When Worms Abandon Their Burrows

By Sean Parr

Freelance journalist Emily Merton has moved back to her hometown. For the first time in seventeen years she will be spending August 16 there—the anniversary of the day her childhood innocence died. While doing her best to block the date from her mind, she gets an assignment that throws her right back into the horror of that day and threatens to take away the one thing she has managed to hold on to since that time: her pride. But will it also give her an opportunity to solve the riddles that have plagued her all these years? And does she even want to solve them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Parr
• Release date: Dec 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9788269181708

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sunday, August 11, 2019

The other day, I met a bear,

Up in the woods, A way up there.

He looked at me, I looked at him,

He sized up me, I sized up him.

I remember it still. It was a song from childhood, a song I often sang when I was by myself and feeling scared and upset and nervous. So why is it coming to me now?

I slap the countertop and sit back on my stool. Relax, Emily, I command myself.

Closing my eyes, I listen to the heavy rain outside and continue the fight against the even heavier thoughts inside my head, doing the best I can to focus on the pungent smell of pine that fills my shop, instead of the silent yelp of pain that fills my stomach.

I can’t remember having suffered such a reaction around the anniversary before. Maybe with the exception of the first. It must be because I know I’ll be in Hannibal on the date. Unless I change my mind; leaving town for a few nights is still a possibility.

As unbelievable as it sounds, it’s true. This is the first year in seventeen that I’ll be spending mid-August in my hometown. The first six, through middle school and high school, my parents made sure we were on vacation. And for the next ten, I was living out of town. But now I’m back. And, of course, the fact that it coincides with the opening ceremony, with all the attention that will get, doesn’t make it any better.

I glance up at the clock on the wall. Although the sky is dark enough for the time to be mistaken as night, it’s only half-past twelve in the afternoon. I still haven’t had a single customer today. Considering the weather, I don’t expect a rush in the afternoon either. But Amy just texted me and said she’ll drop by on her way to the bakery. I appreciate that; I could do with a distraction. That said … thinking of my best friend for most of my life reminds me of the fact that it was a call to her that started it all.

The final straw—the straw that pissed me off—came Friday, August 16, 2002, when I called Amy, a relatively new friend at that point, in the afternoon to put it to her that we should go to the park. I don’t remember the conversation exactly—seventeen years is a long time—but I know it was her suggestion that we go in the evening. It’s a bit cloudy now, she said, but the weather forecast says it’ll clear up.

I agreed, pleased that she’d consented to go at all since the day before we’d been subject to an incident that had freaked her out. She didn’t mention it, so I assumed she’d gotten over it.

We agreed we’d go there at six, soaking up the last couple of hours of daylight. Now that we would be middle school girls, we could stay out a little longer. Provided that we were together, either at one another’s house or in the park, we could stay out till 8:30. To deprive us of the but-my-friends-can-stay-out-longer argument, our parents had cleverly gotten together and coordinated our curfews.

I was about to ask whether she’d stop by at my place so that we could go together. Amy and I always walked to the park together, following a trail called Northern Trail through the forest on the northern side of Lovers Leap. Then we met Lucy there.

But Amy pulled me up short. My parents are gonna drop me off at Lucy’s soon. They’re going out of town tonight and my brother is going to a party. So I’ll sleep over at her place. We’ll meet you in the park.

My mouth fell open with a silent gasp. I had not expected this. Amy had told me that since her parents sometimes spent a night out of town (and since Jonathan was always keener on partying than babysitting), the opportunity would soon come for our first sleepover. But when it came, Amy, it seemed to me, had gotten to arrange it herself—and had chosen Lucy. Since I had the impression that Amy’s parents had already developed a distaste for Lucy’s shambolic homelife—something I’d hoped would give me an advantage when it came to sleepovers—I was surprised that they’d let her. And I was pissed at Amy for wanting it. I took it as another sign that I was not worthy.

When we hung up, I went into full-sulk mode and collapsed onto the floor. I lay there for several minutes, crying. Then I decided I’d had enough. I didn’t want to be with them that day. I waited a little to make it believable, then I called Amy again. She was still at home.

I feel like I’m coming down with something, so I’m not coming to the park today. To prove it, I coughed into the phone. The cough sounded phony even to me and I wondered if I had overplayed my hand.

