by Bill Higgs
The waiter held the chair for Mavine and seated her gently into place. Virgil plopped into the seat across from her. They were each given menus with colorful pictures of the offerings for the evening.
She looked at the menu in some disbelief, and then at Virgil with astonishment. How could she tell her friends about her birthday, which turned out to be celebrated . . . here?
When the waiter returned, Virgil ordered the same meal for each of them. Something called a Big Boy platter: a double-decker cheeseburger with fries and a milkshake. The house specialty, the young man had said. Mavine kept her hands in her lap, her gaze fixed on the mustard stain beside the pepper shaker.
After the waiter had gone, she lifted her eyes toward Virgil, with a tear working its way out in sadness, disappointment . . . anger, maybe. She wasn’t sure.
And then something amazing happened.
“Happy birthday, Mavine.” Virgil had somehow pulled two candles and holders from a pocket in his suit, and lit them with a match. “I hope this is intimate and romantic enough. I’m sorry if I don’t know exactly what that means, but I hope this is something you’ll enjoy. Welby said this was his favorite restaurant in Quincy.”
In the candlelight she looked at her husband. There was something tender and innocent about his face. “It’s lovely,” she said. No, it wasn’t white tablecloths and seven courses, but it was her birthday with her husband, who cared enough about her to take her to dinner.
Later, Virgil gave her a little wrapped box with a pair of gloves inside. And the waiter brought a modest cake with a small number of candles—nowhere near forty. Before they left, Virgil put a dime in the jukebox and played “Crazy” twice in a row. And he held her hands, just like they used to do when they were first married.
Patsy Cline wasn’t a string quartet, but for Mavine Osgood, a double cheeseburger and fries might just as well have been truffles and caviar.
CORNELIUS SHOOK HIS HEAD and drummed his fingers on the only clear spot on his messy desk. He’d agreed to something called “Work Day” at the First Evangelical Baptist Church, and while it felt right, he was trying to figure out why. And where had he seen something like this before? The Zipco manual was somewhere under the Goodyear catalog and the overdue electric bill. Tossing the papers aside, he found the thick notebook and began flipping through it. Yes, there it was in black-and-white, right in chapter four: “Community Relations.”
“The successful Zipco owner will involve himself in his community. Join a civic club, support youth activities, sponsor a Little League team, and become involved in a local church or synagogue.” Yes, he’d made the right decision. And the church was certainly local—right next door, in fact. They were neighbors. Hopefully JoAnn would be pleased with him for this. And he certainly hadn’t given her much to celebrate lately.
Reverend Caudill had been persistent; he’d give him that. The pastor had paid several visits to the station, checking on progress, which remained at a standstill. He’d also come by their mobile home a couple of times and had encouraged them to visit on Sundays. But in spite of the pastor’s invitation, he remained wary. His father held a poor opinion of preachers, a viewpoint Cornelius had no doubt inherited. Only in it for the bucks, he’d said.
This particular reverend certainly didn’t seem that way. A bit stuffy in his black suit, but friendly and agreeable. A good neighbor. Disarming. And he’d never mentioned money. Not even once.
But he had talked about service. Work Day was tomorrow, and a number of the men of Eden Hill would be coming, he’d said during his visit earlier today. “And bring a paintbrush,” he’d added in parting, peering over the top of his bifocals.
Virgil usually looked forward to Fridays, and this one was promising indeed. Three cups of Mavine’s black coffee had cleared any lingering cobwebs, and the double helping of scrambled eggs and bacon from her iron skillet would hold him until at least noon. Vee was actually out the door on time—and remembered to close it behind him—and a fresh pair of khaki work trousers hung taut on their stretcher. All was right with the world.
Until Mavine sat down across the table from him.
“Virgil?”
He gulped and looked around. “Yes?”
“The chicken coop. Will you please paint it? I got the eggs this morning, and I was ashamed of what it looked like. You promised to fix it up last fall, but you said it got too cold. Well, spring is here.”
