the big city P. J. WILSON The town of Union Village was small and dotted with a few more than a hundred homes and buildings. Inside a gray frame house Melanie Anderson was draped across a couch looking out into the street. She had been sitting and staring for a long time. Before she finally decided to get up, she had bitten off three of her five best fingernails and even as she rose from the couch, the mere anticipation of rising turned her body to lead and it sank deeper into the thickly woven cushions. Draped in a silky, jersey-soft nightgown, she alternated between two modes of feeling. First, her heart filled with a gorging, happy-sad sorrow. After it had emptied a few big, deserving tears released, and then once again, her heart emptied out. Teetering then, she held her breath, thinking far away of nothing, not really a part of the world, but feeling significantly significant. After a few more moments of aimless drifting she got up and walked away from the couch, unsure of precisely how much of the morning had been lost in dreaming, or whatever jt was she had done. Emptying an ash tray here, finding bits of lint on the floor, picking them up, thinking but not thinking, enjoying the total blankmindedness of the ten o'clock hour what on earth was this? Not some dream-girl's life, not some heavy money-grubbing loser's, but a small-time zero's in a never-heardof-town that was to her, supposedly, home and safe and real. She hadn't known that there was anything else, and as the phone began ringing she wondered, really, if there was. "Hello?" she said, gasping, beating her record for quick answers, waiting for her heart to calm and her breath to stop huffing so she could quit holding it in pain. "Hello, Margie?" "No. You have a wrong number." "Oh sorry." Click. The voice had gone. What was redeeming in a wrong number, she thought. Not a helluva lot. Not one thing, just spent energy. And energy must be conserved. The day is just ahead, somewhere if I can find it, she thought. At the root of all this evil was her genuine flight into paradise, the big city, where she had visited her only wealthy relative, an aunt. There she had actually witnessed people who did more than mow lawns and garden, who were active and busy, who were flighty, greedy, and ambitious all those big city things no one ever was in little, little towns like Union Village. Those people had a true passion for whatever they did, which made it significant, which made it something more than a job to stave off boredom, or to fill up the hours, or to just make a living. What a life she led. But she had come back, and she feared knowing what she now knew, and she wanted to wipe it out. How could she live here when she knew what she could be there? Disgusted, she threw open the kitchen cupboard, and froze her gaze into its gray interior, little more than empty. Morton salt, a few chosen spices, a plate of melted and remelted butter, and a stack of plates with a few mismatched glasses. Sickened by the sight, she remembered her china, glistening brightly still, she knew, but well-hidden, waiting for some unbegotten day, afraid to be broken before the happy, blissful union of marriage. Whoever invented the word? It chilled her. Gave her a nervous stomach. There was nothing redeeming in it either. Somebody smart would have to extol its virtues in a tight, fast, and fool-proof Ten-Day-Plan before she could even half buy it. And that somebody could never be Sam Pritchett. The going steady career of Melanie and Sam had lasted for nearly six years now. For the past two and a half, Sam had insisted on investing almost all his wages in a dry goods store with a gas pump out front. He was due to take over the ownership next month. Melanie knew their date for lunch that afternoon was designed for the purpose of discussing the store, and she faced the fear that he might propose that very day. A few blocks away, Sam Pritchett leaned against a drugstore counter. The narrow aisles were cramped with waist-high shelves, laden with drugs and various household necessities. Behind the counter Mary Fay Hut was working her usual ten to seven shift. "Mary Fay," said Sam, "I really don't know if I can do it. She ain't done much encouraging of it." Sam's face was long and thin and his tawny skin was withered from work in the sun. "You can, I tell you, you can," said Mary Fay, a short plump figure with a wisp of wavy white-blond hair swirled around her head. "She might say 'no' though." "She won't, she'll say yes sure I know 'er and she won't say no." Mary Fay wiped the counter-top over and over. Sam shook his head and put his elbows up on the counter. "She's changed, though, Mary Fay. She's got some high-falutin' ideas about city life ever since." "Her Seattle trip? Is that it?" "Yeah." Sam looked downward at the counter, worn with holes. "Well, don't you worry none. That'll wear off before you know it and she'll be itchy as the dickens." "You think so?" "Sure do." "Well then, I reckon I'll hold off till I see she's ready. Whaddaya think?" He smiled, looking pleased with himself. "Sounds right fine. She'll come around. Don't you worry." Sam nodded. Smiling he picked up a paper sack from beneath the counter and sauntered out of the store. Mary Fay always helped him out and it never failed he always felt safe and sure after talking to her. She was right, Melanie would have to come to her senses over this thing it wasn't like her to be this way, it really wasn't. Maybe it was because it was her first trip away from home and all, and sure, everybody has to get to feeling that way some time. Sam hoped she wouldn't give up on him and all the plans he had made. He had a good-sized, though not overly-large store, stocked with the latest in farm goods, and dry goods for everything you could think of for a farm. There had been a lot of money gone into it, he had spent a couple of years building up this world for her, wanting to make himself an acceptable man in her eyes, wanting to provide in the best possible way a fine life at home with security and kids and love. He hoped that would make her happy, but he wondered if it would any more. She had been gone for three months, and hadn't written a whole lot. But then, she was very busy, like her letters said. As he walked the street narrowed and the pavement ended, merging into a dirt surface. There at a dead end was Sam's house. He had lived alone for the last year, after his dad had died, but he had taken it all in good faith, and looked to God in his trials, and everything was good again now. The death did not bother him as it had at first. The outside was unpainted and the wood was deteriorating some, but Sam planned to do it in pink that coming spring, with white shutters and blue flowers, and a garden, and a picket fence the whole works. Melanie would be so surprised and love it, sure. He couldn't wait. But he wouldn't have to much longer. Anyway, he hoped not.