Apparently not, because Amy turned solicitous and said, C’mon, it’ll be fun. You don’t have to go in the water. You can sit on the bank. Whatta you say?

I countered that I really wasn’t feeling well and would have to stay home.

But it wasn’t long before I realized that this was not the appropriate remedy either. I imagined the two of them in the park. They were probably having a good time together, not missing me at all. At seven, I decided to go there anyway. There’d still be daylight for another hour and my curfew was not until 8:30.

I’m not quite sure what my parents were doing, but neither of them was in the house. I think Dad had not returned yet from work. He often worked long hours. Mom was probably in the garden. Although, as a florist, she dealt with flowers at work every day, she spent most of her spare time tending the flowers in our garden. It was her passion. Before leaving, I did something that still today, seventeen years later, I struggle to accept. I impulsively looked through a cutlery drawer in the kitchen, found a little fruit knife, and stuck it in my pocket. Then I closed the front door behind me and set off for the Northern Trail. Alone.

As I walked, I could smell the thick loam of the ground beneath my feet and feel twigs and other fallen debris snap beneath the soles of my sneakers. I have a memory of there being a small hole in my right sole through which I could feel the dampness the ground still held after a recent rainstorm. And I recall a slight chill in the air that made me glad of my sweatshirt. Yes, summer was going, fall was coming, and a new semester of school was about to begin. It made me feel a little sad, as though one part of my life was nearly over. Unconsciously, I began to sing to myself.

He said to me, Why don’t you run?

I see you don’t, Have any gun.

And so I ran, Away from there,

And right behind, Me was that bear.

Despite the cheerful lyrics and melody, the song didn’t do much to alleviate my trepidation at what would happen when I saw Amy and Lucy. Would they be friendly to me? Or would they give one another secret, conspiratorial smiles at the thought of all the good times they would share once they were rid of me and enjoying their sleepover by themselves?

It was at this point, when I had gotten a bit into the forest, that I decided to veer off the trail to the right. I found a spot a short distance from the trail where I felt sure no one would see me. Resting my back against a tree trunk, I took the little fruit knife out of my pocket, pushed up my sleeve, and held it up to the skin on my bare left arm. I let it rest there for a little while, savoring the feel of the blade against my skin. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I ran the blade down my arm, deep enough to draw blood, but not deep enough to cause real pain. There, that’ll show them, I thought, anxious to see my friends’ reactions to what I had done. Maybe it would make me seem braver than I looked. I hoped so. I wanted to impress them. And maybe even scare them a little.

You must go and get help!

It felt like a sudden electrical shock. The voice startled me just as I was finishing the cut and caused me to make a much deeper cut than I had planned. I shrieked in shock and pain and dropped the knife to the ground.

I looked up. Standing in front of me, only a few yards away from me and under a tree, was a boy. He wore a dark-blue uniform and had dropped his backpack by his feet. Where had he come from? Why hadn’t I heard his approach?

And then I realized that I had seen him before. This boy was a park worker. I had noticed him several times this summer walking around with a green trash bag in his hands. I remembered Amy chatting him up on several occasions. He was a year below Jonathan in school and her brother had told her that this boy was considered something of a weirdo and was bullied a lot. Maybe it was my imagination getting the better of me, but to me he definitely looked like someone for whom school was a perpetual war zone.

For a moment, we just stood there, in the middle of the woods, staring at one another. As surreptitiously as I could, I rolled down my sleeve to cover the cut. It was difficult to wonder which of us was the more surprised. I wasn’t afraid of him. He certainly seemed harmless enough. But I felt utterly embarrassed at having been caught in the act. That’s why I turned around and bolted.

Wait! he shouted after me.

I didn’t.

I got back to the trail and continued on my way to the park. But when I came out of the woods, I stopped. I didn’t feel well. Being caught in the act had done something to me. Realizing how stupid what I’d done really was, I changed my plan. I was not going to meet my friends and show them my self-inflicted cut.

I considered my options. There were three. The first was to just turn around and follow the Northern Trail back home. But that would see me run the risk of bumping into that boy again and how awkward would that be? The second was to head left and cut across the park’s parking lot. Then I could follow the walkway along the creek back home. But Lucy lived in Lower Bear Creek, which was in the same direction, and the last thing I wanted to do was bump into her and Amy as they returned to Lucy’s house. For all I knew, they could be done swimming by now. The third option was to head right and follow the Lovers Leap Trail across the Leap. This would lead me to a trail called Southern Trail, which I could take back home to Upper Bear Creek without being worried about bumping into Amy and Lucy. Or that boy, for that matter. With those things in mind, I made a decision that still today, after all these years, occasionally haunts me in my dreams. I went for the third option.

