by Bill Higgs
“That’s two dollars and eighty-eight cents.” Anna Belle pulled back the handle on the register, ringing the bell and allowing the drawer to spring open.
The shopper rummaged in her worn handbag. “I’m . . . so sorry. I’m a bit short. I’ll put the pinto beans back.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Anna Belle slid the can into a paper bag along with the other purchases. “I think Grover put the peanut butter on sale this week, so you’ve got just enough.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Stacy. We really appreciate it.”
Anna Belle handed her customer a few coins and the paper bag. “No problem at all. It’s been a delight to see you today. Oh, have you met Mavine Osgood?”
The woman turned and faced Mavine. Young. Pregnant. Exactly as Gladys had described her.
There was an awkward pause. The younger woman looked up and down before offering, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Osgood. I’m . . . JoAnn. JoAnn Alexander.”
Mavine felt a wash of emotion and a surprising chill. The armload of groceries needed both hands, so she merely nodded as she placed her purchases on the counter.
“Good to meet you . . . too.” She tried to smile. Tried very hard.
Anna Belle took the items from Mavine’s hands and lined them up. “JoAnn’s husband, Cornelius, will be running the new Zipco station.”
“So I hear.” Mavine looked for any sign of pleasure in JoAnn and found none. “When do you . . . expect to open?”
“Soon, Cornelius says.” JoAnn slung her own purse onto her shoulder, tucked the grocery bag under her opposite arm, and moved awkwardly toward the door. “Very soon . . . he says.”
Mavine wasn’t sure, but thought she saw a lump rise in JoAnn’s throat.
“I’ll get that for you, Mrs. Alexander.” Anna Belle had already stepped from behind the counter and opened the door.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stacy. And please thank Mr. Stacy for us as well.” JoAnn hesitated for a moment. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Osgood.”
Mavine, her hands finally free, gave a feeble wave.
The air that blew in was as cold as Grover’s meat freezer. Along with her attitude, she realized. So this was the competition. The woman seemed harmless enough, sad even. Beans and Spam? Yet Virgil had seemed worried about the Zipco station. And he probably was right. . . .
“Mavine?” Anna Belle was behind the counter again, and had already checked and bagged her groceries. “One dollar and seventy-six cents. You okay, Mavine?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” She handed over the dollar bill and squeezed the little coin purse for the balance. Nickels and pennies fell onto the counter, with one rolling off onto the floor.
“Sorry. I’m . . .”
“I’ll get it, Mavine.” Anna Belle scooped the coins into her hand, giving back a dime and a penny in change. “Why don’t you go get some rest before Virgil gets home. You look like you’ve had a long, hard day.”
“I think I will, Anna Belle.” Yet another hard day.
CORNELIUS WAS ENJOYING his breakfast, a fine morning meal of his usual fried Spam and soft-scrambled brown eggs. JoAnn had learned to make good coffee, and his glass of Tang, while not quite orange juice, was tasty. She usually drank canned apple juice and ate bacon instead of the saltier canned meat that he preferred.
“Neil,” she said, “I’m so relieved the telephone is finally in. Just in case . . .” She spread her fingers on her expanding middle. “Just in case something were to happen.”
“Like what? The doctor says you’re doing just fine.”
“Well, I always worry.”
JoAnn worried really well. She worried about the baby; she worried about their new service station; she worried their trailer would roll down the hillside into the creek. Someday, they’d build their dream house right here: a modern brick split-level with a front porch. But for now, be it ever so humble, this was home for Cornelius and JoAnn.
“Everything will be all right, JoAnn.”
“Promise?”
“Trust me.”
Cornelius was gratified to sit behind a real desk instead of their rickety dinette, even if the massive pile of papers in front of him still left him frustrated and unclear where to begin. He’d spent a full day back in early December arranging for a plumber, a septic tank specialist, an electrician, and the telephone company to take care of the details. These things were needed for both the mobile home and the business, of course, but no, it couldn’t be all done at once, they said. It seemed that the electrician had to arrange for a pole to be moved, the plumber and the septic man both had to dig ditches, and everybody expected to be paid on the spot. The building and the gasoline pumps couldn’t be built until everything else was in place, and a station with no building and no gasoline for sale was just a lot of bills, invoices, and bank notices. Which was precisely what he’d been looking at as the New Year dawned.
