Selling Cameron

SELLING CAMERON





                   Beth Mangen watched George limp across the store from behind the cafe counter.  He was the only regret in her decision to sell everything.  They didn't come any more loyal than George and she felt she had somehow betrayed him.

         Especially since death stalked George Ritter like a predator.  Every day its shadow pursued him, hour after hour, minute by minute.  George knew it, Harry Jorgenson knew it and Beth Mangen knew it.  The diagnosis suggested less than six months, but George declared himself good for two years minimum.  He'd proved them wrong a year already.  George had closed up his law practice and moved to Cameron when his health failed, though Beth couldn't figure out why.  He'd stopped for coffee one day and introduced himself.  Before the week was out, Beth learned he'd bought the old Miller place down the road.  He lived alone and started coming into the store every day.  Before long, he began helping and Beth found herself depending on him.

         Beth Mangen worried about George constantly.  She knew it was only a matter of time before he would no longer be around to help her and she couldn't run the place alone.  Revenues from Mangen's Store, Cafe and Post Office barely covered expenses.  Beth held on only because George came free. 

         George stood at the front window peering into a soaking March afternoon.  A tall, grizzly-faced, prune-bodied man, George considered himself a silent partner in Mangen's enterprises, not from a financial interest, but rather because he was there nearly all the time.  He hobbled around favoring his diabetes-swollen, canvas-slippered right foot, following the tourists, offering sage advice, pointing out best buys, telling outrages lies, and flirting with anything female over the age of two.  George escorted wide-eyed tourist children to the candy rack for a free selection and reveled in juvenile adoration.  An unofficial greeter, George took his self-appointed post seriously, and in spite of crumbling bones in his ravaged leg and a fifty-one-year-old heart that -- according to the doctor in Helena -- resembled mush, George spent every day at Mangen's.  On this day, the only visitor had been Harry Jorgenson, who came every day the same as George and was of no interest.  George hovered around the front door, staring into the rain and disappointed that no customers came.

         "Damn weather," George muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.  He felt frustrated by the weather and the lack of customers to keep him busy.  Nobody came into Cameron without entering Mangen's.  There just wasn't anyplace else to go since the town was almost three miles from Interstate 90.  Mangen's Store and Post Office was the only thing left, unless you counted the brown-stained log building a hundred yards down the street that housed the Cameron Bar.  The latest owner of the bar kept irregular hours determined by his sobriety and paying customers. Since the rain began, three days before, the bar had been closed. The only two commercial buildings left in Cameron were separated by knee-high weeds, wind strewn garbage and a 1946 Ford truck.  The owner put the Ford up on blocks years before and abandoned it.  Now its tires rotted peacefully in a bumper-high crop of knapweed.

         "Where the hell do you suppose he is?"  George said.  Beth had told him about the real estate man coming today.  When there weren't any customers, George groused about anything he could find.

         "How would I know?" Beth finally said.  She looked up momentarily and went back to scrubbing the counter and filling salt and pepper-shakers.  Beth Mangen's narrow face held tired eyes.  Worry lines mapped her high cheek-bones and her dark hair fell over a sweat covered brow.  She hoped she'd have time to wash her face before the real estate man got there.  She tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear as she worked.  There was always more work to do than she could accomplish in a day.  It seemed she could slave all night and there would still be more in the morning.  As it was, she scrubbed, cooked, washed dishes and sorted mail fourteen hours a day.  That George handled the store on his own was a gift horse in itself.  He punched the cash register one-fingered breaking every checker's rule that Beth tried to teach him.  He left currency upside-down in the till, over-rang more often than not and forgot to put the tape in the drawer.  And Beth lived in terror of the morning he wouldn't show up.  She couldn't afford to pay him -- he wouldn't take it anyway -- so he got free meals instead and she didn't say a word when he gave away candy.

         Beth finished the salt-shakers and reached for the glass pot on the old Boyd coffee maker and refilled Harry Jorgenson's thick clay mug.  She did it automatically, without thinking, her actions an instinctive response to an empty cup.  Beth hated it when she realized her actions mourned that she had been a waitress nineteen years. 

         "Thanks, Beth," Harry said.  He grabbed a newly filled sugar dispenser and dribbled the equivalent of five teaspoons into his coffee.  He followed the sugar with enough thick cream to turn the brew milky tan.  Harry always sat three stools from the end, a spot that gave him a clear view of the kitchen.  From there, he could watch Beth while she cooked with little chance of getting caught.  He peeked over his coffee cup while she scrubbed the counter and filled sugar dispensers, his stomach tight as knots since she'd told him about the real estate man.  Harry had watched Beth Mangen through high school, two marriages, one divorce and three years of widowhood.  He had promised himself years ago that he would say something to her and now he didn't have any time left.  Harry spent as much time at Mangen's as George did, though for a different reason.  He had two hundred acres of carefully irrigated hay ground, nearly five hundred white-faced ewes and a lifelong desire to know Beth Mangen better.  He would come every morning after feeding and again after evening chores, drink enough coffee to drown a water buffalo and then trudge the quarter mile home again, rain or shine.  The only exception to his unfailing pattern was that on days when it rained, like today, he drove his 1969 Chevy truck with its fading paint and hen-skin tires.

