Eden Hill

by Bill Higgs

  “Neil, what are you doing now?” she asked, brushing away dusty crumbs from her maternity pedal pushers.

  “Didn’t you see that vacant lot for sale just across from those guys? I’m writing down the phone number before I forget it.” He found a ballpoint pen and an old matchbook in the glove compartment. “It’s the perfect location!”

  “Perfect for what?”

  “For our new Zipco Super Service station, JoAnn. I don’t know which one of those two geezers owns that station, but it’s hopelessly out of date. That little place wouldn’t stand a chance against major competition. No premium gasoline. No lighted sign. Gravel lot. Made of cheap concrete blocks and needs a coat of paint. And was there even one restroom? ‘Give the customer what he desires and he will patronize your establishment,’ remember?” Cornelius knew the Zipco business manual like the back of his hand.

  “I suppose so.” JoAnn dabbed at her face with a Kleenex from the glove compartment, removing lipstick, crumbs, and sweat. “But just maybe people around here like that service station and those men. This might be one of those places where everyone knows or is kin to everyone else, and they may not take well to outsiders. Did you think of that? And did that wide place in the road even have a name?”

  “We have to look ahead, JoAnn. That dinky service station is behind the times.” The pen wouldn’t write, so he licked at the end. “Remember, ‘The future is in clean, bright, full-service fueling centers offering quality Zipco products. Uniformed attendants will assure that every customer’s needs are met with confidence and competence.’” Straight out of the second chapter of the business manual, the section with the jet-powered cars on the title page. “Zipco is the future, JoAnn. That town, Eden . . . something, is absolutely the right place for our business. The sign said so!”

  The pen finally started working, and he scrawled the number down as JoAnn continued to scowl. “What’s the matter now?”

  “I guess your mind’s made up. Can we drive back to Quincy now?”

  He tucked the matchbook into his shirt pocket and pulled onto the highway. More gravel went flying as he popped the clutch.

  Soon JoAnn had fallen asleep. Not only did pregnancy make her hungry, but she also tired easily. Frankly, he was relieved. The highway was lightly traveled, and he needed time to think.

  Cornelius Alexander III was determined not to be an embarrassment to his father, Cornelius Alexander Jr., nor especially to his grandfather, the Cornelius Alexander of Alexander Motors.

  He hadn’t started well. His parents had sent him to a fine college where he’d majored in frat parties and pool—and one particular coed—and flunked out after his first year. “No direction,” the dean had said. He’d tried to enlist to serve his country, but he even failed the physical. “Flat feet,” the doctor had said.

  While sweeping floors at Alexander Motors, with fallen arches and uncertain goals, he’d accepted the eldest Mr. Alexander’s offer of tuition to the Bluegrass College of Business. It turned out to be a perfect fit. Accounting and Bookkeeping had been challenging courses, but he’d sailed through Entrepreneurship I and II, and had aced Competitive Strategies without ever cracking a book. When he graduated at the end of the summer term, he married his girlfriend, JoAnn, and began to explore business opportunities. When he met the representative from the Zanesville International Petroleum Company at the school’s job fair, it was a match made in heaven—or at least in a poolroom.

  “Cornelius, a Zipco franchise has a lot to offer an outstanding young man like you.” How well he remembered the meeting in the college recreation room. The rep had steadied his aim at the white ball, paused, and chalked the tip of his cue. “We have an outstanding growth strategy, and I’m going to give you an opportunity to get in on the ground floor.” The cue ball took a solid hit, and in turn sent the red number three wobbling slowly down the rail.

  “Just what’s it going to cost?” Cornelius had asked, as he caromed the five into the corner, just missing the pocket. “And what’s in it for me?”

  “Excellent profits the first year. You have some debts to pay off, I suspect?” The rep grazed the eight ball, sending it dangerously near the side pocket.

  “Maybe.” Cornelius chalked his own cue and chuckled; the game—the more important one—was going nicely. A muted click and another ball dropped. One well-placed shot would leave him in perfect position. Unfortunately, his bank off the rail was wide to the right.

