by Bill Higgs
Cornelius spoke first. “Virgil Osgood, I believe.”
“Cornelius Alexander. And what are you doing here?”
“Reverend Caudill asked . . .” His voice trailed off. They stared at each other, and then at the baptistery. The Dixie Melody Boys were singing now, and the piano player was off on a spirited riff.
“Well,” Virgil said, finally. “Let’s get this over with.” The baptistery wasn’t going to paint itself.
The two began brushing on Seafoam Aqua, a difficult task since there was no thinner to be found. The paint was thick, so it was more like icing a cake from the inside out. At least it seemed to stick. The baptistery was small, less than six feet from end to end. Grover had often said that if Reverend Caudill were ever to baptize anyone taller than that, he’d have to do it one end at a time.
“This isn’t working.” Virgil’s voice was louder than it should have been. With both at work in the baptistery, they were painting each other more than the walls of the tank. After a couple of minutes, Virgil laid his paintbrush to one side. “Cornelius, this baptistery just isn’t big enough for the two of us.”
The younger man stood, laid his own brush aside, and said loudly, “I couldn’t agree more.”
And with that, Cornelius Alexander walked down the aisle and out the front door.
The radio continued on its good behavior, with the Jordanaires belting out “The Church in the Wildwood.” Virgil noticed his foot tapping away. Thankfully, Elvis wasn’t singing along on this one.
He added the final stroke to the baptistery and stepped back to admire his handiwork. Not bad, in spite of a blotch or two made when Cornelius hit his arm. Why in the world did Reverend Caudill put them both in there together?
Welby came by, whistling. “Well, Virgil, how’s the painting coming along?”
“I think I’m finished.” Virgil had parked himself in a pulpit chair, stretching his stiff knees. “Where’s Grover?”
“Taking a break. Said heights make him dizzy, and he’s still tired from a long week at work.”
“What about the furnace?”
“Nothing wrong with it, as far as I can tell. I found a couple of mousetraps to take care of the squeaking. As soon as Anna Belle gets here I’ll put some cheese on them.”
Virgil raised his eyebrows, trying to decide if Welby was pulling his leg again. He wasn’t. “You mean to tell me all this time . . .”
“Yep!”
“That’s the best one I’ve heard in a long time,” said Virgil. “Well, there it is, Seafoam Aqua. Whatever that is. I need to clean out this brush, but we don’t have any thinner. Otherwise Mavine’ll skin me when I get home. Any ideas?”
Welby thought for a minute, his eyes twinkling. “How about painting the chicken coop the same color? Yeah, I talked to Mavine.”
Reverend Caudill had climbed up to the darkened balcony so he could look in on his little experiment. Tension had risen between Virgil and Cornelius lately, and while the new Zipco station still hadn’t opened, the rumor mill was going strong. What, he thought, might happen if he used a little pastoral influence to put them together on Work Day? In the same room with a common task? Arlie had once told him if you wanted two cats, you had to introduce them a little at a time, or they’d fight like, well, cats. Might a little careful, controlled introduction be a good thing?
They were at least having the beginnings of a conversation. Good. He thought maybe the gospel music was smoothing over some rough edges and encouraging them to get along.
But then it all blew up, with Virgil grumbling and Cornelius storming out the door.
Well. He’d chalk up this experiment as a failure. He’d apologize to Virgil after the painting was done; he’d not want to interrupt him in the middle. And Cornelius. He’d make yet another visit to the hideous pink trailer.
Careful not to be seen, he tiptoed down the stairs and outside just in time to see Anna Belle Stacy driving their Plymouth up to where the men were working. Welby, ever the gentleman, let go of the ladder to open Anna Belle’s door just as her husband was stretching to reach the end of the gutter. A shout from Grover and a huge crash followed in quick succession. The result left the ladder on the ground, Anna Belle scared out of her wits, and Grover holding on to the gutter with his feet dangling. The nails holding the gutter were no match for Grover’s bulk, and one by one they popped out as the sheet metal peeled away from the ends of the rafters. The spectacle ended with a muffled grunt from Grover as he hung on all the way to the ground.
