Stoney's Wife

The summer before I joined the Coast Guard, I worked at a gas station in Salisbury, MA. My boss was Dan Wolford. Dan had a blue, '53 Oldsmobile 88 convertible which his wife, Margo, kept most of the time. Margo was a stout, brash, blond woman who took great pains to ignore me. She would drop by the station from time to time, usually to argue with Dan about something, then drive off in a huff.

My first of several encounter with Stony's wife came one morning when she pulled up to the pumps in an old Ford pickup truck with the words “Stone's Dairy” stenciled on the doors. In the bed of the truck there were eight or ten cases of milk covered in ice. A steady stream of melt water was pouring out of the tailgate. The driver was a wispy, bedraggled, woman of about thirty-five. Before I had a chance to find out what she wanted, Dan came out and said, “That's okay Steve, I'll take care of her.” Apparently, they were acquainted.

Later I learned that she and her husband, Clyde Stone, owned the dairy. They pasteurized and bottled some of the milk and sold door to door. The rest they sold to the dairy coop. Over time I noticed that if Dan had the blue Olds and Stoney's wife showed up for gas, Dan and Stoney's wife would spend a few minutes in the back room, which was conveniently fitted with bunk beds. But, if Margo had the blue Olds, they would not visit the back room. Since it was none of my business, I resolved to avoid any involvement, but inevitably, I became an unwitting accomplice.

One afternoon when Margo kept the blue Olds for herself, Stoney's wife stopped by and got a tank of gas. Dan came back into the office while Stoney's wife made her way into the back room. Dan said, “Steve, be on the lookout for Margo. If you see her coming, bang on the wall.” What was I supposed to do? This was the man who paid my salary.

It was a slow day. From my seat in the office, I had a clear view to the north up US-1. A quarter of a mile up the road there was a cut-off to the left that led to a newly completed section of Interstate I-95. There was a traffic light at the intersection. After a few minutes I spotted the blue Olds coming down the cut-off. I jumped up and banged on the wall, then turned to see if maybe Margo had caught a red light. Unfortunately, she hadn't. She was less than a quarter of a mile away and closing fast. Margo must have noticed the old Ford pickup truck abandoned at the gas pump and suspected the worst, because she didn't park outside where she normally did, but drove right up onto the lift next to the door to the back room. Dan and Stony's wife were trapped.

Although both were fully clothed when they emerged from the back room, they had obviously been up to something. They might as well have worn name tags reading, “Fornicator” and “Fornicatee”. There was a lot of shouting, denials, crying, threats, etc. Margo, who seldom ever spoke to me, identified me as Dan's SOB of a lookout. She was right of course.

After a few days things cooled down. Stoney's wife never came around again, and the summer passed without further incident.

I never did learn Stoney's wife's first name.