Charlotte Nation was putting flea repellant on her terrier, and Parker Lindsey was working his butt off giving animal vaccines, so that come Sunday he turned off his alarm and slept in.
Winston went out later on Sunday morning to put up the flag. There wasn’t anyone out early anyway on a Sunday, so he and Everett Northrupt had an agreement to do their respective flag raising one hour later.
This Sunday Winston worked up a damp sweat doing his patriotic duty. Northrupt yelled over after they had finished the ceremony, “Hot!”
“Yep,” Winston returned, thinking, What did the man expect at this time of year? Northrupt was originally from up in one of those Northern states, like Indiana or somewheres.
Going around to the back door of his house, he checked the thermometer fastened there on the corner. The dawning sun rays had not yet hit it, and the needle pointed to seventy degrees. That did not look good. He didn’t think he would wear a sport coat to church. He couldn’t stand heat in his old age, and besides, he didn’t need to impress anyone.
“The fella at the national weather channel says just a bit dry, is all,” Perry Blaine reported to his wife Vella from where he sat in his easy chair, catching the early-morning television report. All week long, Perry got up at the same time, 5:00 a.m., but on Sundays he remained at home until the drugstore opened at noon, to serve the church crowd soft drinks and ice-cream sundaes. Perry did not ever work the soda fountain—they hired two high school kids for Sundays—but he opened the pharmacy, since the store was open anyway. Most of the time he could sit back there and nap and watch John Wayne movies. People didn’t like to get sick on Sundays; it cut into their weekend time. He did a heck of a business on Mondays, though.
If they had another hot summer, that meant they would make another killing with ice cream, he reminded Vella, who was pulling on her floral smock and straw hat.
At least this year they were having sizeable amounts of rain, and that meant war with leaf molds on the roses. Vella didn’t make a breakfast on Sunday, but threw some jellied toast at Perry and went out to spray her bushes in an attempt to stave off powdery mildew and black spot.
Her roses were starting off better this year than last, she thought, clipping several long stems of fragrant Chrysler Imperial blossoms and carrying them inside to put in a vase for the preacher at that morning’s services. She intended to get to church early. She always intended this, and seldom made it. Perry said she’d been born late and kept it up.
Sunday morning was the only morning Marilee got up early and with some anticipation. A long time ago, during one of her trips with Stuart, she had met an old black man sitting on the front porch of one of the tiny grocery stores that in those days inhabited dozens of small towns of Tennessee. He had offered her a cold drink and some wisdom. She had at the time been very annoyed with Stuart for going off on a story and leaving her flat at this grocery store; knowing Stuart as she did by then, she had been concerned with finding a ride back to their hotel. The old man had observed this.
“Me,” he said, “I allow all week for worryin’, but not on Sunday. Worryin’ is a lot of work, and man is supposed to rest on Sunday so he’ll be able to go fresh in the new week. Anything comes up on Sa’dy night, I just put it aside ‘til Monday, when I’ll be refreshed from a day of rest. Anger…frettin’…stewin’…it all waits. And sometimes, while it waits, it just seems to disappear.”
When Stuart had decided he needed to be free, and she was going crazy with the idea of being alone and raising a handicapped son, she had remembered this bit of advice. Since then, Sunday was her No-Worry Day. Sunday morning she would make herself a cup of coffee thick with sugar and real cream—the only day she allowed herself cream, because she wasn’t worrying about fat and cholesterol—and would go out on the front porch and sit in the swing. Even in winter, unless the weather was too inclement, she followed this routine, wearing heavy wool and wrapped up in a blanket, the warm coffee mug in her hands.
This was her time to simply be. A time to let go of striving and struggling to be something and think what needed to be thought. A time to listen to the stillness of the world, and to her own heart, and to the possible whisper of the Lord inside. A time to savor peace from the normal turmoil of her emotions.
