“Only to you, it don’t.”  The old codger’s alert gray eyes match the color of his hair.

“So, just what the hell do you think attic means?” Stan asks.

“To know that for sure, you’d have to ask the man who came up with up the word in the first place.”

“And just what do you think a dictionary’s for?”

“Sounds like you sit on yours.”  The old man cackles, and from the smirk on his face, he thinks he’s scored a good one.

“Which means you don’t have an answer.”  Stan glances at his wristwatch.

“Sure I do.”

“What is it then?”

“It means a place to store stuff.  A T T I C----K, yeah, to store stuff.”

Stan doesn’t know why he goes to visit Ermil Kersanian; the house smells of Lysol and ancient dust, and it’s always dim inside, even in full summer, like now.  Not that the light would do any good; the wallpaper, the curtains, even the lampshades, are the same color: an antique tobacco-beige, any patterns or design they ever had long ago faded to a vague hint.  But, he does know why he visits—he likes Ermil.  “Has it occurred to you that you also store things in the garage?  And the basement?”

“Course it has.”  Ermil sniffs derisively.  “But the car goes in the garage, and lots of other stuff goes in the basement . . .like the water heater, and the furnace.”  The lined face screws tight in concentration.  “And the wash machine.  There is none of that in the attic.  Attic’s are for for storing stuff, just like I said.”

“So why do you call it the attic downstairs?”  Stan sounds exasperated.

“Because it’s the place I store stuff—downstairs.”  Ermil shrinks further into his well-worn recliner and glances up, his look daring Stan to challenge his logic. 

He can’t.  “All right.  That the only one?”  Stan looks down at Ermil’s end table and a small shoe-box-size carton that sits beside an even smaller, neatly-opened Federal Express package.  He resigns with a long sigh, and picks up the box.  The container is as heavy as all the others he’s carried up and down the stairs over the last five years.

“Just put it where it belongs with the rest of them.  Be neat and don’t snoop.  Can you handle that?”

Stan quickly walks across the threadbare carpet to the basement steps; he has to get back to work.  The door is ajar and he catches the edge with a toe and opens it.  The stairs disappear into the underground gloom, and he works the switch to the stairwell light with his elbow.  The stingy glow of a twenty-five-watt bulb casts shadows on the bare wooden steps.  He starts down.

The walls are naked rock with uneven mortar joints, a comfortable match to the rough-troweled concrete floor.  Stacked on a makeshift shelf made of a pair of two-by-eights set on cinder blocks, boxes, identical to the one he’s carrying, hunker in the dim light.  The neatly printed labels offer no hint of their content; the writing is not in English, composed mostly of what looks like “h”s and “w”s, it’s not like anything he’s ever seen.  He slides the box into the empty space in the row and steps back, shaking his head. 

I wonder what the old man stores down here?

Stan had met Ermil at the grocery store.  Standing in front of the breakfast cereal shelves with a box of Cocoa Puffs in his hand, Stan had been searching for a second box of exactly the right kind—“It has Scoobie Doo on the front.”  He’d sensed the old man before he’d seen him, but the sound still caught him off guard.

“You have a young one I see?” a gravely voice said.

Turning around, he’d been greeted by a slender man with a toothy smile, wearing a tan suit coat, yellow/blue plaid pants, a red flannel shirt buttoned at the throat, and tennis shoes.  Stan had seen the man around town, but had never known his name.  He looked down at box of cereal in his hand.  “Guilty,” Stan said and flipped it end-for-end in the air.

“Been asking around about you and seems you’re a pretty straight shooter.  I need some help with something.  My name’s Ermil.”

The friendliness in the eyes left Stan no choice but to take the offered hand.  “My name’s Stan.  I’m pleased to meet you.”

Stan had driven Ermil home that day and that evening had helped him unpack a steamer trunk full of musty smelling clothes, books and the boxes with the strange labels.  They hadn’t been nearly as heavy then as they are now. 

