by Jeff Fields
Tad Breisner explained, "Being pressed for time and funds, our plan is to do a quick excavation and sift for artifacts. I have good reason to believe," and here he slipped a glance at Mrs. Woolsen, "that he was buried in a vault. If not, this clay may have preserved some of the bones, or at any rate there may be a sword, pistol, buckle or some other article of hardware."
"Hey, Doc," called Mr. Teague, "you ain't gonna let 'em set up no toll-payin' shrine back here, are you?"
"Oh, good heavens, no," said Mrs. Woolsen, eyeing the black children crowding dangerously close to her skirts. "The remains would be placed in the county museum."
Doc Bobo, hat in hand, smiling broadly as Flake Webster roved about with his camera, said, "It would be my honor to have you dig here. In fact, if you could use some additional help . . ."
Tad Breisner gave the signal and the bulldozers dropped their blades and began rolling up topsoil.
"Just see they fill every shovelful back in," said Mr. Teague, turning back for the store. "This county's too full of holes as it is."
Work commenced through the afternoon, the dozers scraping up soil for a front-end loader, which in turn dumped it through a slanted iron framework to separate out rocks and break up larger chunks of clay; and from there, the cloddy earth was shoveled through wire screens to be raked and sifted by hand.
By sundown, when Tad Breisner called a halt for the day, the excavation had produced a rusted roll of wire, a hubcap, several fence posts, and a basket full of broken jars, but no sign of Easter Robinson. When work resumed the following morning, the lemonade ladies didn't return, nor did Mrs. Woolsen. Em Jojohn displayed a similar lack of interest, much to the regret of the equipment operators who kept asking about him. The Ape Yard children were there in full force, much to the aggrievement of Tad, who had spent the preceding day passing judgment on whether each of the dozens of peculiar stones they found was or was not an arrowhead.
Shortly after noon there was a commotion in the pit.
The bulldozers were down about twenty feet and could go no deeper. What had at first been thought to be a slab, or a fragment of a shelf, continued to grow larger as more dozers came to push earth away. The tracks slipped across a floor of solid rock.
Pink rock, sparkling and glistening in the sun.
Mr. Thurston, of Blue Light Monuments, climbed down to inspect it. "It's marble, all right!" he said excitedly. "Push out a little more there!" The dozers moved back in, racking and spinning until an area of several hundred feet lay exposed. Other granite men came down.
"The finest grade of pink marble I've seen in this part of the country," said Wilbur Taylor of the Three Angels sheds. "Wouldn't expect to see that kind of stuff this side of Salisbury."
"Could be just a shelf," said another.
"Well, sure, you'd need a core sample," said Mr. Thurston, "but look"—he waved a hand over the rose expanse—"you ever see a surface that big with as few flaws?"
The men shook their heads in admission that they hadn't.
"Hey! Over here—over here!" A bulldozer operator in the north corner of the excavation was standing up, waving his arms. He pointed to a large block of earth, which at first glance looked like a clay-caked boulder, tilted on the corner of his blade. The Athenians fell over each other getting to it and dropped to their knees, clawing at it with eager fingers.
A rusted metal corner appeared through the clay. "Hold it," cried Tad Breisner. He ordered everyone away and with the help of Dr. Spetchen and a couple of their colleagues carefully wrapped the entire block in protective tarpaulins. A truck was hastily summoned, it was lifted aboard, and they rode with it up the hollow, shouting caution to the driver, hugging their find.
Word came back a few days later, in a front-page article in the Star. It was Robinson's remains, all right, those of a large person, measuring to a height of six-feet-four, with a fractured skull, and they were encased in a heavy bronze vault bearing the Johns family coat-of-arms.
Odetta Woolsen was not available for comment, but within a week the historical society had withdrawn its fund for the support and maintenance of Martha Johns's birthplace, and a petition was before the county commission to change the name of the county library.
32
Tio walked back and forth, calculating. Em and I sat shelling peanuts, watching him deliberate. The principle was sound, we all agreed on that. By rights the automatic potato bin should work like a charm.
The manager of the Valley Farm store had grown so accustomed to seeing Tio hanging around studying his operations that he took the boy aside to give him advice from time to time. Always keeping your shelves and bins stocked was basic, he said; customers never liked to buy the last few items of anything. In shoe stores, he pointed out, didn't they always bring you shoes to try on from somewhere in the back? It was because that vast display you saw along the walls was mostly empty boxes!
