Free The River Burns by Trevor Ferguson

facial expression to say good-bye to the old lady as she departed the counter and the store. The wee bell tinkled overhead. On the street she was surprised, and waited a moment to verify the image. The pie lady emerged to find Tara admiring her scooter, which carried two more blueberry creations cradled in a basket.
    â€œThis is yours?” Tara asked her.
    â€œAre you worried I’ll run over your toes? You should be. I might!”
    â€œOn purpose?”
    â€œNo, silly. But accidents happen. Especially when I’m driving.”
    The woman started up the scooter and pulled on her helmet. Slow-moving traffic obliged her to delay a moment. Tara felt transfixed by this geriatric on a colourful, gleaming motorized bike sporting a bright blue blaze of a helmet. She was finding this town charming in unexpected ways.
    â€œI’m Mrs. McCracken,” the old lady told her in response to her scrutiny, her voice muffled by the helmet and its visor.
    â€œI’m Tara.”
    â€œOf course you are, dear,” Mrs. McCracken declared, almost as though she did not believe her, then swung her scooter out into traffic.
    â–    ■   ■
    As she arrived home, Mrs. McCracken felt perspiration leak down the back of her neck. A change of dress might be in order, although she reconsidered as she entered the relative coolness of her home. Fans fluttered the curtains and the house itself stood in the lee of a tall sugar maple and a great eastern pine. The cooling effect may have been more psychological than what could be demonstrated on a thermometer, but certainly the shelter of the house was welcome after the blazing sun.
    â€œI could bake a pie on the sidewalk,” she told Buckminster, her tabby, who, languid on a patch of cool bare floor, could not care less.
    She needed to tidy up the kitchen after her baking and deliveries and was concluding the chores when the doorbell sounded. Her old one broke and a new remote bell that allowed her a choice of chimes was installed by her neighbour’s gaunt son. A mystery, that boy. Just when you were guessing that he was good for nothing he turned out to be good for any chore that contractors charged a fortune to accomplish. He accepted payment but without concern for the amount and only seemed happy when he was tinkering. He came over sometimes to see if she’d baked more pies than she was able to distribute, but unfortunately, he wasn’t the one at the door today.
    She spoke through the screen to a red-haired lad, a stranger.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œGood afternoon, ma’am!” he fairly bellowed. “My name is Jake Withers and I represent the Rathbone Company?”
    She didn’t know what was wrong with a whole generation that couldn’t make a simple statement without it sounding like a question.
    â€œIs that a good thing?” she asked.
    â€œPardon me?” Jake Withers was having difficulty making out the woman’s form on the other side of the screen, although she seemed slight, old, and, from the sound of her voice, easy pickings.
    â€œI’ve never heard of the Rathbone Company.”
    â€œWe’re very well established. I can show you references.”
    â€œI’ve never met a Rathbone. Are they from around here?”
    â€œWell, we’re a company, you know. A company. We’re from everywhere, like. We’re old.”
    â€œOld is good.”
    â€œIf you were to come outside, I’ll show you how I can accelerate your property value.”
    Mrs. McCracken opened the screen to have a peek at him. He seemed like a nice enough young man. He was backing away from her, which she appreciated. He was not acting as though he planned to storm the premises and tie her up to a kitchen chair. These sorts of things never happened here , of course, but one never knew when somewhere else suddenly became your very own doorstep. She stepped outside into the glaring light.
    â€œProperty values