Dairy Queen Days

by Robert Inman

  “We have a law enforcement problem,” Alma said to Cicero.

  “How’s that?” Cicero asked. He remained on his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. Trout looked at him in surprise. Cicero seemed a little taller this morning. Maybe it was the angle of the light coming in the high window at the side of the room. Or the uniform.

  “A subversive element is at work in the community,” Alma said, trying to keep her voice even. “An outside agitator has come in here from Washington, D.C. and is attempting to stir up trouble.”

  “And now he’s gone home,” Cicero said.

  “And left the radical element,” she shot a finger in the direction of the mill and her voice rose, “plotting God knows what. Wardell Dubarry and his crowd want to take over my business.” She looked around at the others. “Our business.”

  “But hon’,” Cicero said patiently, “the mill and the mill village are outside the city limits. Outside my jurisdiction.”

  “They’ll be marching in the streets!” Alma cried.

  “They’ll need a parade permit for that.” Cicero looked down at Judge Tandy. “Judge, do we have a parade permit ordinance in Moseley? I should know, but I confess I don’t.”

  Judge Tandy frowned, considering it. “I don’t recall,” he said. “I don’t know that we’ve ever had a parade.”

  “Well, get one!” Alma barked.

  “A parade?” Judge Tandy asked.

  “An ordinance!”

  Just then the door from the dining room swung open and Rosetta backed through carrying a tray laden with silver coffee pot, cups and saucers, sugar and cream pitchers and a crystal container full of spoons. “Y’all ready for coffee?”

  “No!” Alma yelped.

  Rosetta stared at Alma. It appeared for a moment that she might do something violent with the tray, but then she took a deep breath. “That be just fine then,” she said pleasantly. And she turned and went back the way she had come. Trout thought they all could have used a cup of coffee, but he didn’t say anything.

  The silence hung heavy in the room. Alma gathered herself, regained her composure. “All right,” she said to Cicero after awhile. “Go ahead. I thought you might be interested in the future of the family business, but you go ahead.”

  Cicero’s gaze floated about the room, resting briefly on each of the others. “You’re right. This is family business. And y’all are the family. Except the Judge here, who’s mighty like family.” Judge Tandy gave him an appreciative nod. “Besides, y’all got lots more sense than I have. I’m just an old police chief, doing his duty as he sees it. Anybody breaks the law, I’ll take care of ‘em.” He gave a little wave of his cap to Alma. “See you for lunch hon’.” And he left.

  There was another long silence. Trout realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. Something Cicero had said echoed in his head. …doing his duty as he sees it. Then he remembered. General Douglas MacArthur, speaking to Congress. They had seen it on an old “March of Time” film in history class in Ohatchee. How about that, Trout marveled. Uncle Cicero, quoting Douglas MacArthur. Did he know what he was doing? It was entirely possible. Just about anything was possible.

  Finally, Alma said, “All right. We’ve got to get a handle on this thing.”

  “Nip it in the bud,” Phinizy said.

  “That’s right. Judge Tandy, what do you recommend?”

  Judge Tandy rose again, squaring his shoulders. He was a tall man, slightly stooped, with a shock of white hair, somewhat longish in the back. In his youth, Trout imagined, he had been something of a dandy. Now, well up in his seventies, he struggled to remain courtly and patrician. He cleared his throat. “In my considered opinion,” he intoned, “there are several possible courses of action here, none of which are clearly preeminently advantageous and therefore worthy, in my estimation, of recommendation with complete certitude at this early juncture.” He stopped for breath, looked around at what remained of the assemblage. Flannel shirt and bare ankle or not, Judge Tandy looked every bit the sage counsel, Trout thought, duly impressed. “We might of course consider the injunctive process. And then again, perhaps not.” He nodded wisely. “Howsomever,” he went on, “one should not in a situation such as this be predisposed to any particular proceeding, nor upon the other hand be prejudiced against any possibility. One should, in a manner of speaking,” he smiled benignly, “keep one’s powder dry.”

  The words hung ponderously in the air. They waited for Judge Tandy to go on, but instead he sat down, folding his hands in his lap. Alma gave him a slightly vacant look.