I arrived on the Leap at 7:40. I didn’t have a cell phone back then, but I had a watch that I had a habit of keeping in my pants pocket. Since there was no one else there, I decided to stop and rest my weary carcass before walking down on the other side.

The top of Lovers Leap is a long ridge. While the Leap can be climbed from either the north or the south, the two most natural scenic viewpoints at the top are facing east and west. Lovers Leap itself is on the east side of the ridge, where the trail follows, and is bordered by a fence. With the evening sun warming their backs until it dips beneath the top of the ridge, hikers can sit on the slope and enjoy the view, taking in the lower parts of town, the park, the mighty Mississippi River with its barges and those old-style riverboats going up and down, and the faint fields and villages on the Illinois side. It was on the east-facing slope that I first sat down that night. The ground was damp, but not so much as to soak me.

There were still quite a few kids down there in the park, and I could spot Amy and Lucy at the bay. They had no idea that I was watching them. They had no idea that I was angry with them. They had no idea what I’d done to myself that I didn’t dare show them.

As I sat there, I contemplated our tripartite friendship. They were my best, no doubt. Amy Ellsworth and Lucy Wicks. But now they were also my worst.

Amy’s family had moved to our neighborhood only a few months earlier. After the family’s first house was flooded out, her parents had decided to locate the next one on the heights of Upper Bear Creek, only half a mile up the creek from us. They had scheduled the move for this summer since Amy would now have to transfer schools anyway. The Ellsworths were already quite affluent at this time. The house was beautiful, and it had a large garden with a swimming pool. And from Amy’s talk, Lucy and I learned that they went on really fabulous vacations.

Lucy, on the other hand, was from a poor family and had a rather sad story to tell. Her father was an alcoholic and had been in and out of jail several times for drunk driving. Her mother was afraid to allow him to stay with them because he was always getting into fights with their landlords and she didn’t want to get kicked out of one more housing situation. So Lucy’s mother more or less raised her as a single parent. They lived in a small house in Lower Bear Creek.

Growing up without much parental supervision, Lucy was something of a wild child. Where Amy would always ask her parents’ permission for the tiniest wants, Lucy was used to doing things on her own, not caring if she broke any rules in the process. I envied her that ability, even if I was more like Amy in that way, a goody-two-shoes who never made a move without getting her parents’ approval first.

In most cases, however, I seemed to be the girl in the middle. For instance, while Amy was definitely upper class and Lucy was working class, I came from an ordinary middle-class background, living in a nice suburban house in the lower part of Upper Bear Creek. Although our fortunes rose and fell with my dad’s performance in his sales job, we were a two-car family and went on vacation every summer, even if only within the confines of the contiguous forty-eight states. And then there was the fact that my house was located almost equidistant from Amy’s house and Lucy’s house. So it was only natural that my house would be the meeting place from which we would embark on our various summer adventures. Another reason why my place was favored was that Amy (in fact, her parents) found Lucy’s home too undisciplined, while Lucy found Amy’s home too strict. We can’t do anything there, she often complained. My parents were lenient but still responsible. And finally, since neither Amy nor Lucy had a pet, they both loved being around my dog.

I think one of the reasons that we had bonded in the first place was because we were all only children. Oh, Amy had a brother, Jonathan, but being five years older he didn’t really count. Lucy and I had been in the same class throughout elementary school and were already good friends when one day, at the beginning of the school break, Amy had stopped us on the street and introduced herself as the new girl in the neighborhood. Pretty soon, our duo had become a trio and Amy, Lucy, and I got a lot of fun out of projecting our friendship into the future when we would be adults living in adjacent houses, married and raising our children together, children that would also be only children and the best of friends like we were. As it was time for us to graduate to middle school, we’d even written a letter to our new principal begging her to make sure that we were in the same class.

The three of us had been inseparable this summer. We’d spent all our time together. The only exception was the week we had all been on vacation. Amy’s family had been abroad somewhere (short vacation this summer because of the moving) while we had invited Lucy to go with us to Disneyworld. My parents felt sorry for Lucy, who never got to go anywhere, so they’d figured they could afford paying for an extra child just for one week.

