Eden Hill

by Bill Higgs

  And what about Vee, who looked to his father for advice and an example of good living? And what about Mavine herself? She’d been so worried about Arlie and Lula Mae separating, which he’d brushed aside, but was she also really worried that something like that might happen to them? What kind of example was he setting for his own family?

  No, those questions hadn’t gone away. If anything, they were more troubling than ever.

  He’d been ten years old when the previous preacher had given his invitation, and he’d professed his faith and been baptized, in the same baptistery he’d lost his temper in just a few weeks before. “Jesus is Lord,” he’d said all those years ago, and meant every word. Still did.

  But sometimes doing what Jesus commanded didn’t seem so simple. Wasn’t following Jesus supposed to make you a good husband? Reverend Caudill had said something to that effect in his sermons. But Welby was saying he needed to be more like the Good Samaritan. One or the other he could manage, but both?

  He pulled a chair inside the door and sat with his head in his hands for a long time. He’d always provided for Mavine and Vee, and had tried his best to live a good life. Sure, he’d made his share of mistakes, but his family had always come first for him, as it was with his father. He wanted to honor Mavine in every way, and to be what she wanted him to be, but Welby was right too. Cornelius was a neighbor, and neighbors were to be treated kindly and, well, neighborly. The Golden Rule. Yes, the Bible and Mr. H. C. Osgood had both taught him the right thing.

  Vaguely he became aware of a spot on the leg of his khakis. It was neither rain nor coffee nor antifreeze, but an unexpected tear that had fallen. He would do right by Mavine, and right by Cornelius. And he would do right by Virgil T. Osgood, both junior and senior. There was a way, and he would find it.

  The driveway bell sounded, announcing the arrival of a customer. Welby’s tools clattered into their trays, and he could hear the man’s uneven footfalls heading out into the rain. Good. Welby was taking care of business and wouldn’t see him like this. No matter—he pulled up the old oil drum that served as his trash can and got to work. After all, the room wasn’t going to empty itself.

  Mavine placed supper on the table and sat down, grateful that everyone seemed in a pleasant mood. Surprisingly pleasant. Vee Junior had eaten nothing for lunch but potato chips because he’d traded his cheese sandwich and his banana for a Little Lulu comic book. As this lacked both literary and nutritional merit, he was more than ready for spaghetti and meatballs if not for Oliver Twist, which was Mavine’s latest disciplinary assignment.

  Mavine considered asking Virgil about Osgood’s—the painting, the uniform, the restroom, all the things she’d suggested. But seeing her husband’s contented, placid expression, she smiled gently. Maybe, for tonight, those matters should rest. Mealtime discussion instead included the washout of Vee’s picnic, finding homes for Ticky’s pups, and one mildly contentious topic: Virgil’s need for a haircut.

  “It’s way too long in the back. Not professional. Why don’t you go see Welby tonight? And take Vee with you. It’s summertime and I’ll not have you both going around with sweaty hair on your necks.”

  “Aw, Mom.” Vee hadn’t yet learned when not to argue.

  “Vee, go with your father. And no back talk, or you’ll be reading David Copperfield.”

  Welby’s barbershop was nearly full when Virgil and Vee arrived, with only a couple of empty seats left in the makeshift waiting room. Grover was in the midst of his usual political debate with Sam Wright, whose Farmall was parked awkwardly beside the station. Sam appeared to be losing, as he squirmed in Welby’s barber chair and lent his support to Calvin Coolidge in the upcoming presidential race.

  “Sam, he’s been dead for thirty years.”

  Sam was not dissuaded by trivialities. “He can do a better job dead than any of these candidates could do alive.”

  “Gentlemen, the presidential election is over a year away. Can’t we find something else to talk about?” Welby was not only trying to get Sam to hold still and not lose an ear; he was asserting his own neutrality.

  Sam fired a parting shot. “I still think he ought to run.” He paid his two dollars, both silver, and waved to Grover, who was next in line, before bidding good night.

  Just as Grover was issuing one final comment to Sam, a tall figure appeared at the open door, cutting Grover off midsentence.

  “Mr. Willett? How good to see you tonight! What brings you here?”

