But by then, Jeter had already known he was a writer. That’s why, in spite of being part of the picture, he had been able to see their silhouette from the shore. The long, wide boat returning to land at sunset. The boy in the wheelchair sitting ramrod-straight, while the old man running the motor wept quietly into his handkerchief.
Slim had stood and turned to go when Sidney Garfinkel, a tall, serious man in his late seventies, held out his hand to her. He was handsomely dressed and spoke with a slight Dutch accent, using her given name.
“Evangeline, if you should ever become bored or lonely, I’m in the book. Perhaps we could have a coffee.”
Wood suddenly went on full-scale alert. He turned to Brundidge, speaking a little too loud. “What the hell is that?”
“What?”
“Sidney Garfinkel. Asking my mother out.”
“Come on, keep your voice down. Mr. G. doesn’t mean anything.”
Slim attempted to cover. “Sidney, I would love to, but you, of all people, understand that it’s just not possible right now.”
“Of course. I only wanted you to know that I’m here.”
“Thank you.”
Slim let go of his hand and crossed to her son, who was now standing with Milan.
She spoke softly, “He’s been lonely since Esther died, son. That’s all.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
She put her hand on Wood’s cheek. “I know you are.”
Slim moved on. Milan came over and stood next to Wood.
“You’re exhausted. Why don’t you go upstairs and have a nap?”
“Because I don’t want a nap, Milan. Why don’t you have a nap?”
“You don’t have to be so hateful.”
Wood waited, then said sincerely, “You know, there was a time when I believed that was true.”
Milan shook her head, giving up, and returned to the kitchen. Mavis attempted to lighten the mood, cupping Charlie’s chin with her hand. “Charlie McIlmore, you are just the most adorable thing I have ever seen. I should just take out my savings right now and send you to Hollywood.” Then leaning closer, “By the way, anytime your mom and dad won’t let you have the car, you come over and drive your Aunt Mavis’s big ol’ Oldsmobile Cutlass.”
Brundidge said, “Oh, yeah, you’re set now. That’s a real babe magnet, Charlie. You might as well just douse yourself with gasoline.” Charlie laughed. Mavis didn’t.
A few hours later, Slim, Milan, and Wood were saying good-bye to the last of the mourners. Elizabeth and Charlie were helping Mavis and Eleanor put away the buffet. A woman in her thirties with a melodic southern accent hung on at the door.
“We love you.”
Milan answered sweetly, “We love you, too.”
Milan was gifted at matching the exact intent and level of emotion of whoever was speaking to her. Her mistakes in superficial social interaction were almost nonexistent. Her mother-in-law, who had no patience for such things, gently guided the woman onto the porch.
“Thank you again for coming and goodnight.”
After the door was closed, it was quiet. Finally, Milan said, “Well, I just need to get my list of everybody who brought something. I think that went really well.”
Charlie headed for his coat. “Dad, can I drive?”
Elizabeth intercepted him. “Not so fast, Charlie-bell. You can’t leave yet; I have a very important announcement.”
Milan smoothed her daughter’s hair. “Lils, don’t you think we’ve had enough excitement for one day?”
Slim said, “I told her it would be all right. After all, she has to go back to school tomorrow and anyway, I think her grandfather would like sharing his day with her.”
Charlie was growing impatient. “Well, what is it?”
Elizabeth positioned herself in the center of the room. Wood was starting to feel uneasy.
She began, “Everything has been so hectic, I haven’t had a chance to tell you all, that…I’ve found someone I want to spend my life with. His name is Luke Childs and…I know it’s kinda sudden…” Elizabeth strengthened her resolve, lest anyone think this was not a done deal, “but at the end of next summer, we’re getting married!”
For the first time that day, Wood looked at his wife. She returned his gaze, stunned.
Mavis was in her old bathrobe, stirring pasta as it boiled on the stove. Her mongrel dog, Chester, was curled up in a chair. It had been a long day, and considering Elizabeth’s news, she was pretty sure it was not over. Sure enough, she heard a car screech into the driveway, followed by a door slam. Mavis braced herself for Milan’s entry, which did not disappoint. No sooner had she turned to watch the door than Milan burst through it, throwing her coat across the sofa and digging in her purse as she headed straight toward Mavis.