But now, at the end of January, and with another advance from the friendly Zipco people, he had a building, lights, hot water, and restrooms. And telephones. The gasoline pumps and their underground tanks would still need to wait until a thaw, as the ground was now solidly frozen. He’d waited this long; what were a few more weeks? As long as he was open before the baby came, they’d be fine.
Today was his day to hire a mechanic, and a friend from high school was his prime candidate. Last he’d heard, the man had gotten married and moved to Quincy. Cornelius was reaching for the phone when it rang.
“Neil, it’s JoAnn. The toilet is leaking again and you need to fix it. Now. When an expectant mother has to go she has to go. Now.”
“Why don’t you come here and use the restroom at the station?”
JoAnn sighed. “Neil.” Her words were rapid and clipped. “Can we at least have a working toilet in our own home?”
“I’ll fix it. Yes, now.” Couldn’t at least one thing go right? He tossed the phone book on the desk, knocking several items to the floor. Why did he get the impression his reception at the pink trailer would be as cold as the draft that blew under his door?
Three hours, a shower, and a change of clothes later, the bathroom in their mobile home was patched but functional. He picked up the phone again and gave the operator the number for his old friend Wrenchy. Several rings later, Wrenchy’s wife, Janet, answered. No, Paul—Cornelius had never known his given name—wasn’t there right now, but he was hoping to be out of prison on good behavior soon. Could Cornelius maybe call back in a few weeks? He wished them good fortune and hung up the phone.
It was now early afternoon, and he was hungry and tired. He’d lost the entire morning, and still had no mechanic, no parking lot, but only a pile of bills several inches thick on a used gray metal desk that no longer seemed quite the luxury it did just a few hours ago. At least the place had a roof, and he had heat from the bottled gas stove in the corner. Whatever. He might as well go home and check on JoAnn and have some lunch.
He jumped at the knock. It wouldn’t be JoAnn—she would call first. “Come in!”
The door opened slowly to a tall, slender woman clutching a purse. Behind her, and somewhat shorter and less imposing, stood a stocky and balding man holding a brown grocery sack with a slight stain on the bottom. The apron he wore was blowing about in the chilly January air, and looked as if it may have been white at one point but hadn’t been washed in weeks. The woman was first to speak.
“Hello! You must be Mr. Alexander?”
Cornelius hesitated for a moment, and then remembered Customer Relations 101 from business school—and page thirty-four of the Zipco handbook. “That’s right, Cornelius Alexander. The Third. My wife calls me Neil, but you may call me Cornelius. Please come in.” He stood and reached for her offered hand, wondering how they had learned his name.
“I’m Anna Belle Stacy, and this is my husband, Grover. I—we—run Stacy’s Grocery up on the corner. We’ve met your wife, JoAnn, but we’d like to welcome you to Eden Hill as well, Mr. Alexander.”
“Thank you.” Grover and Anna Belle, wasn’t it? The woman was pleasant enough, smartly attired in a light-blue tailored suit. Her husband, who had yet to speak, was at least smiling.
Anna Belle continued, “We have a little gift for you and JoAnn to help you feel at home. If there’s anything we can do to make this time easier for you, just let us know.”
Grover held out the bag, still smiling. “I hope you like venison biscuits. We have more back at the store.”
Cornelius managed another smile, thanked them kindly, and took the greasy bag from Grover’s outstretched hand.
“We’ll be going along now,” said Anna Belle, “but do come see us at the store sometime. JoAnn told us about your upcoming new arrival. Congratulations to you both!”
“Thank you.” Cornelius nodded and waved, but they were already gone. He looked at the bag of venison biscuits and whatever else it was and placed one hand beneath it to catch a drip before it landed on his trousers. The liquid looked like motor oil. Maybe this Grover fellow was selling this stuff wholesale to that rinky-dink service station across the street . . .
