2
Peter
George Greeley’s Groceries and General Merchandise wasn’t a big store. However, it was the one stopping place in Walnut Ridge where you could get anything from groceries to clothing, and farm supplies. You could get hunting and fishing licenses and even rent a video from a selection of nearly two hundred. The narrow aisles and high shelves contained just about everything imaginable, yet the ancient store didn’t seem cluttered.
There was a neatness and organization inside the store that allowed finding just about anything quickly and easily, and many customers had let him know just that. That had been Peter’s doing. He spent just about every waking minute stocking shelves, cleaning, re-stocking, and helping customers. He couldn’t read or write but he had an uncanny ability to put things exactly where they belonged.
Peter lived with his uncle in the two-bedroom apartment above the store. George had been a widower for eleven years. Until he moved in, George had shared the apartment only with Roger, a Golden lab nearly as old as Peter. Peter had lived with him and Roger for going on five years. He was twelve when that terrible accident took the lives of his parents, George’s sister and brother-in-law. The county was going to take Peter and put him in an orphanage. George traveled to Nashville to fight for custody and eventually was appointed Peter’s legal guardian. Their pictures were in all the papers after the state’s decision. Giving guardianship of a minor to a sixty-year-old man with a half-blind dog and no wife wasn’t normally done. George supposed that had been his and their five minutes of fame. Things soon settled back to normal.
Peter was working in the rear of the store, on his knees re-stocking a lower shelf, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up, expecting to see his uncle. A broad grin spread across his face when he saw Christie. It had been a week since the incident on Main Street, and he wasn’t expecting to see her again. He had few friends, most of them either customers or friends of his uncle. At seventeen and not being able to talk, kids just didn’t want to hang around with someone like that.
Peter stood and wiped his hands on his worn jeans.
Christie shoved a card into his hand.
Peter looked at it and then back at Christie. She smiled. He loved the way the light danced in her hazel eyes. She wore a light yellow pullover that molded to her rounded breasts and mid-section. The faded jeans she wore hugged her legs.
“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” she asked excitedly and added, “You won’t believe how many cards I read before finding this one. Go on, open it.” She held her hands behind her back and forced herself to wait.
Peter smiled, tore open the envelope, and studied the card. He wasn’t sure what to do. No one, not even his uncle, had ever given him a card before. His father, embarrassed by his condition, thought reading was a waste of time and had said so more than once. Peter remembered the times his father had called him “dumb.” It hurt, and every time that he said it, he loved him a little less. At the funeral, the tears he shed had been for his mother. She hadn’t been a strong woman, but in Peter’s heart, he knew she had always wanted what was best for him. He never cried for the loss of his father, but he still cried inside sometimes at night for his mother’s comforting arms and her kisses. His uncle never knew he cried because there were no sounds. Those cries were trapped inside his mind and heart, along with all the words that were in his head that no one would ever hear.
