In the store, Dale can hear her footsteps in the kitchen, the sticky sound of bare feet on linoleum. He looks up from the newspaper he’d spread open on the counter, listens to her take the lid off the pot on the stove, hears the tap, tap, tap of the spoon against the edge of the pot after she’s stirred what’s inside. He hears her open one cabinet, then another, hears the rustling of cellophane. He listens to his wife in anticipation, expecting her to enter the store, but she does not come in, leaving him both unsettled and at the same time relieved. He hears the kitchen door close gently as she goes back outside, and then it is quiet.
He leaves his post behind the counter and walks over to the shop door. Across the lot, the light above the pump is flickering, has been for the past few nights, Dale can’t figure why. Beyond, Benny Mayes sits with a sandwich in the cab of his pickup, the overhead light on, waiting for the rare customer who comes for gas by night.
Dale opens the door and steps out. The dog, pressed up against the concrete storefront, eyes Dale without lifting his head, his tail thumping the ground, tentative and weary. Hot. Dale can’t blame him. He squats down to touch the dirt, and it is warm beneath his hand. He refills the dish that Ora has put out for the dog with water from the spigot, and the dog scrambles to his feet and drinks thirstily; Dale listens to the sound as he walks away, drawing closer to Benny’s truck, where Bing Crosby croons on the radio.
Benny doesn’t seem to notice Dale approaching, he’s so intent on his sandwich, a big meaty thing dripping with mayonnaise. Dale taps his fingers on the door frame, and Benny looks at him through the open window with surprise, his mouth full.
“Fine-lookin’ sandwich,” Dale says. Benny holds the thing out, offering, chewing. Dale shakes his head. “Mind if I sit?”
Benny waves his hand, come in, and Dale walks around to the passenger side. Benny turns down the radio as he climbs in. “Sure you don’t want any? I got more than I need,” he says, offering his sandwich again. “Ma sent me with two.”
“Nah. Ora got some stew on. Reckon she’ll want to eat once she’s done out back.” He sniffs, rubs at his nose, watches a pair of headlights slow as they come to the crossroads, then carry on past.
“I notice them lights been flickering,” Benny says, nodding toward the light above the pumps.
“Yuh. Checked the bulb, but it’s tight.”
“Reckon it could be the heat?”
Dale lifts his hand from where it rests on the door frame; he doesn’t know.
“I had enough of this heat myself,” Benny says, after a minute.
“Mmmhmmm.”
On the radio, Bing Crosby has stopped his singing, and a man’s voice talks excitedly about Beech-Nut gum. Can’t beat it for quality and refreshment!
“You heard from Tobe?” Benny asks, glancing over at Dale.
Dale brings his hand to his mouth, strokes his chin. Then he reaches into his pocket for the folded letter he’s been carrying there all week, hands it over for Benny to read. He realizes his hands are trembling.
Benny opens the letter, stares at it for some time. He opens his mouth, as if to speak, but says nothing. He looks at Dale, then looks at the letter again. “Dale,” he says.
“Came last week.” Dale rubs his eyes. “I thought they were supposed to come and tell you. Not just send that kind of news in the mail.”
Benny looks at him. “How’s Ora?”
Dale shakes his head. “I haven’t told her,” he says. “I can’t. I can’t bring myself to do it.” He shuts his eyes and covers them with a hand. “Just keep on kind of hoping that they’ll come.” He shakes his head again. “’Cause I don’t know if I can be the one.”