Virgil also came running outside to find Grover and the ladder both on the ground. The gutter was strewn along the foundation. A heated discussion of the cause of the incident was also well under way.
Welby and Virgil helped Grover to his feet. He seemed unhurt but would need some cleaning up. Anna Belle was at his side, mopping dead leaves and such off his head. She was also giving him a hard time for getting his clothes dirty.
At any rate, the gutter was now sparkling clean; although, lying on the ground, it didn’t really matter much. Welby looked it over. “Good job, Grover. It needed replacing anyway! And bending metal is also one of your greatest talents.”
The disheveled grocer looked up. “Reverend, I told you I wasn’t the one for this job. I’m not a roofer.”
Reverend Caudill was quite relieved to find Grover unhurt, and made a mental note to hire a professional next time. “You did your best, Grover, and we’re sure glad you’re all right. Maybe it’s time for lunch after all.”
Reverend Caudill watched as Grover carried the cooler from the trunk of the car to the fellowship hall and set it on one of the tables. He laid several items out in front of him, while Reverend Caudill blessed the food and gave thanks.
With dexterity, Grover carved off a slice of bologna from a large roll. It peeled away perfectly—a uniform quarter-inch thick. Onto a slice of bread it went, precisely centered. A square of cheddar fell smoothly away from the cheese block with another deft movement of the blade. Two more cuts, and a circle of tomato landed on the sandwich. He then traded the sharp knife for the flat one. Into the mayonnaise it went, a single motion, and onto another slice of bread. A twist of his hands, and the lettuce was in place. With surgical precision, Grover trimmed the crust away, put the sandwich on a paper plate, and handed it to Virgil. The entire process had taken just over fifteen seconds.
The group stood in silence. Even Anna Belle had nothing critical to say. As in the hands of a sculptor, the bread and meat became art through Grover’s work. Soon everyone had a perfect sandwich, including Reverend Caudill, who had broken the sacred silence by offering thanks again and requesting horseradish instead of mayonnaise.
Virgil spoke up. “By golly, this is just about the best sandwich I think I have ever eaten!” Welby mumbled in agreement—his mouth was full.
Anna Belle, who had remained silent up to now, said, “Grover, you’ve outdone yourself this time.”
Everyone was enjoying a sandwich, including Grover, who had finally found time to make one for himself. Reverend Caudill noted that Virgil was sitting with Welby, and Cornelius was nowhere to be seen. Well. Some things just take time, with both cats and people.
“Grover,” he said finally, “I think next year we’ll just put you in charge of lunch. You do a better job than anyone else. Thanks so much!”
“Good idea. It’ll let me do something I’m good at.” Grover beamed. When Welby asked for seconds, he prepared another sandwich with the same ease he’d made the first.
Reverend Caudill smiled. A couple of wins and a couple of losses, so not a bad day. He made two mental notes. One was to finish his sermon before next year’s Work Day began.
The other was to keep his Pepto-Bismol close at hand anytime he had horseradish for lunch.
CORNELIUS SIGHED and considered his cluttered desk. The bills tucked under the telephone were past due, several promissory notes with Zipco would be due next week, and their baby was due any minute. Bluegrass Vending was coming
sometime before lunch to put in the coin-operated machines, which was a good thing, and the Zipco representative was coming in the afternoon, which wasn’t. The spring thaw had finally softened the ground so that the backhoe man could dig holes for the underground tanks, so Cornelius was beginning to believe he might actually be able to open by the end of the month. But the man would have to be paid. Beforehand, and in cash.
Because the baby was so near, he’d had to keep the Chevy’s fuel tank topped off for a run to the county hospital in Quincy. And because his own pumps still weren’t in, he had to fill up across the street at Osgood’s—which was hard. Not that it wasn’t his own gasoline, but that Welby always squirted and wiped his windshield and wanted to check his oil. His competitor, for crying out loud. And three times in the last week!
