This Time Might Be Different Read online

  This time might be different

  Stories of Maine

  Other titles from Islandport Press

  Closer All the Time by Jim Nichols

  How to Cook a Moose by Kate Christensen

  Settling Twice by Deborah Joy Corey

  Straw Man by Gerry Boyle

  This time might be different

  Stories of Maine

  Elaine Ford

  With a Foreword by Wesley McNair

  Once more,

  Islandport Press

  PO Box 10

  Yarmouth, Maine 04096

  www.islandportpress.com

  [email protected]

  Copyright © 2017 by Elaine Ford

  First Islandport Press edition published March 2018.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-944762-44-5

  ISBN: 978-1-944762-53-7 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017952156

  Printed in the USA by Bookmasters

  Dean Lunt, Publisher

  Cover and book design by Teresa Lagrange, Islandport Press

  Once more,

  Once more, for Arthur

  Je pense que oui

  Other books by Elaine Ford

  The American Wife

  Life Designs

  Monkey Bay

  Ivory Bright

  Missed Connections

  The Playhouse

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Foreword ix

  The Depth of Winter 1

  Suicide19

  In the Marrow41

  Bent Reeds83

  Elwood’s Last Job101

  Demons111

  Button, Needle, Thread137

  Fire Escape157

  Dragon Palaces173

  Why Men Love to Cut Things Down195

  Junk207

  Millennium Fever219

  Original Brasses, Fine Patina243

  From Away251

  The Rock As Big As the Queen Mary265

  Afterword: Elaine Ford, Writer: A Brief Biography293

  Acknowledgments307

  ForewOrd

  In today’s literary scene, the recently departed Elaine Ford was an anomaly. She never attended a writers’ conference with the intention of networking for her career. She didn’t promote herself on Facebook, or send out email blasts when she published a book, or tweet her followers about her latest literary achievement. She simply wrote. In the process she created several notable novels and some of the best short fiction that this state, known for its writers, ever produced.

  Maine is at the center of the stories in this book, and she knows its town life and nature intimately. She takes us inside the state’s factories, churches, grocery and hardware stores, and apartment houses. We enter the homes of the poor and the beach houses of affluent summer visitors, discovering what the inhabitants eat for dinner, and how they talk to each other as they eat it. She shows us mud season in early spring, and what the mud looks like after a late snow falls on it. And when a Down East native gives a woman from away a tour of the seashore, Ford knows just how to describe the crabs, crumb-of-breads, and dog-whelk barnacles they encounter.

  But her most impressive achievement by far is her characters. Like all exceptional writers of fiction, Ford understands that everything depends on the people she creates and the choices they make. Women are central among the choosers—girls who decide between empty home lives with family elders and moving in with dubious suitors, or disappointed women in middle age offered a second chance with old lovers who’ve reappeared. Sometimes the crucial choices of her characters have been made before the story starts, as in the darkly comic “Elwood’s Last Job,” where a mentally challenged man discovers in a laundromat a group of town women who once mocked him in childhood, then robs them, duct-taping their ankles, wrists, and offending mouths. Other times, Ford brings a central figure right up to the edge of a life-changing decision and ends the story, as in “Millennium Fever,” asking us to imagine what choice Carlene will make as we consider her conflicting motives.

  On her website, Elaine Ford explains that she is drawn to characters who are “marginalized by class, ethnicity, physical appearance, or geographical location.” At the root of her inspiration is a raw belief in the democratic ideal of individual worth and equality that this country was founded on, and has so often betrayed. Grim as the circumstances of her characters may sometimes be, there is a kind of solace that gradually emerges as one reads her work—a sense that here is someone who understands and cares about their plight. Others, including many of her fellow writers, may have turned away from them, but for her, they matter.

  Ford is such a good writer that she makes us pay attention to them, too. Starting a story by Elaine Ford is like falling into a trance. Her plots are not applied from the outside, but rise from the inside out, as we experience the urgency of a central character’s feeling and thought. The words of her dialogue are both natural and precisely right for the characters who speak them. Ford links descriptions of setting and the mood of her stories with the hand of a master. And her images have the surprise and compression of poetry.

  That poetry comes to mind when one reads Ford is no accident. She loved it so much that she often committed poems to memory. Once when I asked her in an email why poetry was important to her, she answered: “Oh, that’s easy. It’s the attention to nuance and detail, rhythms of speech, devotion to the accuracy of language. For me a good poem is nothing but a short story told with extreme concision.” Talking of poetry, she seemed to speak also of her own work.

  How fitting it is that Islandport Press has brought out this collection—not only because of the press’s importance as a publisher of Maine writers, but because Elaine Ford was so deeply committed to Maine in her fiction, writing stories about this place, and in the end, about all human places.

  Wesley McNair

  THE DEPTH OF WINTER

  Over a deafening, pounding roar the buzzer sounded. Like a great beast brought down with a single bullet, the machinery halted, and the last few rings tinkled from the trough into the drum. Kori let the muscles in her shoulders go slack. “Gawd,” Freda said, yanking her earphone out, “thought that buzzer would never go off.” Kori followed her to the honeycomb of cubbies by the coat rack, where they grabbed their mugs. Everybody headed for the stairs, gumboots thumping on riserless steps.

