by Don Reid
“Not a chance, H. V. Not a chance. I’m certified and confirmed. A bachelor to my dying day.”
“Aw, come on, Vic. Never say never. You don’t know what cute little filly may be around the corner who just might catch your fancy. And your pocketbook.”
This brought guffaws from them both and ended the small talk. By this time, H. V. was wondering why he really was in the store, and Vic was ready to set into motion the reason for his visit.
“What brings you in this morning, my boy?”
“Your son.”
“Harlan? What’s he done? Something I’m going to be ashamed of or proud of?”
“Well, it’s not like that at all. I see him and those two little friends of his running up and down the street all the time, and I was just wondering if you thought they might like to have a job.”
“A job? The boy is eleven years old.”
“You and I can remember how good it felt when we were kids to have a little pocket money of our own. Buy some candy and some pop. I got odd jobs around the restaurant that need to be done all the time, and I could use those boys for a few hours on Saturdays to clean up a little and take out the trash—maybe even wash a few dishes to give my man a little time off. I just thought I’d check with you to make sure it would be all right for me to talk to Harlan.”
“Well, I don’t see why not. It would do the boy good to have a little responsibility. You know, he’s a good boy. He’ll do you a good job.”
“I’m sure he will. I talked to Ernest just now about Little Cal, and they gave me the name of the Briggs boy’s parents. I’ll find them. But I wanted to clear it with you. And to tell you the truth,” Vic said as he dropped his voice and leaned in a little closer, “it will save me a dime or two not having to hire an adult and will help the boys in their self-esteem at the same time.”
“Vic, you’re a good man. That’s good thinking, and I think those boys will jump at the chance.”
“Then it’s a deal. I’ll talk to them this week. And how is everything with you here at the store?”
“Peaches and cream.”
“That’s great. Give your wife my best. And also Fritz. How is old Fritz? Is he here?”
“Yeah, he’s there in the back. He won’t ever come out front.”
Vic raised his voice, “Fritz, if you can hear me. Good morning, and have a great day!”
H. V. and Vic laughed again when there was no response from the back and then walked down the aisle to the door, arm in arm. Neither of them saw Fritz come to the curtain that led to the back room and look out as H. V. stood at the door, waving at Vic, who was walking down the street again with his coat blowing in the wind.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Hello.” She sounded sleepy.
“Shirley Ann? Did I wake you?” Buddy asked, knowing he had.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, yeah, you did, but that’s all right.”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to check on you. Mamma told me you were feeling a little blue this morning. But no pains, huh?”
“No. I sort of wish there were. I think I’m ready to have this over with.”
“Oh, believe me, it won’t be over with. It’s just getting started.”
“You know what I mean, Daddy.” She laughed. “How about you? How’s Uncle Harlan?”
“He’s going to be all right.”
“Can you tell me what happened, or is that police secrets?”
“You can’t have secrets till you know something. And we really don’t know anything yet. But what about you? Can I do anything for you?”
“Yeah, you can. Quit worrying. Louis Wayne can be here in ten minutes if anything happens. I’ll be just fine.”
“I can be there in ten minutes too.”
The silence on the other end told Buddy he should have kept that last thought a rumbling in his head instead of letting it escape from his mouth. It seemed that more and more of their conversations had these awkward moments of late. Amanda was right. Shirley Ann was no longer his, and he was no longer the first person on her mind when she had a need. She had a husband who stood between them now, and every passing day was a rude reminder. Buddy would have to deal with it. There was no alternative anyway. The decision had been made for him.
“Mamma has gone home, so if you need her she’ll be there all day. I’ve got to go now. Take care.”
“Okay, Daddy. Bye.”
Buddy pushed the folding door open but sat in the phone booth for a few more moments. He would have to leave this problem in the hands of his daughter and his wife and concentrate on the job at hand. The problem with the job at hand was how to separate the personal from the business. In the meantime, he would go to the cafeteria and eat breakfast. By that time, Cal would be back. He apparently sat there staring straight ahead and thinking longer than he was aware because the next thing he realized was that an orderly was standing in front of him.
“Are you finished? I need to make a call.”
“Sure. It’s all yours.”
When the automatic door opened and Cal walked in, Buddy moved to the elevator and pushed the number three button. They said nothing on the way up, as the car was full of people, all politely quiet. Buddy was always annoyed by people who liked to carry on a conversation in an elevator while other people stood by, looking at the ceiling and listening to every word. Neither man spoke until they had turned the corner in the hallway that led to Harlan’s room.
“You want to go first?” Buddy asked before entering the room.
“No. It’s your show. I’ll be there for you. And you can stay when I take over. You probably haven’t had a prayer yet this morning anyway.”
“Don’t count on it, preacher man. In my job every minute is a prayer.”
“You know what? I believe that.”
Cal patted him on the back as they entered the room.
