Footprints Read Online Free

today,” Harper comments.
    They pause at Joan’s Thrift Store while Isora inspects the clothes on display. A young woman slumped at the counter behind the window looks up and waves languidly before resting her head back on her arms. They stroll on, past the dentist’soffice, where a sign regrets the forthcoming closure of the Back River practice but promises a free toothbrush to patients who transfer to the surgery in Saint-Leonard. They pass two boarded up buildings that a few weeks earlier were the Christian Bookstore and the Main Street Deli. Both have signs pasted on them:
No Liquefied Natural Gas Terminal in Passamaquoddy Bay
, and
Stop LNG
, and
Supertankers in our bay? No way!
    They come to Al’s-To-Go Lunch Counter and Grill, and stop. Drumgold pushes open the door, which jangles harshly, and holds it for Isora, who is gazing along the street. He says, “Is?”
    â€œHmmm?”
    â€œWhat are you thinking about?”
    â€œI’m thinking how just a few months ago Main Street was still quite busy, and now it’s mostly just the drugstore and the convenience store and the thrift store and Al’s.”
    â€œYou can thank Anderson for that,” says Drumgold. “Letting the mill go down the toilet while he takes his goddamn time making up his mind whether he’s going to buy it.”
    â€œAnd all the time the price goes down,” Isora adds.
    â€œExactly,” says Drumgold.
    â€œThe tourist office might open for the summer,” says Harper brightly.
    â€œYeah...and it might not,” says Drumgold. “What would tourists come to Back River for? There’s nothing to see or do here.”
    â€œWho cares about tourists?” says Harper. “We like it here.” He looks at his friends – Drumgold, slouching by the door with his hands in his pockets, Isora still gazing down the street – and adds, “Well...I do.”
    â€œYou and my mom,” says Isora. “It’s, like, all she knows. All her – you know – memories and stuff are here.”
    From the dark interior of the café a voice calls, “I suppose you kids want me to serve you out there.”
    Isora, slipping between the boys, says, “Sorry, Al. I was looking at the empty buildings.”
    Al has short black hair cut in a pageboy bob that Harper always thinks would suit a little girl better than an old woman. The flabby skin under her jutting jaw wobbles as she talks. “Yeah, well, get used to it. There’ll be a few more when the mill shuts down completely. And one of them will be right here.”
    Harper says, “You mean...right here, at the café?”
    Al, who wears a baggy green sweater and black sweatpants that balloon around her thighs, nods. “I’m closing in a month or two.”
    â€œYou can’t close,” says Harper. “Al’s has been here forever. My dad used to come here when he was a kid.”
    â€œAnd I used to serve him when I was a kid. Your grandpa used to come in before that, you know, and my dad used to serve him. But now...well, you’re about my best customers. And while I’m always happy to see you – really, I am – you don’t bring in enough for me to live on. P’raps I should never have taken the old place on, ’cept it seemed the thing to do when Pa passed away, to make it a third generation of Al’s running the show, even if this Al is really Alice and some people think I’m strange being called Al.”
    â€œWe think you’re a lovely Al,” says Isora.
    â€œThank you, honey pie. And I think you’re lovely customers.” Al sighs, then says briskly, “I suppose you want your tea, like usual?”
    Isora nods. “Please.”
    Al talks over her shoulder as she busies herself behind the counter. “Two years ago I hit sixty–”
    â€œWe had a party for you,” Isora puts in.
    Al pauses in her work and turns,