         "Here he comes!"  George hollered from the front door of the store.

         Harry turned to look holding his coffee cup just short of his weathered face.  No matter how hard he tried Harry always looked like he needed a shave and his farmer tan made him look Italian.  His deep black hair hung straight and long from under his wool cap.  He stared over his new bifocals embarrassed that his myopia now included the short-arm disease.

         The real estate man shook rain off his clothing like miniature rivers forming puddles under his polished wingtips.  Young, thought Harry, too young.  Harry considered anyone under forty a kid.

         The real estate man strode across the room with his hand out.  "Mrs. Mangan?"  he said.

         Beth's hands nervously fingered her apron and she stumbled over the answer.  "Y...yes."

         "Thank God!  I was beginning to believe I'd never find this place."  The real estate man swept off his hat to dodge drips.  The lake at his feet expanded.  His long curly hair fell around a youthful face with smooth cheeks that needed shaving only once a week.  Under his tailored topcoat he wore a three-piece suit.          Under thirty, Harry bet himself. 

         Harry spoke first.  "Come in," he said, "Beth, get the man some coffee."

         The real estate man hung his overcoat, along with his hat, on the coat rack.  Walking over to Beth, he held his hand out.  "Mrs. Mangen, my name is Clifford Crenshaw, Golden Key Real Estate.  Nice place you've got here."

         Beth shook his outstretched hand and pointed at Harry and George.  "These are my friends Harry Jorgenson and George Ritter.  Please sit down."  She fingered her hair nervously while pouring coffee.  She filled Harry's cup and fixed one for George also.  "Can I get you anything else?" she said.

         "No thanks, this is great."  Clifford Crenshaw held the hot mug cupped in both hands and blew on the liquid to cool it.  "Well," he said, "perhaps you'd like to tell me about the place, Mrs. Mangen.  What all does it include and what kind of price are you thinking?  Later we can look over the books."

         "I keep telling her that no one will pay good money for this place," Harry said.  "Needs too much repair.  I'll bet I spend half my time helping George there fix this and that.  Isn't that right, George?"  Harry glared at George hoping he'd concur.

         "Not that much, Harry.  This place does a decent business during the tourist season, especially the store."  George was fiercely proud of his retail management abilities.  He stocked shelves and sold merchandise with the same tenacity he'd once used to persuade a jury to convict a mass murderer. 

         "I've keep it in good shape since my husband died.  It's just getting to be too much," Beth said.

         "Harry and I will help you with it, Beth."  George squirmed on his stool trying to get his damaged foot comfortable.  "There's no need to sell."

         "You don't understand!  I have to get out of here."  Beth's voice held an edge of exasperation.

         Clifford Crenshaw looked at George.  "What's the matter with your foot?"

         "Tourist let her car roll back over it when I was loading her stuff.  It's getting better every day," George said. 

         Harry puzzled over the story George told whenever anyone asked him about his foot.  He couldn't for the life of him remember the incident.  Maybe it was easier than explaining poor circulation and a deteriorating metatarsus.

         "That's good," Crenshaw said.  Turning to Beth, he continued: "How much land goes with?"

         "The whole town, such as it is; except the bar.  The bar is owned by another party.  The town site is seven and one-half acres."

         "Of course, your books are available for inspection?"

         "Certainly," Beth said.

         "Well, I'll have you sign a listing agreement and then I'd like to look over the property."  Crenshaw withdrew a folded sheath of papers from his inside suit coat pocket.

         "I'll take a look at that," George said with his hand out.

         Crenshaw looked at Beth and a questioning expression crossed his face though he handed George the papers.

         "George is an attorney.  He looks after my legal affairs," Beth said.

         George read over the agreement while the others watched silently.  Finally, he looked up and said, "Looks okay."  He pushed the papers over to Beth for her signature.

         When Beth had signed, Crenshaw folded the agreement and shoved it back into his suit pocket.  "Well, I'd like to look the place over."

         "Sure.  Harry, would you show Mr. Crenshaw around?  I think the rain has stopped."

         "Be glad to.  Come on Crenshaw, I hope you don't mind getting those fancy shoes muddy."

         Beth watched them go, wiping her hands nervously on her apron.  George went back to the store and puttered around as he usually did and Beth cleaned and scrubbed and burned nervous energy until dark.  The grill shone and nothing was out of place.  George limped into the room a short time later and wheezed onto Harry's stool.  His labored breath alarmed Beth.

         "Are you all right, George?"

         "Me?  Heck yes, right as rain.  Just tired.  Time for me to head back to my place."  He closed his eyes and waited for the angina to pass.

         "George?"