  “Zipco can finance you—all you have to do is find a promising location. And with the money you make, you and the little lady will soon be in the house of your dreams.” The rep took a shot at the number ten ball at the other end, grazing the eight ball again and gently nudging it into the side pocket. “Aw, shoot. Well, you won fair and square.” The rep handed Cornelius a crisp five-dollar bill, and edged him toward a table where the preliminary papers were ready to sign.

  Cornelius had pocketed the fiver. The house of their dreams? Wasn’t that exactly what JoAnn wanted in life, especially with a little one on the way? “May I use your pen?”

  The deal was all over in two minutes. JoAnn had cried when he told her, like he had done something very wrong. Even though he’d done it for her.

  No, he would not be an embarrassment to JoAnn either. He would not.

  “Now where do you suppose that young couple was from?” Virgil finished tightening the oil filter under the hood and wiped his hands on a rag only a bit cleaner than his palms.

  “A couple of counties over, judging from his license plate.” Welby and his mechanic’s creeper had disappeared under the trunk of the tiny Nash, where clattering noises could be heard. “Young couple out for a drive, and got turned around somewhere along the way. Sure did seem interested in the old feed store property, though.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a feeling that sign will lead to no good. What would you like to see go in over there?”

  Welby stopped his clanking. “Cows! Or at least another feed store.” He chuckled from somewhere behind the rear axle. “Would you make sure that jack’s solid? Can’t be too careful.”

  “Solid as a rock, Welby. That sign is trouble. Mark my words.”

  “Neil, I don’t feel good about this. Any of it.” JoAnn tipped her head forward and peered beneath her long Maybelline eyelashes.

  “Trust me, JoAnn. We found the perfect spot quite by serendipity. I think it must be a sign.”

  “A sign. Did you see how the real estate agent was smiling? The banker was grinning like the Cheshire cat, and the man from Zipco was practically dancing on the tables.”

  “So?”

  “Why am I the only one who isn’t happy?”

  “Because you’re expecting?”

  She turned away and paused for a long time. “No, because I should have expected something like this.”

  Virgil stood up and stepped to the doorway, where he could look across the road, scratching at his chin. A new sign was nailed over the old one.

  COMING SOON—

  ZIPCO SUPER SERVICE STATION

  Virgil was a practical man, not given to worry, and especially not prone to excitement. He did note, however, that his coffee cup was upside down and empty. He’d poured the contents down the front of his trousers. Again.

  Virgil refilled his mug, then entered his small office off the storage room and took a seat. He had run Osgood’s since he and Mavine married back in ’48. A simple but sturdy concrete block building, the business featured a single gasoline pump in the front. Osgood’s sold only regular gasoline, a sensible motor fuel. Anyone fool enough to own a car that needed premium would just have to buy his gasoline somewhere else.

  He’d never bothered with a name brand. The gasoline he sold was just fine, and as far as he was concerned it was Osgood’s. Old crazy Sam Wright used to say that Virgil made the fuel himself in a copper still, just like moonshine. The old men who played pinochle on the porch at Stacy’s Grocery claimed Virgil bought it secondhand from someplace in Louisville. Always go
od for a laugh. At any rate, he pumped it with a smile and checked every customer’s oil. Over time he’d added Reddy-Start batteries, Safe-T-Made tires, and most importantly his mechanic, Welby. But it was still a service station, without frills and without apology. After all, it was Osgood’s.

  He stood up and stepped to the doorway, where he could look across the road. What was he so worried about? Whatever was going to be built in the vacant lot across the street, he could handle it.

  Probably.

  For the first time in a week, Mavine felt like her life was under control. The first load of clothes was clean, wrung out, and hanging to dry on the porch. The smell of bleach, while distasteful, meant that Virgil’s white undershirts and socks would be clean and presentable. Vee’s jeans and plaid shirts were still grinding away in the Maytag, waiting for rinsing and a trip through the wringer. She’d turned the radio on, with the volume up loud enough to drown out the chugging of the washing machine.

