Excerpt from 'For Betty'
by Ken Leland

‘For Betty’ is a short story set in a fictional, small town Indiana community, in the early 1980s. This is the fourth in a series of published stories with this setting; the first two are available on this website and are entitled, ‘Buying and Stone’ and ‘She and I.’ To no one’s surprise, the village bears certain similarities to the author’s home and depict a way of life that has nearly faded from view.

‘For Betty’ appears in the Prolific Press publication Tracks, along with a number of fine short stories and poems by other writers. It is the author’s hope that the following excerpt will tweak the reader’s interest sufficiently to buy a copy of Tracks, or perhaps to suggest the local library consider buying the anthology.

Prolific Press, Inwood Indiana, ‘Tracks’
https://prolificpress.com/bookstore/products_new.html  

 

An Excerpt from 'For Betty'

At noon, things are pretty slow at the store. Betty Harris stares through her window, over towards Mr. Forest’s restaurant where he does a land office business for an hour or so serving lunch, then the town dries right up. Of course, there’s the 1:45 Greyhound heading south, and the 2:30 northbound, but they don’t bring any trade, only a moment’s release from boredom. Someone might come by hankering for salted nuts or looking for a birthday card, but it’s a long time till the Christmas holiday bonanza. It’s only September and around 3:30 when school lets out, there’s a troop of high school kids looking for colas and ice cream bars. By 4:30 though, you could fire a cannon ball down the sidewalk and not be cited for disturbing the peace.

Betty glances next door as a housewife walks into Schnoover’s Causal Clothing. Betty remembers when she could do that, when she could afford a new sweater, or a shirt for her husband. She remembers how Tommy used to slide that manila envelope with his pay inside across the table to her, and he’d say . . .

No, Betty won’t think about that right now. Besides, Constable Bill Snyder has found a parking spot on the Hometown side of the street, just as he’s been doing most every Monday for a year now.

“Hello Mrs. Harris. Nice day, ain’t it?”
“It sure is, Officer Snyder. The usual?” Betty digs into an ice cream freezer for a Bronco Bar while Officer Snyder stands in the doorway, listening to street traffic.
As he peels away the ice cream wrapper, he glances at the wall display, at rows of magazines, and beyond them, paperbacks, then lowers his eyes to newspapers, neatly stacked on the lowest shelf.
“Monday’s come again,” Officer Snyder says.
“Yes. It has a way of doing that.”
Long since, they’ve both given up confirming that nothing’s been found, neither in Betty’s newspaper searches, nor in Snyder’s queries to nearby county sheriffs.

Tommy Harris has disappeared, without a trace.