         "I'm okay."  He opened his eyes again.  "Consider carefully your decision to sell, Beth.  The things that are important are close at hand if you open your eyes.  I savor today, for obvious reasons.  You have more time, but don't waste it."

         "What am I missing?"

         "Harry."  George said it quietly and Beth wasn't sure what he meant.

         "Harry?"

         "I'm just saying that because of my situation I have a certain insight into people missing the obvious."

         "Don't talk like that."

         "Consider it, Beth, okay?"

         "Sure, if you promise to take care of yourself."

         "No problem, can't do anything else.  See you in the morning."  George slid off the stool and started for the door.  Beth could see him dragging his slippered foot heavily.

         "George?  Wait."  Beth ducked under the drop down counter and caught George at the door.  She hugged the startled man and kissed him on both cheeks.

         "What was that for?"

         "For being my friend."

         "Well, you're damn lucky," George said as he went through the door.  "If I was a little younger, you'd be in a lot of trouble."  He smiled at her through the front door glass and Beth watched him hobble down the gravel street to his house.  As she did every night, she wondered if he'd be back in the morning.

         Harry came in alone.  He spent considerable time cleaning his boots and still left clods behind where he walked.  Without speaking, he went directly to the Boyd and poured a cup. 

         "Well?" Beth said.

         "He's going to call some folks he knows to see if he can find someone who might be interested."

         "What did he say?"

         Harry dribbled sugar and cream. "Not much.  Not a bad kid.  I think he'll find a buyer eventually."  Harry could see moisture around Beth's eyes.  He stepped over and put his arm around her.  She buried her face into his shoulder and shook silently.

         Finally, Harry held her away and said, "It'll be okay."

         "It's not only that.  George didn't look good tonight."

         "It'll happen one day.  He's my friend, too, but there's not much we can do."

         "I know."

         "Come on.  Put your apron away and lock up this joint.  I want to show you something."  Harry guided Beth to his old truck after she locked the door.  There was determination in his step even though his stomach churned.  He'd neglected to tell Beth what the real estate man had told him.  Crenshaw knew a prospective buyer.  Whatever Harry was going to do had to be done tonight.

         "Where are we going?"

         "My place.  I want to show you what I do."

         "I know what you do.  You ranch.  And I own a cafe and store.  So what?"

         "It's more than that; more than just a job."

         She was protesting but Harry didn't have any trouble getting her in the truck.  He moved a box of baler twine to the back and brushed hay chaff off the seat before guiding her in.  He drove in silence and Beth sat primly on the Chevy's blanket seat cover with her back straight, eyes forward, and her hands folded in her lap.  Harry watched her out of the corner of his eye as turned into the familiar lane that led to his home.  He parked in front of a machinery shed and steered Beth into a long barn.

         Strange odors assailed her senses, sweet and pungent as she followed Harry into the dark interior.  The room was large with stacks of baled hay and tools lining the walls.  She thought it looked like the man, strong and orderly.  Comfortable.  She liked it.

         "What's this?" she asked, surrounded by sheep noise.

         "Lambing barn.  Like a big maternity ward."  Harry led Beth down between rows of jugs, each containing a single ewe and her respective progeny.  In one, a black-faced lamb lay on top of its mother, nose in the ewe's ear like it was whispering a secret, eyes closed and sleeping.  The ewe chewed unconcerned.

         "Oh!"  Beth said.  "Do they always sleep like that?"

         "If the ewe will tolerate it.  It's not uncommon.  Warm and soft there."  Harry moved Beth to another jug.  "These were born this morning."

         Beth stared at the fragile-looking creatures nestled in straw.  The ewe stood protectively over the twin lambs, occasionally putting her head down to nuzzle their tails. 

         "What is she doing?"

         "That's how she tells if they are her lambs.  She smells their rears."

         Beth looked up at Harry standing over the sheep in his black felt hat and faded Carhartts.  "Why do you suppose George comes to the store every day?"

         "Who knows?  The need to do something; something to pass the time, keep his mind occupied.  Perhaps the best therapy is doing things for someone else."

         "I'm not sure I understand.  You do though, don't you."

         "I suppose I do, in a sense.  It's like this place; I have something to do every day.  It keeps me alive.  It's my little kingdom.  These animals are living, breathing creatures and they depend on me.  It's something to get up for every morning."

         They stood in silence and Beth reached over and slipped her fingers into Harry's calloused hand.  "Are they all done," she asked.

         "No.  There's another fifty to go."

         "I've never seen anything born.  Would you call me?"

         "Happens mostly in the middle of the night."

         "I don't care."

         "Come on, it's late.  I'll take you home."

         "If you don't mind, I'd like to stay here a while with you.  I'm not cold."

         They sat together on a bale of straw and Harry put his arm around Beth.  She could hear the grunting noise of ewes calling their young blended with demanding lamb noises.  The sweet smell of alfalfa hung in the crisp air.  Beth dozed with her head on Harry's shoulder dreaming of things born and old men dying.  Harry stood in the middle of it all and in the light of early morning she understood about George.