Free Staggerford by Jon Hassler

you imagine what it’s like to be ashamed of where you live? You’ve never seen our place in the gulch, have you?”
    Miles admired Beverly’s profile as she blew smoke across the counter. Was that an Indian nose? “No, I’ve seen your mailbox on the highway, but I’ve never seen your farm.”
    “Very few people have, thank God. It’s between the highway and the river, and it can’t be seen from the highway because it’s in the gulch and it can’t be seen from the river because of the woods. There are a few people from town who drive out and come into the yard to buy chickens, and whenever they do I’m so ashamed I don’t want to go to the door. In the summer we have that produce stand on the highway, you know, and that’s different. I like selling tomatoes and squash and onions. But to have people coming right into the yard—God, I can’t stand that.” Beverly, a beginning smoker, was handling her cigarette like a stick of lead. “All our buildings are leaning over like they were about to collapse into the river. I don’t know what’s holding them up. And the house. The house is a two-story place that hasn’t been kept up, and we’ve shut off the upstairs because all the windows are broken up there and birds fly in and out. And the yard, God, you should see the yard. Except I wouldn’t want you to. It’s a dump. It’s full of rusty cars that my dad used to bring home, and do you know what’s living in the upholstery of the cars?”
    Miles shook his head.
    “Rats.”
    Miles frowned into his coffee.
    “We shoot rats with a twenty-two rifle, my mother and I. Rats kill chickens.”
    A long silence, then: “I’d like to marry Greg Olson.”
    “Don’t be stupid.”
    “What’s stupid about that? I’m old enough. I’ve beenold enough to quit school for two years. I don’t know what I’m doing in school anyway.”
    “It’s stupid to tie yourself down to a husband at eighteen. Your life is just beginning. What you have to do is get yourself enrolled in a college next fall and get out and see what the world is all about.”
    “Who says?”
    “I do.”
    “Mr. Pruitt, your trouble is you never married and now it’s too late and you don’t want anybody else to have any fun either.”
    “I’ll have some more coffee.”
    “What’s the matter? Am I getting too personal? Does the truth hurt?”
    “Beverly, the truth is that I am by nature a cautious man, and if I marry, which is still a possibility despite my extreme age, I will not marry someone I met the night before the wedding, as you seem to be threatening to do with Greg Olson—whom I remember as the numskull of last year’s senior class.”
    “I didn’t just meet him. I’ve known him for years.”
    “How well?”
    Beverly got up and poured Miles more coffee. “Don’t talk to me about college,” she said, hoping he would.
    “You’ve got the second-highest grade average in the senior class. If you don’t go to college you’ll be sorry all your life.”
    Beverly sat down again. “For college you need more than grades. You need to have all your shit together. You need to be from someplace better than I’m from.”
    Coach Gibbon came into the Hub. He was wearing a red jacket that said “Coach” on the front and “Staggerford” on the back. Beverly stood up and Coach took her stool. He ordered coffee.
    “Nice game last night,” said Miles.
    “Aw, that goddamn Fremling. I never should have had him in there at center. If it wasn’t for him we’d’ve won. But who else did I have?”
    “What’s so bad about a tie with Owl Brook? Theyhaven’t been beaten for a year and a half. If I were coach, I’d be proud of a six-six tie with Owl Brook.”
    Coach Gibbon had a long face with dark brows and a long, pointed nose. He turned to Miles and studied him closely from two or three angles, the way a woodpecker examines bark for bugs. “Are you crazy? You’d be proud of a tie? A tie proves absolutely nothing!” He turned away