  “Judge Tandy,” Phinizy spoke up. “Are you versed in labor law?”

  “No sir,” Judge Tandy said firmly, “I am not.”

  “Then perhaps,” Phinizy said, “you should consult with someone who is.”

  “Splendid idea,” Judge Tandy said. “I shall indeed do that,” he inclined his head toward Alma, “if, of course, Alma approves.”

  “Yes,” she said softly, a trifle disconcerted by Judge Tandy’s discourse. Then she roused herself. “We can handle this by legal means or by God, I’ll shoot ‘em.”

  “I don’t think Uncle Cicero will let you do that,” Trout blurted. They all looked at him. All except Joe Pike, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the spot on the rug for several minutes now.

  Alma dismissed the thought with a quick jerk of her head. “Moseley Mills will not have a union,” she said through clenched teeth. “No matter what.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Phinizy said.

  Alma glared at him. “Whose side are you on, Phin?”

  He ignored the question. “Here’s what will happen, Alma. If these people are serious about this, and you must assume they are, they will circulate a petition amongst the employees, calling for a union election. If they get a certain percentage of employees’ names on the petition…”

  “Damn their petition!” Alma barked. “I won’t accept it.”

  “It’s not your place,” Phinizy said patiently. “The petition will go to the National Labor Relations Board, which will then set up the formal mechanism for a vote amongst all the employees.”

  “I won’t allow it.”

  “You won’t have any say in the matter.”

  “The hell you say!”

  “Yes, the hell I say.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “I’m from Washington,” he smiled. “Hotbed of unionism.”

  Alma turned to Judge Tandy. “Is that true?”

  “I suppose,” he said.

  “Before the vote takes place,” Phinizy went on, “you will have ample opportunity to make your case to the employees as to why they should reject the notion of a union. And the union will likewise have an opportunity to make theirs.”

  They all pondered that for a moment, and then Joe Pike looked up, shifting his gaze from the spot on the rug to one of the high windows where the morning was blazing in, the sun climbing above the trees to the east. Trout’s gaze followed Joe Pike’s and he noticed for the first time how the windowpanes were mottled and wavy and the thick curtains that hung at the edge of the window were faded from years of sunrises. He looked down again at the oriental rug and saw that it was badly worn in several spots, thick brown threads showing through.

  Alma said, “Joe Pike, I want you to go talk some sense into Wardell Dubarry.”

  Joe Pike started to speak, but Phinizy said quickly, “I don’t believe that’s a good idea. It might be considered tampering.” He turned to Judge Tandy. “Isn’t that the case, Judge?”

  “It might well indeed.”

  “They might win,” Joe Pike said musingly, almost to himself.

  “That’s ridiculous. They wouldn’t dare,” Alma said.

  Joe Pike continued to look out the window. “They might win because they’re fed up with Moseleys.”

  “I repeat,” Alma said, and there was pure steel in her voice, “there will be no union at Moseley Mills.”

  “Then,” Joe
Pike said, “there may be no Moseley Mills.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Alma spat.

  Joe Pike turned and looked her now. “Why do you say that, Alma?”

  Then Alma saw Judge Tandy peering up curiously at her, head cocked to one side, waiting. And she seemed to reconsider. “Let’s not get into that now.”

  “Why not?” Joe Pike’s voice had an edge of insistence.

  She turned away and started for the door. “Why don’t we have some coffee.” She opened the door and called back toward the kitchen, “Rosetta, you can bring the coffee now.” She closed the door and resumed her place. “Judge Tandy…” she began.

  “Alma,” Joe Pike interrupted, “tell me something.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  “Why didn’t Papa ever build a tennis court?”

  Alma rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Joe Pike, for goodness sake.”

  “I remember one time, sitting here in this very room. It was a Sunday afternoon, I believe, after dinner. I was about twelve at the time. That would make you fourteen. Papa was standing,” he pointed at the fireplace, “right about where you are now. Holding court. Do you remember?”

  Alma said nothing. She just looked at Joe Pike, waiting him out.