Actually, he also had much to be grateful for. Or so JoAnn had said. The white metal panels on the front of the building were polished and gleaming, and the engine hoist and the tire-changing equipment for the garage had been delivered and installed. The heat was still on thanks to another loan from the friendly folks at Zipco, and the toilet in their trailer was working much better with a tight bolt and the new septic tank. Charlie turned out to have some mechanical ability and said he actually looked forward to getting greasy. JoAnn’s last checkup had been very encouraging, and even suggested that the new arrival might be a boy, as they both wanted.
Grateful. JoAnn had become enamored of the First Evangelical Baptist Church and Reverend Caudill’s sermons. But why did anybody need religion, anyway? Back when he was seven years old, his mother had taken him to a tent revival with someone named Lewis Pritchett, and the man had terrified him.
But Reverend Caudill did seem different. Like he actually cared about him and JoAnn and wasn’t pointing fingers and looking for a handout. Sure, the man had placed him and Virgil Osgood together on Work Day, which was more than he could handle. Almost as though the pastor expected the two to become friends. He’d simply had to walk out.
Yes, Reverend Caudill had stopped by that night and apologized. A genuine and heartfelt apology.
But whose fault was it? Maybe he did need religion after all. The pastor had said that religion wasn’t a word he liked to use; he preferred to talk about faith. Cornelius had said he’d think about it.
So with all the things going on in his life, he was doing just that.
A honk of a horn announced the arrival of the truck from the vending machine company, a bit earlier than he expected. A quick look at the sky and the reason was obvious: a dark cloud was approaching, with jagged lightning and low rumbles of thunder. He helped the man get the large crates off the back and wrestle them into place. The cigarette and candy machines would go in the front under the sign marked Convenience Center, and the Tom’s snack rack and the soda case would go inside near the counter so the drinks wouldn’t freeze in cold weather. The task didn’t take as long as he expected, and he had yet another invoice to place under the telephone.
After the truck drove away with a promise of inventory to be delivered within a week, he plugged in the cigarette machine and the candy dispenser. The lighted panels on the machines in front shone brightly and gave Cornelius a sense of satisfaction. Soon he would be open for business, and the glowing signs and the illuminated pictures conveyed a sense of progress. The vending man even gave him a sign saying, Come on in, it’s Kool inside, in case he ever put in air-conditioning.
He leaned back in his chair and cleared a spot on the desk to prop his feet. The soda case was chilling nicely, its motor making an agreeable rumble that accented the clatter of the rain that had just begun. He took the Zipco operations manual from the shelf behind him and flipped to the chapter titled “Planning Your Grand Opening.” Looking a bit farther, he found his legal pad and began scrawling a to-do list:
Install banners and flags to attract attention
Call local florist for flowers for the ladies
Order “Grand Opening” sign
Schedule an appearance by Zippy the Clown
He was about to add “5. Place an ad in the local paper,” when the telephone jangled. Couldn’t be JoAnn; she would be right in the middle of As the World Turns.
“Zipco Super Service. How might I be of assistance?”
“Neil? It’s time.”
Mrs. Madeline Crutcher had driven to Quincy to fill up her Buick, which she did once every six months. Because the large engine required premium gasoline, which Virgil didn’t carry, she would make the trip to the Standard Oil station in town. Just as she left Eden Hill, a couple in a Chevrolet passed at high speed, nearly sending them both into a ditch. She mumbled something about kids and driver’s licenses, forgetting her own had expired in ’55.
The twenty-mile round trip had taken her about three hours, partly because she never shifted past second gear and partly because of the stormy weather, but mostly because she’d stopped at the A&P supermarket to pick up several tins of Tube Rose snuff and the latest Newsweek magazine.
As soon as the Buick crossed the bridge back into Eden Hill, the storm reached its peak. Ever the careful driver, the woman steered toward the nearest pullout, which happened to be the Zipco station parking area. All the lights were out, except for two brightly lit panels beneath the sign marked Convenience Center.
