Free Mrs. Million by Pete Hautman Page B

skin.
    She said, “That’s going to be quite an adjustment, going from teaching Kant and Hegel to reading The House at Pooh Corner out loud. From the text.”
    Grunseth took a deep breath. He touched his fingertips to his temples, shaking his head slowly. “There aren’t a lot of teaching positions in Cold Rock.”
    “I know that.”
    “Damn it, Barbaraannette, you’ve won nine million dollars! You can do anything you want! Why do you want to spend your days with a bunch of seven-year-olds?”
    Barbaraannette licked her lips. She could taste blood now, and maybe that was enough. She said, “The fact is, Lew, I’m not sure that I do.”
    Grunseth’s shoulders dropped. He stared at her, lips parted, eyes naked with hope.

15
    B OBBY QUINN STOOD WITH one hand resting on the handle of the gas pump, his mind drifting through a maze of memories. Six years ago he had filled up at this very same Mobil station on his way out of town. He wondered what had happened to that old Jeep of his. He’d left it broke-down in Mitchell. Planned to sell it, but then he’d met a gal named Dora on her way to Denver and the easy thing to do had been to hop in her little Mazda and ride her west. Denver Dora. She’d been a stand-up comedian working the comedy club circuit. He’d about bust a gut every time she started talking. Funniest woman Bobby ever met. He’d stayed with her a month until it got cold out and he headed down toward Tucson.
    The gas pump clicked off, interrupting his reverie. Bobby gave the handle another squeeze, brought the total up to twenty dollars even. Now he was back in the land of the Crockettes and about to face Barbaraannette, a former Crockette herself. A cold, loose feeling slithered over his bowels. She was going to be kinda upset with him. Bobby thought about the million bucks, and that helped a little, but he was still plenty nervous. He looked toward the office where Phlox was trying once more to call Barbaraannette. A million bucks. Who knew what Phlox would do once she got her mitts on that kind of money? Half of him was thinking she might just take off and leave him, and the other half was thinking that he might just decide to stay with Barbaraannette, see what it felt like to be a rich woman’s husband.
    He climbed into the back of the pickup, unzipped his travel case, lifted out the hat box containing his El Presidente. Nothing like a fresh hat, especially an El Presidente, to make a man feel better. He removed his everyday straw hat, lifted the El Presidente from its’ nest and fitted it onto his head. There. He felt better already, knowing that he wore the finest chapeau in Cold Rock and maybe even in the whole state of Minnesota. He stood up in the back of the pickup, feeling tall.
    “Well I’ll be goddamned to hell and back, look what we got here!”
    Bobby twitched at the familiar voice. Hugh? He looked down at the heavyset man staring intently at him from the other side of the pumps. For a moment, Bobby felt himself relax. It wasn’t Hugh Hulke, just an older, balding guy who sounded like Hugh. Then his mind stripped away forty pounds, put some hair back on the guy’s head. The man’s lips curled back, revealing a gold-capped incisor. It was Hugh, all right.
    Bobby wondered if he could jump down, get behind the wheel, get the truck started, and make it out the driveway without Hugh getting his hands around his neck. Hit the door lock with one hand while turning the key with the other. Unless Hugh had something he could bust the window with, Bobby figured he had a chance. He was about to go for it when a second voice came from behind him.
    “That who I think it is?”
    Rodney Gent, looking even bigger than he had six years ago, draped his oversize hands over the tailgate. That pretty much destroyed any chance Bobby had of getting into the pickup unscathed. Rodney would put his fist through the windshield as easy as punching through drywall. Bobby cast an anxious glance toward the store,