  She had begun working in the kitchen and listening to Swap ’n’ Shop on WNTC when Virgil came home for lunch. He slammed the door hard, which made the plates in the dish drainer rattle while she was trying to hear the phone number for the woman with the Encyclopedia Americana for sale. It was “. . . missing volume 1, A–Annuals, used very little.” Fortunately, the announcer repeated it, since the seller also had “. . . a crystal punch bowl and a wedding gown, size twelve.” The caller had choked up a little when describing the last item. Even twelve years old, the encyclopedia would be a good buy for Vee’s school reports, and as long as he stayed away from papers on aardvarks and John Adams, he’d be just fine. She made a note on the small memo pad she kept next to the telephone.

  “Your hamburger will be ready in a minute.” She sniffed the smoke rising from the cast-iron skillet. Almost done. “Mayonnaise is in the refrigerator.”

  “Mavine, we’ve got ourselves a problem.” Virgil had parked himself in his usual seat at the end of the dinette. He hadn’t stopped for the mayo.

  She froze as last Monday’s conversation once again filled her mind. A problem? Gladys had said much the same thing when she and George were getting ready to separate. Had Virgil actually read the article as he said he would? Maybe he’d talked to Welby about it. And might he have the wandering eye that Dr. LaMour said all men get? Surely not.

  “What . . . what is it?”

  “Somebody bought the lot across the street to put in a new service station!” He took off his khaki cap and slapped it on the table. “Welby says it’s nothing to worry about, but how can another service station be anything but bad for Osgood’s?”

  This caught her completely by surprise. She couldn’t recall any articles in Pageant or Photoplay about business competition, and had no idea how to respond to her husband, who was clearly concerned. “So, what will you do?”

  “Don’t know. I suppose we should clean the place up a bit.”

  “Maybe a new sign with your name on it would help.” She sighed and snatched up the cap, hanging it on the hook next to his jacket.

  “I don’t think so. People know who we are and where to find us. Besides, a sign caused all this trouble to begin with.”

  “Well, let’s not worry about it at lunch.” Mavine lifted the smoking patty from the pan and placed it on a bun with onions and pickles. “Meals ought to be calm and peaceful.”

  “I’ll try.” Virgil leaned over his plate and took a bite. He stopped chewing. “What,” he asked, “is in this hamburger?”

  “Oatmeal!” She brightened. “I found the recipe on the back of a cereal box.”

  Virgil lifted the top of the bun and stared at her creation. Without a word, he retrieved the mayonnaise jar from the refrigerator and slathered most of its contents onto his sandwich.

  VIRGIL WANDERED down the hill after dinner, carefully picking his way along in the diminishing light. Not to work; this was a social visit—and a haircut. Opening the door, he could hear laughter and conversation from inside.

  “A little longer on the top, Welby.” Grover Stacy laughed at his own joke, his balding pate sparkling under the flickering and dusty fluorescent bulbs.

  “I’ll try.” Welby chuckled through the whir of his clippers. “But I’ll have to take it from the bottom.”

  Virgil smiled, in spite of himself. He and the others in the makeshift barbershop had heard this conversation again and again. Every time the local grocer climbed into Welby’s chair, in fact. This was familiar and well-traveled ground.

  Only two vehicles in the gravel lot: Arlie’s truck and the telltale ancient red Farmall tractor that meant it was Sam Wright’s week for a trim. The retired crop duster and local eccentric had been stripped of his driver’s license a couple of years before, after driving his Oldsmobile into the front of Stacy’s Grocery. He failed the ordered vision test, as expected, and his driving privileges were revoked. Somewhere, though, Sam learned that a license was not required for agricultural vehicles, so he bought the used Farmall from Arlie.

  Virgil let his mechanic set up a barber chair in the storage room of his service station, since the men and boys of Eden Hill needed maintenance just as their cars and trucks did. Welby would trade his rumpled coveralls for a starched white coat, and exchange his box wrenches for electric clippers. He might cut hair the same way he cut engine gaskets, but the vehicles he repaired ran very well, and the menfolk of Eden Hill usually looked quite presentable. The little shop helped Welby with extra income and provided a place for the men to talk about the women, who would all get together at Gladys’s on Fridays and talk about the men.

