“I don’t like those pants,” Tommy said matter-of-factly.
Brundidge straightened Tommy’s collar. “I’ve told you fifty times, you don’t wear a dress shirt with sweatpants, damnit! At least put on a decent pair of jeans. You’ve got all kinds of nice jeans.” Tommy said, “Okay, okay. Just follow the sparrow, man. Just follow the sparrow.” Brundidge frowned. “Don’t follow the sparrow me. You need to get with the damn program! Tommy turned his back on Brundidge, letting him know that he was done with him.
The three men moved on. At the corner, they stopped again, sizing up the long row of devastation.
Across the street was where Jeter’s Market had once been and where Jeter had lived upstairs with his parents. This had been the boys’ headquarters. During the summer, the threesome had all worked in the little market waiting on customers and helping them out to their cars. They loved that they could reach in the old meat case anytime they wanted and cut themselves a huge slice of bologna. And they were consumed with the supervision and maintenance of the candy counter, worrying constantly that Jeter’s mom was running out of necessary items like chocolate Milk Duds, red-hot jawbreakers, and black licorice. But the chore that thrilled them occurred only sporadically when either of the two kleptomaniacs in Paris came in to browse. The boys would then follow that person around, writing down what they took, so that a bill could be sent later.
By age eleven, they were promoted to helping Mervin Ritchie, a slightly retarded man who worked in the back, deliver groceries. When they weren’t in a hurry, Mervin would sometimes let them drive Hank’s truck. Townspeople knew they could call Jeter’s Market and order what they wanted, leave a key under the mat, and find it all put away by the time they got home. And there were perks here, too. The three youngsters and Mervin often returned to the store breathless with news of a new man in his undershirt at Miss So-and-So’s house. Hank Jeter pegged his son’s friends just right when he said, “Little Brundidge, he likes to tell everything he knows. Now Wood, he likes to have it told, but he don’t like to do the tellin’.”
After their chores were done, the boys had the run of a two-mile stretch if you counted both sides. They were the little princes of Main Street (and the last generation to flourish here), riding their horses downtown, tying them to parking meters, patrolling the stores, and protecting the merchandise with the water pistols they kept tucked in their Levi’s. They could go to the drugstore and, if Ione Falkoff was busy, look at dirty magazines in the back. Playboy was the only thing they had ever seen that could beat Dr. Mac’s medical books. Most of the women in there were old or sick looking and they weren’t even posed good. But these Playboy women were young and naked and all pink colored, the kind who looked like their pubic hair would be soft as a teddy bear. It was wonderful. Sometimes they tore the pages out and took them back to their tree house.
They also liked it at Sam’s Shoes, where Sam Gambelluca allowed them to witness firsthand the vast array of public feet in all their glorious stages of deterioration and pathology: the corns, the calluses, the misshapen arches, the blackened ingrown toenails, even the ravages left by gangrene. The boys were amazed that Sam wanted to handle anyone’s feet at all, much less the bad ones. But he acted as though each foot was a little treasure and he was looking for just the right case to keep it in.
Then there was Lena Farnham Stokes, the first woman in Paris to use three names. Lena, who never married, lived in a grand old house that almost no one ever went to. But the few who did said that “it looked like a fancy movie set, like it was just waitin’ for somethin’ to happen there.” She also had an enormous picture of Queen Elizabeth in her storefront window. Lena had actually visited London during the coronation and had personally snapped this photograph of the monarch waving ever so slightly from inside her coach. Lots of people said it looked like the queen was waving directly at Lena Farnham Stokes.
She paid each of the boys a dollar a week to keep the sidewalk clean in front of her store. They did this begrudgingly because in order to collect your money, you had to have a conversation with her dog. It was always “Go ahead, Sweetie Pie, did you thank the nice young men for cleaning up the walk? Did you?” And Brundidge would say, “That’s okay, ma’am. He already did.” And then, before they could get away, there would be the strange advice on the opposite sex. This was delivered by Lena herself, and made more dramatic by the fact that she’d had a stroke, causing her to hold up one side of her face so that it matched the other. With her hand flattened against her cheek and her eye pulled tight, she would sigh flirtatiously and say, “Remember, boys, you must never smile at a girl, it gives away all your power” or “Always keep a faraway look in your eye, boys, it causes charisma.”
