Riptide

Chapter 5

Hatch parked the car in the dirt lot next to Bud's Superette. It was his own car this time, and it was strangely unsettling to be viewing his past life through the windshield of a vehicle so much a part of his present. He glanced at the cracked leather seats, at the faded coffee stains on the burled walnut of the gearbox. So familiar, and somehow so safe; it took a supreme effort to open the door. He plucked the sunglasses from the dash, then put them back. The time for dissembling was over.

He looked around the small square. More stone cobbles were peeping up through the worn asphalt of the street. The old newsstand at the corner, with its wobbly wire racks of comic books and magazines, had given way to an ice-cream shop. Beyond the square, the town fell away down the hill, as impossibly picturesque as ever, the slate and cedar-shingled roofs gleaming in the sunlight. A man walked up from the harbor in rubber boots, a slicker over his shoulder: a lobsterman coming back from work. The man glanced at Hatch as he passed, then disappeared down a side lane. He was young, no more than twenty, and Hatch realized the man wasn't even born when he had left town with his mother. An entire generation had grown up in his absence. And no doubt an entire generation had died, too. He suddenly wondered if Bud Rowell was still alive.

Superficially, Bud's Superette looked exactly as he remembered it: the green screen door that didn't shut properly, the ancient Coca-Cola sign, the weathered, tilting porch. He stepped inside, worn floorboards creaking under his feet, and pulled a cart from the small rack by the door, grateful for the emptiness of the place. Moving down the narrow aisles, he began picking up some food for the Plain Jane, where he'd decided to stay until the old family house could be readied for him. He poked around, dropping necessities into the cart here and there, until at last he realized he was just delaying the inevitable. With an effort he pushed the cart toward the front of the store and found himself face-to-face with Bud Rowell: large, bald, and cheerful, in a crisp butcher's apron. Many times, Hatch remembered Bud slipping him and Johnny forbidden red licorice sticks under the counter. It drove their mother crazy.

"Afternoon," said Bud, his glance moving over Hatch's face and then drifting to the car parked outside, checking the plates. It wasn't often that a vintage Jaguar XKE pulled into the Superette's lot. "Up from Boston?"

Hatch nodded, still uncertain how best to do this. "Yup."

"Vacation?" Bud asked, carefully placing an artichoke into the bag, arranging it with deliberation, and ringing it up on the old brass machine with his usual glacial slowness. A second artichoke went into the bag.

"No," said Hatch. "Here on business."

The hand paused. Nobody ever came to Stormhaven on business. And Bud, being the professional gossip that he was, would now have to find out why.

The hand moved again. "Ayuh," said Bud. "Business."

Hatch nodded, struggling with a reluctance to drop his anonymity. Once Bud knew, the whole town would know. Shopping at Bud's Superette was the point of no return. It wasn't too late to just gather up his groceries and get out, leaving Bud none the wiser. The alternative was painful to contemplate: Hatch could hardly bear to think about the whispered revival of the old tragedy, the shaking of heads and pursing of lips. Small towns could be brutal in their sympathy.

The hand picked up a carton of milk and inserted it into the bag.

"Salesman?"

"Nope."

There was a silence while Bud, going even slower now, placed the orange juice next to the milk. The machine jingled with the price.

"Just passing through?" he ventured.

"Got business right here in Stormhaven."

This was so unheard-of that Bud could stand it no more. "And what kind of business might that be?"

"Business of a delicate nature," Hatch said, lowering his voice. Despite his apprehensions, the consternation that gathered on Bud's brow was so eloquent that Hatch had to hide a smile.

"I see," Bud said. "Staying in town?"

"Nope," Hatch said, taking a deep breath now. "I'll be staying over across the harbor. In the old Hatch place."

At this Bud almost dropped a steak. The house had been shut up for twenty-five years. But the steak went in, the bags were finally filled, and Bud had run out of questions, at least polite ones.

"Well," said Hatch. "I'm in a bit of a hurry. How much do I owe you?"

"Thirty-one twenty-five," Bud said miserably.

Hatch gathered up the bags. This was it. If he was going to make a home in this town, even temporarily, he had to reveal himself.

He stopped, opened one bag, and poked his hand in. "Excuse me," he said, turning to the second bag and rummaging through it. "Haven't you left something out?"

"I don't b'lieve so," Bud said stolidly.

"I'm sure you have," Hatch repeated, taking things back out of the bags and laying them on the counter.

"It's all there," Bud said, a shade of Maine truculence creeping into his voice.

"No, it's not." Hatch pointed at a small drawer just below the countertop. "Where's my free licorice stick?"

Bud's eyes went to the drawer, then followed Hatch's arm back up to his face, and for the first time really looked at him. Then the color drained from his face, leaving it a pale gray.

Just as Hatch tensed, wondering if he'd gone too far, the old grocer exhaled mightily. "I'll be damned," he said. "I'll be God damned. It's Malin Hatch."

The color in the grocer's cheeks quickly returned to normal, but his expression remained that of a man who has seen a ghost.

"Well," said Hatch. "How've you been, Bud?"

Suddenly, the grocer lumbered around the counter and crushed Hatch's right hand in both of his. "Look at you," he said, grasping Hatch's shoulders and holding him at arm's length, a huge grin lighting up his plump face. "To think you've grown up into such a fine, big young man. I don't know how many times I wondered what happened to you, wondered if we'd ever see you again. And by God, here you are, plain as day."

Hatch inhaled the grocer's scent—a mixture of ham, fish, and cheese—and felt both relieved and embarrassed, as if he were suddenly a boy again.

Bud gazed up at him a little longer, then glanced back at the licorice drawer. "You son of a gun," he laughed. "You still eating licorice? Here's one on the house." And he reached in, pulled one out, and slapped it down on the counter.