The books were where he’d put them that day, on another crude shelf at the end of the basement.  He glanced at them, shook his head, and went back upstairs.

“You need anything else, Ermil?” Stan asked as he emerged.

“Nope.”

“I’ll git back to work then,” Stan said as he reached the front door and opened it.

“Okay.”  The old man didn’t even look up from the book he had propped open on his knees. 

Stan sells furniture.  At least that’s the way it’s supposed to work.  The problem is, in the dusty, prairie town of Hastings, Montana during the mid-1980s, people aren’t buying furniture.  Matter of fact, they aren’t buying anything.  That includes the Elite Family Portrait Plan that he sells after he’s through standing around all day, ready to sell furniture.

“Did the Willises get back to you?” Greg asks.

Greg Wellcomb’s five foot, six inch frame is painfully inadequate for this two hundred and thirty pound body.  Fine sweat-beads form a glistening mustache on his weak upper lip, and it has to be taken on faith there’s a knot on the bright red tie that’s enclosed in the pasty-white roll of fat under his chin.  Greg is the manager and he knows damn well the Willises did not and will not get back to him—they never do.  They come in about once a month and he bed-bounces, reclines, rocks and swivels, while she rearranges every dinette display in the store.

Stan shakes his head.  “Nope.  Thought I had them interested in the Drexel kitchen set but it doesn’t come in Rustic Pecan like she wanted.”  Stan would like to tell him that she looked at all the finishes offered before she asked about the pecan, but Greg is not a lot of fun to talk to, so most people don’t encourage conversation.

“That’s why it’s called sales, Stan.  It’s up to you to sell.  Chestnut is close enough to pecan for her to not know the difference—and we have chestnut.”

Greg is the manager only because his father owns the store.  He was in charge at the In-N-Out drive-in when they were in high school for the same reason.  If the truth were known, Greg couldn’t move free grasshoppers in a flock of geese, but he spent six years in Missoula getting a BA in business and Stan hadn’t.

“I’m not sure I could do that, Greg—you know—deliberately mislead her.”

“It’s not misleading if they don’t know where they’re going in the first place.  Your eleven percent of something we don’t have is eleven percent of nothing, right?”

He has a point, of course, but he doesn’t know that the Willises couldn’t afford the cardboard box the Drexel unit came in.  They visit the store to dream.

Greg gives Stan a condescending nod and waddles back to the office to play games on his new Apple computer.  Stan discovered a long time ago that Greg would leave him alone if he put at least fifty feet between them, so he moves to the front of the store to stand in the window and watch an occasional pickup truck rattle past.  And that’s where Stan remains, undisturbed, until six P.M. and quitting time.   

CHAPTER 2

He slams the door on the ‘67 Ford Mustang, puts the key in the ignition—Please, please—and then turns it.  “Thank you,” Stan offers as the tired horses under the hood reluctantly rise to the challenge one more time.  He glances at the gas gauge, winces, and drops the transmission into gear.  It makes an ominous chunk sound as it engages, and he backs out of his parking place to start his short trip across town.

Hastings is home for 12,778 people, stuck halfway to nowhere; or halfway back, depending on which person you ask.  Stan likes to think it’s halfway there, and that he stands a chance of getting his life turned around and out of Montana someday.  Laid out along a river, a person might reasonably expect the town to be green and lush.  They’d be disappointed.  Uniform, mundane, and non-descript, even the blacktop on Main Street denies its name and submits like the rest of the landscape, adopting a dusty gray color.  Stan turns left out of the parking lot, and heads for home. 

The way isn’t completely deserted, and in the time it takes to travel the seven blocks and three stoplights to reach the intersection at Cherry Street, he’s obliged to exchange greetings with a dozen other drivers, four fingers lifting off the steering wheel to acknowledge the head nods given.  He turns into the forecourt of Cherry Corner Chevron and squeaks to a halt at the last pump.  As he climbs out of the car, the man inside the station catches his eye and waves. 