They didn’t know what charisma was, but they were pretty sure Sidney Garfinkel had it because he always had a faraway look. Even when he smiled, he seemed sad, and not just because a tornado had once damaged his store the worst of anyone’s on Main Street. Mr. Garfinkel had been out of town and the other merchants had taken up a collection to repair things before he even got home. But the boys felt sure he was sad about something else. They just didn’t know what. It bothered them because they liked him. They especially liked that he gave them all his shipping crates for the fort they were constantly expanding in the woods behind his store. And also that each morning he made something called “strong European coffee,” always letting them have some with lots of cream. On the days he changed his window display, they stood outside, sipping the fragrant brew and watching Mr. Garfinkel dress and undress the mannequins. They noticed how good he treated the girl ones, putting a little drape over them until he was ready with their outfits. And how he always touched each one gently and never in the wrong places, as though he knew them. Then one day, when he was trying on a shirt that had just arrived, they had seen a number on his arm. Brundidge had asked him where he got it. And Mr. Garfinkel had said when he lived in Europe, some people had thought he was special, so they had him numbered, in case he ever got lost. It wasn’t until they were nine or ten that Wood’s dad had told them how the Nazis had killed Mr. Garfinkel’s entire family and almost starved him to death.
This new information set the three boys on fire. The Vietnam War was in full swing, but they now spent their afternoons at the library reading about Nazis. When they went hunting, they pretended whatever they were after was a Nazi. They even wrote their birthdays in digits on their left arms so they could be like Sidney Garfinkel. Then one day they informed him that if a Nazi ever did come through Paris, they would get Dr. Mac’s twelve-gauge shotgun and put a hole in him. After that, they planned to take him to the woods in a wheelbarrow and let wild animals eat him. They had expected Sidney to be pleased. But instead, he had gotten that faraway look again. And then he told them that nothing would please Hitler more than knowing he could make little boys in Arkansas do such things. He said this with straight pins in his mouth, while taking in the seat of a man’s pants. Now they felt confused. After a while, they washed the numbers off their arms. Eventually, they stopped mentioning the Nazis to Mr. Garfinkel. And he never changed his shirt in front of them again.
A few doors down from Garfinkel’s was Case Hardware, a virtual paradise of short, narrow aisles filled with fishing poles, tent stakes, tackle boxes, bicycles, and BB guns. You name it and Lloyd Case either had it, could get it, or could tell you about it. A reticent man, he was also known as a master of paint mixing. If someone wanted her living room to be the color of a certain lipstick, or if the florists, Dwight and Denny, were looking for a faded terra-cotta, Lloyd Case could pretty much hit it on the head the first time. And do it with a Pall Mall cigarette hanging from his mouth, without ever losing an ash.
Then one day Claire Cutsinger, who drank, decided to paint her den the color of the Champanelle River. The boys assured her this would be easy and since Mr. Case was busy, they started pulling out the chips themselves. Pretty soon, no one could agree on what the color of the Champanelle River was. Or
what the color of any river was for that matter. Finally, Lloyd came over and stated matter-of-factly that the color of a river cannot be mixed in a bowl in a hardware store. Then he went back to his Pall Mall cigarettes and his cash register as though he had said nothing important at all.
That was how it was on Main Street. It wasn’t like school, where you knew you were learning something. It was a place like your daddy’s lap, where permanent ideas and notions got inside of you and you never even felt them being put there.
And now, all that was being cast aside. For what? Didn’t progress dictate that one thing is replaced with something better? What new, improved arena had emerged to replace this one? The Fed-Mart Corporation of America? An assortment of strip malls filled with strangers? The Internet? So far, no one seemed to have come up with an answer.
Brundidge, Jeter, and Wood walked toward the entrance of Case Hardware, one of the few remaining stores. Just a block away was Doe’s, which, though struggling, had been granted a dispensation due to the fact that Mavis could bake things Fed-Mart had no interest in duplicating—like her Three-Cheese Prosciutto Onion Quiche and fresh-from-the-garden Sun-Dried Tomato Bread. Most of the cars on the street were parked in front of her business.