It was when all three of us were back in Hannibal that we’d started going to the river park under Lovers Leap, the one I was now looking down at, almost every day, at least the warm and sunny ones. We would sun ourselves on the grass and when that became too hot for us, we would go down to the bay. The levee protecting the park from floods also served as a safety barrier for us against the river currents. And from hours spent in Disneyworld’s water park, both Lucy and I had finally become confident swimmers. (Amy was improving as well, thanks to her swimming pool.) We would be in the water until we were tired out, then return to our blankets to soak up more sun. In all, it was an ideal way to pass the lazy days of summer.

One could believe that everything in my life was perfect. But it was not. Over the course of the summer I had marked a slight, but significant shift in the equilibrium between the three of us. In a way, I was feeling that my position in the middle, which I had in the beginning regarded as an advantage, was about to become a problem. The problem was that I was not interesting enough to them. Although we were most often at my place, I was never the midpoint. They always seemed to have interesting things to say, like Amy announcing that she had gone swimming with dolphins while on her family vacation or Lucy, at age eleven, saying that she was going to give up smoking. When I said something, they were not listening. As soon as I had completed a sentence, they started speaking themselves, not knowing whether I was going to say more. And if I tried to say something funny, they would laugh before I got to the point. What added to the lackluster quality of my daily existence was that they also shared something that I wasn’t a part of, in that they were both great singers. Although I loved listening to music, I hated singing (unless I was all by myself and in the woods). So whenever one of them started humming a tune, and the other one instantly chimed in, I felt like they were signaling to me that I should leave them alone.

I’d begun to wonder if the only reason they continued to hang out with me was to have me as a convenient audience for their jokes or the adventures they recounted. I’d even begun to wonder whether they would notice if I were not there. Well, I knew the dynamics in the group would’ve broken down if I wasn’t there to nod, laugh, and listen, but would they really miss my contribution except for that? I was in doubt, and I was sad. Very sad. The feeling of not being seen by my best friends was killing me. And that’s what had brought me to this spot, on Lovers Leap—on Friday, August 16, 2002—with a deep cut on my inner left arm.

To distract myself, I glanced down at the park again, but not at the bay. From this spot, I could also see the Scout camp. They were a troop from Springfield, Illinois, and had invaded the park early in the week in their khaki uniforms and kerchiefs and shirts proudly displaying all the merit badges they had won.

The day before, when Amy, Lucy, and I had been in the park, the Scouts had been down by the river doing water exercises in canoes and rowboats and kayaks. At one point, one of them had approached us and asked us whether we’d like to see his dick. Go away! Amy had replied, disgusted. But then he’d started lowering his zipper, saying, when he saw the look on her face, "Oh, sorry, I thought you said Go ahead!"

After flashing his private parts for one or two seconds, he’d laughed and jogged away. He’d probably just wanted to shock us. While Lucy and I had found it rather entertaining, Amy had found it very creepy. I’d therefore thought she’d be reluctant to go to the park again while the Scouts were still there. But now she seemed to have forgotten about it. At least, she’d not mentioned it when we spoke on the phone.

Putting that memory aside, I now watched the local kids leave one after the other, as it had started to darken. Although I didn’t sit there that long, I saw the area around the bay empty. Amy and Lucy, too, gathered up their things and left.

When I stood up, which must have been around 7:50, only the Scouts, scattered on the grass around the campfire ground, were left in the park. They were clearly getting ready for some kind of cookout, and my tummy rumbled as I imagined hot dogs and hamburgers and corn on the cob and big slices of bread. I could almost smell the food cooking from my far-away vantage point. The flames, their singing, the smell … it all comes back to me today. Hungry, lonely, and getting cold—how I envied them! I’d noticed the day before that there were also some Girl Scouts among them, and I think I even considered whether this could be something for me. I had no hobby at that time.

I sighed as I took a last glance at the Scouts down there in the park. But I wasn’t going home yet. There was one thing I knew I had to do first. No matter how much I dreaded it.

I crossed the top of the ridge to the west-facing side, where I figured the probability of coming across someone would be much less. Since the view’s only of the woods, it’s the least popular of the two sides.

