by Bill Higgs
He hadn’t seen such a traffic jam since he’d been in Eden Hill. Even the grand opening at the Zipco station hadn’t created that much of a hubbub. And Mavine dressed like an opera singer? What was that all about? And Virgil in his Army uniform, the sign, all the flags.
He’d stopped by to see Cornelius Alexander on his way home, a man who probably couldn’t even remember the Korean conflict, let alone World War Two. An empty driveway, an empty garage. And the bags under his eyes. Clearly the man had been through a bad night. All was not well there, either.
And the drop in price at the Zipco. This looked like desperation. He’d worked at a service station to help put himself through Bible college, and he knew what gasoline ought to cost. Cornelius was losing money, no doubt about it. What was his task as pastor? The Osgoods, and now the Alexanders, were part of his flock. What’s a shepherd supposed to do when his sheep are fighting each other?
Eden Hill was falling apart—again. He needed time to think, and he needed a headache powder. As he opened his desk drawer, he spotted his new—and expensive—fishing license tucked between some old sermon notes and a letter he needed to answer.
It was almost dark now, and somebody, probably Frank Prewitt, had fired a skyrocket that lit up the evening sky. With a sudden flash of inspiration and a glance at his watch, he picked up the phone to call a familiar number.
“Arlie? Eugene Caudill. I need to borrow your boat.”
Cornelius was back to sleeping in the bedroom, for which he was grateful, but JoAnn was still not talking much. Meals seemed especially quiet. She’d called her mother long-distance a couple of times, which he should have expected. He’d tried to call Zipco several times the day after Independence Day as required to report the adjustment in his prices, and got no answer. Reverend Caudill had called last night with an invitation, or rather an order, to accompany the pastor on a fishing trip on Sunday afternoon. He’d agreed: the station would be closed, and the diversion would do him good. Fishing it was, then.
Friday had shown some improvement in sales. The real estate lawyer had stopped in again, and the fellow who ran the tractor repair shop came in and bought several cans of brake fluid. Charlie was agreeable to scaling his hours back to three days a week, as long as he could work for Arlie the other two days.
The mailman had come about one o’clock, just as he was closing. He’d brought the monthly telephone bill, a postcard from Cornelius’s friend Wrenchy, and another ominous-looking letter he’d had to sign for, this time from an attorney in Columbus, Ohio.
Cornelius opened the letter with resignation—the ax had certainly fallen. The way his week had gone, he could be on the street by Monday. He took a deep breath and began to read. As he read, he gasped. This was not at all what he’d expected. He had to read it a second time, sitting down and focusing on every word.
Dear Mr. Alexander:
This letter serves as official notification that an investigation of the Zanesville International Petroleum Company by the office of the Attorney General has resulted in multiple indictments of the principal(s) of the company. These indictments include multiple felony fraud charges, and lawsuits have been filed on behalf of franchisees.
As all business operations have been halted, any monies owed are deferred for at least ninety days pending litigation and a full audit.
The letter concluded with more legalese, the name of a company that had agreed to supply gasoline to Zipco franchisees, and other information.
He stared at the letter in disbelief; this was better news than he ever could have hoped for. His ship may still be on the rocks, but he’d have at least ninety days to arrange the lifeboats. He tucked the page back in the envelope and ran to the trailer to tell JoAnn the news.
“JoAnn! Look at this! JoAnn?”
She wasn’t there. She and Suzy were both gone. No note, nothing. Just gone.
VIRGIL HAD SPENT the morning checking out Mrs. Crutcher’s Buick, now Mr. Willett’s, getting it ready for the title transfer. Mr. Willett’s Nash Metropolitan was now parked outside Virgil’s garage where the Buick had been. Yes, he could fix the rusted-out muffler, and he would sell it for a reasonable commission, same as he’d done for Del and the Buick.
When the phone rang, it took Virgil a few seconds to find it at its new location on the front counter. Reverend Caudill’s call was unexpected but welcome. Yes, Osgood’s had a very successful event, and yes, he’d be happy to accompany Reverend Caudill on a fishing outing.
