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At least out here in the Main Street, people are walking around, doing ‘people in small town’ stuff. OK, I know I sound derogatory, coming from a big city and all, but I do notice the differences. People are slower here, less in a rush to do something or be someplace. People are nicer. Kinder.
I think.
I park the car just outside a grocery store that looks well-lighted and decently populated. The residents seem to be homogenous here. All white. I enter the store and a bell jiggles above me. The cashier looks up. He’s a youngish man with a baseball cap worn backwards. He wears a football jersey that says ‘39’.
“Excuse me, but I’m from out of town.”
“I can see that,” he drawls, smiling and leaning upon the counter.
Gawd, why does every man I speak to here seem to want to flirt with me? It’s not as if I’m exceptionally stunning. I’m pretty, yes, and I’m a blonde. That seems to count for a lot. But I’m hardly catwalk model material. I’m too short, for one. And my brown eyes are too large and close together. My tits are too small, but maybe they like anorexic models these days, who knows.
“I was wondering where I can stay for the night. In this town, I mean,” I announce.
He opens his mouth to proposition the obvious, and then thinks the better of it when he sees my face. Outside, thunder rumbles.
He says, “You visiting anyone here?”
“Well, sort of.” I’m hesitating to mention that I’m a reporter. Some people don’t like reporters. I opt for a half-truth. “There’s someone staying here that I’m looking for. His name is Ethan Greene.”
At the mention of that name, the cashier’s face visibly blanches.
“Uh, why would you want to meet with him?”
“I have some business with him that I would like to settle. No, I don’t know him. But it’s private business on behalf of a . . . corporation.”
It is true. My newspaper belongs to a Newscorp entity. My eyes drop down to the cashier’s nametag. It says ‘RICK’.
Rick says, “We don’t really have a hotel here, Miss, being a small town and all. We used to have some rooms above Hayley’s Eats, but since the factory got downsized and all, there haven’t been many folks coming here. Most of them stay out at Aberdeen. It’s just twenty miles down, right around the corner.”
I would never understand why so many Mid-Westerners consider a distance of twenty miles to be just ‘around the corner’, but maybe it’s all that wide open space that throws everything into abject perspective.
“So there’s nowhere here to stay at all? No boarding houses? No rooms for let, even if it’s just for a couple of days?” I flash him my most pleading, widest-eyed look, which used to cause considerable damage with the guys in college.
“Well, I stay with my Mom and Pop. We have a guestroom if you’re looking. My Mom is real generous. She won’t charge you a cent.” He’s looking me up and down in that elevator-style ‘check me out’ I’ve become used to.
“I’ll pay for it, thank you very much.” That way, I don’t have to be beholden to anybody. I have always been supremely independent and I intend to keep it that way.
Outside, large drops of rain begin to spatter upon the pavements and awnings. I turn to the glass windows in dismay.
“It happens,” Rick says apologetically. “Listen, I don’t get off until eleven. But I can call my Mom and ask her to expect you if you want to take me up on my offer.”
I figure that his offer will still stand at eleven o’ clock, seeing as I’m probably the only visitor in town.
“OK,” I say reluctantly. Especially as the rain is coming down now in torrents. I don’t think I want to drive all the way to Aberdeen in this downpour.
“Great.” He beams.
A customer comes to the counter and puts down a six pack of Budweiser. I wait as Rick totes up the till. I’m not finished here. I want to find out why the name ‘Ethan Greene’ evokes such a reaction. The customer, a sixty-something gentleman, eyes me up and down as well before going out into the awful weather.
“So what’s up with Ethan Greene?” I say casually.
Rick’s plain features grow dark. “I don’t really know,” he mutters. “It’s only what folks have said. I haven’t personally met him, seeing as he hardly ever comes out of that mansion of his.”
“He lives in a mansion?’
“Yeah, up the hill. The hill is called Pine’s Lookout and it’s private property.” He leans over and his voice drops an octave. “It’s a real creepy place. No one wants to go there. The house itself used to be haunted, my Mom says. When Ethan Greene bought it, he moved right in and locked himself up in there. Hardly anyone sees him. When he comes down the hill in that big black car of his with the blackout windows, he doesn’t stop here on Main Street. He goes right out of town. Where, nobody knows.”