He drew a long-overdue breath, grateful that his most recent failure involved only paint and a brush, not romantic flair. And he had promised. Winter had been cold, hard, and seemingly endless, but the snow had been gone for over two weeks now, and crocuses were beginning to poke up by the back porch. Buds had finally appeared on the trees, and patches of green were popping up in the brown yard. Mavine was right. But ashamed of a chicken coop?
“Okay, Mavine, I’ll do it next weekend if the weather holds.”
“Can you please do it tomorrow? Vee can help.”
“Tomorrow is church Work Day, and I promised Reverend Caudill I’d be there.”
Which he had. Every third Saturday in April was Work Day at the First Evangelical Baptist Church, when Reverend Caudill would round up every man he could find, pass out paint, hammers, and buckets, and see to it that whatever needed fixing was repaired. Grover would bring a radio and tune in The Saturday Morning Gospel Barn on WNTC, and while the minister preferred hymns to twang, he wouldn’t complain as long as the work got done. Since the women stayed home, the men usually didn’t argue either.
Unfortunately for Virgil, this was not an acceptable excuse for Mavine. “As long as you have a paintbrush in your hand, you can put a coat on the henhouse after Work Day is over. I’ve already talked to Reverend Caudill. He said you’ll be finished right after lunch, and that you’ll have some help.”
Paintbrush? “I’d planned to try for some white bass at the lake with Welby. Spring run, you know.” He went for sympathy and found none. Mavine’s upturned eyebrow assured him that when he got home tomorrow afternoon, the outbuilding would be waiting, and so would she.
“Tomorrow.”
“But Welby—”
“Welby will be digging up Alma’s flower beds tomorrow afternoon. I’ve already spoken with her too.”
“Okay, Mavine. I’ll paint the henhouse.” He sighed. It was a disappointment, but he took some comfort in knowing Welby was having the exact same conversation at that moment with Alma. With that, he put on his cap and headed down the hill.
Welby was already hard at work, as usual, and not alone. Arlie was at the station too, which was less usual—Virgil expected him to be plowing his cornfield for spring planting, or more likely, fishing. Reverend Caudill was also there, no doubt hoping to recruit more workers for the next day. All three men were examining the back of Arlie’s truck, which had been in a fight with something and lost. The rear bumper was bent outward at a sharp angle.
“Frank hung it on a stump chasin’ that old brown sow of mine. Shoulda whupped him good,” Arlie was saying, “not for tearin’ up the truck but for runnin’ the hog. He knows better than that.”
“Patience, Arlie.” The pastor stood to one side to avoid an oily puddle. “Have you tried talking to the boy about his poor behavior?”
“I’ll talk to him about it with a belt behind the barn! That fool kid . . .”
Welby, under the truck with his feet sticking out, interrupted. “Arlie, your bumper was already bent, so don’t blame it on Frank. You’re going to need a new one. It doesn’t look like anything else is hurt, so I can bend that bracket back in shape with a torch and a pipe wrench.” He rolled his mechanic’s creeper out from under the truck.
“So I can count on each of you fine gentlemen tomorrow morning?” the pastor asked, looking at each one in turn. “We have just the sort of work to be done that you do so well.”
“What’s that, Reverend, bending metal? Arlie’s sure good at that, now.” Grover had wandered in unnoticed, munching on something
wrapped in a paper napkin.
“Hey, fellows, it is my truck, and I’m gonna have to pay for it.” Arlie was red in the face, but his language was surprisingly restrained. Apparently Reverend Caudill’s presence kept the color out of Arlie’s speech.
“Just kidding, Arlie.” Grover wiped his mouth with the remainder of the napkin. “Stop by the store for some venison sausage when you’re done. Anna Belle baked some biscuits to go with it. On the house!”
Reverend Caudill, who was not about to allow his question to be dodged successfully, repeated it as a statement. “So. I will expect all of you good men to be at the church at nine o’clock. Sharp. And Virgil?”
“Yes?” Virgil had been standing by the arc welder, watching the proceedings and slurping his coffee.
“Bring a paintbrush. A big one. I’ve already talked to Mavine.”
“Best I can tell,” said Welby, munching on a pepper loaf sandwich, “the women just have it in for us.”