Welby had taken the day off, and Vee Junior was grounded and reading The Complete Sherlock Holmes after he and Frank had cherry bombed the henhouse, sending feathers flying, wood splintering, and Mavine’s nerves fraying. “Those hens won’t lay for at least a week, and you’ve ruined your father’s paint job,” she’d said, so she dropped the Big One. Only Virgil’s intervention had diverted her from assigning War and Peace.
The gasoline trade had dropped off on Friday, as he expected. They’d had a good grand reopening, probably their biggest day ever. Best of all, Mavine hadn’t made him wear his old Army uniform today, which turned out to be as itchy as his suit. Even with all of his wife’s starch, his usual khakis were infinitely more comfortable, and he could wipe his hands on the legs without incurring Mavine’s wrath.
He’d pulled the Nash into the garage and jacked up the front end when the phone rang again. The muffler for the Nash would be delivered next week instead of today because the driver had been a little too independent on Independence Day and didn’t make it in for work. Virgil sighed; Welby and Alma were visiting family in Indiana and wouldn’t be back until Tuesday night. No matter, he could operate the welder by himself, and Ticky would be there to keep him company.
In the meantime, he would flush out the Metropolitan’s radiator and dream of crappie and bluegill.
Reverend Caudill was already seated at the little table at Stacy’s Grocery when Brother Taggart and Bob arrived. Turning this into a weekly gathering had been his idea, and as long as Grover was agreeable he’d keep it up.
“Welcome, gentlemen! Please pull up a chair.”
“Thanks.” Bob was wearing denims and scuffed shoes. “We just had our Work Day, so I’m a bit scruffy.”
“Thank you, Reverend.” Brother Taggart slid into place with a smile.
Grover came out from behind the meat case to where the men were seated, offering his greetings. “Well, what’ll it be, fellows? Bologna? Dixie loaf? I think Anna Belle got in some ham.”
“You know, a ham sandwich sounds good.” Bob grinned. “And might I have just a little mustard?”
“My specialty! And you, Brother Taggart?”
“I’ll have the same.”
“And you, Reverend? Your usual bologna? Thick sliced?”
“That sounds good.” Reverend Caudill smiled; the grocer knew him well. While he’d answered Grover, he was watching Brother Taggart. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Bob—who was long-winded—led in prayer, and by the time they looked up, their sandwiches and potato chips were ready and waiting. Grover was standing respectfully by the table.
“Anna Belle made a big pot of iced tea, if you’d like some.”
Everyone enthusiastically agreed. Lunch was mostly small talk, with Bob telling a joke about three preachers who met for dinner (the punch line landed on the Methodist), and the Pentecostal answering with one about a rabbi and a ham sandwich. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh.
Bob took a deep drink of his sweet tea. “The past week has sure been an encouragement for me. I’ve had two good counseling sessions with parishioners who were having spiritual problems, and I’m working on a new sermon series. The Lord knows just what I need and when I need it. What’s happened with the hardware store, Brother Taggart?”
The preacher looked up from his ham sandwich, his countenance having fallen. There was no longer any funny story on his lips or humor in his eyes. “The owner has refused to renew our lease. There’s a padlo
ck on both doors. And a sign that says Negroes Go Home. There are only a couple dozen of us, both colored and white, but we have no place to go. Will you pray for us?”
Reverend Caudill hadn’t seen this coming. Bob seemed surprised as well. Brother Taggart had shared the likelihood last week, but somehow the other pastors never dreamed it would come to this. A church without a place to gather? Reverend Caudill had no idea what to say. Now his friend was a pastor without a pasture, leading a flock without a fold.
He led the three in prayer as only a Baptist can do, calling to mind Moses and the Israelites wandering in the wilderness and Joshua leading them forty years later into the Promised Land. He prayed that somehow God’s purpose would be seen in their struggle, and that they, like Noah, could come to rest on the mountaintop.
And he prayed for a miracle. “‘. . . ask any thing in my name, I will do it.’ Amen. Straight from the Gospel of John, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, both of you. I need to get back to Collard’s Mill and visit some folks so we can figure out what we’re doing tomorrow. And do keep me and my little church in your thoughts and prayers.”
