by Tom Drury
Later, Alvin had the idea that some new form of pudding would turn things around. “This will create a light and happy atmosphere,” he told Mary Montrose. “Come on, admit it—it’s a popular dessert.”
Mary did not want the store to fail, so she couldn’t decide whether to nod encouragement or laugh. She and Alvin had never got along. That fight they’d had over his dog, King, was no coincidence.
“There is hardly a grocery store in the world that doesn’t sell pudding,” said Mary.
“Not in ready-to-eat canisters.”
“I’m afraid you haven’t done your homework.”
“Not with a little spoon attached.”
“I don’t know about the spoon,” said Mary.
“The spoon is what makes it,” said Alvin.
Then he tried lending videos. By this time the store commanded so little respect that few customers bothered to return the tapes they had borrowed. Alvin lost three copies of Fatal Attraction in the first week, and they were not his to lose. One morning in April while walking up to get her mail, Mary saw a fat guy in a Cubs jacket lugging Alvin’s cash register out of the store.
“What happened?” Mary asked.
“We’re closed,” the man said.
“Where’s Alvin?” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“Is the store out of business?”
“What do you think?”
“I think it is.”
“I’ll give you a loaf of bread for a nickel,” said the man. “You won’t find a better deal than that. Could you open the door on that car? I also have some nice rib eyes.”
“Rib eyes to eat?”
“No, for a doorstop—of course to eat.”
Mary opened the passenger door of a black Eldorado and the man eased the cash register onto the seat. “I knew Alvin wouldn’t last,” said Mary.
“I don’t know this Alvin,” said the man. “I try not to know them. I’m what you call in the industry a take-down man. In other words, I come in and take everything down. It’s no easy life. People get emotional when everything they have is on the auction block. Once a guy pulled a gun on me. It’s better for all concerned if I don’t know them.”
“I had hoped somebody else would take over,” said Mary. “Every town needs a grocery store.”
“Today, who wants the hassle,” said the take-down man. “The best you can hope for in these little one-horse places is some sort of mini-mart.”
“Fine,” said Mary.
“I don’t mean to be callous,” said the man. “I’m the bad guy in this situation. I know it.”
Mary picked up her mail—a bulb catalogue and a letter saying she had won a vacation home in Florida, a Jeep Wrangler, or a radio. She walked home discouraged. Services were leaving Grafton like seeds from a dandelion. Twenty-five years ago the town had two taverns, three churches, a lumberyard, a barbershop, and a bank. Of these, one tavern and two churches remained. On the plus side, Lindsey Coale had opened the beauty shop and a man named Carl Mallory had put up a quonset in which custom gun barrels were said to be manufactured. Ronnie Lapoint had expanded the bodywork part of the gas station, but since he owned and operated stock cars it was not always clear whether the welding you saw him doing produced income or simply amounted to doodling.
Mary had an aerial photograph somewhere of Grafton in the happy days of the early sixties. How dramatic and instructive it would be to enlarge it and wave the enlargement around at the next council meeting. It was as if they had all been sleepwalking through the decline of their town. She looked in the boxes at the bottom of the basement stairs. She found June’s Barbie suitcase, Louise’s lunch pail, the black ice skates of her late husband, Dwight. These things were musty and faintly sad compared with how she remembered them. She rested for a moment on the green and white cardboard box in which the World Book Encyclopedia had once arrived, full of facts and pictures for the girls.
After a while Mary realized that she had heard something. She climbed the stairs with hurting ankles. The living room was full of ivy and afternoon light. She stood at the picture window and saw a wren on the ground outside. This was not unusual. Birds had been smacking into the picture window lately. Mary considered it part of the season. They get to mating and not watching where they’re going and smack.
She had thought about hanging a fake owl in the window but heard they can cause crows to congregate in your trees. She went out to the garage and found a snow shovel with which to scoop up the wren, but when she got around to the front of the house it had evidently dusted itself off and flown. Or it had been carried away by a dog. Then a delivery van pulled up. “Package for Mary Montrose,” said the driver. He unloaded four boxes that June had sent from Colorado—hand-me-downs for the baby Louise was seven months pregnant with.
