“Well, for starters, he’s one of the best and most influential authors of the twentieth century.”
“Hey, listen up, friend. I’m a butcher here in Hicksville, Vermont.” He points at his face. “You see this guy here? Does he read French writers? No, he does not. He reads Field & Stream on the hopper sometimes when he’s feeling really intellectual.” Brian smiles proudly at his joke. “When I get to feeling like Johnny College, I sometimes read TV Guide.”
“To each his own,” I say, and start to turn away.
“Hey, don’t take it that way. I’m just having a little fun today. You have me curious now. Why should I read some French writer? Why would you say that to me? Were you serious? Come on now. Tell me.”
“Old habit, I guess. I’m a former high school English teacher. Maybe it’s in my genes.”
He laughs in a friendly way. “I got a library card because you can check out DVDs for free down there, but I bet my card would work for books too. Imagine that. Me reading a book. That would be something. I’m telling you. What’s the name of this writer again? I wanna read this Frenchy who made you wanna name a dog after him. I mean—you love that dog. So what the hell, right? What the hell! You friggin’ love that dog. I’ve seen you with him.”
“I do love Albert Camus.”
“I never really talk this much.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say, lifting my eyebrows. He seems like a kind man, albeit a little simple. I like Brian. I do. He’s bagged and tagged my meat many dozens of times before, and yet this is the first time we’ve spoken this freely.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I don’t have any family around here—except valued shoppers like you. And today’s sort of a big day for me. So I’m a regular Chatty Cathy this afternoon. This store—it’s changed my entire life for the better.”
“Oh, really? I love this store,” I say, although I am not sure why. This is getting a little too friendly, and my instincts are screaming, Get the hell out of here!
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Brian smiles, puffs out his chest a little, and lifts his chin ever so slightly. “Did you notice anything different when you walked in today? Did you? Anything?”
Instantly, I know he’s referring to Mrs. Harper’s navy shirt, and yet I say, “No, I didn’t. What’s different?”
“Mrs. Harper?” Brian raises his gray eyebrows, cocks his head, nods, and smiles.
“I’m not sure I—”
“She’s wearing a blue shirt. For the first time since—you know.”
I glance over my shoulder at Mrs. Harper. “Is she? I thought it was black like always.”
“Guess what? Take a wild guess.”
“Um.”
“Give up?”
“I have no—”
“Did you happen to see what’s on her ring finger?” he says.
Please, no.
God, no.
“She and I are getting married. Married! How about that, Mr. High School English Teacher? Mr. Albert Cah-moooo dog owner. Popped the question last night after we locked up Harper’s. Got down on one knee while we were restocking cereal, offered her a ring, and she said yes. Can you believe it? Me, Brian Foley, getting married after all these years of being a bachelor! And to the best woman in the entire universe.”
The world stops spinning for a second, and I lose myself in the black space between Brian’s grinning two front teeth.
“Did you hear what I said, friend? We’re getting married! Hitched. Yoked. United! Making it legal and legit and beautiful! Go tell it on the mountain, Teach: Brian Foley is in love! Reborn even. Today’s the best day of my entire life.”
“Um . . .” I’m sweating now. I place the steaks on the counter and pat my pockets. “Oh, shoot! I think I forgot my wallet. Let me run to my truck. Just give me a second. I’ll be right back.”
“You’re not even gonna say congratulations?”
I move as quickly as my limp and cane will allow toward the exit.
“Are you even serious?” Brian says. “You gotta root for love, man.”
I can’t resist sneaking a peek at Mrs. Harper’s beautiful nose as I leave, knowing that I will never again set foot in Harper’s, even if I desperately need GUNS, AMMO, WHISKEY.
Mrs. Harper is glowing.
She looks radiant.
Happy.
And her nose arouses me like never before.
Cruel temptress!
I don’t bother to buckle in Albert Camus. The truck fishtails back so quickly he falls off the seat and onto the floor mat. When he jumps back up, Albert Camus makes a mad dash for my lap, and I feel him trembling against my jeans.
On a little-used dirt back road, I pull over, rest my head on the wheel, and sob.
Maybe you think it ridiculous, my weeping over the unavailability of a woman with whom I haven’t even exchanged more than a hundred or so words. But I did love her, or the fantasy of being with her, which has pulled me through a very hard lonely period, the way the hope of seeing a single green bud pulls many Vermonters through the coldest and darkest Marches.
Albert Camus continues to comfort me the only way he knows how—by licking my chin, neck, and hands.
Maybe I am also mourning the way my emotional and mental decline mirrors the crippled state of my body. I’m getting worse, all alone in the woods. The shadows are overtaking my mind with useless thoughts that fester and ache like the metal pins in my legs and arms.
Brian the butcher may not have known the name of France’s most famous existential writer, but he knew enough to make his move on Mrs. Harper in a timely fashion, and when you have spent many months talking to a dog—albeit the best dog in the world—facts like these take on a heightened meaning.