know.”
“Well, you look great.”
One thing I’d noticed about Charley was that he seemed to own essentially a single outfit. Every piece of his wardrobe was some shade of green, as if he’d spent so many years in a warden’s uniform, he couldn’t imagine dressing in any other color. As always, his thick hair was barbered in such a way as to make me think of the brush they use on horses. And the knife-sharp intelligence in his eyes was a warning to anyone who might underestimate him. Charley Stevens would drop dead before he ever got senile.
The automatic door of the van slid open and the vehicle seemed to kneel as a ramp tilted out from the side.
“Pardon me while I help the Boss,” he said.
“Hello, Mike.” Ora waved from inside the van. Her wheelchair was held in place beside the driver’s seat by a system of ratcheting straps. It took Charley mere seconds to loosen them.
Who was it who said that you get the face you deserve as you grow older? By that standard, Ora Stevens, had one of the most beautiful souls on the planet. It wasn’t just the snow-white hair and Nordic cheekbones. She had a way of listening to you with full attention and constant eye contact, making you feel simultaneously fascinating and foolish.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said.
“Thank you for coming all the way down here.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Charley clapped me on the back. “Take ahold of that side of the chair, and we’ll tote this contraption up those stairs.”
Ora herself didn’t weigh much, but her automated wheelchair was cumbersome, and once again I was struck by Charley’s surprising strength.
Sarah had put on black jeans and a washed-denim top that brought out the blue in her eyes. She seemed nervous, fidgety. Something about the thought of meeting Charley and Ora intimidated her; I could see the anxiety behind her welcoming expression.
“This is Sarah Harris,” I said.
“Well, I certainly hope so,” said Charley. “Or else you got us down here on false pretenses.”
“We brought you this, dear.” Ora held out a pan wrapped in a napkin. “It’s an Indian pudding I baked this morning.”
“Thank you. Mike has raved about your cooking,” said Sarah. “I hope you won’t be disappointed in my fish chowder.”
“I was just saying it’s a night for chowder.” Charley winked at me. “Hasn’t it been a cold winter, though?”
“Can I get you something to drink? I’m having a whiskey.”
Charley waited for his wife to answer.
“I would have a whiskey and soda, please,” she said. The choice pleasantly surprised me.
“Black coffee,” added the old pilot. It was all he ever drank.
After I fetched the drinks, we all sat down in the living room. I’d cranked up the woodstove, knowing that Ora tended to feel chills deeply. It wasn’t long before I felt my face growing ruddy from the heat and alcohol. We made some small talk about the long drive from their winter home in Maine’s western foothills to Sennebec and about the tidy little motel they were staying at behind the Square Deal Diner.
“You have a lovely house,” Ora told Sarah.
“It wasn’t so lovely when I was living here by myself,” I said.
“Men are such foolish creatures,” said Ora. “When I first met Charley, he used to do his laundry by tying his clothes to a rope and towing them around the lake behind his canoe.”
“Good old-fashioned ingenuity,” said her husband.
After a few minutes of chitchat, I spotted my chance to turn the conversation in a different direction. “So what’s going on in Flagstaff?” I asked. “The last I’d heard, Wendigo was going to exercise its option on all the leases around the lake. Are they really forcing you out of there?”
The Stevenses had owned their waterfront cabin for three decades, but under a vagary of Maine law, timber companies had always held title to the land beneath the house. The latest owner, Wendigo Timberlands, LLC, was a Canadian corporation
“Well, you look great.”
One thing I’d noticed about Charley was that he seemed to own essentially a single outfit. Every piece of his wardrobe was some shade of green, as if he’d spent so many years in a warden’s uniform, he couldn’t imagine dressing in any other color. As always, his thick hair was barbered in such a way as to make me think of the brush they use on horses. And the knife-sharp intelligence in his eyes was a warning to anyone who might underestimate him. Charley Stevens would drop dead before he ever got senile.
The automatic door of the van slid open and the vehicle seemed to kneel as a ramp tilted out from the side.
“Pardon me while I help the Boss,” he said.
“Hello, Mike.” Ora waved from inside the van. Her wheelchair was held in place beside the driver’s seat by a system of ratcheting straps. It took Charley mere seconds to loosen them.
Who was it who said that you get the face you deserve as you grow older? By that standard, Ora Stevens, had one of the most beautiful souls on the planet. It wasn’t just the snow-white hair and Nordic cheekbones. She had a way of listening to you with full attention and constant eye contact, making you feel simultaneously fascinating and foolish.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said.
“Thank you for coming all the way down here.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Charley clapped me on the back. “Take ahold of that side of the chair, and we’ll tote this contraption up those stairs.”
Ora herself didn’t weigh much, but her automated wheelchair was cumbersome, and once again I was struck by Charley’s surprising strength.
Sarah had put on black jeans and a washed-denim top that brought out the blue in her eyes. She seemed nervous, fidgety. Something about the thought of meeting Charley and Ora intimidated her; I could see the anxiety behind her welcoming expression.
“This is Sarah Harris,” I said.
“Well, I certainly hope so,” said Charley. “Or else you got us down here on false pretenses.”
“We brought you this, dear.” Ora held out a pan wrapped in a napkin. “It’s an Indian pudding I baked this morning.”
“Thank you. Mike has raved about your cooking,” said Sarah. “I hope you won’t be disappointed in my fish chowder.”
“I was just saying it’s a night for chowder.” Charley winked at me. “Hasn’t it been a cold winter, though?”
“Can I get you something to drink? I’m having a whiskey.”
Charley waited for his wife to answer.
“I would have a whiskey and soda, please,” she said. The choice pleasantly surprised me.
“Black coffee,” added the old pilot. It was all he ever drank.
After I fetched the drinks, we all sat down in the living room. I’d cranked up the woodstove, knowing that Ora tended to feel chills deeply. It wasn’t long before I felt my face growing ruddy from the heat and alcohol. We made some small talk about the long drive from their winter home in Maine’s western foothills to Sennebec and about the tidy little motel they were staying at behind the Square Deal Diner.
“You have a lovely house,” Ora told Sarah.
“It wasn’t so lovely when I was living here by myself,” I said.
“Men are such foolish creatures,” said Ora. “When I first met Charley, he used to do his laundry by tying his clothes to a rope and towing them around the lake behind his canoe.”
“Good old-fashioned ingenuity,” said her husband.
After a few minutes of chitchat, I spotted my chance to turn the conversation in a different direction. “So what’s going on in Flagstaff?” I asked. “The last I’d heard, Wendigo was going to exercise its option on all the leases around the lake. Are they really forcing you out of there?”
The Stevenses had owned their waterfront cabin for three decades, but under a vagary of Maine law, timber companies had always held title to the land beneath the house. The latest owner, Wendigo Timberlands, LLC, was a Canadian corporation
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