Free The Devil in Canaan Parish by Jackie Shemwell

second-hand bike with the large basket in the front.   He would spend hours behind the store, polishing that bike and waiting for the next delivery.    
    “Mr. Bram, Mr. Bram!” he shouted as I walked up.
    “Mr. Bram, did you get stuck in that storm last night?   Ooo-eee that was a big one!”   His eyes were wide with excitement.  
    “Yeah, Izzy, it was quite a storm.”
    “Yes sir, yes sir it was,” said Izzy.   “You got any deliveries for me today sir?” he asked.
    “Well, now,” I said, “let’s go inside and see, alright?”  
    Izzy was visibly thrilled as I opened the door and motioned for him to come in. He waited near the lunch counter as I hung up my hat, put on my apron and walked to the front of the store to unlock the door and flip over the open sign. Mrs. Connolly was already there, waiting.
    “Bout time you opened, don’t you think?” she snapped, bustling past me faster than it was probably safe for any ninety year old to go.  
    “Indeed it is, eh Palmer?” said my father-in-law, appearing from his office with the cash drawer in hand. He glared at me, and then his face broke into an enormous smile as he greeted Mrs. Connolly. She pulled him into a discussion about the best solution for an upset stomach, which had evidently kept her up all night. I smiled to myself, thinking that it was more likely she was upset by the thunderstorm than anything, but I was grateful for the distraction she provided my father-in-law.   It would delay the browbeating I was sure to get.
    I went behind the register and pulled out the ledger we kept for delivery orders.   There were three standing orders on Saturdays, in addition to anything that might be called in.   I prepared the orders in brown paper bags and then gave them over to Izzy.   It was not necessary to explain them to him.   Although he couldn’t read, he had memorized all our standing orders for the week and could tell whose was whose by the size and weight of the bag.   He also had the delivery route committed to memory.   The day’s order would take him on a five-mile journey from the store north to the Savoy’s rice farm, down to a couple of addresses in the Bottoms and then back to the store again. He would be back by lunchtime, and would then start on his afternoon route to deliver anything that had been called in that morning.
    Once Izzy had gone, I went back to the storeroom to get started on some inventory work. It wasn’t long before Bordelon found me and began his daily verbal assault.
    “So, Palmer,” he sneered, “how long was it before Sally sent that little Cajun bitch back home?”
    I was always shocked at the crudity with which my father-in-law spoke with me.   It was a complete change from the polite gentility with which he addressed all his customers, neighbors, family and friends.  
    “Charlie,” I said, watching Bordelon stiffen.   After ten years of marriage to his daughter, the man still hated it when I called him anything other than ‘Mr. Bordelon.’   “Sally was fine.”
    “Fine? What do you mean fine?” he barked, the smile suddenly fading from his lips.
    “I mean that Sally was fine with it.   She’s going to give the girl a trial period.”  
    Bordelon squinted his eyes and cocked his head at me.   The predictable way in which he behaved had never been more amusing to me.
    “Trial period, huh?” he scoffed.   “We’ll see about that.   Won’t take long, I’m sure.”   With that, he stormed off toward the front of the store to ring up Mrs. Connolly.
    The rest of the morning passed pleasantly enough, mostly because Bordelon wasn’t speaking to me.   Around eleven I took my post behind the lunch counter and started pouring coffee and making grilled cheese sandwiches for the small crowd that gathered every day.   As usual, Sheriff Boyle took his spot at the end of the counter.   I poured him a cup of coffee and lit his cigarette, then turned to make him a ham sandwich.