“Judas H. Priest! What’s next? I mean, what are the odds that my child would go away to college and fall in love with her child? About the same as me getting a fucking tattoo?” Mavis stared at Milan, who rarely swore. Milan said, “I’m sorry, I know we were going to stop saying the f-word, but I can’t do it today, okay?”
“I wasn’t gonna stop saying the f-word.”
Milan, who seldom smoked, retrieved a cigarette and lit it. “Well, I was. And I was gonna stop smoking, too, but I can’t do that now, either.”
“It is a state school, Milan. And she does live in this state. That your daughter would meet her son is not that odd.”
Milan began painting the air with her cigarette. “Meet? Maybe. But fall in love? It’s odd!” Suddenly she noticed the pasta. “What’s that? I thought you were gonna stop eating carbs.”
“Not if you’re gonna keep saying fuck.”
Milan grabbed the spoon and tasted it. “That needs sugar. It’s bad enough to be losing my daughter, but to her son?”
“Have you said anything to Elizabeth?”
“Not yet.”
“Good, because we’re talking about a high school romance that happened over twenty years ago. Let it go.”
“Let it go? Are you insane? I can’t do that. He was obsessed with her. He still thinks about her. He still talks about her—”
Mavis lied, “Not to me.” Milan gave her a doubtful look. Mavis relented, “Okay, maybe once in a while, when he’s drunk.” There was a pause, then, “I bet she doesn’t even look good anymore.”
“Well, why don’t we drive there and see? I should’ve done it years ago.”
“No. Trust me. That is not a good idea.”
“Of course not. Because you know she looks good.”
Milan began pacing. “We’re just so vulnerable right now. We barely even speak.”
“He’s turned forty. You know, men go through changes, too.”
“Oh, please! That’s just a bunch of psychobabble people use to sell magazines. I’m talking about my life here, Mavis, and I am telling you, we cannot be around this woman for the next fifty years!” Milan threw herself down, almost disappearing into an overstuffed chair.
Mavis sighed, “All right, what do you want to do?”
Milan put her head in her hands and stared at her Christian Louboutin pumps. “What difference does it make? Dr. Mac’s dead. Sometimes I think he was the only thing keeping brakes on Wood. Now she’s coming back, and I’m losing my baby, too. I feel like Job, you know, from the Bible.”
“I know where Job is from.” Neither of them spoke for a moment, then Mavis said, “Do you really think it would matter that much to Elizabeth if she knew that her daddy had a…” Mavis searched for the right word. “…an affair with her fiancé’s mother?”
Milan shot out of the chair. “An affair! Why do you have to call it that? You’re making it sound way too important and glamorous.”
“They were together for over a year.”
“That’s a fling. Okay? That’s how we should put it.”
“We?”
“Yes.” Milan was pacing now. “Elizabeth has to know. I mean, we can’t just pretend it isn’t a probl
em. This boy obviously hasn’t told her or he doesn’t know himself. And I can’t do it because she might think I have some kind of ax to grind.” Milan stubbed out her cigarette and gave Mavis her sweetest smile. “It has to be you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my best friend. And this is incredibly awkward. And Elizabeth adores you.” Milan loved to say “adore.” Somehow it seemed more sophisticated than “love.” She continued, “And you can do it in a good way. Maybe you could even, you know…” Her voice trailed off. “…make it seem funny.”
Mavis stared at Milan, hating the whole idea of it. Then she picked up the last half of a key lime pie, debated for a moment, and threw it in the trash.
A few miles across town, Charlie was steering the wheel of his dad’s ancient Austin-Healy as Wood, in the passenger seat, wept softly.
“She’s just getting married, Dad. It’s not like you’ll never see her again.”
“It’s been a helluva day, Charlie. A helluva day. You still have that handkerchief I gave you at your grandpa’s funeral?”
Charlie dug in his pocket. “Sorry. Guess I lost it.”