I sat down on a large stone a little bit down the incline, rolled up the sleeve on my left arm and took in what I had done. It was the first time I’d looked at it. It was cruel.

But I was lucky. Next to the stone on which I was sitting, I found an abandoned water bottle that looked to be half-full. Blanking from my mind a list of all the possible diseases I could catch, I poured the contents of the bottle over my arm and allowed the water to clean out the incision. The water made the cut sting and I winced. I examined the wound closely and thought what a nasty-looking thing I had done to myself.

I won’t let anyone know about this, I promised myself. Ever. The sweatshirt I was wearing that day was one I had bought in Disneyworld. It carried the logo of The Country Bears, the Disney film that was released that summer. Since Amy, Lucy, and I were all country girls from the banks of Bear Creek, I had suggested we buy one each, only in different colors. Amy would get hers when we were back. But because Lucy had found the theme too childish, I ended up buying only one for myself. It would be short-lived, though, I now realized. Since its left sleeve was soaked in blood, I’d have to throw it away. When I got home, I would go straight to my room, avoiding Mom, and take it off. The next day, I’d find a waste bag for it and get rid of it. When my parents noticed it was gone, I’d just say that someone had stolen it one day while I was swimming and that I’d forgotten to mention it.

After a few more minutes of self-pity, I stood up, crossed the ridge again and found the trail. Then I descended the Leap on its southern side, which put me on the Southern Trail bound for home. This was in direct contravention to my parents’ orders though. They had been strict in warning me to stay off the Southern Trail because it wasn’t nearly as frequently used as the Northern Trail.

Sitting on top of the Leap and being in the middle of the woods were two different things, I soon realized, especially on this side of the Leap where the forest was very thick, making it much darker than I’d thought it’d be. No wonder I got a creepy feel. In fact, I wasn’t used to walking through the forest after the sun was down. If we’d stayed in the park till late, Amy and I would rather follow the lit walkway along the creek back home. Now I was in an area I wasn’t familiar with. And I was alone.

Up ahead, on the Southern Trail, I caught a glimpse of a boy. He was standing in a little cleared-off slope alongside the trail, only a few yards in front of me on the left, juggling something red in one hand. By the time I saw him, I was too close to turn. Remembering my encounter with the park worker before, I decided not to make eye contact with him.

As I passed by, he addressed me. Do you want an apple?

No thanks, I replied, still without looking at him, and kept walking.

I got a chill as I heard footsteps behind me crunching on the trail and realized that he was following me.

My heart was pumping. What did he want from me? I debated my options. Should I scream? Walk faster? Run? Instead, in my head, I launched right back into my song.

Ahead of me, I saw a tree,

A great big tree, Oh, golly gee.

The lowest branch, Was ten feet up,

I had to jump, And trust my luck.

And so I jumped, Into the air,

But I missed that branch, On the way up there.

Now don’t you fret, And don’t you frown,

I caught that branch, On the way back down.

That’s all there is, there ain’t no more,

Until I meet that bear once more.

Abruptly, the sound of the footsteps stopped, and I began to feel relief. Until I realized that he was right behind me.

As the front door opens, I’m jerked back to the present. Amy enters my shop, holding a newspaper in her right hand.

Chapter 2

Sunday, August 11, 2019

The short time the door is open clues me in on how bad the rain really is. But Amy is only lightly soaked. She must have parked just around the block. And since there’s no newspaper on Sundays, I conjecture that it’s yesterday’s paper she has brought.

What a coincidence, she says as she steps up in front of my counter. You and Jonathan are in the same paper, but in unrelated articles.

Small town, I say. In fact, I haven’t read any of the articles. Not the one about me because I know what’s in it and I don’t find it a big deal (to be honest, I’m rather embarrassed). And not the one about Jonathan because I can’t stand reading about the big project that he has been involved in this summer. Although it has nothing to do with my horror except for the location, it makes me sick. The only reason I know about that article is because Dad told me.

I can’t believe it’s six months since you returned home, Amy says, looking at me. And since you started dating my brother. Time passes so fast.

I nod, although I disagree. To me, the last six months have in no way passed fast.

Amy opens the paper to the article about me and puts it down on my counter. Above the little picture of Mr. Walters and me, the headline reads:

STAR-REPORTER JOINS THE COURIER POST

Fake news, I think to myself. I’m not joining them; I’m only going to write for them. I can see no need for an article simply to inform the town that they have signed me. But clearly Walters thinks otherwise. I guess he must feel proud.