Darcy stood up from the chair beside the bed when she saw them coming. “I suppose you want me to leave again.”
“Darcy. Don’t start,” Harlan said from his prone position, wide awake.
“Okay. I’ll go get some coffee. Do either of you want any?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” Cal said. Buddy just shook his head no.
When she had cleared the room, Buddy closed the door behind her.
“How you feel, pal?” Cal asked.
“Sore, whipped, and mad.” Harlan said through clenched teeth.
“That’s normal, I’m sure.”
“I mean, all I can think about is that some guy broke into my house in the middle of the night and here I am in the shape I’m in and I didn’t do anything to deserve it.”
“We don’t always get what we deserve in life. Get over that idea.”
“Yeah, that’s easy for you to say.” Harlan seemed to regret he had said this the second his words hit the air. “I’m sorry, Cal. I didn’t mean that. Lord knows, life’s no bowl of cherries for you.”
“Forget it.”
“Who was the guy?” Buddy spoke for the first time, but his tone communicated that he was now in charge.
“I don’t know who he was,” Harlan assured him.
“Then you know why he was there.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Who’ve you made mad lately? Who’s got it in for you?”
“Nobody.”
“Don’t lie to me, Harlan. I’m not stupid. I do live in this town, you know. Not everybody here loves you. Who’s after you?”
“What’s up with you? A burglar broke into my house and shot me, and you’re trying to make me responsible?”
“I’m trying to find out the truth.”
“You think I’m lying to you?”
“Don’t make me answer that. You’re one of the best friends I have in the world. The other one is standing beside me. I don’t have many secrets from either one of you. You know that. So I’m asking you as a friend. Who do you owe? Who’s out to get you?”
Harlan closed his eyes for a long time. Nothing and nobody in the room moved. When he finally opened them, he looked Buddy solidly in both his eyes and said, “Why don’t you think it was simply a burglar?”
“Why don’t you give credit to every bumpkin that comes in off the street and wants to buy a silver bracelet?”
“What?”
“Instincts. You know who to trust. And I think you trusted the wrong person.”
Harlan turned his face away from Buddy, shutting him out completely, and said, “Cal, I think you came in here to have a prayer. If you did, get on with it so I can get some sleep. I’ve just been shot and had major surgery, for God’s sake.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
With the full permission of their parents, the boys worked off their debt over the next two Saturdays. At the end of the last Saturday afternoon on the job, Vic called them back to his little office just off the dining room. They squeezed in, closed the door, and stood around his desk, not knowing what to expect.
“You are three of the most trying little devils I have ever seen in my life. You sneak around and steal from me. But you know what? You got caught, and you stood up and took it like a general. And what really bowled me over was you did good work. All of you. Not a slacker among you. So here’s what I’m going to do. Your parents are going to wonder where the money is you’ve been earning …”
“Mine’s already asked,” Cal interrupted. “I told them you hadn’t paid us yet.”
“What are you going to tell them the next time they ask?”
They looked at one another with blank expressions.
“I don’t know. Tell them we spent it, I reckon,” Cal answered.
“You won’t have to lie to your mammas and daddies. Here’s three dollars for each of you,” Vic said, handing them their money.
“Three dollars! You kidding? We can keep this?” Cal asked.
“All yours.”
“I don’t think it’s right, Mr. Princeton.” It was Buddy speaking this time.
Cal and Harlan turned and looked at their friend so quickly they nearly bumped each other over.
“Shut up,” Cal demanded.
“No. Let him talk,” Vic said, leaning back in his chair.
“I don’t know. It’s just that we did something wrong, and this was our punishment—and you even fixed it so our parents wouldn’t find out. And now you’re giving us money. It don’t feel right.”
“You want to give it back to me?”
“I don’t want to,” Buddy admitted. “But I know I should. So, yeah, I guess I will.” He laid his three dollars on the edge of Vic’s desk.
Harlan reluctantly followed suit. Cal was the last to react. But just before he made the gesture, placing his on the growing stack of money, he boldly said, “Uncle Vic, how about we give you two back and keep one. That seems fair, don’t it?”
Vic Princeton threw his head back, and the booming laugh that came through the closed door made all the patrons turn their heads to see what the amusement was all about.
“You are downright good boys. Some of you better than others, but all in all, good boys. How would you like to come in here and work every Saturday for a couple of hours?”
“For money?” Harlan asked.
“Sure, for money. Just like a real job.”
There were smiles and head shakes all around the room. The boys were laughing now just as loudly as their boss. The meeting was over, and all had conquered. And a relationship to last a lifetime had commenced.
“Here, boys. Take your money back. You earned it in more ways than one. And I’ll say it again. You are three of the most charming little mulligans I could ever hope to meet. If anybody ever deserved another chance, you three are it. Now get out of here, and go spend that money.”
