As had been his habit for thirty years,
Harold left the Ruby Café and walked three blocks to his Sunoco station. After unlocking the door, he placed his lunch
sack in the fridge, turned on the pumps and pulled his cash tray from the
floorboard safe. It was a warm spring
morning and he decided to leaf through his Clarkson Tribune on the front stoop. He had just finished page one when Clarence
Dobbers pulled in.
“Mornin Clarence,” he said as his neighbor
climbed from the aging red pickup.
“Mornin,” replied Clarence. “Finally got some decent weather, eh?”
“They say it should last all week. Maybe you can finally get that corn in.”
“Yeah, maybe. Once the old lady stops sending me off to
fetch her supplies.” Clarence leaned
against his truck as Harold started the gas pump and then opened the hood to
check the oil.
“How is Mabel doing? Heard she was in the hospital a while back,”
said Harold.
“She’s fine.
Had gallbladder trouble but she’s back to her usual self. Has me running into Clarkson to pick up some
curtain rods.” Clarence pulled off his
tractor cap and rubbed the top of his balding pate. “And how’s Margaret?”
Harold moved out from under the hood,
peering at the dipstick. “You know
Margaret. Doing the books for Reverend
Cane, running the church socials, volunteering down at the rest home. I usually see her at dinner.”
“Busy woman, that Margaret. Weren’t you two planning a trip down to the
Gulf?” Clarence reached into his jacket
and pulled out a can of Skoals.
“Yeah, never happened. Her mom got sick and then there was some kind
of church event over in Greene County.
Maybe next year.”
“Seems you say that every year,” said Clarence,
a smile crossing his ruddy face.
Harold shut the hood, wiped his hands on his
belt rag and went around to top off the gas tank. Clarence was right, of course. He and Marge hadn’t been out of the State for
several years and, with her increasing commitments, it wasn’t likely to happen
any time soon.
“That’ll be sixteen fifty,” he said,
accepting a twenty and pulling change from his pocket. “You have a good trip to Clarkson.”
Clarence chuckled. “The highlight of my week, I’m sure. See you in a few days. Got to fill up my supply tank.”
Harold gave a final wave and settled into
his chair. Staring at the Tribune, he
recalled the time of his courtship with Marge.
They had big plans back then.
Both wanted to get out of southern Illinois, maybe to Chicago, maybe
even Dallas. She aimed to be an
accountant and Harold thought he’d get into sales of some kind. Then her dad died and Marge’s family asked
him to run the service station until it could be sold. Thirty years later, it had become his life.
A few more customers drifted in through the
morning and, at noon, Harold grabbed his lunch from the fridge, popped open a
soda and took a seat in the office, propping his feet on the desk. Marge had made him a ham salad sandwich,
throwing in the usual mix of carrot sticks, chips and homemade cookies. Switching on the radio, Harold picked up the
Cardinals game and enjoyed his lunch amidst the tools and auto supplies of his
neatly kept station.
Business picked up through the afternoon
and, just before closing, a young man arrived in his Ford pickup. Hopping from the cab, he put on his cowboy
hat and hustled around the back of the truck to pump the gas.
“I’ll take care of that,” said Harold,
walking from the office. “We’re a full
service station.”
“OK, sure,” said the young man, backing away
to check that his load was tied down properly.
“Just passing through?” asked Harold,
starting the pump. He had noticed the
Montana plates.
“Yep.
Heading back to the ranch.”
“Work in the area?” Harold had moved on to check the oil.
“Mom died last month,” he said, readjusting
the ties. “Had to come back and fetch
some of her stuff before the house sells.”
“Oh, sorry about your loss,” said Harold,
releasing the hood. “What kind of ranch
you got out there?”
The sheriff’s phone rang at ten that evening. It was Margaret Winters. Harold did not return from work. She was worried and asked if he’d stop by the
station to check on him. Sheriff Riley
found the office open with the lights and pumps still on. The cash register was empty. Robbery was suspected and, though there were
no signs of a struggle, officials feared the worse. Harold’s wallet was found in a culvert down
the road, its cash missing but his driver’s license and credit cards still in
place. His body was never found.