So now you’re finally free, Amy says. Aren’t you glad this period is over? I mean, so that you can start doing your real job again?

Of course. I cast a sweeping glance around my shop. Although it has been rewarding to do something else for a little while.

When will you start?

I shrug. "For the Courier Post, it could be anytime. As soon as Walters finds a topic that he wants me to pursue. To the magazines, I’ve said I need a few more weeks. Then I’ll need full focus, so I want to be all done here first."

So you have decided to close down?

I’ll have to. I won’t have time for two jobs.

I understand. Amy cranes her neck to look around my shop, taking in the shelves filled with my sculptures. And then the floor where my larger works, such as engraved chests, are displayed. She walks up to one, crouches down, and touches it thoughtfully. This must be quite time consuming.

It is.

What must take the most time, I guess, she pauses as she slides her hand across my artwork, is smoothing over all the surfaces …

Where is she going with this?

She stands up again and turns toward me with a sly look I don’t much like. You can fool Jonathan and your parents, Emily. But not me.

I try not to look guilty. What do you mean?

Don’t play the fool with me, sweetheart. I know that you have been grossly exaggerating your sales to us.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being called a liar, especially when the accusation is true. But I take the blow as best I can. And what makes you think that?

For a start, every time I come in here, your inventory always seems to be the same.

I take a deep breath, trying to remain calm. I’ve told you why, Amy. For each sculpture I sell, I always make a new one to replace it.

Her face tells me she isn’t buying it. But if you’re selling as many as you’re claiming, wouldn’t you be spending all your time making new ones? I mean, since it’s so time consuming, you—

Oh, but I work fast. Don’t forget, I’ve been doing this since freshman year in high school.

But Amy is on a roll. There’s another reason, too. You’ve turned down going out with me two weekends in a row now.

I put a confused look on my face. What does that have to do with this? I’ve been busy.

You weren’t busy last night. You suggested we could have a movie night instead. She looks me straight in the eye, like a gunfighter staring down his opposition. I think the reason you’ve turned me down is because you’re broke.

Note to self: Never underestimate Amy. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, though, that my gunfighter friend is the one to finally see through me. After all, she’s the one who comes here most, especially on Sundays when she often uses the bakery across the street as her workstation for writing lyrics. Since Jonathan is very busy running the Ellsworths’ family business (he normally leaves his office two to three hours after I close) he doesn’t get to visit me here often. My parents do come here, but since they have an almost unlimited belief in me, they don’t question what I tell them. Moreover, when I’m with either my boyfriend or my parents, in restaurants or whatever, I’m never allowed to pay for myself. For that reason, they don’t know that I’m broke.

This is just ridiculous, I say, trying to sound dismissive. Why would I lie about how well my shop is doing?

Because you’re too proud to admit that you’ve failed. You’re not used to failure and you don’t want to blemish your perfect image.

I’ve got no more ammunition. She knows me too well.

But it doesn’t matter, she says, her tone leaving no doubt that she feels she won the discussion, now that you can write again, you’ll be just fine. She gives me a cheeky grin, as though to take the sting out of her recent mockery. She then steps forward and pats my shoulder. I’ll go over to the bakery now to see if I can write some lyrics. She turns and crosses to the front door. See you later!

Remember your newspa— I begin, but a little too late. The door has already shut behind her.

I look down at the picture of me and Walters. She’s right, it doesn’t matter any longer. But I still don’t like that she has busted my lies. However, I wanted a distraction from my own thoughts and that’s what I got. In fact, there’s no distraction like a good old spat.

Through the smeared window glass, I watch as my annoying friend sprints across the street, trying to outrun the raindrops. But at the same time as Amy enters the bakery, I see someone approaching my own door. It opens again and a man steps inside. He lacks an umbrella and is soaking wet. His red cap and jacket offer partial protection, but his glasses are all fogged up. It’s a wonder he was even able to find the door handle and stumble through the doorway.

Damned rain! The man, my age plus a few years, takes off his glasses and wipes them off on his sleeve. Before I can respond, he puts them on again and rakes my shop with his eyes. But you don’t serve food …

He looks confused and so must I. Just after I launched this shop, I had an old man stepping in to ask whether I sold firewood. While that request insulted me, his source of confusion at least I understood.