A dollar twenty-seven point nine for a gallon of regular unleaded gas, and he should actually be buying the high test—damned oil companies.  The gas cap fights him for a few seconds before it pops open, and he watches carefully as the counter on the pump quickly winds through the numbers to four dollars and ninety-three cents.  He then bumps his way to five dollars even. 

Three point nine—less than four lousy gallons.  Freakin’ oil companies.

He slams the pump nozzle back into place, and heads for the office.  As he enters, Jerry Weaver, the owner, grins at him from behind the counter.  “I see you left it running.  When ya gonna let me sell you a new battery?”

“Soon as Greg gives me a raise.”

“You’re not holding your breath, are you?”

Stan opens his wallet and removes a five-dollar bill.  The remaining six one dollar bills make him sad and angry at the same time.  “Tell ya what Jerry, buy that portrait plan I showed you, and I’ll buy your battery.”

Jerry takes the five spot and rings the cash register open.  “I don’t need a portrait plan, Stan.  I’m not married, and I’m not gonna get that way.”

“Yeah, so you keep telling us.  How long do you think Donna is going to wait?”

“Wait for what?  She gets all the sex she can handle, ain’t paying no rent, cooks when she feels like it, comes and goes as she pleases.  Wait?  You gotta be joking.”  Jerry pushes the drawer closed.  “I feel sorry for schmucks like you, and most of the others we graduated from high school with.”

“Married life has advantages.”

“Yeah?  Name one.”

Two images, faces, pop into Stan’s head.  Brown hair and all smiles, Jennifer will be at the door when he gets home.  Angie will be too, if she’s up to it.  “I can name two, Jerry, without even thinking.”

“Donna don’t want no kids.  Can’t stand to be around ‘em.  Besides, if I need a couple, I can borrow yours for an afternoon.  Right?”

“Right.  Think about that portrait plan, Jer.  You’re not getting any better looking.”  Stan lifts his hand in a high-sign as he walks out the door.

Back in his car, he grabs the “T” handle and clunks the tranny into gear.  Moving slowly away from the pumps and onto Cherry Street, the temptation to tromp on the gas and light up the tires is strong.  The big motor was the reason he’d bought the Mustang, the 390 cubic inch engine gave the car more than enough power to satisfy a young man’s need for speed.  That had been in 1978 and his tire-smoking days had ended after his third “exhibition of speed” ticket and a warning that the next citation would be for a “reckless driving” offense, and he’d lose his driver’s license for six months.  His wife, Carrie, had sided with both sets of parents as they hounded him about growing up.  A lot of things had started to change that year.  Maybe Jerry has a case.  He sighs as his foot eases down on the throttle, and he smoothly merges into the traffic headed for the river.

Carrie glances at the clock.  With a sigh, she lifts the lid on the pot of macaroni, scoops a single piece out of the boiling water and drops it on the counter.  With the edge of the spoon, she tests it like her mother showed her, then reaches up and turns off the burner.  A quick glance at the five wieners bobbing in the sauce pan on the back of the stove prompts her to shut the heat off there as well.  If it’s Tuesday, it’s macaroni and cheese.  She goes to the cupboard and gets four plates.

Born and raised on a farm, Carrie Mellon had never eaten macaroni and cheese except at school.  She’d liked the dish then, but loathed it now that she was forced to make do with it.  Her father offers them a beef every year—cut, wrapped and delivered—but Stan won’t hear of it.  A five-pound pot roast in the oven, with carrots, onions and spuds clustered around comes to mind and she dismisses the image.  Why even think about it?  For a moment, she stares vacantly at the steam rising from the pasta and then opens foil pack of specially prepared “cheese.” 