Sometimes she would nod off, as she did this morning, until Leo, Jr. passing and the newspaper landing smack-dab on her porch woke her. She caught a glimpse of Leo, Jr. peddling on, then, right behind him, came a jogger.
It was Tate Holloway. She recognized him with a jolt of surprise. And here she was in her bathrobe.
He waved, and she waved back.
Okay. She snapped open the newspaper. As she was reading, her neighbor across the street came out in his pajamas to retrieve his newspaper, and on the corner, Buddy, the young man who worked for UPS, pulled his Mustang to the curb, in from an all-nighter, which was the liberty of the young and single. Apparently his mother didn’t quite see it this way. She met him at the door, and her angry voice, if not the words, echoed down to Marilee.
When she went inside, she was curious at the quiet—no television cartoons. She heard hushed voices and splashing water in the bathroom. Corrine and Willie Lee were hanging over the side of the tub, bathing Munro.
“Mun-ro has to go to church with us,” Willie Lee said.
Corrine became very still and did not look up.
“I suppose he should come,” Marilee said, wondering at her sanity.
She and the children, and Munro, who smelled like a wet dog, had a leisurely breakfast, after which the humans dressed, and Marilee spritzed Munro with perfume. After a ten-minute wait on Parker—he sometimes joined them for church—she and the children and the dog walked down the block to First Street, then turned south for two blocks to the Methodist Church, where they viewed the sinkhole in front of the parsonage. The Sunday school classes had let out, and the pastor was giving a tour of the sinkhole, now about the size of a family dinner table. A big yellow caution sign sat inside it, just barely visible at the top. The City Works had now strung yellow tape around the hole.
Inside the sanctuary, Marilee directed the children into the rear row, moving from their customary second-row seats, in order to have Munro lie at Willie Lee’s feet. The few people who noticed the dog only smiled. Munro was smart enough to keep a low profile.
Their change in seating, however, proved quite flustering to Aunt Vella, who invariably came after the first hymn had begun. This morning she came racing in to take advantage of everyone standing and singing, blew past Marilee and the children on up to set a bud vase with a red rose on the corner of the pulpit, and then returned to the second row, where she stopped, perplexed at finding Imogene Reeves and her husband and grandchildren taking up the pew.
“They’re back there, Vella.” Norm Stidham leaned over from the opposite side.
“What?”
Iris MacCoy raised her voice over the singing. “In the back, honey…Marilee and the kids are in the back.”
“Oh…my…”
“They have a dog,” Minnie Oakes said.
Marilee was in the aisle, motioning her aunt, who put a hand to her pillbox hat and hurried back to join them. She lifted an eyebrow on sighting Munro, and then went right into the middle verse of “In the Garden.”
The light came through the golden glass windows and shone warmly on the walls and the congregation. On Marilee’s left side, Aunt Vella, smelling of Avon powder, sang out the old hymn with feeling. On her right, Willie Lee repeated, “Dew on the ro-ses…” and Corrine held her hymnal open on the back of the pew in front of them; her mouth moved but made no perceptible sound. Munro lay with his eyes closed, either in misery or prayer.
Oh, Lord.
She was surrounded by blessings. In that moment, for a slice of time, it was as good as it gets.
“Is the paper really goin’ to twice a week, Marilee?” It seemed as if the facts of the newspaper article could not be taken seriously. People had to hear it confirmed f
rom her lips.
“Durn shame.”
“I knew Ms. Porter leavin’ was goin’ to be the death of the paper.”
“Well, I’m paid up. What will happen to my money? Can I get a refund?”
Marilee repeated, almost word for word, because she had written the article, what it said in that morning’s newspaper, that the change would save the paper and enable it to continue operation, that the editions would in time grow in size, and that accounts would be adjusted.
By the time she left church she found her No-Worry Day seriously invaded. On the way past the sinkhole she made Willie Lee and Corrine hold her hand, having a vague apprehension that the hole would reach over and grab her children.