Louise waited for an ultrasound examination at the Mixerton Clinic. This was located in the former Mixers Hall, five miles southwest of Stone City. The building was low and rambling, made of sandstone, and strangely modern for something built at the turn of the century. The Mixers had not lasted long but undoubtedly had their share of good ideas. For example, they developed an elaborate system of body language, enabling them to be quiet most of the time. They opposed the planting of wheat, because beer and whiskey could be made from it, although this was somewhat contradictory, since they did drink beer and whiskey. The community fell apart soon after World War I, but some of the Mixer offspring are still alive, and every once in a while you will see an obituary along these lines:
PRINGMAR WOMAN DIES
WAS CHILD OF MIXERS
Louise wore a white T-shirt, a pink and white dress, and a rust-colored canvas jacket. Her bladder was full, and she sat in an indirectly lighted room with three other pregnant women who also had full bladders. To prepare for a sonogram, you were required to drink three big glasses of water and refrain from peeing. Otherwise, Jimmy, the kid who ran the ultrasound machine, might not get a clear picture of the baby. Holding so much water was not an easy task for anyone, let alone a pregnant woman, and now one of the women began sobbing softly, and a nurse named Maridee entered the room and reluctantly placed the key to the bathroom in her hand, with the instruction not to give the key to anyone else. Another woman tried to take their minds off the pressure inside by telling how she always found playing cards on the ground. She wore a blue maternity shirt with a ruffled collar. Her eyes were big and glazed. “I don’t know what it is,” she said. “I can’t explain it. I wish someone could explain it to me. Other people find quarters. If they’re lucky they find a dollar. My brother found ten dollars at the movies. Ten dollars! But me, I find the seven of diamonds. I find the jack of clubs under my shoe. The other day, for some reason I was thinking about New Mexico, and when I got in the car what do you think I found? A matchbook that said ‘New Mexico.’”
“I thought you were going to say a playing card,” said Louise.
“That’s what I mean,” said the woman. “That was the only weird thing I ever found that wasn’t a playing card.”
Jimmy had long curly hair and a gold tooth. He used to tune up the ambulances, but his life had changed when he read a sign posted in the cafeteria about the growing field of sonography. “I’m glad I did it, don’t get me wrong,” he said. “But I do miss the camaraderie. In the motor pool we used to play softball behind the middle school. I was a scrappy player and always found a way to get a hit. Singles, doubles, take the extra base. That I miss.”
“Maybe they would still let you play,” said Louise, who was on her back with her dress pulled up over her taut round abdomen.
Jimmy shook his head and applied blue gel thoughtfully to her stomach. “Tried it,” he said. “You’d be surprised at the turnover down there. I didn’t hardly see nobody that I recognized. And then I fell down running after a screaming liner and tore up my knee.”
“That’s too bad,” said Louise.
“It was like a telegram saying youth is over,” said Jimmy.
“What are we looking for?” said Jimmy.
“Due date,” said Louise. “Dr. Pickett thinks I’m big.”
“O.K.”
Jimmy made some measurements by moving an electronic star across the screen. “I get May the twenty-first,” said Jimmy. “Hey, do you know the sex?”
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
“Well, do you know?”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t want to,” said Louise.
“O.K.”
“No, I don’t think so.” She believed the baby was a girl.
“It’s up to you.”
“I mean, in a way I’d like to.” She had a feeling and wanted to leave it at that.
“There’s her hand.”
Louise held her breath. The baby’s fingers moved, making white sparks on the blue screen.
After the sonogram Louise went to see Cheryl Jewell, who had flown in from Kansas City the night before. Jocelyn, Cheryl’s daughter, was about to begin rehearsals for the starring role in the senior play at Morrisville-Wylie High School.
“I didn’t have a sonogram when I was pregnant with Jocelyn,” said Cheryl. She stood at the counter of her Aunt Nan’s kitchen, making chocolate malts in an old green mixer.
“They’re not bad,” said Louise.
“Don’t they feel strange?”
“Not really,” said Louise. “You get used to them.”
“And did you have that other thing?”
“Amnio?”
“Yeah.”
“Amnio was tough.”
“That’s what I heard,” said Cheryl.
“It’s true.”
“Here’s your malt,” said Cheryl. “My doctor was pretty laid back. I had a blood test.”
“I don’t mind medical things,” said Louise. “I’ll tell you what I don’t like.”
“What don’t you like?”
“When people you hardly know want to touch your stomach. I find this happens more and more.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember that.”
“People who would never ask to touch your stomach if you weren’t pregnant.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Here’s what I do,” said Louise. “As they go for my stomach, I step back and shake their hand.”
“You should write to Ann Landers with that clever tip,” said Cheryl.
“My way would be too polite for Ann Landers. She’d advise you to say, ‘Keep your hands to yourself, bub.’ “
“‘Cut out the funny business, mac.’”
They laughed and drank malt from cold aluminum glasses. Cheryl said, “Here’s what used to bother me. When I was pregnant, it seemed like an awful lot of people would look at me and say, ‘Whoa, somebody’s been busy.’ Like they were imagining me in bed or something.”
“People don’t know what to say,” said Louise.
“Well, they shouldn’t say that.”
“It’s like they’re embarrassed. It’s like you’re doing something embarrassing in public just by being pregnant.”
“Just by being,” said Cheryl.
Mary called her friend Hans Cook to drive the hand-me-downs out to the farm. He came over in coveralls and a St. Louis Cardinals baseball hat.
“I wear this on the days I don’t wash my hair,” he said.
“Well, that’s pleasant to know,” said Mary. “You are getting on the shaggy side.”
“Lindsey Coale does not do a good job with men,” said Hans. “This is nothing against Lindsey. With women there’s no one better. She just doesn’t have the knack for cutting male hair.”