Stan had seemed such a catch: valedictorian-smart, good looking, popular and hands that drove her crazy.  Hands . . .all over her.  Not aggressive, just insistent enough to make her want it too.  They always went to the same place—a secluded spot by the river—and got a blanket out of the trunk.  She puts the spoon on the counter, then reaches up and strokes the back of her neck as it starts to get warm.  Lying on her back in the moonlight, she feels the warm evening air on her damp skin—almost exactly seven years ago.  A shiver climbs her spine as the familiar feeling takes her over and her heart starts to pound. 

Quickly, she turns her back on the stove and goes to the kitchen door.  “Do you want to set the silverware, Jenny?”

Her oldest daughter stands with her face pressed against the front screen.  “Sure, mom,” she replies and hurries into the kitchen.

She’s such a helper.  The small hands of the five-year-old carefully arrange the forks and spoons.  She’s the uncanny image of her father, hair as fine as spider silk, with a sheen that invites stroking, and brown, it frames an oval face with perfect lips that seem perpetually parted in a half-smile, even when she thinks she’s alone.  Is she, too, a dreamer like her father?  Carrie stirs the cheese sauce into the macaroni. 

When Jenny finishes she looks up at her mother, volunteering for more.

“You did a good job, honey.  Go see if Angie’s okay.”

Angie is not well.  She never has been, from the day they brought her home two and a half years ago.  She tries to be, but so far it’s no use, she just can’t seem to feel good.  Most days she sits in Stan’s chair, where she’ll be now, and quietly re-reads picture books.  More like her mother, her hair is light brown, almost blonde, and her face is sad.

Jenny pops back into the kitchen.  “Angie’s good, mom,” she chirps and hurries back into the living room and the screen door.

Stan follows the new, black BMW up the street wondering what it would be like to have one.  The guy who owns it sells real estate on the big lake north of town; vacation cottages, ranchettes, and some places that can only be classified as mansions.  You’d think that people would need furniture for such places, and you’d be right; they buy it in Billings; 200 miles west, or Bismarck; the same distance east.  He slows as his street comes up, a full three blocks before the homes even start to take on any prestige.  The Beemer will go all the way to the river to pull into a three-car garage attached to a house that sits on a full acre.  Stan turns on the right signal and swings off of Cherry and onto Mullet Street.  Even the name is uninspired.  Five doors down, he makes a hard right into the single car driveway and stops short of the carport, Jennifer’s tricycle blocking his way.   He gets out of the car, a flood of irritation heating his face; it lasts only as long as it takes for the sound of the screen door slamming shut and his daughter’s voice to reach him.

“Daddy’s home.  Yeaaaaaaa.”  Jenny charges across the weedy lawn and crashes into his legs.

Stan stops by the chair just inside the door, ruffles Angie’s hair, and then goes into the kitchen.  As Jenny sits down at the table, he starts towards Carrie.  “Boy, you look like a wreck,” he says.

Carrie’s back stiffens, and then carefully and deliberately she puts the serving spoon she’s holding down on the counter.

“That didn’t come out right,” Stan offers as he moves toward her.

“But it came out, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, but-”

“You’re going to ‘yeah, but’ once too often Stanley Marshall,” Carrie says as she picks up the spoon again and scoops a serving of macaroni and cheese onto each of two plates.  With a fork, she spears two wieners and settles them against the yellow pasta.  Brushing past Stan, she puts the plates on the table, one in front of Jenny, then goes into the living room, and comes back with Angie.  She settles her in a booster chair at the table, and then points at the stove.  “There’s your dinner, Stan.  You can serve yourself, or you can let it sit and have it for breakfast.”

“But what–”

“I’m going out.”

“About the girls?” Stan finishes lamely.

“Not the girls, Stan, our girls.  That means you and me, and the me half is leaving.  You figure out what to do with them when they’re finished eating.”

Jenny looks at her father for a couple of seconds, and then breaks into a smile.  “Yea, daddy’s gonna baby sit.”  She scrambles out of her chair.  “You going to Grandma’s, mom?”

“Sit down and eat, Jen.  Angela, you, too,” Carrie says.  And with that, marches out of the kitchen.