On Monday morning Tate drew on new jogging shorts and a muscle shirt and checked himself out in the mirror. His legs were white. He could stand it, though, but he could not go that muscle shirt, no-sir.
Changing into a T-shirt, he thought maybe he would buy one of those sleeveless T-shirts. He could go to that, he decided, and was annoyed that he had not bought one at the sport shop. He was further annoyed that he was feeling the childish need to compete with Lindsey.
Ah, well, if he were perfect, he wouldn’t have any need to be on earth.
The phone rang as he went out the door. He left it and jogged down Porter, with Bubba bouncing along behind him like a meandering basketball. Passing the James house, he looked at it with his usual fantasy and was startled to see a figure on the front step. A little dark-haired figure in yellow pajamas.
He waved, and Corrine gave a hesitant wave in return, then hopped up and skedaddled in the front door.
At the corner the young UPS man chinned himself three times on the porch beam, hopped down and, with biceps bulging, came to his car parked at the curb. “My mother sure is irritated at you for cuttin’ the paper to two days,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” He might have wished for better first words between them.
He continued on, turning toward Main Street. Bubba dropped out of sight, as had become his habit. As if the cat was hesitant to be seen in public with him, Tate thought.
He came abreast of the walking-talking ladies. Their morning nod to him seemed decidedly cool.
The bakery lady’s car was out front, but the door to the shop was closed, and all quiet there. All quiet on the entire street. Halfway along he had to drop to a walk. The calf of his right leg twinged, and he shook it out.
Turning east at the police station, with the aroma of coffee that stirred his taste buds, he saw Lindsey in the distance, coming down the hill right on time.
Okay. Get moving.
Pushing himself into an energetic pace, he met Lindsey at the intersection. Thankfully Lindsey came to a stop, so Tate could, too. His chest was burning.
“Mornin’, Editor,” Lindsey said, stretching his legs. “Hell of a change in the paper.”
“Everythin’ changes,” Tate said, stretching his legs and trying not to pant.
Just then, here came the young blond woman, this time on a bicycle, wearing bright-blue short-shorts and a yellow halter top, showing lots of smooth, tanned skin. She slowed a fraction. “Hello, y’all,” she said and cruised on past between Tate and Lindsey as they both offered hellos.
Tate’s head turning as if on a swivel, he followed her with his eyes, seeing her lovely rounded rump undulate as she pumped the bicycle, heading east on Porter. Nothing wrong with appreciation, Lord. He was not lusting. He doubted he could keep up with such a woman.
Then he saw Lindsey had been watching, too.
Tate said, “If you hurry, maybe you can catch her, you bein’ in such good shape and all.”
Lindsey grinned a slow grin. “Why, I got a girl, Editor.”
Tate thought a half a minute and said, “I don’t think you have much more than I do…we’re both out here joggin’ our brains out.”
Lindsey kept his mouth shut and headed off at a rate designed to show Tate what he did not have.
Tate pushed himself to semijog up his drive and around the back of his house, where he didn’t bother to go inside but collapsed on the step. Bubba came and sat down to stare at him.
“Remember, I feed you,” Tate told the cat.
Behind him, through the screen door, came the ringing of the telephone.
Another complaint about the changes in the paper, he surmised, remaining right where he was.
He met Marilee at the intersection of their respective streets. Seeing her face behind the Cherokee windshield, he tooted his horn and waved out the window, going so far as to holler, “Where are you goin’ so early?” It was just eight-thirty.
Corrine’s small head poked out the passenger window of the Cherokee. “To get doughnuts for the paper.” The girl’s voice came thinly across the distance.
Tate pulled his BMW through the intersection and up alongside Marilee. Her window and the rear passenger window, where Willie Lee poked his head out, came down at the same time.
“Hi, Mis-ter Tate.”
“Hello, Willie Lee…hello, Munro,” he added to the dog, who brought its head alongside the boy’s.
