them already.'
The old man thought on this for a moment, digested it. He nodded slowly.
'I can see your point,' he said.
Bill laughed. 'You're the first person who has.'
Williamson cleared his throat, leaned forward. 'I'm putting the cafй up for sale,' he said.
'What?'
'Shhh. Keep it down.' The old man made a lowering gesture with his hands.
'I haven't told anyone yet. Even Holly doesn't know.'
'Why? What's the matter?'
'Nothing's the matter. It's just that . . .' He trailed off. 'The Store's going to be opening pretty soon. It'll be putting a lot of us out of business.'
Bill shook his head. 'That won't affect the cafй.'
'They're going to have their own coffee shop. Not just a snack bar. A coffee shop.'
'Doesn't matter.'
'I'm afraid it does.'
'This cafй's a landmark. People aren't going to abandon this place in order to eat and drink inside a discount store. This place is a part of Juniper.'
Williamson smiled sadly. 'The fact is, no one cares about supporting us local businesses. Yeah, the cafй's a landmark, and when it's gone everyone'll miss it, and your friend Ben'll write a heartwarming story about the way things used to be. But the truth is that once The Store's coffee shop starts offering coffee for a nickel cheaper than mine, or fries for a quarter less, these guys'll be out of here so fast it'll make my head spin.' He nodded toward Buck and Vernon. 'Even those two.'
Bill shook his head. 'I don't think so. It's not the prices that bring people here, it's the atmosphere, it's . . . it's everything.'
'You're wrong. You might not think it's price. But it is. Everything's economics. And once The Store starts buying big flashy ads in the paper, trumpeting their great bargains, everyone'll flock over there.
'I'm barely making it as it is,' Williamson continued. 'I can't afford to compete. I'd get my ass whupped in a price war. The Store can hold out forever.
It can lowball me until I'm bankrupt.' He sighed. 'I can see the writing on the wall. That's why I want to unload this place before the shit hits the fan, while I can still get a decent price for it.'
He was silent for a moment, looking around the cafй. 'What I wanted to ask you about is advertising on that Internet thing. I figured if anybody'd know how to go about doing something like that it'd be you. I'm going to put an ad in the trades and all that, maybe even one with Ben, though I don't think any locals can afford to buy the place. But I thought I might send it out by computer, too.
See if I get any response.'
'Yeah,' Bill said slowly. 'I could help you do that.'
'What if I write out what I want to say? Could you send that out on the Internet for me?'
'Sure, but do you really want to do that right now? Why don't you wait, try to stick it out, see what happens. The people of Juniper may surprise you.
They might rally around the cafй. It could even be good for your business.
Things might really pick up once everyone knows what's going on.'
Williamson sighed. 'Times have changed, son. Everyone today is so fragmented. This isn't a country anymore. It's a collection of tribes, all competing with each other for jobs, money, media attention. When I was young, we were all Americans. Back then, we did what we had to, or what we could, to make this a better nation. We did what was right, what was moral. Now people do what's expedient, what's 'economically feasible.' ' He shook his head. 'Used to be, we cared about our community. We were willing to do what it took to make this a better place to live. Now all anyone cares about is how much it costs.'
He met Bill's eyes. 'No one gives a shit about preserving our town, our community, our way of life. All they care about is saving a few bucks so they can afford to buy their kids the latest name-brand tennis shoe. It's a nice thought, but no one's going to 'rally around' the cafй. That's just not going to happen.'
He finished off the last of his coffee. 'That's why I'm getting out now.
While I still can.'
4
Six inches of snow fell in a storm that hit on President's Day, and it was another twenty-four hours before the plow came by to clear the street. By the end of the week, however, it had all melted off, and they decided to drive to the Valley on Saturday to relax and do some shopping.
They left early, just after dawn, stopping around eight for a breakfast of Egg McMuffins in Show Low. Ginny stared out the window of the car as they traveled, watching as the passing scenery segued from pine to cactus country, the clean lines of the forested Mogollon Rim giving way to the wilder rockiness of the desert Mazatzals. Samantha and Shannon slept in the backseat while Bill drove happily and hummed along with the radio.
The vistas were spectacular, the canyons and mountains majestic, and, as always, Ginny felt awed and humbled. It was here, looking at the landscape, that she felt the presence of God. She had been born and raised a Catholic, had gone to mass twice a week from the time she was an infant until she went off to college, but she had never felt the inspiring exhilaration in church that she felt here, on the highway. The wondrousness and magnificence of God that she had heard about had been an intellectual abstraction for her until she had married Bill and moved to Arizona, and nothing in church had ever made her feel as religious, as profoundly touched by God, as the sight of her first desert sunrise on their honeymoon.
That was the problem she'd had with Catholicism, its smallness, its vanity, its emphasis on self. As a girl, she was led to believe that the world revolved around _her_, that if she ate meat on Friday or didn't give up something for Lent or had a mild sexual fantasy about David Cassidy, she'd be damned for eternity. God was watching her always, ever vigilant in His study of the minutiae of her life, and she'd felt constantly under pressure, as though her every thought and movement were being continuously scrutinized.
But as she'd gotten older, she'd discovered that she wasn't the focus of everything, she was not the fulcrum upon which the world and the church were balanced, and if she rubbed herself in the bathtub or called Theresa Robinson a bitch, Western civilization would not instantly come to an end. Indeed, she came to see herself as a minor character here on earth, barely worthy of God's attention, and she decided sometime during her high school years to simply be a good person, live a good life, and trust God to be smart enough to separate the good people from the bad once judgment day rolled around.
It had been the land here that had reawakened the religious feelings within her. She had seen in it the glory of God, had realized once again how small were her problems and concerns in the overall scheme of things -- and how there was nothing wrong with that. It was as it should be.
She glanced over at Bill, singing along with an old Who song, and she found herself smiling. She was lucky. She had a good husband, good kids, a good life. And she was happy.
Bill caught her smiling at him. 'What?' he said.
She shook her head, still smiling. 'Nothing.'
They arrived in the Valley shortly after eleven and drove to Fiesta Mall in Mesa, separating once they were within the air-conditioned confines of the shopping center, the girls going off on their own to clothing and music stores, she and Bill heading to the multiplex to see a movie, all of them agreeing to meet at two o'clock in front of Sears.
The movie they watched was a romantic comedy, what Bill called a 'cable movie,' but everything was better on a big screen, and she was glad they'd gone to see it. Afterward, they hung out for a while at B. Dalton. She bought the latest _Vanity Fair_, and Bill picked up a new suspense novel by Phillip Emmons.
Sam and Shannon were already waiting on a bench in front of Sears when they walked up. Shannon had bought a cassette by a currently hot rock band, a band Sam apparently hated, and the two girls were arguing loudly over musical taste.
'Break it up,' Bill said in the gruff voice of a boxing referee. He sat down between the two. 'You girls're starting to draw a crowd here. If we put you in bathing suits and a hot oil pit, we could start charging admission, make a little extra cash for the family.'
'You're gross,' Shannon said.