Jeter, who was wearing Dr. Mac’s hat, said, “Well, looks like ol’ Mavis is holding her own.”
Brundidge answered, “Yeah, she’s too ornery to be run out. They’ll have to drive a stake through her heart.”
Wood had tried his best to keep his mind on the business at hand, but Elizabeth, wearing a long veil and wedding gown, had wandered disturbingly across his mind while she watched smiling from a distance. He hadn’t told Brundidge and Jeter the incredible news Elizabeth had delivered after the funeral. He was still trying to sort it out himself, trying to make sense of it. Just as she opened her arms to embrace his daughter, Wood resurfaced on Main Street.
“Wonder what they’re gonna do with your old place?” Brundidge was speaking to Jeter.
Jeter answered, “If there’s any justice, they’ll turn it into a national historical site and you two will be docents.”
Wood and Brundidge headed inside the store. Jeter followed, the motor of his electric wheelchair whirring.
Lloyd Case, now in his eighties, was on his knees taking inventory of the sparsely stocked shelves.
Jeter spoke first, “Hey, Mr. Case, how’s it going?”
Lloyd coughed, causing his dangling cigarette to shake a little. “It’s goin’. What can I do for you boys?” He had been calling them boys for almost forty years now.
“Well, we thought we might get lucky tomorrow and kill us a couple of careless ducks,” Wood said, half-smiling. “You got anything for that?”
“I’ve got two cartons of Remington and one carton of Winchester,” he said, in a voice that was much stronger than he looked.
Brundidge offered, “We’ll take ’em.”
Lloyd turned to Jeter. “How about you, Carl? You need anything?” A lot of the older people in Paris used Jeter’s first name.
Jeter said, “Do you have the new NordicTrack?”
Lloyd shot Jeter an ever-so-slightly bemused look.
Wood said, “Seriously, he needs some gloves.” Then, turning to Jeter, “I’m not going to spend two hours rubbing your hands again.”
“Okay, but it won’t be the same for me,” answered Jeter. “You know how much I look forward to that.”
Wood narrowed his eyes, studying his oldest friend. “Remind me to cut down on your Perconal. You’re becoming way too chatty.”
All the men crossed to the cash register.
Lloyd said, “I’m sorry, Woodrow. We don’t carry gloves anymore. You might try Fed-Mart.”
The three younger men gave one another a look, then Brundidge spoke solemnly. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
Wood backed him up, “That’s right. We don’t buy anything from anybody who’s wearing a name tag.”
Jeter added, “It’s just a rule we have.”
“I appreciate the sentiment.” Lloyd put the ammo on the counter next to the cash register. “What the heck? I’ll give you these half-off. We’re going out of business anyway.”
Wood, Brundidge, and Jeter were quiet as the old man rang up the sale. Then Brundidge said, “Hell, that’s just about the end of downtown.”
Lloyd said matter-of-factly, “We can’t compete, Earl. You know that. They’ve got the volume.”
Wood got out his wallet and paid. “We’re real sorry to hear that, Mr. Case.”
Lloyd gave Wood his change. Then he seemed to get an idea. “I do have one thing they don’t have, though.”
He removed a small wooden box from beneath the counter and opened it proudly, revealing a four-inch tubelike object set against a blue velvet lining. “This expertly handcrafted, limited-edition duck caller, carved in the finest African blackwood.” He inclined himself toward them, speaking discreetly, “Let’s see Fed-Mart try to mass-produce these.” The men studied it, intrigued. “They say in the right hands it carries the perfect pitch of a mating call.”
They all stood admiring the little masterpiece. Then, Brundidge, who could stand it no longer, took it in his well-manicured hand. “Little darlin’. Come to Papa.”
It was evening and Lena Horne, courtesy of Dr. Mac, was helping Wood clean the two disassembled shotguns lying on his desk. He stopped every once in a while to savor the way she hugged a certain phrase. He was thinking how much he enjoyed being in his den by himself. He actually liked the way Milan had put this room together—the worn leather furniture, tapestried pillows, and needlepoint rug—the fact that it was a little too perfect, like a corner of some decorator showroom, did not diminish his pleasure in being among his favorite family photographs and books. When he looked up, Milan was standing in the doorway wearing something that looked like a mother-of-the-bride peignoir.