Wood picked up a scarf from the center console, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose on it.
Charlie said, “I think that was Elizabeth’s scarf.”
“That’s okay. I’ll have it dry-cleaned.”
“It seems like the men in this family sure do cry a lot.”
“Nah. That’s just because the women never cry. They make us look bad.” Charlie grinned, keeping his eyes on the road.
CHAPTER 6
Earl Brundidge Jr. had himself a “situation”—his favorite term for whatever happened to be the problem of the moment. Well, actually, it was more of a problem for Paris—but anything that affected his town affected him. He hadn’t been able to sleep all night. Just thinking about yesterday’s depressing, funereal ride through the downtown had left him tossing and fuming. To Brundidge, it was no coincidence that Dr. Mac and so many other Parisiennes of his generation were dying at the same time as the stores on Main Street. No accident at all that the people most worth knowing, maybe of all the people who ever lived, were disappearing right alongside the stuff most worth keeping. Now maybe nobody else cared about that, but Earl Brundidge sure as hell did. That’s why he had picked up his first cup of coffee of the day at Digger’s Truck Stop & Autel, a morning ritual, and was now circling the Monster that seemed to be destroying everything in its path. While the remodel was under construction, he had refused to even look in its direction. But now he had decided to “know thy enemy,” to meet head-on the Massive Structure that had just become one of the largest Fed-Mart stores in America. It was even more butt-ugly than he had feared (breathing new optimism into the maxim, “If you build it, they will come”), with its cinder-block walls, tar/gravel composition roof, and parking lot that was so humongous, it was rumored they might have to install a tram. Of course, you couldn’t put a lot of stock in small-town rumors. At one time, there was a rumor that he had died from botched hair-plug surgery. He attributed that one to his ex-wife, Darlene, who would certainly want to remind people that on top of his being dead, he was also bald. He wasn’t bald, really. He just had a receding hairline.
Brundidge exited the parking lot and drove up an adjacent hill, where he stopped his van and looked down on the sea of people, who were now flowing from every car-lined tributary toward the two-hundred-thousand-square-foot superstore. No question about it, this was a Disneyland kinda deal. Just like he knew it would be.
Years ago, he had done everything in his power to prevent the Mammoth Retailer from encroaching even on the perimeter of his beloved hometown. Though Paris itself was relatively small, it was the county seat to scores of even tinier communities populated by an approximate quarter million people, thereby constituting an “ideal trade area” for the Fed-Mart Corporation of America. Brundidge and Jeter had attempted to rouse the citizenry through letters to the editor, but in the end Fed-Mart purchased land just outside the city limits where the townspeople had no jurisdiction. Not that the townspeople seemed to care. They liked the easy, one-stop shopping, competitive prices, and miles and miles of product choices. And now, except for the local merchants, most people were proud that their city had been selected by Fed-Mart as a place deserving of one of its superstores.
Brundidge already knew the drill. As soon as Fed-Mart moved in, the Main Street died. Family businesses that had been there for more than a hundred years, entire blocks of merchants who specialized in, not thousands of products, but “specific” products, and knew everything there was to know about them, were edged out. It didn’t seem to matter that Main Street, the very heart and soul of a town’s business and social life, and the place where millions of veterans had been cheered when they returned home from war, was disappearing—this avenue of dreams, where little kids pressed their noses against snowy Christmas windows decorated with gleaming bicycles and mechanical Santas, the boulevard of beauty queens and marching bands who were handed their Andy Warhol fifteen minutes of fame by passing briefly through that magical spotlight on the most important street in their lives, the street that Jimmy Stewart, for crying out loud, had run down on his way to getting his family back in It’s a Wonderful Life—apparently, it didn’t matter to the people of Paris, Arkansas, or anywhere else that these things were going to be gone.