  “Haircut. Don’t you cut hair on Thursday nights?” As Mr. Willett had never been seen there before, this was a reasonable question.

  “Indeed we do.” Welby adjusted the chair for his next client. “It’ll be a bit of a wait, though. Several fellows ahead of you.”

  “That’s fine.” He glanced around, finding the empty seat Grover left behind. “No hurry.”

  “Nobody’s in any hurry here.” Grover was relishing his political victory. “Don’t you usually get your hair cut in Quincy?”

  “Yes.” And with that said, he picked up an abandoned Field & Stream magazine and would say no more about it.

  Grover’s haircut took all of two minutes, as Welby had only a fringe and a few unruly top strands to work with. The grocer had soon finished, paid, and was standing in a corner rubbing his shiny head, freshened with Wildroot tonic. Virgil’s cut took only slightly longer, as did Vee’s crew cut and butch wax. Both decided to stay along with Grover and watch the rest of the evening’s proceedings. Welby thanked them both, pocketed three dollars, and beckoned to the latest arrival.

  “Well, Mr. Willett, you’re next. Come on up.” He retrieved his scissors from the jar of alcohol where they had been placed. “How would you like it cut?”

  Mr. Willett climbed awkwardly into the seat, with Welby lowering the pedestal as far as it would go. “Clean and neat. Not too short, but not too long either. Something sensual and alluring, maybe?”

  The room suddenly became quiet. Every set of eyes stared, and someone coughed. Virgil recognized the words—they were both in the article by Dr. LaMour—but Mavine had blushed when she explained to him what they meant, and they were embarrassing to him, too. They certainly weren’t something Mr. Willett had found in Field & Stream. He was very glad Reverend Caudill was not here this evening, and wished that Vee wasn’t either. Welby was turning a bit red, and Grover’s jaw had fallen to his second shirt button.

  “Let’s see what we can do.” Welby hesitated for only a second and then draped a large cloth over Mr. Willett, being careful not to disturb the tape measure still hanging around his neck. Given Mr. Willett’s hairline and bald spot, Cary Grant or even Jimmy Stewart was out of the question. He began trimming the back and bringing out the fullness on the sides with his comb. The barber, or perhaps the mechanic, would rise to the challenge.

  Mr. Willett sat still and smiling in the chair as scissors snapped and clippers buzzed, bits of pepper and an occasional trace of salt falling onto the white cloth. Welby, who disliked silence even more than politics, spoke first. “Well, Mr. Willett, how is business at the dry goods store?”

  The man in the chair beamed. “It’s been quite good lately. I have a new line of ladies’ sportswear and even some bathing suits coming in. Lula Mae Prewitt has been by recently, and bought some fabric and notions. I have a new customer too: Mrs. Alexander.”

  “Glad to hear she’s getting out some. New baby, you know.” Welby grinned at Virgil, who looked at Grover, who looked at the Field & Stream magazine left behind by Mr. Willett.

  The conversation continued, with even Virgil and Grover pitching in, and Mr. Willett saying little. Welby produced a hand mirror so his customer could examine the completed handiwork.

  “It’ll do.” He twisted his head from side to side to examine the back through the large mirror on the wall. “What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing at all! The first one’s always free.” Welby brushed his client clean with a small whisk. The haircut wasn’t quite James Bond, but
it wasn’t Maynard G. Krebs, either.

  “Thank you, Welby. And Virgil, I’ll have your uniform ready next week.” Mr. Willett checked his image in the mirror, smiled, and started toward the exit.

  “And thank you, Mr. Willett.” Virgil had heard more words from the man in the past five minutes than he’d heard from him in the last ten years. Some people just weren’t predictable.

  Grover, whose chin had regained its normal position, seemed dumbfounded. “Uniform? Virgil, are you going to start wearing a uniform like this young fellow across the—?”

  For the second time in one evening, Grover’s words were cut short by a new arrival. Cornelius Alexander stood in the doorway. Vee studied his tennis shoes, while Welby beamed with delight. “Welcome to my barbershop, Mr. Alexander. You’re next in line!”