“Why don’t you go to Morrisville?” said Mary. “That’s where everything is now.”
“You know, in olden times everybody had their hair like this,” said Hans.
“You go live in olden times,” said Mary.
Hans loaded the boxes into the back of his pickup. “I don’t mind the lifting, and it’s none of my business, but this seems like a lot of stuff. How big is a baby? About like so?”
They discussed the question for a while, moving their hands to show the possible sizes. Eventually Mary conceded that June had perhaps been overly generous.
“How is June?” said Hans.
“She seems well,” said Mary.
“What’s her husband’s name again?”
“Dave Green.”
“That’s right.”
“He just put an addition on their house.”
“Mr. Moneybags,” said Hans.
“Let me tell you something about Dave Green,” said Mary. “It’s true that he has more money than you and I will ever see in a lifetime. But as for common sense, you and I have riches untold compared to Dave Green. Did you ever hear about the time he flew to Hawaii by accident?”
“No.”
“By accident. I mean, my God, think of all the people with legitimate reason to go to Hawaii and no ticket.”
“They say rich people are unhappy.”
“That’s all hype.”
“I’d give it a whirl,” said Hans. “I would be the exception that proves the rule.”
“You would be happy whatever you’re doing. You’re a happy man. Some would say too happy.”
“I never will be rich, though.”
“Well, I don’t suppose you will.”
“The little man’s got a hard row to hoe in this world.”
“As does the big man,” said Mary.
Hans yawned. “What were we talking about?”
“Louise.”
“I admire her a lot,” said Hans. “Nothing bothers Louise. Things roll off her back.”
“To an extent. Somewhat. She has Dan. She has a baby on the way. I believe without question that Louise and Dan love each other. Now, am I saying there haven’t been ups and downs? No. Every relationship has ups and downs.”
“I heard they weren’t living together,” said Hans.
“Well, see, that’s wrong,” said Mary. “They live together. She might sleep in her little trailer. That’s eccentric but it’s not the end of the world. You of all people ought to agree with that. She’ll move to the house when the baby comes. Who said this, anyway? It sounds like a classic piece of Lime Bucket exaggeration.”
“I forget who said it,” said Hans. “Should we go?”
“Let me get my coat.”
Wind swept the countryside, and the pickup bounced along on gravel roads that were, as Mary would say, “washboardy” from the winter snow and the spring rain. Halfway to the farm, the tailgate banged open and the boxes fell from the truck.
“Trouble in paradise,” said Hans as he pulled over. He and Mary stepped down from the truck. Two of the boxes had broken open, their contents spilling into the ditch. Red, yellow, and gray clothes were all over the lush grass.
“Guess I didn’t get it shut,” said Hans.
“Say, maybe not,” said Mary.
They walked down into the ditch and gathered the clothes. This was on the south side of the road, where the abandoned utility poles were leaning so badly that you had to duck to get under them.
“They ought to do something about these,” said Hans.
“I have said that for years,” said Mary.
Hans scooped up a pair of corduroy overalls. “She may want to give some of these a spin in the dryer,” he said.
“There is a bootie by your foot,” said Mary.
Hans secured the boxes with rope and slammed the tailgate. As an afterthought he walked back to the ditch and unscrewed six insulators from the electric poles. The insulators were heavy and made of rounded blue glass.
“If Lo
uise washes these out, she’ll have a perfectly usable set of drinking glasses,” he said.
Louise found the cardboard boxes in the kitchen when she got back home. It looked as if June had sent every piece of clothing ever worn by her two children, from infancy to the present. There were also many toys—roller skates, Lincoln Logs, alphabet blocks.
Louise sat down and shook her head. Sometimes June seemed in rather light touch with reality. And some of the clothes were damp, as if they had been rained on in transit. Louise decided to wash everything. The insulators she did not know how to interpret. She lined them up on the kitchen table.
When Dan came home, the first thing he did after putting his gun away was to walk over to the table and examine the insulators. “What are these?”
“Mom left them,” said Louise. “My guess is they are paperweights.” “We don’t have this much paper.”
“What do you think they are?”
“Insulators,” said Dan.
“Well, obviously.”
“They’re from the utility poles up the road.” He picked one up and turned it in his hands. “Maybe they’re supposed to be drinking glasses.”
“Wouldn’t they fall over?”
“You sand them or file them.”
“That’s something we’ll get to right away.”
“Hey, how did the ultrasound go?”
“Oh, I wish you could have been there. The baby looked at her hands.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“How’s the heartbeat? Did the guy talk about that?”
“Jimmy said she has a really good heartbeat.”
“She?” said Dan. “He said ‘she’?”
“He said ‘her.’”
“No kidding. Maybe they just do that, you know, as a nonsexist thing.”
Louise shrugged. “Could be. I told him I don’t want to know.”
“That takes a lot of restraint.”
“Thank you. Did you have your debate?”
“Yes,” said Dan. “And I have to say, I cannot see anyone going into the privacy of the booth and pulling the lever for Johnny White.”
