Double-Dare O’Toole by Constance C. Greene

sweeter.
    â€œHow’s your husband?” Fex asked Angie. He’d forgotten to ask the other day when they’d had their obsession talk.
    â€œLegs aren’t what they used to be,” Angie said. “He runs out of steam early on. Hits the sack about nine, ten o’clock. Doesn’t even go bowling any more. And him a young man still, sixty-four in July.” She shook her head. “But he’s alive. You count your blessings, right?”
    They nodded in agreement. The door opened and Mr. Soderstrom came in, trailed by Charlie.
    â€œFex.” Mr. Soderstrom bowed in his direction, his vast beard fanning out over his shirtfront. “Just the fellow I was looking for. Could you manage to look after this young man”—his huge hand rested lightly on Charlie’s head, the thick fingers hanging down on Charlie’s forehead like some weird sort of hat—“next Saturday? Company wedding. Fancy dress affair. Mrs. S. says we must go.”
    â€œSure, be glad to,” Fex said.
    â€œHi, Fex.” Charlie played it smooth, acting as if he came to the general store every day of his life.
    â€œHi, Charlie.” Fex played it just as cool.
    Mr. Soderstrom was almost entirely bald except for his luxuriant beard, which, Fex had noticed, collected all sorts of things: tobacco, cookie crumbs, bits and pieces of potato chips, of which he was fond. If some small creature ever got caught inside Mr. Soderstrom’s beard, Fex thought, it could probably survive for a long time, eating the stuff that collected there. He could almost see the small face peering out, nose twitching, as it caught the thousands of crumbs that daily filtered through. He imagined Mr. Soderstrom kissing Mrs. S.—as he called his wife—and having the creature pop out, sending her screaming, the daylights scared out of her. She’d never kiss him again without checking his beard first.
    â€œPeat moss,” Mr. Soderstrom muttered. “You have peat moss?”
    â€œTwenty-five-pound bags,” Angie said. “In the back. Four-fifty per.”
    Mr. Soderstrom reared back as if she’d struck him. “Four-fifty!” he roared.
    Angie shrugged. “Everything’s gone up,” she said.
    Sighing loudly, talking to himself, Mr. Soderstrom lugged a bag of peat moss to the cash register.
    Angie rang it up. “Add the gum to your bill?” she asked.
    â€œGum? Gum? I didn’t buy any gum!”
    Angie pointed to Charlie, who had filched a pack of Wrigley’s spearmint and was passing out sticks like Santa Claus handing out presents.
    â€œThe kid’s lightfingered,” Mr. Soderstrom grumbled. “Takes after my wife’s brother.” Then he felt the need to repeat himself. “My wife’s brother!” he roared, in case anyone had missed it.
    After the noise had died down, Angie pointed to Charlie and said, “I hardly recognized him, he got so big.”
    â€œThey grow up too fast,” Mr. Soderstrom said gloomily. He’d confided to Fex that he had two teenaged children from his first marriage. “Like ’em better when they’re young,” he’d said. “If I could, I’d freeze this fellow right where he is now. Four’s a wonderful age. He thinks I’m great, I think he’s great. They grow up, they start finding fault with the old man.”
    He shouldered the bag of peat moss. “Oh, they grow up too fast,” he repeated, shaking his head ruefully.
    â€œWant some help?” Fex asked.
    â€œOh, I’m not over the hill yet, my boy!” he cried. “Not by a long shot. Come on, Charlie. Get a move on. See you Saturday, Fex. Mrs. S. will let you know what time.”
    â€œSo long,” Charlie said, deftly slipping another pack of Wrigley’s spearmint into his pocket.
    Angie lifted her shoulders.
    â€œWhat’re you gonna do?” she said.

12
    Dinner that night was