“How’s that?” asked Virgil, reaching for the jar of mustard. The two had walked over to Stacy’s Grocery for lunch and were relishing thick-sliced lunch meat with all the trimmings.
“None of them will be at Work Day. Alma said it’s because we do repair work much better than the women, and besides, they’ve just had their hair done and don’t want to get it all messed up.”
“Are they going to mop floors with their hair?” Grover pulled up a third chair as everyone laughed. “I think they just don’t want us showing them up. You boys want some of that venison sausage? Anna Belle has some left over.”
Welby assumed a nauseated look and waved his hands, while Virgil said simply, “No, thanks. Mavine piled on the bacon this morning, so I barely have room for lunch. By the way, where is Anna Belle?”
“Oh, she’s off to the beauty shop like the rest of them this afternoon. Got a lot to talk about when they all get together.”
Welby, who was beginning to show some color coming back into his face, seemed eager for the change of subject. “Probably talking about us, just like we talk about them on Thursday nights. Must have something to do with hair, I think.”
“You may be right,” Virgil brushed crumbs off his shirt. “Well, I’ve been given my marching orders for tomorrow. Painting something. What will you two be doing?”
“Reverend Caudill wants me to see about the motor on the furnace blower,” said Welby. “He said it squeaks at him during the sermon and it gets too cold if he turns it off. How about you, Grover?”
“Well, for some reason he thinks I’m just the one to clean out the gutters. Said he saw me on the roof putting up Anna Belle’s decorations last Christmas, so he knows I have a ladder. What he doesn’t know is that I was hanging on to it for dear life. We’re also going to bring over some cold cuts at lunchtime. Have to eat, you know.”
“You reckon Arlie’ll come this year?” Virgil asked.
They all looked at each other. “Hard to say.” Grover peered out the window. “You know how he gets sometimes.”
Reverend Caudill was the first to arrive for Work Day, and he headed straight for the sanctuary to turn up the thermostat by the baptistery. The ogre in the basement was a terrifying thing—an old coal furnace that had recently been converted to fuel oil. Fortunately, the pilot light was burning, so it came on as soon as he adjusted the dial. Good—the less time spent belowground the better. More than once, his Sunday sermon had been inspired by an unpleasant trip to the cellar. Few in the congregation knew the reverend’s heated homily last year about the three Hebrew children in the fiery furnace had been brought on by a balky and terrifying pilot light. Well. Inspiration is wherever you find it.
Welby walked in carrying a large box, followed by Virgil, whose hands were also full. “Welby, why don’t you go on down to the furnace room and see what you can do about the blower. I’ll just stay up here. It’s scary down there.”
“That’ll be fine,” answered Welby. “I brought some tools and an oilcan.”
Reverend Caudill smiled. “Excellent.” Welby would surely tame the screaming beast.
As the mechanic whistled his way down the steps, Virgil stepped up, waving a paintbrush.
Reverend Caudill grinned. “You, my friend, will work on the baptistery. This time I got the right kind of paint.”
“Is Arlie here yet?”
The minister hesitated. “Arlie probably won’t be coming. I think he’s attending to some other things today.”
“Probably fishing.” Virgil shook his head. “I’d hoped to go myself, but Mavine has asked me to do some work around the house this afternoon. She mention it to you?”
“She may have brought it up. But first, the baptistery.”
Virgil groaned under his breath. Painting was to him what a trip to the furnace room apparently was to the reverend: as near to hell as he ever wanted to get.
The preacher pointed him to the tank behind the pulpit, which had thoughtfully been emptied for the occasion. “Last year Arlie painted it for us—used something he got from the farm supply store. It all came off the first time we filled it up.”
Virgil remembered. For several weeks, the baptistery looked like it was filled with Ty-D-Bol. Today the tank was quite bare and empty, except for a round gallon can and some old newspapers. He read the label on the side of the container:
Waterproof Marine Enamel
Seafoam Aqua
Ideal for:
Swimming Pools
Outboard Motors
Boat Docks
Birdbaths
Shower Stalls
Stock Tanks
Not one word about baptisteries. He looked at the blotch on the lid, tilting it so the light was falling on the sample. The stuff was blue-green, the same color as Mavine’s blueberry-and-lime salad mold from last Sunday’s dinner. He hadn’t dared ask what was in that. The cover came off with the twist of a screwdriver, and he began to stir it with the little wooden paddle. Welby was downstairs whistling “Colonel Bogey March,” which echoed through the ductwork, and Reverend Caudill was in a spirited conversation with Grover and someone else outside the door.
