“It’s a little … depressed, but then, most small towns …”
He tugged on my arm again, and we stopped. He swept his arm to indicate all that was before us, or rather, wasn’t: shells of former video rental, pet store, radio repair or book store Quonset huts, stunted trees, a handful of cars with duct-taped windows and dragging tailpipes. There were homeless crusties, a couple of lounge lizard outside Jacks, and some lumpy shoppers pushing wobbly carts across the Super Store parking lot, which was crisscrossed with fissures sprouting gray weeds. I thought of the statue in the town square. Surely there was a story there.
James said, “Ah, that would be The Man with No Face.”
I waited, but James only shrugged. “Ask any of the residents of Shallow Creek. That’s what you’ll get: ‘Ah, The Man wit