Reverend Caudill stood to shake hands with both. “Anything I can do to help, I’m more than willing.”
Reverend Caudill’s old Underwood was clacking away as he typed the poem at the end of his message for Sunday. His luncheon gathering had left his belly full but his heart troubled. Padlocked out? On the weekend when everyone was celebrating freedom? It just wasn’t right.
Brother Taggart and his tiny congregation could certainly use a good helping of grace.
CORNELIUS SAT at their dinette, holding his head in his hands. He dearly loved his wife and daughter, and now they were gone. It was entirely his fault, thinking he could make a living with a service station in this town. His ego, again. The blame wasn’t with Zipco or with the Bluegrass College of Business, or JoAnn, or her father, or anybody else; the problem was with him, and him alone.
So she’d finally gone home to Mother. The car was still there, so she must have had someone in her family pick her up—probably her brother. He’d opposed their marriage from the start, so that would make sense. He was also in law school, so the legal proceedings would probably be next.
He looked again at the latest letter, the only good news he had. A reprieve, but only a brief one. How could he carry on without JoAnn? She’d stood by him all this time, even when he was driving their boat right onto the rocks. She and Suzy deserved better.
JoAnn was right, he’d best be connecting with a lawyer. A good one. She’d likely be calling sometime this evening to let him know to expect the papers. Probably the same day the debt deferral would run out and he’d be hauled into court. Hit with a debt he could never repay and a life that would be miserable, at best.
But if she was right about faith in God carrying people through the hard times, then maybe there was hope. Reverend Caudill had been talking about grace a lot lately. Cornelius had been taken by the idea that it might actually be true. But was it for a failure like him? Maybe the pastor needed to be his next call.
Cornelius picked up the telephone and then put it back down. It was Saturday afternoon and not a time to bother the pastor. Probably working on a sermon. He’d let it go until tomorrow at least.
In the meantime, he’d pray. In his own stumbling, awkward way, he’d pray. If there were second chances to be had, he needed one.
Mavine had spent the morning catching up from the rush. She’d hung her blue dress on a padded silk hanger by the front door, a reminder to take it to Willett’s to have it dry-cleaned the next time she went out. This would probably be sometime next week, as the Glamour Nook had closed this week so Gladys and her daughter could visit Tom’s family. She could just pull her hair back for a week, or throw on a scarf. The dress had served its purpose well. As best she could tell, Osgood’s had far more business the past couple days than their competitor. Good.
In celebration, she was making a special lunch for Virgil and Vee: tuna-and-macaroni casserole. Actually, she didn’t have any tuna, so she substituted some cut-up catfish that Arlie had given them. There wasn’t any macaroni in the cupboard either, so she found an almost-forgotten box of spaghetti in the back of the cabinet and estimated the portions. The recipe called for cheddar cheese, which she was out of, but she did have butter left over from the cookies and some sour cream. Some onions and green peppers went in the dish for good measure, along with something called “salad topping” that came in a foil pouch. It had all gone in the oven at 400 degrees at eleven o’clock, so it should be ready when Virgil returned, which she expected to be at about noon.
At eleven thirty, there was a knock on the door. Virgil, early? Puzzled, she walked toward the entryway. Perhaps Virgil had his hands full. “Coming!” she said, and pulled on the handle.
The visitor did indeed have full hands. JoAnn Alexander stood on her porch, gingerly holding a very fussy baby in her arms. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were streaked.
“Mrs. Osgood? I’m JoAnn Alexander. We’ve met a couple of times. This is Suzy, and . . .” Her mouth kept moving but no more words came.
Something in Mavine melted. “Please come in, JoAnn. Sit down.” She motioned toward the couch.
“Thank . . . you.” She spoke her words between gasps and sobs. “Would you by any chance . . . be able to spare some milk? We have some formula left for Suzy, but we have nothing to mix it with.”
“Of course!” Mavine didn’t hesitate. Her refrigerator held plenty—two full quart bottles, in fact. “Let me see what else I can find.”
As Mavine turned back from the refrigerator with milk and an apple, her heart broke wide open. “Honey, has it been this hard for you?” She poured the milk into a glass and handed it to JoAnn.
