On Saturday, his soothsaying was recorded on a chalkboard at Lew Boyd’s, next to a display of locally crafted deer jerky.

Get Out Your Shovels!

The Worm’s

Christmas Forecast

Is In!

~~

Snow Start Dec 24

End 26

12 3/4 inches

You heard it here first!

As was the custom when Hamp’s forecast hit the street, there was a mild flurry of bets placed around town, though nothing so serious as to alarm authorities.

Generally speaking, there was a good bit of aggravation at the prediction, as most people preferred two or three inches, max, just for the seasonal look. A foot-plus would stall traffic, force everybody out with shovels, and generally make a mess.

Apprised of this news while filling up with regular, J. C. Hogan could not believe that a gas station had scooped his newspaper. He would talk to Hamp—would he ever. In the meantime, he gave Lew a look that would kill and scratched off from the pump in his 1997 Toyota hatchback with the rusted rear fender.

The Worm had never revealed his method of forecasting—it was as secret as Esther Bolick’s OMC recipe had been in days of yore. Did it come to him in dreams? Was he ripping off the Farmer’s Almanac and claiming such wisdom as his own? Did his joints ache that far in advance of a snow event six weeks out?

He had been asked these questions for years, and for a fact could not tell anybody his method because he didn’t have one.

In his particular case, weather forecasting had begun a few years ago while getting a haircut in Wesley.

As he recalled, they had been talking baseball—he rooted for the Yankees—which was common even in football season. He was just getting a dose of his barber’s rant on the Red Sox when in walked some character in a woolly worm costume, promoting the annual Woolly Worm Festival everybody was nuts about.

‘Just a little off th’ sides,’ said a muffled voice from within the costume.

Everybody wanted to know would it be a long winter, a warm winter, a hard winter—how would the woolly worm describe what was coming?

‘A long winter with plenty of snow,’ was the best the guy could do.

‘Yeah, buddyroe, but when?’ said the barber. ‘When’s th’ snow comin’? That’s th’ trick.’

Whoever was in the costume did not have a clue.

Just to hear his head roar, Hamp rattled off a couple of dates and precipitation levels specifically for Christmas, the only time anybody in their right mind, except ski slope owners, wanted snow. And boom, two and a half months later the weather did what he said it was going to do.

This scared him to death. The Muse had credited him with an 84.5 percent accuracy rate, which was two points ahead of the actual woolly worm.

Who Needs The Woolly Worm When We Have Hamp?

The headline had run on the front page of the Muse, along with a picture of the fire chief standing by the department’s new yellow truck. His wife, Jeanette, had the page blown up to ridiculous proportions, mounted, and screwed into the wall of their den for his sixtieth birthday. When he passed, it was his wish that it be installed in the engine room of the fire station, though God knows, everybody there hoped that such an installation would be a long time coming.

•   •   •

‘THIRTEEN INCHES!’ SAID ABE, WHO refused to own a snow shovel. ‘Oy!’

‘Somebody said fourteen or fifteen inches!’ Winnie looked positively distraught when he dropped by on Saturday for a loaf of whole wheat.

‘Only a foot and three-quarters,’ he said, pacifying. No matter—Winnie and Thomas had a very steep driveway; this was not a good thing.

The news swept along Main like a brush fire, picking up several inches along the way. By the time it reached the Oxford Antique Shop, the forecast was for a couple of feet.

More than a few were ticked at Chief Floyd. Lew Boyd, to name one. ‘Anything over two inches,’ said Lew, ‘an’ th’ only business through here is snowplows.’

‘It’s only a prediction,’ he said to those, Cynthia included, who appeared to take the emanation as gospel truth.

•   •   •

HE WALKED HIS DOG around Baxter Park, threshing it out.

Did he really want to do this? Nobody had asked him to do it, or even hinted that he should.

It would make sense for everyone else, but did it make sense for him? He wasn’t accustomed to considering things in this way.

Bottom line, he had only so much get-up-and-go left in this life. How best to spend the remains, as it were? More to the point—if he didn’t do this, what would he do? Sit in his chair by the fire reading Quo Vadis? Books had to be read, and since when could reading a classic be considered an unwise use of time?

In the end, three questions:

What time of year was best for bookstore sales? Christmas—which started before Thanksgiving these days.

What day of the week historically showed the best sales numbers?

Saturday.

How could they afford to miss the biggest hurrah of the year?

They couldn’t.

•   •   •

‘I WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY,’ she said. ‘If you’re happy, I’m happy.’

‘That simple?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘You’re absolutely certain?’

‘Cross my heart.’

Maybe he wasn’t absolutely certain. But since she was certain, well, okay, he felt more certain.

On Sunday evening, he walked the three blocks to the Murphy cottage to deliver the news. He gave the prescribed loud knock so it could be heard all the way to the bedroom.

•   •   •

‘MY DEAR MISS PRINGLE. Lest you forget, I am Sales, not Marketing and Promotion.’

On Thursday, Hélène had come by to say hello, and was saying more than he cared to hear.

‘But Father, being the good Saint Nicholas is Sales. Don’t you see? With you sitting in the window in that novel costume, people will flock inside!’

He studied the cash drawer.

‘Saint Nicholas was a very lovely person,’ she said. ‘His family was wealthy and left him everything, and what did he do? He gave it all away. Do you think those poor, malnourished children would have had a single nut or sweet if it hadn’t been for this godly man? He was no poulet de l’anée, and yet there he was, a lowly bishop journeying about in the snow with his heavy sack . . .’

She was looking at him intently.

‘. . . all for the happiness of others.’

He tried to appear absorbed in opening a roll of quarters. She pressed on.

‘He is, you understand, the patron saint of children! And I know . . . how you care . . . for children.’

He felt his pulpit voice coming on, but had no idea what to say. Leave off, Hélène! Arrête!

Pushy Frenchwomen!

•   •   •

HE HAD NO EAGER DESIRE for a helpful hint, no curiosity as to how J.C. handled Hamp’s crossover to the enemy. He was in agreement with Esther Cunningham—he was tired of this town running him, albeit via the Muse. He was a free agent.

‘Take that,’ he said, tossing today’s edition into the wastebasket.

Barnabas looked up, blinked.

•   •   •

BUT WHAT TO READ TO COOT? He had failed to ask; Miss Mooney had failed to say.

He sat with her eager pupil at the coffee station.

‘“Tom!”’ he read.

‘No answer.

‘“Tom!”’ No answer.

‘“What’s gone with that boy, I wonder? You, Tom!”’

•   •   •

ONE NEVER KNEW who was coming through the door in the afternoon, for the light from the west was behind . . .

Talbot.

Or was it Talbot?

He stood, and remembered to close his mouth. It was Talbot. Without hair, without much flesh on his bones. The shock of seeing him sent blood pounding in his temples.