  If Mr. Willett’s attendance had been unexpected, Cornelius’s appearance was inconceivable to both Grover and Virgil, who looked to each other for an explanation. Vee continued examining his lowtops. Welby’s reaction was characteristic, that is to say inviting and casual, as if this happened every day. He ushered his new customer into his chair, made him comfortable, and pumped the chair to an appropriate level.

  “What’ll it be, Mr. Alexander?”

  “I generally wear it in a ducktail, with the front long enough to pull over behind my ear on the left.” He scanned the small room. Virgil and Grover were by now looking at each other, while Vee had found a comic book and had buried his freshly burred head in its colorful pages.

  “I’ll do my best, Mr. Alexander. I think you know Virgil and Grover.” Both managed a courteous gesture.

  Grover rose with some effort and offered a hand. “Very good to see you again, Mr. Alexander. Good to see you at church, too. Anna Belle and I have enjoyed watching your daughter in the nursery.”

  At the mention of Suzy, Cornelius warmed. “JoAnn and I so appreciate that, and thank you for all that you’ve done for us. Especially the baby formula.”

  Grover reddened. “Happy to help out. Thanks for your business at the grocery.”

  Virgil was fidgety and uncomfortable, as the evening had taken a very different direction than he’d expected. He finally stood and nodded. “Welcome to Osgood’s, Mr. Alexander.”

  Welby was trimming Cornelius’s sideburns low on his cheeks but was looking at Virgil. “I’m so glad you came over tonight, Mr. Alexander. I don’t think you’ve been in here before.”

  “Only as far as the gasoline pumps, I think. I don’t recall ever coming inside.”

  Welby smiled, still looking primarily at Virgil. “You know, Virgil’s daddy, Mr. H. C. Osgood, taught us both a lot about life, and one thing he always taught is that it’s often more important to forget things than to remember them.”

  Virgil looked at Welby, the clock, Grover, and his own shoes, and found no help from anywhere. Welby had not been on his soapbox at all this evening, and he was claiming it now. “I think that’s what President Kennedy was talking about this week, when he said that time will change our relationships with our neighbors. We learn things about people that we didn’t know before.” He paused for breath, and to find a comb.

  “Welby, I didn’t think you cared for politics? And you know about the president’s speeches?” Grover, who had been about to leave, sat back down.

  “I’m not talking about politics, Grover. I’m talking about peace. Mr. Kennedy said it makes life worth living, and he was right. Jesus said, ‘My peace I give unto you.’ And he was right.”

  Virgil’s head was spinning. First, Mr. Willett had gotten a “sensual” haircut. Then, Mr. Alexander had arrived. And now Welby was quoting both presidential speeches and Scripture—in the same breath. His world no longer made sense.

  Welby found the mirror, which Cornelius used to examine his haircut, particularly the back.

  “Very fine, Welby. What do I owe you?”

  “Not a thing, Mr. Alexander. Like I told Mr. Willett, first one’s always free. I hope you’ll come again.” Welby smiled. “It’s all about being a good neighbor. Isn’t that right, Virgil?”

  Virgil grabbed Vee by the arm and walked out without a word. He didn’t want to say something in front of his son that he might regret later.

  VIRGIL HADN’T SLEPT WELL. He was unhappy with Cornelius, confused by Mavine, and downright angry with Welby. After much pondering, the events last night at Welby’s barbering session left him still puzzled, upset, and confused. He and Mavine were trying to save their little garage and service station, and Welby was doing his best to undo all of their hard work. Welcoming the competition!

  Mavine was surprised as well. “Virgil, I don’t know what he was thinking. You mean he was happy to see Mr. Alexander, and didn’t even charge him for his haircut?”

  “First one’s free. That’s what he’s always said, but he was smiling when he said it. I don’t understand either.”

  Mavine poured a single mug of coffee. “Well, I’ll probably see Alma at the beauty shop today. I’ll ask her if Welby has been acting strangely lately.”

  Virgil drank his coffee almost in one chug, savoring the last drop. “Welby and I are going to have a long talk.” He set the cup down harder than necessary and strode out the door.

  As he walked down the hill, Ticky and her pups by his side, he began to cool. The scent of honeysuckle along the fence no doubt helped, as did Ticky’s playfulness. He wanted to believe Mavine, but he also trusted Welby. Or used to. Just what was going on?