And there never was a more faithful disciple. Tio stuffed paper in the bottoms of half-empty hampers. He sawed shelves in half lengthwise, shortening their depth so that it took only half the stock to keep them looking full.
But that was simple. Practical. What Tio craved was automation. So when he spotted the tray bin at the new cafeteria in Galaxy Plaza, the idea set him on fire. He rushed back to Mr. Teague's and immediately began construction on the world's first automatic, self-adjusting sweet potato bin.
The principle of the tray bin was elementary enough: by the use of springs or counterweights down in the bin, the load was shifted higher each time a tray was removed from the stock, bringing the next tray level with the top of the bin. You never knew how many trays were left until you lifted the last one out.
If it worked with trays, it ought to work with sweet potatoes, Tio said. He fitted heavy springs in the wooden potato bin and covered them with a loose plywood bottom. As the potatoes were removed, lightening the load, the potatoes would rise, keeping the bin looking full.
Tio hoisted hampers of potatoes to test their weight. He put a foot in the bin and felt the tension of the springs. Finally, he was satisfied. "Okay, Em, climb in the bin and mash that plywood bottom all the way down."
It seemed more sensible to me to check the tension by just pouring in the potatoes, and letting them depress the springs gradually. But when I ventured that suggestion, I only drew the creator's wrath.
"You, who can't even build yourself a decent ironin' board, knows all about such things, I reckon, and can say how it ought to be done. Em, climb in that bin."
Em smilingly obliged, and when the platform was depressed Tio wedged a peg through a knothole to hold it down.
"Em, don't you think he ought to . . ."
Em put a finger to his lips and closed his eyes.
When the bottom was secured Em stepped out and started helping Tio fill the bin, emptying hamper after hamper. I walked outside for another bag of peanuts.
As I was closing the lid of the roasting machine a blur of motion caught my eye up the road, descending from toward the fairgrounds.
I stood on Mr. Teague's steps and watched it coming, an aged yellow school bus, careening down the road like a runaway roller coaster car. It rattled across the bridge and with a screech of brakes turned into the curve up to Mr. Teague's, looking for sure as though it wouldn't make it, but miraculously it did, sliding to a catty-cornered halt inches away from the gas pumps and skirting pea gravel across the front of the store.
"Merciful God, let me off!" a voice cried, and a moment later the boarders were pouring out the door.
"I didn't do so bad for a first time," said Mr. Rampey, sliding out of the driver's seat. "Thought I done pretty good, didn't you, Lucia?"
Mr. Teague, brought out by the commotion, stood in amazement as the old people got their legs steady under them, tugging at garments.
"What do you think of it, Alvah?" said Mr. Rampey. "We got transportation now." He turned to Tio. "Fill 'er up, boy."
"We got a coffin, is what we got," said Mrs. Porter, helpin
g Ruby Lampham down. "He might as well drive us right on to the cemetery."
"Where'd you get that thing?" said Mr. Teague.
"Picked it up down at Bledsoe's," said Mr. Burroughs, "we'll need it in our business."
"He was goin' to scrap it for parts," said Mr. Rampey.
Business, what business?" asked Mr. Teague.
"We paid too much for it," sniffed Mr. Jurgen.
"I need a drink, Alvah," said Mr. Burroughs, lunging for the store, "like I never needed one before."
"We can go on and buy the groceries while we're here, can't we?" said Mrs. Metcalf.
"We buy the groceries on Friday," said Farette.
"I'd like a cold drink too," said Mrs. Cline as they crowded into the store.
"I don't mean that," said Mr. Burroughs, waving his away, "I need a real drink! Where's your bottle, Alvah?"
"I could stand a nip myself," said Mr. Rampey.
"Not you, for heaven's sake!" cried Mr. Burroughs.
Mr. Teague brought a bottle from upstairs and gave it to Mr. Burroughs. "Now what's this about a business?"
When Mr. Burroughs' eyes horizoned again he let out a long sigh and leaned on the register.
"Would anyone like one of these oatmeal cakes?" asked Mrs. Bell. "Maybe we should take some with us."