But it mattered to Earl Brundidge Jr. Oh, he wasn’t worried about himself. He was in the liquor business and luckily Fed-Mart didn’t sell liquor. This was much larger than him or his little enterprise. He savored the steaming, pungent aroma of Digger’s coffee, then sipped gingerly at the edge of the Styrofoam cup, careful not to spill any on his blue Zegna shirt. No, this was about America, and America was something Brundidge cared about deeply. That’s why he flew the flag every day outside his house and beverage office (he figured that was the least he could do since he’d been born too late for World War II, Korea, and Vietnam). That’s why he put his hand over his heart and sang every word of the national anthem at sporting events and why it always made him tear up (like the fourteen times he had watched The Lion King with his two little girls). That’s why he provided discounts on liquor to the local VFW and other veteran’s organizations and had almost single-handedly raised the money for a Vietnam Memorial statue. But it was his Fourth of July spectaculars that really put him on the map—not just with veterans, but with everybody who knew the place to be was Earl Brundidge’s cabin on the Champanelle River for the greatest fireworks display in Paris County. His was no cheap roadside stand show. Brundidge had actually contacted a member of the famous Italian fireworks family, the Gruccis, and received not only cases of their finest stuff but also advice and tips on the latest technology. Brundidge had a “man” for everything and Mr. Grucci was his man for fireworks; Digger Oliver, for gas and coffee; Wood, for free medical advice—yes, he was a hypochondriac; and Frank Lanier, Milan’s brother, for any stupid odd job nobody else would do.
People said Brundidge was never happier than when he was cooking for the masses. It didn’t matter if it was a catfish, dove, or quail feed, as long as the word feed was involved and hundreds of people showed up. He was like a redneck Martha Stewart, fussing over the jalapeño bean dip, making just the right selection of manly apron, smoking turkeys, roasting pigs, and dispensing free beer. He pulled out all the stops on entertainment, too, one year even getting Jimmy Buffett’s band. Jimmy himself would’ve been an additional fifteen thousand and that was the summer Darlene had left him and cleaned out his bank account.
Maybe women had not been good to Brundidge, but liquor had, and that’s why at Christmas, he and his two little girls made the rounds of the poorest houses in Paris, trying to give back, delivering toys, clothes, and groceries. He personally manned the soft drink stand for all the Paris home football games and had served as president of the Chamber of Commerce and the local Rotarians, as well as the Twentieth-Century Millennium Time Capsule Committee, and just abou
t any other community organization you could name (the Millennium Committee had been his toughest challenge, because everybody had something they thought deserved to go in the capsule).
There was no one more civic-minded, more America-minded than Earl Brundidge Jr. And he deeply resented the Giant, Greedy Monster that had come to eat up his town and possibly his country. Deeply resented that the best things about Main Street, and maybe the best things about America, were slowly dying. Deeply resented that Falkoff’s Drugstore and its red Naugahyde booths and cranky Mrs. Falkoff, with her crisp handkerchief, old-lady hairnet, and rouge-balled cheeks had already been replaced by strange “Stepford” people who wore loud purple vests and greeted arriving Fed-Mart shoppers with their phony, exaggerated smiles. He was particularly offended that Ione Falkoff’s cherry Cokes and ham sandwiches, individually grilled on a waffle iron, had been thrown over for a contraption that produced melted Cheez Whiz and Fritos. And he deeply resented that Mr. Elmer Tillman, possibly the finest appliance sales and repair person in all of Arkansas, a man who gave lifetime guarantees and would come to your house faster than paramedics to fix something, was now gone.
But most of all, Brundidge resented that Mr. Sidney Garfinkel, expert clothier and tailor extraordinaire, had been driven out—the tireless showman who featured each year in his window the most memorable ensembles of the season for men and women, painstakingly put together, not because they represented the latest fad knockoffs, but because they represented Sidney Garfinkel’s unimpeachable old-world taste. Here was a man who had served a youthful apprenticeship with Turnbull & Asser in London as well as been a procurer of fine fabrics for many of the top European clothiers, before returning to his native Brussels and being imprisoned by the Nazis. After the war, Sidney had arrived in America and taken a job with the Dillard’s department store chain and was assigned to Arkansas. On his drives between stores he became so enamored with the town of Paris and the plum blue hills around it, he and his wife eventually settled there.
Liberating Paris Page 5