  Virgil owed Welby this much and more. When his father, H. C. Osgood, had needed an assistant for his little machine shop, twenty-year-old Welby had joined the operation. When H. C. had spent eighteen months in the sanatorium with tuberculosis, Welby ran the business and made sure that the Osgood family had food on the table, even working part-time as a night watchman at a bank in Quincy. H. C. never forgot his kindness. Virgil hadn’t either.

  Welby and his wife, Alma, enjoyed being “uncle” and “aunt” to Vee. They had no children, nor any nearby nieces or nephews. Besides, they had all been like family for nearly as long as any of them could remember. It was a good arrangement.

  Virgil always looked forward to Thursday nights, but this week he especially welcomed the diversion. The new Zipco station going in across the street had him rattled, he had to admit. At least Mavine seemed herself again, though he hadn’t quite figured out that magazine incident. As with many things beyond his ken, he’d just let it rest, and thankfully the storm had blown over. For now, at least.

  He was tired too. Much of the day had been spent ordering snow tires and antifreeze for the coming winter, and getting answers to some questions. He nodded to each familiar face before finding a seat on an old office chair.

  The room went silent, and everyone’s gaze fell on him. He felt like a smallmouth bass, snagged by Arlie’s fishhook.

  “So, Virgil. What’s this about a new service station going in where the old feed store used to be?” Grover was still perched in Welby’s chair, receiving his usual trim.

  “Looks like the church sold it to somebody to build a Zipco Super Service station. Sounds like some kind of a big company like Texaco or Standard Oil.”

  “I’ve seen some of those fancy service stations, and they have all kinds of things going on. Road maps, free coffee cups with a fill-up.” Grover twisted in his seat. “Some of those places are open late into the night, just like the truck stop. Think you can compete with this Zipco thing? I know when the A&P in Quincy has a sale going on, we lose some customers.”

  Compete? That’s what he’d done in junior varsity football and what he’d seen on Wide World of Sports on TV. He never dreamed he’d have to compete for Osgood’s. Was he supposed to tackle the Zipco operator and keep him away from the goal line?

  Welby answered for him. “Oh, we’ll be just fine. You and all the good folks in Eden Hill bring us your cars and trucks now, an
d we’ll still be seeing them when this new Zipco comes in. Isn’t that right, Virgil?”

  Virgil nodded. He was grateful for Welby’s answer, as he was trying to come up with one of his own. “Yes, you’ve always done right well by us.”

  “Well, I’m seventy-five years old this year, and I’ve seen them come, and I’ve seen them go. The Depression got a lot of us.” The croaky voice had come from Sam Wright, his silver hair freshly trimmed.

  Grover leaned forward as Welby pumped up the chair. “Sam, just where did the Depression get you? Somewhere in the head?”

  Sam stiffened. “Mr. Stacy, it cost two of my friends their crop-dusting business. Couldn’t afford the gasoline to keep the planes in the air. I took a chance and bought my Waco from one of them. Got it for a song.”

  Grover rolled his eyes. “Sam, it’s not 1935 and the New Deal anymore. We got John Kennedy, not FDR, in the White House. I think you want to forget that sometimes.”

  The elderly man’s voice became louder and croakier, bordering on a cackle. “Kennedy? I voted for Nixon, of course, as any sensible person—”

  “Gentlemen, an argument isn’t helpful.” Welby clipped both Sam’s tirade and the scruff on Grover’s neck.

  “That’s easy for you to say.” Grover turned, almost losing an ear. “You voted for both Kennedy and Nixon in the last election.”

  “They’re both such nice men.” Welby was not easily dissuaded.

  Virgil began to relax—the subject had changed, and the evening’s entertainment had begun. Sam would liven up any conversation, whether here or playing pinochle on the porch in front of Stacy’s Grocery. Reliable or not, he was at least amusing. Gladys said he was half blind and whole nuts and had spent time in a lunatic asylum in Ohio, but then again she couldn’t always be trusted either.