"Let's get out of here, David," Norton said with no conviction at all. "What do you say we-"
There was a thud. An odd, twisting thud that I felt mostly in my feet, as if the entire building had suddenly dropped three feet. Several people cried out in fear and surprise. There was a musical jingle of bottles leaning off their shelves and destroying themselves upon the tile floor. A chunk of glass shaped like a pie wedge fell out of one of the segments of the wide front window, and I saw that the wooden frames banding the heavy sections of glass had buckled and splintered in some places.
The fire whistle stopped in mid-whoop.
The quiet that followed was the bated silence of-people waiting for something else, something more. I was shocked and numb, and my mind made a strange cross-patch connection with the past. Back when Bridgton was little more than a crossroads, my dad would take me in with him and stand talking at the counter while I looked through the glass at the penny candy and two-cent chews. It was January thaw. No sound but the drip of meltwater falling from the galvanized tin gutters to the rain barrels on either side of the store. Me looking at the jawbreakers and buttons and pinwheels. The mystic yellow globes of light overhead showing up the monstrous, projected shadows of last summer's battalion of dead flies. A little boy named David Drayton looking at the candy and the Davy Crockett bubble-gum cards and vaguely needing to go pee. And outside, the pressing, billowing yellow fog of January thaw.
The memory passed, but very slowly.
"You people!" Norton bellowed. "All you people, listen to me!"
They looked around. Norton was holding up both hands, the fingers splayed like a political candidate accepting accolades.
"It may be dangerous to go outside!" Norton yelled.
"Why?" a woman screamed back. "My kids're at home! I got to get back to my kids!"
"It's death to go out there!" Mrs. Carmody came back smartly. She was standing by the twenty-five-pound sacks of fertilizer stacked below the window, and her face seemed to bulge somehow, as if she were swelling.
A teenager gave her a sudden hard push and she sat down on the bags with a surprised grunt. "Stop saying that, you old bag! Stop rappin' that crazy bullshit!"
"Please!" Norton yelled. "if we just wait a few moments until it blows over and we can see-"
A babble of conflicting shouts greeted this.
"He's right," I said, shouting to be heard over the noise. "Let's just try to keep cool."
"I think that was an earthquake," a bespectacled man said. His voice was soft. In one hand he held a package of hamburger and a bag of buns. The other hand was holding the hand of a little girl, maybe a year younger than Billy. "I really think that was an earthquake."
"They had one over in Naples four years ago," a fat local man said.
"That was in Casco," his wife contradicted immediately. She spoke in the unmistakable tones of a veteran contradictor.
"Naples," the fat local man said, but with less assurance. "Casco," his wife said firmly, and he gave up.
Somewhere a can that had been jostled to the very edge of its shelf by the thump, earthquake, whatever it had been, fell off with a delayed clatter. Billy burst into tears. "I want to go home'! I want my MOTHER!"
"Can't you shut that kid up?" Bud Brown asked. His eyes were darting rapidly but aimlessly from place to place.
"Would you like, a shot in the teeth, motormouth?" I asked him.
"Come on, Dave, that's not helping," Norton said distractedly.
"I'm sorry," the woman who had screamed earlier said. "I'm sorry, but I can't stay here. I've got to get home and see to my kids."
She looked around at us, a blond woman with a tired, pretty face.
"Wanda's looking after little Victor, you see. Wanda's only eight and sometimes she forgets ... forgets she's supposed to be ... well, watching him, you know. And little Victor ... he likes to turn on the stove burners to see the little red light come on ... he likes that light ... and sometimes he pulls out the plugs ... little Victor does ... and Wanda gets ... bored watching him after a while ... she's just eight ..." She stopped talking and just looked at us. I imagine that we must have looked like nothing but a bank of merciless eyes to her right then, not human beings at all, just eyes. "Isn't anyone going to help me?" she screamed. Her lips began to tremble. "Won't ... won't anybody here see a lady home?"
No one replied. People shuffled their feet. She looked from face to face with her own broken face. The fat local man took a hesitant half-step forward and his wife jerked him back with one quick tug, her hand clapped over his wrist like a manacle.