Across the street! He set the bag on a shop towel, wiped his hands on another, grabbed his coat and hat, and hurried out.
“Name’s Welby, Mr. Alexander, just Welby. I saw Grover and Anna Belle over at your place. I hope they made you feel welcome here in Eden Hill.”
“Please just call me Cornelius, Welby. And the Stacys were very warm indeed,” he offered. “In fact, in a roundabout way, they suggested I come over. I noticed you had just finished with a customer and thought I might have a chat with you.”
“Me? How can I be of help to you, Mr. Alexan . . . Cornelius?”
“You’re the mechanic here?”
“That’s right. Have been for years.”
“Then I’d like to make you an offer.”
“An offer?” Welby wiped his hands on a rag. “And what would that be?”
“I’d like you to come and work for me at the new Zipco Super Service. You’d be working for a nationally recognized brand, with the possibility of advancement. I’ll offer a week’s paid vacation and a competitive salary—and we provide Zipco uniforms complete with a hat.”
Welby smiled. “Why would I leave Virgil? I’m very happy here, and I can take off and go fishing on a nice day if I want to. I can even take Vee Junior with me.”
“I’ll pay you 25 percent more than what Mr. Osgood is paying you. I need a good mechanic like you.”
Welby grinned. “Well, I’m not sure you know how much that is, but Virgil has always taken good care of me, just like his father before him. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Alexander, but I’ll just stay with Virgil.”
“Will you think about it?”
“Already did. You seem like a fine man, Mr. Alexander, but Virgil and Mavine and Vee Junior are like family to Alma and me. I hope you’ll have family like that someday. Is there something else I can help you with?”
Cornelius hadn’t expected this, and it took him several seconds to manage a courteous smile. “Well, thanks anyway.” As an afterthought, he added, “Would you by chance have a half-inch bolt to fit a toilet flange?”
“No, we’re fresh out. Sorry. You might check at the tractor shop on the other side of town. They carry a line of hardware. Farm equipment, you know.”
Virgil cleaned a spot on the front window of Osgood’s with a shop towel. The dirt wouldn’t give up willingly, so he used the same spray bottle he used on windshields. Several pulls of the trigger later, and the grime relaxed its grip and came off on the cloth. No customer was at the pump, but Welby was having a long and extended conversation with someone. The glass still wasn’t as transparent as he’d like, but he could make out some details.
Welby was speaking to a younger man; seemed to have a ducktail haircut. After the conversation, the man walked across the road to the Zipco station and opened the front door.
Cornelius Alexander. Why had he been talking to Welby? Was he spying? Trying to find a crack or two in Osgood’s armor?
He’d heard of such things. As soon as the old feed store lot was sold last fall, Virgil called his Army buddy Mac, who ran a service station up in a city a couple of hours away. He’d run into him at a convention several years back, and Mac had been through a rough stretch. Three different stations in as many years, all of which had failed. “Competition nearly put me under,” he’d said. “Don’t let the other guy even get near you.”
But then again Mac was also on his third marriage. One for each station, it seemed. But was there any wisdom in his words?
And more frightening still, was there a connection between a bankrupt business and a marriage on the rocks? No, he couldn’t let it happen. He just couldn’t.
Welby came back in through the side door, closing it quickly behind him. He was grinning, as usual, and whistling a catchy tune. Virgil was waiting, and not smiling.
“Was that who I think it was?”
The mechanic walked toward the Warm Morning stove in the corner of the garage and rubbed his hands together over the front. “Cornelius Alexander, if that’s who you mean. Nice fellow.”
“What was he doing over here? Sneaking around?”
“He had a question, and I gave him an answer. That’s all. And, no, he wasn’t sneaking anywhere.”
Virgil hesitated. “Welby, I’m concerned about the competition the Zipco will bring, and the last thing I need is to have him poking around Osgood’s.”
“And I’m concerned about you, Virgil.” He poured two cups of coffee from the big percolator and handed one to Virgil. “You’ve always been good-natured and easygoing. Not much ever got you excited or worried. But lately you seem to be obsessed by this Zipco thing. You’re unraveling like a bad fan belt.”
