to Artie that the batter, a small kid who had not hit well all season, had hesitated too long before swinging. It sounded like a gunshot when he made contact. The ball had rocketed over left field, and Artie had watched the outfielder run for the fence while the diminutive batter started to round the bases. Even before the ball cleared the fence (and Artie could not believe a kid the size of the batter could have hit the ball that hard) he knew it was a home run. As the crowd erupted, Artie followed the ball with his eyes until he lost it in the man-high corn of the farm that adjoined the baseball field.
An hour later, after the wild celebration at home plate, the presentation of the championship trophy, then the pizza and the distribution of the smaller trophies Artie had brought, someone thought to go out to the corn field and find the winning ball. It had become a team activity, and even Artie had joined in.
Ultimately, one of the boys found the ball perched precariously on the scarecrow’s hat. It was a one-in-a-million shot. Days later, Artie had found Cadbury on his doorstep, newly mounted on his own stand, with a card affixed to his chest, signed by every member of the team. He’d been in the corner ever since, and in some ways he was Artie’s most trusted confidant, or at least his best listener.
Artie wondered if the slow foot traffic had anything to do with Sal Baxter’s death. The news seemed to color most of the conversations he’d heard since word came down from the Baxter place this morning. Some of that conversation was from people who’d been involved in the pool, and who would not be collecting on Sal’s choice of today as the day to cast off his mortal coil. Artie, who was mildly miffed along those lines, would have never spoken those sentiments to other people. Although he’d let Cadbury in on his displeasure.
Outside his store window, only a few cars moved along Main Street. This told him that whatever it was that had affected his business today was making itself felt on the whole town, or at least that portion he could see from his vantage point on his stool. Artie sighed and looked over at the pallet of Scotts fertilizer, which he should have been moving to a display near the door. He knew that wasn’t likely to happen now; in fact, it was more likely that he’d close the store, and since history didn’t favor that action either, he knew the pallet would be waiting there for him tomorrow.
He reached for the book he’d placed on the counter, open and facedown to preserve his spot. With it in that position he could see the author photo on the dust jacket. Every time he bought one of CJ Baxter’s books it was something of a treat to see how CJ had changed, how the few years that had passed since his last book had made their marks on his person.
He’d read all of CJ’s books, and so far, he liked this one well enough, although it was unlikely it would replace Road to Glens Falls as his favorite. The Buffalo Hunter was probably more literary than the others. The paragraphs were longer, and CJ seemed to be going for weightier ideas. It wasn’t quite as accessible as CJ’s other books, but Artie could see that CJ was experimenting.
Like everyone else in Adelia, Artie had not laid eyes on CJ since the boy left for college. Although he had to remind himself that CJ was hardly a boy anymore. He had to be in his mid–thirties now. He’d simply been a boy when Artie last saw him, which meant he remained a boy in the hardware store owner’s thoughts. As he picked up the book to read a few more pages, he wondered again if the funeral would bring CJ back to Adelia.
He’d certainly written about the place enough. Artie had followed a bit of the critical banter about CJ’s work—specifically how much of it was autobiographical. Artie had a unique vantage point on the question and thought he could speak with some authority. And in his opinion, he thought that anyone who could read even one of CJ Baxter’s books and not immediately see that a good portion of it was drawn from this place, and from his own childhood, was a complete idiot.
He wondered, then, what it would