  By the time he reached the door of the garage, he didn’t know whether to be mad, sad, perplexed, or all three. He closed the door with a satisfying bang and turned to the barber chair, where Welby sat smiling.

  “Welby, what was going on last night? Was that some kind of a joke, or are you trying to put us in the poorhouse? What was Cornelius Alexander doing in our back room?”

  “Getting a haircut. A good one, at that! And no, I’m not trying to put us under.”

  “But you just let him walk in!”

  “No, I actually invited him.”

  “You what! He saw everything we have here. Mavine says that if he knows what we are doing, it gives him an advantage over us! He saw our stockroom, and my old office—the room that’s going to become the women’s restroom—even the garage floor!”

  “Calm down, Virgil. I suspect Mr. Alexander knows what an old metal desk and a case of oilcans looks like. Probably has a few of his own. The garage looks like just about every other repair shop in this country. He’s probably seen a tire or two before too.”

  “But Mavine says he could put us out of business!” Virgil found the swivel chair and fell into it.

  “I don’t think he will. But you could do that to him.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Welby leaned forward, still smiling and steady of voice. “Virgil, listen to me. You’ve run Osgood’s since before Vee was born. Our customers have been steady and loyal. You’ll never get rich, but you’ll probably not go hungry, either. But Mr. Alexander is just now getting started in business—and in life. He and his wife have a baby, and babies need to be fed. He needs his place to succeed. Enough people pass through Eden Hill to keep us both going.”

  “But Mavine—”

  “You and Mavine were young once, too. When Vee came along, you had a hard time of it. I remember you eating nothing but oatmeal for two weeks while you were trying to build this place. And you were luckier than some soldiers coming home from the war. You had both hands and both feet, and you’d learned a good skill. And you’ve got Mavine and Vee Junior.”

  “You and Alma were a big help, Welby.” His anger was slowly leaking away like air from a bad tire.

  “I worked for your father, and he taught me a lot about helping other people. I suspect he taught you the same thing.”

  Virgil nodded and began to relax. “You helped Mom and all our family while Dad was in the sanatorium. And I’ve never forgotten that.”

  “Well, do something good for Mr
. Alexander. Help him get started.”

  Virgil sat up. “Like what?”

  “Keep taking care of your customers, and don’t worry about his.” He chuckled. “Don’t fight so hard. And don’t worry so much.”

  “I’m trying, Welby.”

  Mavine was celebrating the renovation of Osgood’s with a cut and a perm, so she made her appointment with Gladys an hour earlier than usual to give Gladys plenty of time. She left a note on the kitchen table telling Virgil and Vee that there was bologna in the refrigerator, bread in the breadbox, and plates in the cabinet. Not being there to fix lunch always made her feel guilty, but she half expected them to go to Stacy’s Grocery anyway. Grover would no doubt make them exactly the same thing. She’d finished her Metrecal diet drink, its awful taste washed out by a glass of buttermilk.

  When she arrived, Gladys was standing in the doorway waving to an older woman and a younger girl—her earlier customers. Mavine recognized the girl as Darlene Prewitt by her pigtails, while the woman—she had to be Lula Mae! Her usually frazzled hair was now cut in a very flattering style, teased in all the right places and with a fresh perm. Mavine barely recognized her.

  “Goodness, Lula Mae, don’t you look—wonderful—today!” Heading into a divorce and being this happy about it?

  “Why, thank you, Mavine! You look very fine yourself. Isn’t it amazing what a new hairstyle can do for a woman? Thanks again, Gladys! Come along, Darlene, we’ve got fabric to buy and sewing to do.”

  “Good-bye! See you next week!” Gladys sent them on their way, while Mavine watched, dumbfounded. What was going on? A return visit to the Glamour Nook in a week? The Lula Mae she knew only came to the Glamour Nook three or four times a year, and did a Toni home permanent on herself the rest of the time. She watched as the truck filled the air with black smoke and rumbled down the street.

  Then it dawned on her. Perhaps Lula Mae had a boyfriend, and this was why her marriage to Arlie was falling apart. And at her age! She absolutely ought to be ashamed.