“But I have to be worried. My friend Mac says . . .”
“I’m not worried about what Mac or anybody else says. You’re letting yourself get worked up over somebody else’s experience, somebody else’s reaction. Relax, Virgil. You’re better than that.”
Welby’s words were deceptively calm but had the ring of truth. Deep truth. The trouble was, he wasn’t ready to hear it. Not yet, anyway.
But he trusted his friend and mechanic. Welby had been through more than he had in life, and knew him better than anyone except Mavine. If Welby said he was going overboard with this competition thing, he was probably right. But still . . .
“Welby, I just need to know that you’re with me in this. That you’re on my team.”
Welby smiled, with a little bit of a wink. “I’m with you more than you know.”
After two greasy biscuits and a quick telephone call to JoAnn, Cornelius locked the door of the Zipco and walked the two blocks across town.
Ray’s Farm Equipment Sales and Service consisted of little more than a wooden barn and a cluttered, weed-filled lot scattered with tractors, hay balers, and various other agricultural machines. Ray’s advertised, We service all brands, and the varieties littering the yard seemed to prove it. He should have thought of this before—not much difference between a car and a tractor. They both had tires, an engine, and needed mechanics.
Nobody was at the counter, but he could hear voices coming from a room in the back. The door was ajar, so he walked in to find several young men gathered, all dressed in work shirts. A game of pool was in full swing on a large, rickety table.
He watched for a few seconds and approached the nearest chap. “Who’s your best man?” he asked. The fellow pointed to a lanky player who, with cue in hand, was about to place the number four ball in the side pocket. “That’s Charlie . . . He’s the best one here.”
Cornelius introduced himself to the player, a likable fellow about his own age. “Charlie,” he said, “I’m prepared to make you an exciting offer to get in on the ground floor of something big. Let’s chat over a friendly game. A bet of, say, five dollars?”
Two hours later, Cornelius returned to his makeshift office a very happy Zipco owner. He was fi
ve dollars poorer but had found his half-inch bolt and had hired his new mechanic. He hadn’t bothered to say the Zipco station was behind schedule; it didn’t seem necessary. Charlie would be starting in three weeks—well before the grand opening. And he’d gotten him for much less than what he thought he’d have to pay.
Across the street at Osgood’s, Virgil was positioning a jack under the rear of Madeline Crutcher’s Buick when Arlie’s farmhand poked his head in the doorway. “Is Welby here?”
“What can I do for you, Charlie?” Welby said as he walked out from the storeroom with a brake cylinder.
Charlie took his hat off and scratched at his head. “Well, turns out I need to learn something about engines.”
Virgil placed the wheel in the corner. “Arlie got you working on his tractors now?”
“It’s not Mr. Prewitt. He works me hard, but he’s been good to me. Strangest thing, I stopped in at Ray’s for a couple rounds of eight ball with the boys, and some guy comes in, asks who’s best, loses five bucks to me, and then offers me a job fixing cars. Don’t quite get it, but I’m not about to argue.”
Virgil felt the blood rise to his face, and he started to say a few choice words when Welby cut him off with a chuckle. “Sure, Charlie. I’ll get you started with the basics.”
Sunday morning had turned to midday, the organist had finally finished her postlude, and Reverend Caudill stood at the back of the sanctuary to greet his congregation and offer his personal benediction. The crowd was smaller than usual; the bitter cold had no doubt kept some of his parishioners at home. Unfortunately, Madeline Crutcher was not one of them.
Grover Stacy took the pastor’s hand in both of his, his whole face animated and beaming. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Reverend, but you’ve been in fine form lately. There are probably some who expect to be shouted at, but I’m getting a lot more out of your sermons. Really forward thinking. I’ve got some things to chew on over the next few days.” He pumped the handshake one last time, then slipped out, as Anna Belle was pulling him by the sleeve. Reverend Caudill was delighted, but perplexed. He’d never heard such effusions from anyone, let alone Grover.
