The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend (10 page)

‘Oh, Amy,' she said to herself as she gathered up the things she had left outside once he'd gone. ‘Meth labs. So much for the small-town idyll.'

 

 

 

 

Broken Wheel, Iowa

April 8, 2010

Sara Lindqvist

Kornvägen 7, 1 tr

136 38 Haninge

Sweden

Dear Sara,

In answer to your question: I think I've led a happy life. I know I've been lucky. I've had good friends and kind people around me. No children of my own, unfortunately, but I actually think that's just as well. I haven't regretted it in any real way since I finally accepted it, anyway. I've had so much to do with other people's children that I haven't had time to think about it. Take Andy, for example. His own father left a great deal to be desired, but since I had plenty of time and space to spare, I didn't have any problem giving him a bed for the night that time, and a couple of hundred dollars for his first few weeks in Denver.

I've had my sorrows, of course, but nothing more than I could cope with. Sometimes I think that it's not the degree of sorrow which matters, but how much of a hold it can get. Maybe some people are just more susceptible, or maybe everyone is more susceptible at certain times, but I've seen people survive terrible things, even losing a child (my own mother lost two children between myself and Robert, but things were different in those days). I've also seen people completely caught up in their problems; they practically creep in beneath their skin and eat them up from within, until it seems as though their reaction to the problem is worse than the problem itself ever was. They grow cruel and bitter, too, so it's difficult to remember to feel sorry for them.

I'm not an instinctively kind person, and I think this has spared me many sorrows in this life. I guess I should try to be a better person, but it would probably be difficult. I fear it's too late to teach this old dog any new tricks.

Anyway. I think that life and sorrow go together like farmers and rain: without a little, nothing will grow. But the right amount? I don't think it's really ever possible to get that. And people can talk about it as much as they like, but it won't make the slightest bit of difference.

Warmly,

Amy Harris

EVER SINCE SARA
had arrived in Broken Wheel, she had been feeling that she was, somehow, in debt to the town. It wasn't just the rent, even though that still bothered her. It was the coffee and the beer and the hamburgers and John's chopped tomatoes.

Neither micro nor macroeconomics had ever been Sara's strong point, so she hadn't noticed the fine, complex and occasionally – when it came to some of the items in John's shop – slightly dusty web of economic transactions and mutual dependence which bound the inhabitants of Broken Wheel together.

In reality, the town survived by performing a delicate balancing act. A lot of its cash came from outsiders. Because her greasy food was the cheapest for miles, a few customers from out of town still came to Grace's, and others continued to make the trip to the Square because watering holes always have regulars, even in the most underpopulated places. Some of the inhabitants of Broken Wheel did have jobs and money, of course. Those who didn't have money were treated by others, who were paid back in return favours whenever there was something that needed to be fixed.

Many of the shops had completely adapted to these conditions. John, for example, didn't sell much. Not many people could afford to buy new fishing gear or allow themselves the luxury of constantly buying new screwdrivers. But that also meant the shop didn't need to buy much in. By not selling his fishing nets, John was actually saving money. Before Amy became seriously ill, he had occasionally put up advertisements for new items he had been sent by his suppliers, creating an illusion of prosperity and growth, even though no one ever ordered anything.

Madame Higgins owned the only clothing store in town. She almost certainly hadn't bought in any new products since the sixties. Ugly, unflattering ball gowns never really went out of fashion. Sooner or later, all women needed a meringue dress, though they didn't tend to need them more than once in their life. And when the dresses were no longer needed … well, Madame Higgins was there for that, too.

The problem was that Sara had no experience of this kind of economic system and, what was worse, she had nothing to offer. Each time someone refused to let her pay for her beer or coffee, and each time she tried, she thought about how she needed something to repay them with. And each time, without really realising it, that left her a little more entangled.

George was the straw that eventually broke the camel's back. He tried to pay for her lunch.

George,
George
, who was unemployed, barely sober and who also spent all his time driving her wherever she wanted.

Right there, in Grace's, she was filled with a powerful new feeling of purposefulness. She was a grown woman, she had
the right
to pay her way, she
would
pay for the both of them.

‘B-but …' George stammered.

Sara stood her ground. ‘I'm paying,' she said.

She was just pulling out her money – crisp dollar bills this time – when Grace came past their table.

‘Oh,' said Grace, ‘this one's on me.'

When she needed to be, Sara was a woman with a good deal of resolve and an active imagination.

At first, she did nothing.

She let Grace pay for her lunch, she let George drive her home, and she spent the evening pacing back and forth across the kitchen, muttering to herself. She had spoken to everyone she could think of about paying rent. She had tried to pay her own way when it came to what she ate or drank. All without success. The yellow Forex wallet and the crisp new banknotes inside it were lying untouched in a drawer.

Still, she didn't despair.

The next day, she was back on Main Street.

If she couldn't pay in cash, then return favours would have to do. She would offer to help out in all the shops still trading. She had time and she had experience. Apart from her job in the bookshop, she had worked in a school dining hall and had once had a summer job in a graveyard. She had more than ten years' experience behind a till. She had seven days a week and as many evenings as they needed. Just a couple of days and her debts would be paid.

She would start with the hardware store. If that didn't work then she would move on to the Square. After that, Amazing Grace.

She was sure John could do with a little time off.

‘Hi, John.'

‘Sara.' Perhaps it was just her, but she thought he was already looking a little nervous. Maybe he suspected she was after something he wouldn't like; maybe he didn't want her to talk about Amy. She felt as though he was almost recoiling from her.

She asked anyway. ‘Can I help out with anything?'

‘Help out?'

She shrugged in an attempt to seem self-confident and nonchalant. ‘With anything. Putting things out, helping behind the till. I've worked in a shop before.'

‘But I don't need any help.'