  “You had been reading a magazine article about a tennis player,” Joe Pike went on. “I don’t recall the name, but she had won at Wimbledon. And you asked Papa, ‘Can we have a tennis court?’ And do you remember what he said? He said, ‘Tennis is not ladylike.’ And then I spoke up and said, ‘I’d like to play tennis, too.’ And then Papa said, ‘Tennis is a frivolous game.’ Papa’s idea of sport was pitching horseshoes.” Joe Pike nodded slowly. “Horseshoes,” he repeated.

  “All right,” Alma said after a moment, as if speaking to a dull-witted child.

  But before she could continue, Joe Pike stood up abruptly. “Papa was a pickle, Alma. A sour dill pickle. I should have stayed here and told him so. But I ran off. I think I’ve been paying for it ever since.”

  He started toward the door, but stopped just for a moment at Trout’s chair and touched Trout gently on the shoulder. Trout looked up into his father’s face and saw the sadness there -- an ancient thing, perhaps as old as Joe Pike himself. Trout opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. And then Joe Pike was gone. They heard his footsteps echoing in the hallway and then the front door closed behind him. Trout thought for an instant to get up and follow, but again he was at a loss. Could anybody follow where Joe Pike Moseley was going these days? He looked over at Phinizy, who pursed his lips and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Don’t ask me, boy.

  Aunt Alma looked unnerved. She was losing her audience and seemed suddenly fragile, standing there in front of the fireplace in her fierce red suit.

  “Well,” Phinizy said, breaking the silence, “there’s nothing to be done at the moment.”

  “What do you mean?” Alma asked.

  “If there is a union organizing effort, the ball’s in their court. Don’t you agree, Judge?”

  “It might well be,” Judge Tandy said.

  “You mean we have to sit around and wait for that…” she waved impatiently, her voice rising again with indignation, “rabble to do something?”

  It was clearly a foreign idea to Aunt Alma. Moseleys didn’t wait for anything or anybody. Never had. Never would.

  “I believe that is the case,” Phinizy said calmly. “Wait, watch and listen.”

  They sat there for a long moment -- waiting, watching, listening. Smelling. They all seemed to smell it at once: something burning. As one, they all looked toward the dining room door, the one that led to the rear of the house and the kitchen. “Rosetta!” Alma called in alarm.

  Trout was the first to reach the kitchen door, and when he threw it open, thick gray smoke billowed out. Alma was right behind him. “My God!” she screamed. “The house is on fire!” Trout took a deep breath and plunged into the room, arms flailing, trying to drive the smoke away. “Don’t go in there!” he heard Uncle Phinizy shout behind him. Too late. Trout was lost now in the smoke, which was getting darker and thicker by the second, seizing his throat and stinging his eyes. Then he saw a flash of orange off to his right and stumbled toward it and saw the skillet blazing on the stove, belching the thick greasy smoke, the eye under the skillet glowing angrily. Next to it, a large pot of grits, also sitting on a red-hot eye, most of it already boiled out over the sides and dripping down the front of the stove. And smoke pouring from the open oven. Flames from the skillet were scorching the wall behind the stove, blistering the paint. Another minute and the fire would race up the wall and reach the ceiling and then the whole house could go. He could hear shouts back behind him -- Phinizy calling his name, Alma yelling at Judge Tandy to call the fire department. He reached for the skillet and then snatched his hands back, feeling the heat. He felt panic seizing him, tried to fight it. Think! Think! Water! No, it’s a grease fire! Got to get the skillet out of here! He groped along the kitchen counter to his left. And then his hand touched a dishtowel. He grabbed it and wrapped it around the handle of the skillet and pulled it away from the stove. Flames leaped and heat blasted his face and grease spattered, stinging his arms. “Ow!” he yelled, and as he did so, he released the pent-up air in his lungs. Involuntarily, he sucked in a breath and with it, a great rush of smoke. He coughed violently, staggering against the counter, almost dropping the skillet. But somehow he held on, tried to force his mind onto getting his bearings. The back door would be somewhere to his left. He headed toward it, the smoke blinding him, filling his body. He retched violently. And he felt a searing pain in his hands, the handle of the skillet burning him through the dishtowel. I can’t hold it! I’m gonna die in here! Shit! Then suddenly Uncle Phinizy was there, somewhere in front of him, holding the back door open. “Here, Trout!” he yelled. Trout staggered toward the rectangle of light and burst through the door and down the steps, sucking in great incredibly wonderful gulps of air and flinging the blazing skillet into the back yard where it landed in an explosion of flaming grease and charred bacon strips.