  The only good thing you could say about the break room was that it had windows, unlike the welding room downstairs. If you wanted, you could look out on the icy bay, the cannery, the fishing boats moored in the harbor, the boulders on the shore. Kori liked to watch the sea birds. Her favorites were the crook-necked shag, black devils that drove the fishermen crazy because they gobbled up the fry. So deftly they pumped their wings low over the water and dove into it. Yet how awkward they looked perched on the boulders, their wings outstretched to dry like they were pinned to a line by their elbows. You didn’t see shag at this time of year, though. Kori didn’t know where they went.

  On the hot plate the kettle hissed and spat. Freda carried it to the picnic table and filled their mugs, which contained instant coffee or teabags. Gladys spread the county newspaper on the oilcloth and turned to the obituary page, Freda ragging her
about how everybody Gladys knew was under a gravestone or about to be, and Gladys saying the deceased were better off than some, spared having to listen to a load of nattering. Freda, the elbow of her sweater out, looked into her rumpled paper bag as if expecting a surprise, found a peanut butter sandwich and a banana. On the opposite bench frail old Miriam opened her lunch box and took out a hard-boiled egg, tapped the shell against the box. Everything the same as every lunch break since Kori graduated from high school and started working here.

  Kori took her mug and stood at a window. Below in the freight yard boxcars inched along a siding. The guys who worked in the yard would pack the boxcars full of crates of metal rings, thousands and thousands of rings, and send them jerking out of town, out of Maine, their wheels screeching on the rails. By next Christmas the rings would have boughs of spruce or balsam wired to them, and they’d be nailed to doors all across the country.

  “Aren’t you going to eat, girl?” Freda called from the picnic table.

  But Kori didn’t feel very hungry. The sandwich her mother packed would gag her, the filling too thick, the bread too dry. She’d make do with coffee.

  Later, after work, Kori went into Henegan’s Variety to cash her paycheck. She had a little time to kill before Freda would be through in the Pick ’n’ Pay and honking for her outside, so she wandered back to the table of marked-down seasonal merchandise: plastic mistletoe, strings of tree lights half ripped out of their packages. She thought the cut-glass oil lamps would be kind of pretty if you dusted them off. Not real crystal, of course.

  Though gardens and fields lay frozen under a foot of snow, this year’s seeds were already in stock. Kori twirled the flower rack and admired the color-splashed packets, tempting new hybrids of cosmos, zinnia, marigold. She imagined the field behind her mother’s vegetable garden filled with flowers of every variety and color—shell pink, crimson, creamy white, butter yellow. Kori would be able to wade into them and gather them by the armload.

  Metal struck metal. Across the aisle, in the hardware section, a guy was plunking handfuls of common nails into the scale pan. He wiped his hand on the seat of his jeans and took one of the paper sacks by the nail barrels. A good-looking guy. Dirty-blond hair that curled on the collar of his jacket, lighter stubble on his cheek. She didn’t know his name but she’d seen him before, hanging out with some other guys, lobstermen. He stuffed the nails into the sack and then, as he was turning toward the register, looked straight at her. Kori felt prickling in her armpits. After a moment he said, “You’re Emma Eade’s kid, aren’t you?”

  Without answering she returned the packet of cosmos seeds to the rack and moved the other way, into a thicket of rubber hip waders and sneakers, boxes stacked tipsily in the aisle. “Don’t tell me Emma taught you not to talk to strangers,” he called after her, and then she heard a croaking sort of laugh.

  Grab wire with left hand, fit ends into clamp, jam foot on pedal, hiss, with right hand drop ring into trough, with left hand grab another . . .

  The top of Kori’s head was too hot under the heater that dangled treacherously on chains suspended from the ceiling. She imagined her hair smoldering and then bursting into flame. At the same time her feet on the concrete floor felt like blocks of ice. The smell of singed metal burned in her nostrils. Her back was killing her. Every bone in her body vibrated to the yammer of the machinery, and her nerves twanged at the same shrill pitch as the rings spinning into the drum at the end of the line. Thank God it was almost quitting time. Maybe she’d get a Walkman to plug up her ears like Freda had. Or maybe she’d just stop by the front office and tell Mr. Stinnett, “I quit.”

  It wasn’t much of a job, though people told her she ought to be glad to have it, considering how scarce jobs were in town. She guessed she’d been hired mostly because of her looks—she’d heard Vernal Stinnett had a weakness for pretty girls—but at least the old man didn’t bother her. And it was steady, regular, a paycheck you could count on every Friday afternoon. Not like waitressing at the Brass Lantern, where you’d most likely be laid off during the winter months, or cramming sardines into tins at the cannery, where you’d only have work if they brought in a catch. Or worse yet raking blueberries in August and brushing in the fall and making wreaths at home to sell to Vernal Stinnett, scramble scramble scramble, the way her mother always had, no steady man bringing home the bacon.