‘Don't you want some time off? If you just show me what to do, you can leave me in charge here. You can have as much time off as you want. I've switched alarms on and off before, and I've been on my own behind a till.'

‘I don't have an alarm.'

‘Well, OK.'

‘I can't afford to take anyone on, but if you need money then …' he trailed off, confused. Eventually, sounding desperate, he added: ‘Have you talked to Caroline about this?'

‘No, no,' Sara said quickly. ‘I don't need money. I'm not allowed to work on my visa anyway. I just thought you might need some … help.'

‘No, no,' John replied just as quickly. ‘I don't need any help. No help at all. But thanks a lot, Sara. If I need any more staff … I'll come to you.'

She backed out of the shop, anxiously assuring him that she didn't need a job. God, it was hard work being independent. She wondered whether she dared try Grace, but decided to put it off.

She would probably have more luck with Andy. George drove her to the bar but didn't come in. ‘Just to be on the safe side.'

‘Help out?' asked Andy. ‘But we don't need any help.'

She looked around the bar. It was almost empty. There was one customer but he didn't need any help. He was half asleep, clutching a full glass of beer.

In the cold light of day, she noticed new details: the pale, worn, wooden floor; the scratches on the table; the scent of stale beer and sweat; the Iowa Cubs shirt on the wall, right next to the police notice about how to recognise meth users.

‘So there's nothing I can do? Cleaning? Washing dishes?'

‘If you need –?'

She cut him off. ‘I don't need money, I need something to do.'

‘Can't help you there, I'm afraid.'

Ever the host, he offered her a beer. She sighed and tried to pay for it, but before she had time to get out the damn money, he quickly said: ‘This one's on me.'

She sighed again, more deeply this time.

‘Whiskey?' he asked hopefully. ‘Dinner?'

‘George is on his way back to pick me up,' she said, adding quietly to herself: ‘This isn't normal.'

Andy looked as though he was inclined to agree.

‘I've heard Sara's short of money,' May said.

‘Short of money?' Gertrude asked. ‘Interesting.'

They were back at Grace's, where both of them had sat through the entire lunch rush with a small cup of coffee in front of them. It was an art they had long since perfected. Gertrude's trick was to let the coffee go so cold that she wasn't tempted to take a sip too soon. May's was to look especially friendly and grandmotherly and rely on the free refills.

‘Dear me,' said May. It was a clichéd thing for an elderly woman to say, and it earned her a sharp look from Gertrude.

‘I'm saying nothing,' said Gertrude. ‘Anyone can have problems with dough from time to time.'

At that very moment, Grace left the counter and leaned out of the doorway. ‘Sara!' she shouted. ‘Are you hungry? Can I treat you to lunch?'

Both Gertrude and May craned round, squinting towards the window. They looked as though they hoped Sara would jump at the offer so they could study her in peace and quiet and close up. So far, neither of them had managed that. If their luck didn't change they would be forced to do something drastic, like cornering her on the street and actually talking to her. But Sara simply looked guilty, mumbled a ‘no, thanks' and moved swiftly on.

Gertrude shook her head. ‘Says no to a free meal? I never heard of such a thing.'

Tom hadn't seen Sara since the evening he'd stopped by. When he caught sight of her in town, he parked his car and clambered out.

He didn't even know what he thought of her and her constant reading. There was something almost insulting about a woman who so clearly preferred books to people. There was also something he needed to ask her.

At that moment, she wasn't reading. She was leaning forward strangely in front of Amy's old shop, her face pressed against the dirty windowpane.

‘Is it true you're short of money?' he asked.

‘Short of money? I mean … of course I'm not. I just got here.'

‘It did seem idiotic that you'd have come here if you couldn't afford it.'

‘Of course I can afford it. But no one will let me pay for a single thing.'

She straightened up and turned towards him.

‘My God,' she said, ‘is that why no one will let me pay for anything? For the food from John's or the coffee from Grace's, or the beers at Andy's? Why do they think I don't have any money?'

There was something charming in the way she opened her grey eyes wide, like she thought he somehow knew all the answers.

‘I'd guess they're not letting you pay because they see you as Amy's guest. Or our shared guest now.'

‘But that's ridiculous. I've got money. How are they ever meant to survive when they go around treating everyone to everything?'

‘Good question. But I'd hardly call that ridiculous. It's friendly.'

A furrow appeared between her eyes. ‘So when I asked if I could help out, they thought … Then why would they offer things but not let me help out in return?'

‘Help out?'

‘Yeah, I could help John put things out on the shelves or behind the till or help Andy with the dishes –'

‘You offered to do the dishes?' he asked, just to be sure he had understood her. My God, he thought, he would have liked to have seen Andy's face when she'd asked that.

But Sara answered as though it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Yes, I'm good at it. Not just the dishes, I mean,' she added, ‘but working the till or putting things out on shelves. I've definitely done enough of it before. Strictly speaking, I've never worked in a bar, but I did once work in a dining hall in a school, so I know how to do the dishes. And I've been behind the till in the bookstore for years.'

‘I'm sure,' he said. ‘But it's not really the same thing, offering a beer or a cup of tea to a guest, and that guest offering to do the dishes in return.'

He could see that she was struggling to come up with an objection.

‘Maybe not,' she said eventually. ‘But they would have been doing me a favour. I need something to do. I've got to be able to pay my way at some point.'

‘Are you bored here already?'

‘It feels like I've had nothing to do for so long. How am I going to cope with two months of not doing anything other than reading and being bought coffees?'

Tom glanced at his watch. He was late for work. ‘But you knew what kind of town Broken Wheel was before you came, didn't you?'

‘Yeah …' she said hesitantly. Her expression revealed that she hadn't. ‘But it's not the town so much as not working. I've never really had a long holiday before.'