  “Rosetta!” Alma screamed from behind them in the house. “Where the hell are you? Rosetttttaaaaaa!”

  And then, the fire siren on top of City Hall, beginning in a low, somber groan and growing to a keening wail.

  Trout staggered onto the grass below the steps, lungs and throat on fire, legs rubbery, a great roaring in his head. Phinizy was right behind him, coughing violently, his frail body wracked with spasms. Trout grabbed for Phinizy and they held onto each other for a moment and then sank to the grass. Phinizy lay on his back, hacking and wheezing desperately. Trout was on all fours. Dry heaves shook his stomach and gagged his throat, but nothing would come out.

  The roaring noise in his head subsided a little and from inside the kitchen, he could hear Aunt Alma yelling, “The wall’s on fire! Get some water!” And just then, Uncle Cicero dashed around the corner of the house, took a quick look at Trout and Phinizy, and then bolted up the steps and into the kitchen. “I’m coming, hon’,” he cried. In an instant, he was back down the steps, grabbing the garden hose coiled by the side of the house, turning on the water, dashing back up the steps with squirting hose in hand. Trout could hear the splash of water against the kitchen wall.

  Suddenly, Phinizy stopped coughing. Trout looked over at him. He lay on his back, eyes closed, face deathly white. “Uncle Phin,” Trout rasped, “are you okay?” No answer. Trout summoned enough energy from somewhere to yell, “Cicero! Help!”

  It took the volunteer fire department ten minutes to get there and another twenty for the ambulance, which had to come from Thomson. The five members of the fire department who answered the call worked close by -- Fleet Mathis, the mayor; Earl Cobb, who owned the Texaco station; one of the foremen from the mill; Boolie Huffstetler, who helped his wife Tilda run the Koffee Kup Kafe; and Link Tedder, the city garbage collector. Uncle Cicero was also a volunteer f
ireman, but of course he was already there. Of the others, it was Link who arrived first, pulling up in front of the house in his garbage truck. The fire truck was right behind, siren wailing, Boolie at the wheel and the other three hanging onto the sides. By this time, Trout was somewhat recovered, though still woozy, and was standing anxiously on the sidewalk in front of the house watching for the ambulance. A crowd was gathered along the sidewalk and spilling over into the yards of the adjacent homes, but giving the Moseley place a wide berth.

  The fire truck eased to a stop behind the garbage truck and next to a curbside fire hydrant. Count on the Moseleys, Trout thought, to have their own fire hydrant. The firemen scrambled down, dressed out in bits and pieces of uniform -- Boolie wearing a helmet, Fleet Mathis a jacket, Earl a pair of rubber boots.

  “Where’s the fire?” Earl called to Trout.

  “The kitchen,” Trout called back.

  He watched, fascinated, as Boolie grabbed a thick, short length of hose and attached one end to the side of the truck, the other to the hydrant. The engine of the truck rumbled throatily, changing to a deeper pitch as Boolie used a huge wrench to turn the valve on top of the hydrant. Fleet Mathis stood by a collection of gauges and levers on the side of the truck just behind the cab. “Pressure!” he cried out, as Earl attached a big chrome nozzle to the end of the hose that lay neatly coiled in the back of the truck.

  They were all quick and efficient, and Trout imagined that they had been through the drill more times than they could count. It would, he thought, pass for something to do in Moseley. The truck was a fairly new red pumper with CITY OF MOSELEY lettered in gold on the side of the door, and just below it, MOSELEY MILLS.

  Fleet Mathis stood by the truck, hand on one of the levers, while the others rushed past Trout, up the steps and through the open front door, Earl in the lead, trailing hose behind them.

  After a couple of minutes, Earl and Boolie came back, lugging the hose out the door and down the steps to the truck. “It’s out,” Earl said. He sounded disappointed.

  “Well, that’s good,” Trout said.

  Earl gave him a close look. “Are you okay, son? You look kinda peaked.”