do for the baby?”
“You busting my chops again, Scott?”
“No. I’m dead serious. And I’m sorry about the ‘orphanage’ comment earlier. I was trying to be funny.”
She stopped walking. “Apology accepted. I probably overreacted.”
“My brother, in Caribou, had twin girls last year,” he said. “They have a bassinet and clothes for a little girl.”
Like her, Smith was divorced. He’d been there only six months. Another newcomer trying to make a friend?
“Thanks, Scott. Maybe we could take up a collection for her. Wherever she ends up, she’ll need those things.”
“Get a name yet?”
“No.”
“Where is she?”
“DHHS custody.”
“Get me an address and I’ll tell my sister-in-law where to bring the stuff.”
There was a puddle of mud forming a three-foot arc around his chair.
“You leave any dirt and snow in the woods?” she said, smiling.
“I was in the Alagash. Ever been there?”
“I used to fish the Alagash as a little girl with my father,” she said. “Actually, he’d fish. I’d sit in the canoe.”
“Not an easy place to get from point A to point B.”
The Alagash Wilderness Waterway was a ninety-two-mile network of rivers, lakes, ponds, and streams that cut through Maine’s commercial forests. The water was ice-cold and fast-moving, and canoes and kayaks were the only water vehicles permitted. The danger was great to inexperienced paddlers. The dirt roads through the forests were dominated by eighteen-wheel logging vehicles that had (or took) the right-of-way at all times, which meant sportsmen weren’t safe on the water—or the roads.
“Like the Goddamn Wild West,” Smith continued. “You get me an address for the little girl, and I’ll drop off the clothes.”
“Will do.”
“And tell Tommy I saw him score on my nephew the other day.”
“You were at the soccer game?”
“Yeah. Your son’s another Pelé.”
She smiled at him. “That’s nice to hear. Thank you.”
“It’s the truth. I played a little semi-pro. I know skill when I see it.”
“Thanks again,” she said, and headed toward the door. But she paused before she left to glance back at Smith.
He was typing, refocused on his work.
THREE
P EYTON DASHED HOME, MET Lois and Tommy at the bus stop, kissed her mother on the cheek as a thank-you, and then drove Tommy to school, soaking up the fifteen minutes she could spend with him following her midnight shift.
Shortly after 10 a.m. that Monday, Peyton was in a booth at Gary’s Diner. She was off duty, but sleep could wait.
The smells of the place always brought back childhood memories: her seated at the counter beside her late father, sipping hot chocolate, eating ployes drenched in syrup. Ployes— a thin pancake-like food made of several kinds of wheat and topped with local items like maple syrup—were to Aroostook County what grits were to the South.
She sipped black coffee and worked on a crossword puzzle in the Bangor Daily, having enjoyed solving them since elementary school. She’d always taken failure hard. Even more than she liked solving a puzzle, it was her hatred of leaving a space incomplete that motivated her. The frustration of missing the drop the previous night was similar: someone had out-smarted her.
The bell chimed and the front door opened. The morning break crowd from the Garrett Public Works Department entered.
She gave him time to sit and order. That would make it hard for him to run.
After filling in 2 down and 8 across, she stood, set her pen down on her newspaper to indicate she’d return, and crossed the room.
“Sleep in that shirt?” She was standing behind him. “Looks like the thing hasn’t been washed in a month.”
Kenny Radke looked like hell. When she’d seen him here previously, he’d been clean-shaven, always in a Dickies work shirt, Garrett Public Works stitched into the breast pocket, matching pants, and smelling of inexpensive cologne. Now his unshaven face held a bluish tint and
“You busting my chops again, Scott?”
“No. I’m dead serious. And I’m sorry about the ‘orphanage’ comment earlier. I was trying to be funny.”
She stopped walking. “Apology accepted. I probably overreacted.”
“My brother, in Caribou, had twin girls last year,” he said. “They have a bassinet and clothes for a little girl.”
Like her, Smith was divorced. He’d been there only six months. Another newcomer trying to make a friend?
“Thanks, Scott. Maybe we could take up a collection for her. Wherever she ends up, she’ll need those things.”
“Get a name yet?”
“No.”
“Where is she?”
“DHHS custody.”
“Get me an address and I’ll tell my sister-in-law where to bring the stuff.”
There was a puddle of mud forming a three-foot arc around his chair.
“You leave any dirt and snow in the woods?” she said, smiling.
“I was in the Alagash. Ever been there?”
“I used to fish the Alagash as a little girl with my father,” she said. “Actually, he’d fish. I’d sit in the canoe.”
“Not an easy place to get from point A to point B.”
The Alagash Wilderness Waterway was a ninety-two-mile network of rivers, lakes, ponds, and streams that cut through Maine’s commercial forests. The water was ice-cold and fast-moving, and canoes and kayaks were the only water vehicles permitted. The danger was great to inexperienced paddlers. The dirt roads through the forests were dominated by eighteen-wheel logging vehicles that had (or took) the right-of-way at all times, which meant sportsmen weren’t safe on the water—or the roads.
“Like the Goddamn Wild West,” Smith continued. “You get me an address for the little girl, and I’ll drop off the clothes.”
“Will do.”
“And tell Tommy I saw him score on my nephew the other day.”
“You were at the soccer game?”
“Yeah. Your son’s another Pelé.”
She smiled at him. “That’s nice to hear. Thank you.”
“It’s the truth. I played a little semi-pro. I know skill when I see it.”
“Thanks again,” she said, and headed toward the door. But she paused before she left to glance back at Smith.
He was typing, refocused on his work.
THREE
P EYTON DASHED HOME, MET Lois and Tommy at the bus stop, kissed her mother on the cheek as a thank-you, and then drove Tommy to school, soaking up the fifteen minutes she could spend with him following her midnight shift.
Shortly after 10 a.m. that Monday, Peyton was in a booth at Gary’s Diner. She was off duty, but sleep could wait.
The smells of the place always brought back childhood memories: her seated at the counter beside her late father, sipping hot chocolate, eating ployes drenched in syrup. Ployes— a thin pancake-like food made of several kinds of wheat and topped with local items like maple syrup—were to Aroostook County what grits were to the South.
She sipped black coffee and worked on a crossword puzzle in the Bangor Daily, having enjoyed solving them since elementary school. She’d always taken failure hard. Even more than she liked solving a puzzle, it was her hatred of leaving a space incomplete that motivated her. The frustration of missing the drop the previous night was similar: someone had out-smarted her.
The bell chimed and the front door opened. The morning break crowd from the Garrett Public Works Department entered.
She gave him time to sit and order. That would make it hard for him to run.
After filling in 2 down and 8 across, she stood, set her pen down on her newspaper to indicate she’d return, and crossed the room.
“Sleep in that shirt?” She was standing behind him. “Looks like the thing hasn’t been washed in a month.”
Kenny Radke looked like hell. When she’d seen him here previously, he’d been clean-shaven, always in a Dickies work shirt, Garrett Public Works stitched into the breast pocket, matching pants, and smelling of inexpensive cologne. Now his unshaven face held a bluish tint and
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