And indeed the radio was the subject of the discussion. Remarkably, Grover had remembered to bring it, and the preacher was explaining the rules. “Remember, Grover, this is a house of worship. I want only clean and wholesome music played in here. No rock and roll. No rhythm and blues. I don’t want to hear anything by the Beverly Brothers or whatever they call themselves. And definitely no Elvis.”
“Absolutely, Reverend, we’ll leave it on WNTC all morning. Their gospel show is on until noon. Good music. None of that devil music you preach against. And besides, they have the daily devotional minute every morning after the farm news.”
“That will be fine, then. Off to work you go, gentlemen. I’ll get you started outside, and then be in my office catching up on a few things.”
Grover came into the sanctuary, where Virgil was preparing for his task. “I’ll bring you guys the radio to listen to in here, since there aren’t any outlets outside where I’ll be working. Just turn it up loud enough for us to hear.”
You guys?
“Thanks, Grover.” Virgil turned the device on to let it warm up. “Just look at this stuff.” He showed Grover the can of paint.
Grover read it over and whistled. “Ugly, ain’t it! Well, if it’s good enough for a ten-horsepower Evinrude, it ought to be able to stand one of Reverend Caudill’s dunkings! Anyway, I’ll be outside if you have any problem with the radio. Sometimes it quits playing and you have to slap the top of it.”
Grover disappeared outside, and Virgil set himself to the task at hand. The Statesmen Quartet was now singing “Mansion Over the Hilltop” on the radio, with a bass vocalist who rattled the window with every word. The music was pretty good, he had to admit. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad after all.
Better start in the back, below the painting of the Jordan River. He’d just dipped the brush into the paint when, as Grover predicted, the radio q
uit. Just quit. One electronic crash, and the tenor soloist and his ridiculously high note vanished into an annoying buzz.
Humph. The brush was dripping, so he laid it carefully across the top of the can. What was it that Grover said? Smack the top of the set? As he began turning to do just that, he heard a dull thud, followed by the final note of the number.
If he’d still held his paintbrush, he’d have dropped it. A young man with a ducktail haircut knelt with his fist on top of the radio and a brush of his own in the other hand. And he seemed as surprised as Virgil.
“Reverend,” Grover whined, “it ain’t right for me to be up here getting the good Lord’s view of things. Man was meant to stay on the ground. I’m supposed to be on the inside looking out.”
“Sorry you feel that way.” Reverend Caudill wasn’t going to let him out of his job that easily. “Unfortunately, the same good Lord has seen fit to use us as his instruments to clean out the gutters. Welby, make sure he doesn’t slip.” Welby, apparently finished with his furnace job, had been appointed guardian of the ladder.
“Yeah, Welby, hang on to that thing. I’m on the other end of it.” Grover stretched out his free arm and dragged his hand through the gutter. Old leaves, dirt, and pieces of shingles all came out in one sloppy glob, which he flung to one side. “This is about the nastiest job there is. How’d I get talked into this?”
Reverend Caudill grinned. He’d talked to Anna Belle first, so Grover had little choice in the matter.
“You’re doing fine up there, Grover,” said Welby, dodging whatever Grover was throwing down. “What time did you say lunch is coming?”
“Whenever Anna Belle gets here, and there’s no telling when that will be.” Grover paused for a moment and gazed out toward the road.
Virgil was face-to-face with Cornelius Alexander. Now what? He’d met the Zipco owner and his wife briefly on Easter Sunday, when Reverend Caudill introduced them. Enthusiastically, as if he expected them to be great friends. The encounter had been awkward enough with the preacher standing there, but now he was on his own and was expected to be civil and gracious. The two sized each other up like boxers poised for the opening bell and waiting to see who would be the first to blink.
