Free Finding My Own Way by Peggy Dymond Leavey Page B

like a piece of candy herself.
    â€œYou’re allowed to eat them?” I asked.
    â€œSure. Everybody does. Just don’t let Freddie Forth catch you. But if Bobby’s on, he’s the worst of the lot. Comes in and grabs a whole handful of the mixed nuts.” Her face darkened. “Just watch out that’s all he grabs,” she finished, cryptically.
    Gloria and I had been scooping candy together for a couple of hours, and Bobby had cruised by several times. I knew from the way she had dissected the other employees that it was just a matter of time before she filled me in on all the juicy gossip about the assistant manager.
    â€œLet me give you a word of advice about that one,” Gloria said in a conspiratorial tone, as we broke open a carton of butterscotch wafers under the counter. “Watch out.”
    â€œOh?” I queried cautiously, aware of being the newcomer here and not knowing what the relationship between these two might be. “He seems very friendly.”
    Gloria snorted at my observation. “That’s the understatement of the year! He’s engaged to a girl in the town where he took his training. Karen comes in to check on him sometimes. Would you believe I’d gone out withhim three times before he told me about their engagement? So, you be careful. Especially seeing as you’re new. You’ll have to make it plain to him that you’re strictly business.” She gave me a knowing look. “Unless you aren’t.”
    â€œHe’s not really my type,” I said, thinking of Michael.

Six
    Over the next few weeks, my work days developed a definite rhythm. I rose early, in order to have time to write a few pages in my journal while my mind was still clear. Then I dressed, ate my breakfast and biked in to work.
    Each evening after supper I would sit outside with my writing supplies and the dog, until the mosquitoes and the darkness drove us in again. I’d do the dishes, fix my lunch for the next day, climb the stairs to bed and read till I fell asleep. In the morning, the whole cycle would begin again.
    As for Ernie, his days were free for rambling. He never went further than the corner in one direction or the McIntyres’ farm in the other.
    During the course of my comings and goings, I came to the conclusion that something had died in the back kitchen. At first, it was just a suspicion, a hint in the air when I went by—a sweet, rubbery smell. Like skunk. I tried to ignore it, but with each day the stench got worse. I knew I couldn’t avoid using the back door forever, and one Sunday, when Savaway was closed and I had a dayoff, I decided to tackle the problem.
    I propped the outside door open and began moving things, one by one, out into the yard. The back kitchen, a fancy name for a shed built onto the back of the house, was packed with stored items. The original floor had rotted away in places, and new boards had been nailed down lengthways over the holes. The two tiny windows had disappeared behind the chaos. There were stacks of stained berry boxes, assorted wash tubs, pails and basins, rolls of rubber hose, floor mops, a teetering tower of six-quart baskets, endless empty sealer jars, bits of wood, an enormous pair of rubber boots, straw hats, several bags containing rags, and two cardboard boxes that were filled to the brim with papers.
    My nose eventually led me to the source of the smell—a bloated field mouse, caught in one of Alex’s traps, down behind a box of kindling and old newspapers. How one small dead animal could smell so awful was beyond me.
    Field mice were pretty common at our place, and Alex had developed her own tried-and-true way of catching them whenever they got inside. She used to tie a bit of bread onto the mousetrap, pinching the bread into a small cube of dough and securing it to the trap with white thread. Her theory was that the mouse would get its teeth caught in the thread and set off the