“We have to talk.”
Wood rubbed a felt rag back and forth a few more times, then said, “Talk.”
She crossed to him and sat on the plush ottoman next to his desk. “Do you think Elizabeth’s known this boy long enough to be getting married?”
“No.”
“Well, what are we going to do about it?”
“I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”
“Wood, if there is going to be a wedding, I need to know. The church hall is sometimes booked even a year in advance. There’s the invitations, the flowers, the dress, she can’t wear mine because we eloped.” Milan let a little time pass before she ventured, “Of course, I know it’s going to be hard on you. Seeing her again.”
Wood stopped his cleaning. “That’s good, Milan. This is not really about Elizabeth. It’s about you.”
Milan stood up, “No, it’s about us. All of us. I just ask, if this wedding does come off, that you please not humiliate me in front of our family and friends.” Milan walked the door and assumed the most flattering pose she could muster, backlit with the light from the kitchen, “You know, anybody can seem fascinating when you haven’t been lying next to them for the past twenty years.”
Milan disappeared in a huff of silk. Wood returned to his guns.
Ms. Judith Nutter had gone home for the day and only a handful of visitors still lingered at the Pleasant Valley Retirement Villa. A good number of leathery souls had already settled into their chairs for the evening. Miss Delaney and Miss Phipps and Serious West, the ex-sheriff of Paris County, were engaged in yet another game of canasta. Sometimes Serious studied his hand so long that Miss Delaney stepped outside to get some air, while Miss Phipps fell asleep. Serious was a large man with a massive dignity. He did not like to lose at cards or anything else and though gentlemanly, he was not above whipping old women.
A few feet away, Jeter was reading an old edition of the Oxford American. He turned the pages with the pointer held in his mouth, trying not to notice that Rudy had spilled Hawaiian Punch on some of them. On the TV, a newscaster in Little Rock was saying
that the Sunday School Stalker had struck again—that two little girls had been raped and murdered on Sunday morning while using the bathroom at their respective churches. Serious West discarded a low card with a growl. He hated the way the news media glorified criminal, like they were movie stars or something. “The Sunday School Stalker. Idn’t that pitiful? Why don’t they call him the Sissy Boy Bed Wettin’ Still Lives With His Mama Killer? That’s who he really is. That’ll get him callin’ the newspapers to complain.” All the old people chimed in their agreement. Besides the high price of medicine, nothing electrified these old folks more than tails of crime and mayhem. They felt sure that America had lost its way. That the criminals were laughing at the law-abiding people. And it seemed to them that people didn’t used to be so mean, like during the twenty-nine years that Serious West had been sheriff—an almost unprecedented run for a lawman anywhere. But when you stirred in the fact that he was black, people said it was a damn miracle.
Serious had a bad case of palsy, causing his left arm to shake like the dickens. But he still seemed like a man you might not want to mess with. His greatest achievement was shutting down a crystal meth lab over in Lodi, the most prosperous one being run west of the Mississippi. But some lawyers from St. Louis had gotten the dealers off on a technicality. People said that Serious had a way with wife beaters, too, making personal time for each one of them in his private office. No one ever knew exactly what he said or did, but when the men left, they were often in tears. His son Marcus was now the new sheriff and the word around town was that he was a star, just like his daddy.
The newscaster was winding up with information about a candlelight vigil where people could light a candle for “Little Jessica.” Serious scooted his chair back in disgust. Miss Phipps, picking up on his ire, suddenly blurted out, “Oh, pooh. Forget candles; I say put a bullet in somebody’s head for Little Jessica.” Miss Delaney and Serious looked at each other, shocked. Then she grabbed his arm, as they both burst out laughing. A good hearty laugh that went on long enough for Miss Phipps, now a little embarrassed, to join them. When they were done, Miss Delaney moved her hand, but not before Serious squeezed it and a look passed between them. He cleared his throat and discarded.
Liberating Paris Page 9