Then he shifted his gaze to Marilee. Big dark glasses hid her eyes.
She said, “We’re goin’ to get doughnuts to take down to the paper.”
“I thought we were going to have some cakes delivered.” He tried to see through the dark lenses. It was disconcerting to be talking to emotionless dark glasses.
“Too early. Bonita isn’t deliverin’ the cakes until around ten, and the office is already filling up with people…who all pretty much want to smack you for darin’ to change an institution of the town.”
“I know.” How well he knew. “Phone’s been ringin’ since yesterday. I got a call this mornin’ before I even got my shower.” Annoyance crawled over him, and he focused it on Marilee’s sunglasses. He considered reaching out and yanking them right off her face so he could look her in the eye.
“Charlotte called to ask me to bring my tea maker,” she said, “and to go get another three dozen doughnuts. She brought in a dozen herself, and they’re gone.”
“I’d best scoot down there, then, and give her a hand with crowd control.” He could not believe the uproar over the tiny newspaper.
“Yes, you had better.”
“Get me some jelly doughnuts,” he thought to sling out the window as Marilee drove on.
He put his vehicle in gear and headed down the street, thinking that he should have anticipated a strong objection to changing the paper from a daily. Such outcry should be a cause for celebration on his part; it showed a lot more people than he had imagined read it.
He suspected, though, that the outcry had less to do with the number of people who read the paper and more with the simple fact that human beings did not take readily to change, even to change that meant improvement.
He shook hands and offered a friendly welcome and an attentive ear, which he had long ago learned was the best way to deal with complaints. Most people were content, once they had been heard out. There was not much more he needed to offer than a true listening ear.
The place had cleared out, and Tate had made it to his office, when a short but ramrod-straight grey-haired man in a dark cardigan, plaid shirt and creased khakis appeared at his door.
“Charlotte isn’t out here,” the man said to Tate. “No one is out here.”
“Well, now, I’m sorry. Charlotte was just here.” Tate came to the door and looked out at the empty room where only minutes before at least three women had been working at their desks.
“I guess everyone has stepped out. Can I help you?”
“Hmmm…Everett Northrupt,” the man said, sticking out his hand.
“Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Tate Holloway.”
“I figured.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “I want to know how you will handle my account. I’m paid up for a year of dailies. I expected to receive them. I have received them for eight years, since I moved down here. Always paid on time
. I tip the boy ten dollars, twice a year, Easter and Christmas.”
“I’m sure the young man appreciates that, sir. And we appreciate you as a customer. Don’t you worry about your account. It will be adjusted. You won’t lose any money.”
“I paid for a daily. I expect a daily.” The man stared intently at Tate.
“Well, sir…we can give you a refund.” Tate pulled at his ear.
“I don’t want my money back. I want my daily paper. I paid for a daily, and I expect a daily.”
Tate saw Charlotte out of the corner of his eye, coming out of the rest room. She looked his way, but he did not think he should wave her down for help.
“Sir—” he felt compelled to sir the man “—as I explained in my editorial, I am sorry for the disappointing change, but it is my hope that by going to a twice weekly, we can save this important institution and turn it into even a grander paper than it has been for many years.”
The man’s mouth got tighter. “So then you’ll go bankrupt, and I’ll lose my payment anyway.”
The man had a definite negative outlook.
Tate took hold of the man’s elbow. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr….” He was embarrassed to have forgotten the man’s name.
“Northrupt. I’ve had my coffee this mornin’.”
“Well, sir, I find I’m in need of several cups this mornin’.” He decided it was time to get Charlotte’s help, no matter how blatant the request appeared. But she was busy at her computer. It was nearly impossible to get Charlotte’s attention once she determined to focus on the computer screen.
Thank heaven, there was Marilee! She came through the door with the children, each carrying a white doughnut box and going over to the long, white-linen-draped table.
Cold Tea on a Hot Day Page 10
