By: Elizabeth Strout
In the early afternoon on a Saturday in June, Jack Kennison put his sunglasses on, got into his sports car with the top down, strapped the seatbelt over his shoulder and across his large stomach and drove to Portland – almost an hour away – to buy a gallon of whiskey, rather than bump into Olive Kitteridge at the grocery store here in Crosby, Maine. Or even that other woman who he had seen twice in the store, as he stood holding his whiskey, while she talked about the weather. The weather. That woman – he could not remember her name – was a widow as well.