Saturday, July 29, 2017

Losing Harold


   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.