A U.P. Story – Hello Again: Part Two

This is Part Two of a story I published here a few days ago. Here’s the link to Part One. If you’ve not read Part One, Part Two is really going to seem weird. It might seem weird anyway. I love writing short stories – it’s such a magical mystery tour and so much fun.

“So, you guys have a family? Any little Harolds running around?” Smokey thought he knew the answer to this question. After all, who would be living in the wild with kids, ten miles from civilization and then, to top things off, walk in a hellacious snowstorm to the town bar after being gone ten years.

            Brenda skooched her chair closer to the table. “Yeah. Well, we did. Amy was born about a year after we left town but then she died, almost right away. Kind of like never having kids in the first place. I don’t really even remember what she looked like.”

            Smokey took this in. He looked over at Harold who was folding a dirty napkin into fourths and then unfolding it and folding it again. Smokey remembered that Harold used to do stuff like that all the time, make playthings out of stuff, matchbooks, toothpicks, things he could bend or fold or twirl in his fingers. He gave him something to do with all the time he spent looking down.

            “Ah, I’m sorry. So, no more kids after that?” It was a dumb thing to say and Smokey knew it.

            “No. No more kids. But we found a baby fox once and brought it up like it was a dog. He lived with us a bunch of years. And then he left. I don’t know where.” Harold crumpled the napkin and put it in the pocket of his hoodie. “But enough about us. What’s happened with you?”

            And so Smokey ran through his people and his chronology, told them about his wife, Ann Marie, and his three kids, 5, 7, and 8 and about them going to Grand Marais School that was so small there was only 27 kids from kindergarten to high school, about how the oldest played soccer and the two little ones liked to fish at Sable Lake. He went on like this for a good while until he noticed that neither Harold nor Brenda were paying attention. They were nudging each other under the table. He figured he was making them tired, they’re not being used to conversation and all. It was probably overwhelming. Deafening to sit there and have all those words flying around.

            ‘So, you guys. You want a pizza? A burger? Kitchen’s still open. Our stuff’s pretty good. I’ll get you a beer. Can’t believe I didn’t already. So wrapped up in talking, you know?” Smokey pushed his chair back to head to the bar. They made their own, you know, draft beer, a bunch of different flavors from IPA to stout. Smokey was proud of that, being a beer meister on top of owning the bar. He’d done good with his life.

            “No beer for us. We gotta get back.”

            Smokey said back down. “Did I hear you right? You walked in a half hour ago after walking ten miles in the snow at night and now you gotta get back? Why?”

            The two of them shrugged like they’d just dropped by the neighbor’s for coffee but the coffee wasn’t hot enough so they decided to move on. Simple. People come and go all the time, don’t you know.

            “What would it take for you to stay? You could bunk in the back room or come to the house. Ann Marie would be glad to see you, put you up in one of the kid’s rooms. They can double up. Make you a good breakfast. We can talk more. About old times and things.”

            Brenda kicked Harold in the shin so hard Smokey could hear it. “Tell him!” she hissed.

Harold took an index card out of the pocket of his hoodie. He turned the card over and laid it on the table. On the top line, written in #2 pencil were the words: List of Demands.

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To be continued