. Lacking stores of general interest, the little village afforded few opportunities for strangers to get acquainted without going right up to each other, which no one would ever do. There was the Words Repair Shop, of course, with its heaps of old metal and claustrophobic room of crafts in back, but the owner was not someone she especially wanted to meet. Her nearest neighbors in the Victorian beyond the hedge, old Violet Brasso and her sister, Olivia, were fanatically religious by all reports, and Gail assumed they disapproved of her. They rarely left home for anything other than church.
She opened the front door and on the other side of it stood her brother, Grahm. Behind him his wife, Cora, had her arms wrapped around a cardboard box as big as an orange crate. Because of the direction of the sun, both looked carved in granite.
“We came last night,” said Grahm, “but you weren’t home.”
“We waited until after eleven,” said Cora.
“I worked last night. What’s in the box?” asked Gail.
“These are copies of something very important, ” said Cora in her
usual manner of assuming everything in her life was very important. “We need you to keep them.” And she marched into the house, walked down the hall, and put the box on the kitchen table.
“Grahm thinks you’re our best hope,” she said, appraising the kitchen with a scowl. A mound of Styrofoam take-out containers, mismatched ceramic and paper plates, cups, glasses, and plastic wrappers rose out of the sink and spilled onto both sides of the counter.
“You guys want some coffee?” asked Gail as Grahm and Cora seated themselves at the table.
“Look these papers over when you have time,” said Grahm. “Keep them in a safe place.”
“They probably won’t mean anything to you and it’s not necessary they do,” added Cora. “We just need you to have them.”
Gail
“Too bad. I was going to buy you a soda. Say, there’s a lawn mower on the edge of town that won’t start.”
“Bring it over sometime next week.”
“The woman who owns it doesn’t have a way to get it here,” said July. “It’s a big one and she doesn’t know anything about motors.”
“You can show her,” said Jacob, opening the door to the craft shop and returning with a can of soda from the refrigerator on the other side of the cinder block wall. He handed it to July and turned on the radio.
“Thanks,” said July, “but I want you to show her.”
“Don’t have time.”
“Poor thing’s lawn is getting away from her.”
“Don’t have time.”
“Jacob, this is a good idea. She needs your help.”
“How old is she?”
“I don’t know how old she is. Ask her. She’s at the end of the first road after the bridge, right over there,” and he pointed behind him. “Her name’s on the mailbox: Gail. Tell her I sent you. If she isn’t
home, go back. Her schedule is hard to predict. Gail Shotwell, don’t forget.”
“Clarice can call her.”
“Don’t do that—she’ll say she doesn’t need any help.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t like talking to women I don’t know. I just don’t think—”
“That’s your whole problem, Jacob. Think less, do more, that’s my motto.”
PROTECTING PAPERS
G AIL SHOTWELL WORKED THE NIGHT SHIFT AT THE PLASTIC FACTORY in Grange and drove home in gray light. She made a piece of toast with peanut butter, ate half of it, partly undressed, slept three hours on the sofa in the living room, woke up, and ate the rest of the toast. She played a CD and felt pretty good then in a sleepy kind of way. She thought about eating another piece of toast, but before she could get a slice of bread into the toaster a loud knocking arrived on the front door.
Gail had so few visitors that at first she did not recognize the explosive sound. Then she had no idea who it could be. There were only thirty or forty people living in Words at any one time, and she was on speaking terms with only a few of them. Lacking stores of general interest, the little village afforded few opportunities for strangers to get acquainted without going right up to each other, which no one would ever do. There was the Words Repair Shop, of course, with its heaps of old metal and claustrophobic room of crafts in back, but the owner was not someone she especially wanted to meet. Her nearest neighbors in the Victorian beyond the hedge, old Violet Brasso and her sister, Olivia, were fanatically religious by all reports, and Gail assumed they disapproved of her. They rarely left home for anything other than church.
She opened the front door and on the other side of it stood her brother, Grahm. Behind him his wife, Cora, had her arms wrapped around a cardboard box as big as an orange crate. Because of the direction of the sun, both looked carved in granite.
“We came last night,” said Grahm, “but you weren’t home.”
“We waited until after eleven,” said Cora.
“I worked last night. What’s in the box?” asked Gail.
“These are copies of something very important, ” said Cora in her
usual manner of assuming everything in her life was very important. “We need you to keep them.” And she marched into the house, walked down the hall, and put the box on the kitchen table.
“Grahm thinks you’re our best hope,” she said, appraising the kitchen with a scowl. A mound of Styrofoam take-out containers, mismatched ceramic and paper plates, cups, glasses, and plastic wrappers rose out of the sink and spilled onto both sides of the counter.
“You guys want some coffee?” asked Gail as Grahm and Cora seated themselves at the table.
“Look these papers over when you have time,” said Grahm. “Keep them in a safe place.”
“They probably won’t mean anything to you and it’s not necessary they do,” added Cora. “We just need you to have them.”
Gail
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