Eh, no, I say. I don’t serve food. But there’s a bakery across the street.

I know. That’s where I was heading. But I saw your sign on the sidewalk and thought … never mind.

I suppress a giggle. "It says PLEASURES OF WOOD, not FOOD. I’m a wood carver."

He turns around and looks out through the glass in the door. Either he’s trying to re-read the sign to confirm his mistake, or he’s embarrassed and just wants to hide his face. After a few seconds, he turns back toward me, taps his head with his forefinger, and chuckles. My brain was too fixated on food, I guess. Thought I’d found a new dining place.

I chuckle too, but I don’t blame him. He couldn’t have seen much through his glasses, so I guess he just looked under them. And when I think about it, the curly letters I’ve carved into that sign are ambiguous if you just skim them.

Well, I’m sorry that I disturbed you. He turns and heads for the door.

Wait, I say. Would you like a piece of wood art? For free?

He stops and turns back toward me again. My wife does, in fact, encourage me to get more fiber in my diet. But I think I prefer the bakery. He pauses to laugh at his own joke. Just kidding! But why do you want to give away one of your sculptures? If that’s your policy, you must realize you have an unsustainable business model.

Oh, it’s just something I occasionally do, I begin, while trying to think of what more to say. All of a sudden, I know it. "I’m looking for exposure, you see. As an artist, that’s priceless. When people visit family and friends, and they see one of my sculptures on a shelf, they might ask: Where’d you get that?"

A look of comprehension comes over his face. Okay then. In that case, I can have a sculpture.

I smile inwardly. The reason I gave him isn’t the reason at all, of course. I don’t want exposure. In fact, I’m going to close down this shop as soon as I can. But I don’t feel like revealing the real reason behind my generosity to this stranger.

Because of the rain-streaked windows both here and over at the bakery, my view isn’t totally clear. But I’m still able to see that Amy has taken one of the window seats. She doesn’t think I have customers, which is quite accurate, but I won’t let her win that easily. Now she’ll see this guy leave here with a sculpture. If it makes her feel only a little bit bad, it’ll be worth it. This is about dignity. A bonus is that I’m getting rid of a sculpture. I can’t store them all in the attic when I close. Then the penny might drop with my parents. Besides, giving my art away feels better than throwing it away.

Any preferences? I ask, making a sweeping arm motion to take in the entire contents of my shop as I stand up.

Instead of looking at the sculptures set out on the shelves and the display tables, he looks at me. Maybe something I can give my wife? You see, I’ve been really busy with work recently and the situation might not change for quite a while. So anything that could cheer her up a little would be great.

I have a flash of inspiration. One moment …

I walk out to the little hall that separates the shop from the backyard, open a cabinet and grab a sculpture from the bottom shelf.

Wow! my guest says when I return. Now I can work even longer hours.

I chuckle appreciatively as I hand him both the sculpture and a see-through plastic bag to put it in. This sculpture is a wooden (shock) heart, the size of a coffee pot. I originally intended it as a surprise for Jonathan but hadn’t gotten around to giving it to him yet. The design is relatively simple though, so I can easily make another one for my boyfriend.

Thank you so much, the man says while lowering it into the bag.

You’re welcome!

He then glances at the newspaper still open on my countertop. Even though he’s taking in my picture upside-down, he sees the link in the blink of an eye. Wait a little; I knew I’d seen you somewhere …

I shrug. Have I eventually become known also in my hometown?

"So you are that star reporter, highly reputable for your feature articles, who has moved back to town after many years in St. Louis? And now you’ll be joining the Courier Post?"

Well, I say, feeling a slight blush accompanying the words, "that’s almost true. I’m a freelance journalist now and the Hannibal Courier Post is one of the newspapers I’ll be writing for."

That’s also only almost true, but I don’t feel like bothering him with details. In fact, the Courier Post is the only newspaper I’ll be writing for. Except for them, I’ll only be writing for national news magazines. Time, Newsweek, The Atlantic—I’ve signed contracts with them all and a couple more will soon be added to the list. The only reason I have signed a freelance agreement with this crappy little paper, too, which in terms of daily circulation is one hundred times smaller than the one I used to work for, is that the editor, who’s overwhelmed just by having me at his