"Mr. Burroughs . . ." It was Mrs. Porter, waving a bottle of white powder. "Dr. Sweete's foot powders," she chirped. "You'll want to get a good soak now."
"Lord God, woman, we've got no time to be thinkin' about foot soaking! We've got business to tend."
"What business?" screamed Mr. Teague.
Mr. Woodall started and turned around. "Business?"
Mr. Burroughs' eyes lit eagerly. "Antiques, Alvah! Bric-a-brac for the centennial folks. Got the idea from the way the ladies' quilts are bein' snapped up. You knew they were making quilts, didn't you? Well, the other day Doris Walker came to pick one up—you know her, wife of Haley Walker runs the tractor place—and she had this cousin with her from out of Four Forks, and she decided she wanted one too. Well, I got to guyin' the ladies a little, and I told 'em—told the cousin, that is—that quilt she wanted would cost her ten dollars extra, 'cause a little blue swatch of cloth in it had come from a coat that belonged to one of the original Poncini brothers! Told her, 'Oh, yeah, my folks knew 'em well. Had 'em over for supper many a time. They was a little peculiar, to be sure, but fine I-talian people!' Well, sir, I want you to know she grabbed that quilt out of my hands before I could say P-turkey, and there I stood with a handful of money! I was goin' to hand it back, don't you know, but Rampey hauled me out of the room. Well, we talked it over, and struck the notion that there was a lot of folks goin' crazy over old-timey stuff just now, and we've got tons of old-timey stuff layin' around the children's attics—if the scoundrels ain't thrown it away, that is, and we thought we'd just go fetch it out and sell it!"
Mr. Jurgen broke in, "Some of it we might have to make out to be a little older than it is, if you know what I mean."
Mr. Burroughs leaned close. "Uh—that business about the Poncini brothers' coat"—he winked—"the ladies don't have to know about that."
Mrs. Metcalf came up. "If we're going to that supper we'd better hurry."
"Supper?" said Mr. Teague.
"The First Methodist is having a supper on the ground," said Mr. Burroughs. "There's a lot of them going on right now too, and you know, when we eat out, we dock the landlord!"
"Liable to be a customer or two there too," said Mr. Jurgen, "so we brought along a few quilts just in case."
"All right everybody!" shouted Mr. Burroughs, and the boarders began making their way out of the store.
On his way out Mr. Rampey handed Mr. Teague a half-eaten candy bar. "Can't eat this Baby Ruth, Alvah, there's a little speck of something there . . ."
They all boarded the bus again, and with a grind of gears it wobbled down into the road, stopped, backed up, choked, started again, and finally went moaning up the hollow.
Mr. Teague was about to start up the stairs, for a nap probably, when Tio suddenly remembered his potato bin.
"Hey, Mr. Teague," he said triumphantly, "look at this!" And he reached down and yanked out the peg.
Well, that bin erupted like a volcano.
It rained sweet potatoes for a full five minutes. I dived under a counter and Em crouched in the corner, shielding himself as best he could with one of the hamper lids. Mr. Teague, caught in the middle of the maelstrom, lurched about the floor beseeching God and protecting his head with his arms.
As the storm abated he stumbled about wild-eyed, starting and flinching as the last of the potatoes, bottles and cans rolled off the shelves and thunked to the floor, and when at last he found Tio he stared at him in utter amazement.
"Merciful God," he cried, "how did you manage to blow up the yams!"
I was drawn up under the counter beating the floor, trying to get my breath. Em stood in the corner and held his sides and just hooted, gasped and hooted.
After a while I became aware that our laughter was being joined by others, and when I could, I put my head out. I stopped laughing.
It was Doc Bobo, Mr. William Thurston of Blue Light Monuments, president of the granite association, and Mayor Walter Crowler himself.
"It seems we're in the midst of a celebration, Alvah," said the granite man as they came into the store.
Mr. Teague climbed on his stool behind the register and wiped his twitching head with a towel. "Lord God, I don't know. If gunpowder wasn't so high . . ."
"You know the mayor, Bobo . . ."
The mayor put out his hand. "Hello, Alvah, how've you been?"
"Damn, Walter, two visits in two weeks, and usually you don't even come down at election time."