  She remembered that guy’s crack: Don’t tell me Emma taught you not to talk to strangers. Emma would do well to take her own advice, he meant. Well, he could go to hell, Kori didn’t care what he thought.

  At the sound of the buzzer the machine shuddered and quit, and no more unwelded rings came slithering out of its mouth. The women bunched around the time clock and retrieved their coats from the row of hooks. “Who wants a ride today?” Freda asked. “You, kid?” Kori shook her head, but old Miriam went out with her, even though she didn’t have far to go.

  Outside the galvanized-iron building Kori found a dusting of new snow, gritty like cornmeal, scattered on top of the ice in the factory yard. Dusk was gathering and a mean wind whipped off the bay. Kori hurried past the shut bakery, Phil’s Video and Redemption Center, the gas station. Across the road, beyond the church, the Brass Lantern was blasting an aroma of hot grease into the frigid air. She wondered who’d be inside, lingering over coffee and cigarettes, maybe, or a beer. For a second she pictured herself sitting in a booth with a crowd, her parka unzipped, her long coppery hair bright against the vinyl upholstery. She might be smiling at a joke her friend Britt or one of the guys had made. Music would be playing on the jukebox, bittersweet keening after a lost love. Smoke would encircle them.

  But she didn’t cross the road. Instead, she turned the corner onto Bridge Street. There Kori paused a moment and watched the river current moving recklessly toward the bay, tide going out and pulling the river water with it. She shivered and cursed herself for not hitching a ride with Freda, wondered why she hadn’t, except for some reason she hadn’t been in the mood to be stuffed between the two women in the cab of Freda’s pickup.

  On the far side of the bridge the road became Route 1A. It followed the river for a while, and then struck out on its own. If you went straight you’d get to Freda’s place, on the River Road a mile or so beyond the fork, up on a rise. An old house painted white, with a sign out front that said Small Engine Repair. Freda’s brother did the repairing.

  At the fork Kori stayed on 1A. The road wandered in a northeasterly direction across some marshy land, which gave way to rock-strewn blueberry fields—everything under snow. One or two vehicles trundled by as Kori walked the shoulder of the road, past a farmhouse with sheds, more fields, a trailer. By now night had truly fallen. She came to a cluster of ramshackle houses and trailers and junked cars at the Finney place and then a stretch of woods.

  Here was higher ground, but you couldn’t see any lights ahead—or behind you, either, if you turned to look—no dwellings within a quarter of a mile. In the woods Kori heard a bird call, an owl maybe. Then a pickup slowed and pulled to a stop on the shoulder. Some gravel flew up from under the truck’s tires, peppering her leg like buckshot, and a man leaned over to the passenger side. He rolled down the window. “Give you a lift?”

  She saw it was the guy from Henegan’s. “No, thanks.”

  “Sure? Cold out there.”

  “I’m fine.” She started walking again before he revved the engine and pulled back onto the road. For a while she watched his taillights, like a pair of glowing red eyes, and then they disappeared.

  The road dipped down to a stream, frozen over and buried under layered crusts of snow at this time of year, and then up again. Nearly home now, a quarter of a mile to the strip of land they farmed on the right side of the road, corn stalks sticking out of the snow, and the big old farmhouse with the falling-down barn attached to the far side.

  In the mudroom Kori unlaced her boots and left them on the floor next
to her mother’s, hung her coat on a peg. The kitchen was warm compared to the outside. Wood wet with snow hissed in the stove. Emma stood at the sink peeling potatoes. Her hair, once wheat-colored but now threaded through with gray, was twisted into what looked like a mouse nest at the crown of her head. Stray tendrils curled around her face and on her neck. She half turned to smile at Kori and said, “How’d it go today?”

  “Okay,” Kori answered. She took cutlery, bent and mismatched, out of a drawer and set places on the table. Stew tonight. She could tell without even looking in the kettle. A few stringy pieces of beef in a gravy thick with lima beans and corn they’d grown and canned themselves, chunks of potato. Nourishing, but heavy and bland, always gristly knots in the meat. She had no taste for it.

  “Tired?” Emma asked.

  Sure, she was tired. She didn’t have the strength in her arms that her mother had, or a broad back, or thick muscular legs traced with blue veins like Emma’s. She could feel Emma’s watchful, worried eyes on her, and she lifted a shoulder, as if she could flick off her mother’s glance like a bothersome insect. The room seemed suffocatingly hot now, so hot her eyes watered. At the window Kori peered beyond her own reflection, out onto the snow-covered field, and pressed her forehead against the icy glass.

  Her mother set plates of stew on the table and scraped her chair back. “More snow tonight, they’re saying on the radio.” Kori nodded, and sat, and put a forkful of meat and beans in her mouth. She chewed slowly, focusing on the dried goldenrod, now colorless and brittle, that Emma had arranged in an earthenware crock last fall. The limas were mealy as candle wax, and the meat had a rank aftertaste. “Every winter seems longer,” Emma went on. “This time of year is the worst.” She sliced a piece of bread and spread apple butter on it. “No wonder people take to bashing each other.”