The Man in the Window
the interest of scientific curiosity, we did nothing to intervene. The spark that jumped back and forth between the dog and the heater was a sight to behold. The dog died instantly, was thrown five feet into the air, and landed in a galvanized bucket, which I presented to Mrs. Meem, dog and all, compliments of Malone’s Hardware Store.”
    Atlas stretched out on the dock, grinning up at the sky.
    “Every time you tell that story, it gets worse. Galvanized bucket. That’s a lovely detail I don’t recall.”
    “Ho-dee-ho,” said Atlas.
    “A
galvanized
bucket—not just a bucket.”
    “Truth be told,” said Atlas, “it was Louis who provided that little detail. Also the color of the paint. I always thought it was green. Louis was right, though. Yellow.”
    “You two.”
    Atlas sat up. “Now if you want to talk details, you should have heard him go on about Harvey Mastuzek last night. There’s a story with details.” Atlas rubbed his chin and looked away.
    Gracie hesitated, but then had to ask. “Harvey Mastuzek in the hardware store?”
    Atlas still looked away. “That’s right.”
    “Harvey, who never leaves his house except to buy whiskey?”
    “That’s right.”
    “In our store?”
    “You want to play Twenty Questions, or you want me to tell you about it?”
    Gracie looked at Atlas’s back as he sat dangling his legs over the end of the dock. I could just give him a poke and over he’d go. Give him the dousing he deserves. “Tell me,” she said.
    “Well,” said Atlas, suddenly up on his feet and pacing back and forth over the wooden planks, his hands moving, his elbows pumping at his sides, everything charged up and ready to go, “well, Mrs. Meem and her dog, that’s a pair we all remember. But Louis, whose intentions are often more complicated than we can know, sometimes he’ll reach deep and pull up somebody we would never consider, somebody he’ll choose to enliven his recollections of the store. Like Harvey Mastuzek. ‘Remember Harvey Mastuzek?’ he said. ‘Remember the time he came into the store?’ No, I said. ‘You don’t?’ his voice incredulous, but kind of sly and amused, too, like he caught you not paying attention to something really important, but on the other hand not important at all, or important in a way you couldn’t imagine was important unless you were Louis.”
    Gracie clutched the edge of the dock.
    “He proceeded to tell me the long and complicated story of Harvey Mastuzek, longer and more complicated, if you can believe it, than any of my stories, and filled with nuances inside of nuances, most of which I missed and won’t attempt to repeat. Louis went on for an hour, maybe two, about the time, now hold tight, Gracie, about the time Mr. Mastuzek came into the store and bought a black rubber washer. That’s right, a thoroughly unremarkable man enters my hardware store for the first and only time in his life and purchases, in a transaction that could not have taken more than three minutes from start to finish, one thirteen-cent washer for his faucet. Louis’s recounting of that transaction was beautiful and frightening. He described Harvey Mastuzek’s every feature—not just how he looked, but right down to speculating on when he last shaved and were those sideburns beside each ear, or simply missed hairs,
missedhairs
for God’s sake, Gracie. He went on about his sharp whiskey odor, the way he spoke and cleared his throat and
breathed
, the way he moved, what he wore, where he might have bought what he wore, whether or not what he wore was appropriate for the season. On and on. Then Louis discussed the journey down the middle aisle with Harvey Mastuzek and what they saw, what was displayed on the counters, what was on the Peg-Board hooks, the size of the Phillips screwdrivers, how much a ball-peen hammer cost, actually getting the correct cost for that particular year, Gracie. And then the search for the right rubber washer. Louis holding one up, then Harvey
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