Mr. Thurston cleared his throat. "Well, we got the core sample reports, and they're even better than we expected." He walked around, taking in the store. "Mind you, I'm not saying it's the find of the century, it's only construction-grade marble, and old bluegray's been our bread and butter a long time, but there's a market for it, and we think there's enough there to justify a small quarry. It's not a shallow shelf, the cores showed that, but of course they mightn't have showed the flaws either. There's considerable overburden to contend with, plus the store and a number of those shacks that would have to be cleared away, and, of course, more tests would have to be run before any definite propositions could be made, but . . ."
"Wait a minute," said Mr. Teague, dropping the towel, "am I to understand you want to tear down my store—to dig a granite quarry?"
Mr. Thurston was surprised. "I thought that's what we were talking about—that's why we've been cutting core samples . . ."
"I didn't authorize nobody to be cuttin' core samples on my land!"
"Not on your land, on Doc Bobo's across the creek. We've had the equipment back there all week . . ."
"I never paid no attention, I thought they was fillin' in that hole. I didn't know you was lookin' to dig another one!"
"Well, the point is, the rock was located on Doc Bobo's land, but a quarry would take up this whole area, including the store property. I thought you'd be pleased . . ."
"No, sir, my property ain't for sale!"
"Well, sale-lease, or whatever, what I'm trying to make you understand, Alvah . . ."
"What I'm trying to make you understand, Billy Thurston, is there ain't going to be no uprootin' of my place of business to dig for tombstones!"
"You're not serious."
"The hell I ain't," echoed Mr. Teague, then whirled on the boy. "If you don't gather up them taters I'll put you on the chain gang!"
"Mister Teague," said Doc Bobo, "perhaps you don't understand. I own most of the property in question, but Mr. Thurston and other members of the granite industry had expressed a genuine interest in helping get a quarry started down here. They have made a most generous offer of a corporate enterprise, with their backing, equipment, expertise . . . a most lucrative proposition. Now, I own most of t
he property, but it is impossible to sink a quarry without your cooperation, and that of the other people who own lots adjacent to it. You, of course, own the largest share, next to me. Now, the others have already expressed an interest in selling their bits and pieces to turn a nice profit, why not you, who stands to gain the most of all?"
"Because," said Mr. Teague, "I'm in the grocery business. I've been in the grocery business for fifty-two years, and I've no interest in going into the granite business and digging another blasted rectum in the earth!"
"Alvah," said the mayor, "as you know, this is a one-industry town. We need every source of supply if we expect to survive. This could affect the progress of the entire community."
"Progress!" snorted Mr. Teague. "You come down to this slum and talk to me about progress. If you'd been down here to pave a street or dig a sewer line in the past forty years you might have found your precious rock in time to do us all some good. You're too late, Mayor. Don't expect me to concern myself with this town's progress. I never gave a damn for the granite business. To have the curse of being born in a place that can't produce nothing but rocks! I'd rather be from the blessed manure capital! And you want me to give up my place of business so you can dig more tombstones!"
"But look what we're offering you," said Mr. Thurston, "a chance to get out of this hollow—this slum, as you called it—and spend the rest of your life in comfort. Look around you, Alvah, you call this a business? In another five years the chains will have closed your doors!"
"In another five years, the Lord willing, they'll have closed my coffin! What can you offer me, seventy-three years old, a trip around the world? A big house in Marble Park and hobnob rights with you and that country-club gang? It's too late for me to leave this hollow. I've spent my life down here. I've got a place to live, work to do, and folks that holds me with some respect. What can you offer me to beat that?"
"Mr. Teague," said the mayor, speaking more formally, more earnestly now, "let me be quite candid with you. Confidentially, I didn't want to go into this aspect of it just now, but as you know, we're observing the hundredth anniversary of our little granite industry this year. Statewide attention is being focused on us. And at the big windup celebration in June we will have dignitaries here from the state capital and from Washington, the governor, congressmen. And Senator Broward is bringing some important people from Washington to look at the Oconostee dam. There could be national publicity. As you may have heard, we're under consideration for a federal subsidized housing project to replace many of the substandard dwellings that will be flooded by the dam. I think you'll agree this is the time to put our best foot forward. And given the present conditions, we believe it would be an excellent thing for us to be able to announce the first black member of the granite association, to show ourselves as a community of stability, working together for the benefit of all our people. We are all eager to extend ourselves toward that effort."