JoAnn drank over half the contents before answering. “We’ve not been able to buy food for nearly a week. Grover and Anna Belle have been very kind, but we—I—just can’t ask for anything more. Neil—Cornelius—owes so much money to Zipco, I’m afraid we’ll never be able to pay them, and we’ll lose the station and everything we have.”
Mavine was surprised to find herself on the couch, holding first JoAnn’s hand, and then Suzy, who was now contentedly enjoying her bottle.
“I’ve talked to Mother before about going home, but she now says I should have never taken up with Neil, let alone gotten pregnant and married him. I didn’t listen, and now here I am with a baby girl and a husband who’s broke. I want Suzy to have a future—something more than what we have now.”
The words sounded strangely familiar. Mavine patted JoAnn’s shoulder while Suzy drank her fill. JoAnn’s tears were falling across her hand, but Mavine’s own were now streaming down her face. “Have you eaten today, child?”
She shook her head. “We don’t have any groceries. Neil was hoping to make some money yesterday—cash—so we could go to Stacy’s and buy some bread and milk, but there just wasn’t enough. I don’t want to buy anything else on credit.” She stroked Suzy’s hair. “I . . . I’m so sorry, Mrs. Osgood. I’ve made you cry, and I didn’t mean to do that. I shouldn’t have come, and Neil will be unhappy with me. I need to get back now.”
“Honey, you’re staying for lunch, and that’s all there is to it. I have a casserole in the oven that’s about to burn. Please stay and let us give you a good meal.” Mavine wiped a tear. The dish probably was ruined, but no matter. It was food, and what Suzy and JoAnn needed.
JoAnn placed Suzy, now asleep, in Virgil’s La-Z-Boy, tipping it back so she wouldn’t fall. Mavine showed her to the table, found her a comfortable chair, and took the warm pan from the oven. Her offering was overcooked and unrecognizable but not burned, and JoAnn savored it like it was caviar. She wiped tears and drank her milk, and even ate some of Mavine’s leftover cookies from the grand reopening.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Mrs. Osgood. I just don’t know how to thank you.”
“JoAnn, you just be a good wife to Cornelius. And y
ou’re doing that. You love him; you care about Suzy. And you care about your own future. I am so sorry for your—misfortune. I’m just glad I could help.”
“Thank you. Please don’t tell Neil I was here. And could you not tell Mr. Osgood?”
“I won’t.” Mavine dug in her purse for her egg money from the past week. All of it. “Here. I want you to take this and go up to Stacy’s for some bread and milk. Will you promise me you’ll do that?”
JoAnn was hesitant, but relented, dropping the money in a pocket and picking up the sleeping child. “Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Osgood.”
“Please call me Mavine,” she gently corrected. “I’m so glad you came over, and I’m sure things will work out. Now, if you hurry, you’ll miss running into Virgil coming home for lunch.”
JoAnn thanked her again, embarrassing Mavine, then carefully made her way back down the hill with sleeping child in arms, smiling and with her appetite satisfied.
Mavine swallowed hard. Help? After she was the one trying to drive the poor man’s business into the ground.
Mavine watched her until she passed Osgood’s before letting the tears flow again. It was all her fault: the grand reopening, the rush to remodel their service station, the painting and fixing up. Even the dress and Virgil’s Army uniform; that had all been her idea. And what it led to was this: a poor young mother bringing a hungry baby to her doorstep. She’d never felt more ashamed.
Mavine looked at the blue dress with the red roses. The garment somehow glared back at her, pointing an accusing finger right in her face, the very emblem of her sin. She could never wear it again. Sighing, she picked up the dress from its hanger and walked to the back porch, where she hung it on one of the hooks. It would make a good quilt someday.
Vee came down the stairs carrying his Arthur Conan Doyle to find his mother crying again.
Virgil was surprised to see JoAnn crossing the street in front of Osgood’s, carrying what looked to be a heavy bundle and heading for the Alexanders’ trailer. He’d been learning how to use his new cash register and could see her easily through the open garage door. Curious, but no reason for alarm. Looking at his watch, he decided he’d been at it long enough. If the parts weren’t coming until Tuesday, then the Nash would just have to wait.
