Noah even guessed the closing line of the story: “Last time I ever stepped in the ring.”

It was exactly what Marvin Linquist would have said.

“Hardest twenty dollars I ever made,” Taylor added.

Just as Marvin would have.

The morning passed quickly with the work of making ready to paint, the getting of ladders and buckets and brushes, the scraping of the clapboard. Taylor judged it would be best to do the work in sections. That way, he reasoned, it would keep dust from settling over the whole store once it was cleaned. Noah took the instruction as he had taken orders in the army—without comment. He had hired on for work, would do it the way Taylor wished it to be done; still he knew Taylor’s decision was the right one.

It was not a busy morning at the store. Only a few shoppers appeared for whatever goods they needed, yet Taylor insisted that each meet Noah and each meeting was made with stories, with quick histories given in Taylor’s way of making the person and the moment somehow extraordinary. Without knowing their names, Noah knew the people. They were the same in nature as the people he had known in the community of his birth and in his boyhood. Plain-dressed, plain-faced, the look of work resting wearily on them, a dullness carried in their eyes. They had survived the Armageddon of depression and war in their valley of isolation, and had emerged from those numbing years resigned to the toil that getting by demanded of them. The women had flickering smiles, wary, guarded glances, like nervous birds balancing on the twigs of tree limbs. The men were nodders, saying little, though word of Noah had made its way quickly through the valley and they seemed curious about him, never having met a traveling fish seller. The men talked of the school fishing contest and of Little-berry Davis, who had a reputation for being lucky—with some suspicion of being a cheat, only no one knew how a man could cheat at fishing. Some volunteered spots for fishing they knew about, telling fish tales of the places and of the catches they had made.

At noon, Taylor made sandwiches from tomatoes and carried them outside with two ice-cold Coca-Colas to share with Noah under the shade of the oaks, sitting on chairs moved from the porch. It was part of the bargain like he had promised, he told Noah. Just having the job of painting started was worth a couple of sandwiches, and, besides, if a man didn’t have to take time off for making his own food, he’d have more time for work. The reasoning was made with a laugh that Marvin Linquist would have made, and with Taylor’s declaration that nothing on earth was better than a tomato sandwich lathered with mayonnaise and covered in pepper and salt. He said, “I’d almost rather have me a tomato sandwich than a day off from work.”

The two were finishing their sandwiches when Eleanor pulled her car to a stop near them. “Well, look at this,” Taylor said in a low voice, beneath his grin. “It’s Eleanor.” He craned his neck for a better look, then added, “And I believe she’s got old lady Cunningham with her.” He paused, shook his head. “It’s a miracle how that woman stays alive. She must be close to a hundred.” He looked at Noah. “You remember Eleanor, don’t you? She was in the store the first time you came in.”