Between swishes of the windshield wipers, two gleaming vending machines came into view. One had on its lighted panel Hungry? and an oversize illustration of a Hershey’s chocolate bar, but it was the other that immediately caught her attention. It carried no words that she could make out, but the life-size Marlboro Man was staring directly at her through the streaks of rain running down the glass. The cigarette dangling from his lip suggested Moral Failure of vast proportion, as did his black hat and sneer.
The steady clacking of the wipers alternately blurred the image and brought it into focus, each time mocking and taunting her with his seductive eyes. Madeline Crutcher knew she had to see Reverend Caudill as soon as the weather cleared and make sure this foul new tool of the devil would be eradicated from Eden Hill.
Frank Prewitt was spending the afternoon with Vee Junior because Lula Mae was taking Darlene to the chiropractor in Quincy at three o’clock. Darlene had complained of a stomachache, and Lula Mae had commandeered Arlie’s truck for the afternoon to do it. This in turn left Arlie in a mood sourer than usual, as he had a hog he wanted to deliver and thought Darlene was faking to get out of her arithmetic test.
The school bus had dropped them off at Osgood’s just as the heavy rain began to fall. Neither boy had an umbrella, so the driver was kind enough to pull into the lot by the pump, though he had to wave off Welby, who had come out with his window cleaner and rag in spite of the storm. The two boys dashed through the front door, dodging puddles and holding their schoolbooks over their heads.
Virgil was busy in the front room, filling the Nabs rack from a brown carton that had been delivered earlier in the day. “Afternoon, boys! Glad you’re home and out of the storm.”
Vee was grateful to be in from the weather, which had gotten worse. He’d hoped to read comic books with Frank in his room but did not relish the idea of the trip up the hill in the downpour and the mud, nor was he too keen on the thunder and lightning.
“Why don’t you boys do your homework in my office? Mavine will know you’re here and not at the house. And Frank, your mother called and said she’d be by to pick you up when she and Darlene get back.”
Vee was happy with the arrangement, as it meant he’d stay dry, and besides, he always enjoyed puttering around in his father’s messy office. Frank readily agreed, as he hoped he’d get a peek at The Calendar.
Vee had told Frank about The Calendar. Every December the Safe-T-Made tire company would send their dealers a wall calendar for the coming year. The promotional gift always featured the Safe-T-Maid, usually wearing a two-piece bathing suit at a beach. This year’s calendar was no different except for the clear plastic covering the picture, and the skimpier-th
an-usual outfit the model was wearing. Virgil hung it on the wall behind his desk, vaguely noting that her bathing suit was badly tailored, and promptly forgot about it. The month still said January, as he’d never bothered to change it.
It was Vee who discovered the reason for the poor fit of her scant clothing: it was printed on the clear cellophane sheet, which was fastened only at the top and could be lifted by a small tab at the bottom. Frank went straight to the calendar, ignoring all the debris on Virgil’s desk.
“Hoo-wee!” Frank’s eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped. “She’s amazing! Will you just look at—”
“Shhhhh! Keep your voice down! If Dad catches us back here looking at his calendar, he’ll take it down and whip us both.”
“What’s the big deal? Nothing different here from the women in my old man’s magazines.”
Such was the fascination with the enticing image that neither boy noticed the footsteps in the doorway behind them. They were startled by the gasping, piercing shriek of a shocked woman’s voice.
“Frank!” Lula Mae’s outburst was almost a gurgle. Her eyes grew to the size of silver dollars, and her face turned ashen in disbelief. “What? How? Get over here this minute—both of you!”
They did not argue, as she was breathing fire. “Frank! Come with me. Vee! Get to your house. Now!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Vee started to say something, thought better of it, and shot out the back door and up the hill in the pouring rain, leaving his schoolbooks behind. Frank started past Lula Mae, but was grabbed by the ear and marched toward the front door, where Virgil stood wondering what the commotion was about.