They did. And every Saturday until they were well into their teens, they came to work and tied on their aprons and proudly took their places as employees of Mulligans, one of the finer restaurants in all of Mt. Jefferson. Even after they outgrew the jobs, they often visited Mulligans to eat in the last booth in the back on the right. When they started dating they brought their girlfriends there—sometimes for dinner and sometimes just for a soda after the movies, depending on how often they could scrape together the money. They came in all combinations—together, in pairs, or alone; after school in the evenings and after church on Sunday just to hang out. But whenever they came, there was one constant: the love and respect they showed for the man who had taken the time to give them the time of day. His lesson and his friendship were cherished by all three of them, and their secret was kept forever. Anybody stealing bottles from Uncle Vic now had the Mulligans to answer to.
BUDDY BRIGGS
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Very few people ever knew his real name. The kids he went to school with, the girls he dated, the guys in the army, the people he worked with—they all just knew him as Buddy, and he was the type of man one just never thought of pushing for a real name. He not only wore his nickname well, but he became his nickname. It was given to him by his mother, who felt a certain amount of guilt for putting his full moniker on her helpless little baby. To name him after his grandfathers seemed like such a wonderful idea until the actual time came to fill out the birth certificate. Then it was too late to come up with something more suitable, so she and her husband just closed their eyes and held their breath and uttered the official order that christened their one and only son Wendall Forester Briggs. At no point in his life could he ever remember anyone actually calling him either of his legal names. Even when his mother was angry at him, she never resorted to “Wendall Forester Briggs! Get in this house this minute!” as so many mothers do. His real names were used so seldom that the few times he had to write them—on insurance papers and income tax forms—he always found the capital W and F awkward to form. He was Buddy to one and all at all times.
Eileen and Chub Briggs were the solid middle-class people the country was built on and thrived on. Chub was a fireman and also ran an Esso station that sat kitty-corner across the street from the firehouse. Some of Buddy’s earliest memories were of spending the day at the service station with his dad, helping wash the windshields and sitting on the drink box, eating peanuts and candy bars.
Countering all the good memories of the New Street Esso were the times the fire bell would ring in the firehouse tower and make his ears hurt. But he would always love standing on the curb and watching his dad run across the street—and then, after what seemed like mere seconds of anxious waiting, watching the fire truck pull out into the waiting traffic with all the noise and clang it could muster. Buddy would pace the time away in the driveway while ole Major, the black mechanic, watched out the bay doors every few minutes to make sure he was okay. Sometimes after hours of waiting, Buddy would finally see the grille of the old fire engine chugging around the corner, and his dad, covered in soot and sweat, would wave to him from the back of the truck. Then something happened the summer he turned six that twisted this into a bad memory. Arlie Paine, a good friend of Chub’s, had gone out on the call with the other firefighters but didn’t come back with them. Buddy remembered sitting at the top of the stairs in his pajamas and listening to his dad tell his mother about how the flames had shot up through the ceiling of a house when they weren’t expecting it. The flames had caught Arlie Paine by surprise, and he never made it out. Chub’s voice was as close to crying as Buddy had ever heard. Buddy could only picture what he expected were tears running down his dad’s face.
From that day on, the sudden ringing of the fire alarm didn’t bring th
e excitement it used to for Buddy. Instead, it brought fear. More than once he could remember watching his dad hang on to the back of the fire truck as it made its way out of the big doors until it disappeared down the street. But instead of biding his time on the curb while ole Major watched out for him, Buddy would hide in the storeroom among the cases of oil and try to block the fears from his little mind.
“You in here, Buddy?” Major called.
“Yes sir.”
“Where are you?”
“Back here in the corner.”
Major stepped over a few boxes and then sat down on one of them and pulled a greasy rag from his hip pocket. He took off his Esso cap and wiped the dampness from the inside band.
“Your daddy’s going to be all right. No need for you to fret like this. He been going out on these fire runs for years, long ’fore you were born, and he ain’t never been hurt yet.”
“What about Mr. Paine?”
“Mr. Paine had some bad luck, boy. And bad luck ain’t something we can fend ourself against. Your daddy can take care of hisself.”
“Not if a fire shoots up when he ain’t expecting it. He could burn up just like Mr. Paine.”
“Son, I have fellow feeling for Arlie Paine and all his family. But even they wouldn’t want you to lay around and pine the way you doing. Now come on out here, and let’s watch for that old red truck. It’ll be coming around that corner ’fore you know it.”
“Major?”
“What’s that, boy?”
“Is that what hell’s like? Fire and all?”
“Hell ain’t always fire, son. Hell is different things to different folks. And you know what? Hell is sometimes just sitting around worrying about things you got no dominion over. Now get out here and get you a soda pop and a Baby Ruth. I got work to do.”
Chub Briggs always came back, and Buddy was always waiting for him. And ole Major was forever peeping out one of those bays, making sure all the world was right for both of them.
