The Town That Sold Its Sunday

How it begins

June baked seven loaves every week.

The town bought six.

She had never been able to explain the seventh, though people asked with the mild irritation reserved for harmless habits that seemed to criticize their own efficiency.

On Monday morning, the extra loaf sat on the cooling rack.

Still warm.

June had not baked since Saturday.

She checked the oven.

Cold.

She checked the till.

There was a receipt dated Sunday.

The calendar above it had no Sunday.

Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday.

Six neat columns.

At the bottom, in the town council's cheerful blue lettering, was the slogan that appeared on every public notice.

More life in less time.

June pulled the calendar from its hook.

Behind it, the wallpaper had faded around an older rectangle.

Seven columns.

The bell rang.

Eddie Moss came in for his usual loaf and stood looking at the bare patch on the wall.

"You've noticed."

"Noticed what?"

"The day."

June held up the receipt.

Eddie sat down without asking.

He had driven buses for thirty-four years. His knees made a small complaint whenever he bent them, and he apologized to furniture as though it might feel responsible.

"I used to have a Sunday route," he said.

"Where did it go?"

"The lake."

"There isn't a lake road."

"There was."

June looked through the window. People hurried past with the focused expression of a town that had been promised efficiency and received only more work.

"What happened?"

Eddie took a folded leaflet from his coat.

A council referendum.

Debt relief. Guaranteed investment. One unused day.

"They said we wouldn't miss it."

June touched the warm loaf.

She remembered picnics.

A blue blanket.

Her husband asleep beside the water before illness had made sleep frightening.

She had not thought of that afternoon in years.

Outside, the clock struck eight.

For once, she did not open the shop on time.