Eden Hill

by Bill Higgs

  He had to admit to some of the same doubts. H. C.’s shop had almost gone under in ’35, and Virgil remembered many a night with thin soup and dry bread for dinner. Some said the stress of it all had put his father in the sanatorium. But the Osgoods had made it through, hadn’t they?

  “So, what about it, Reverend?” Welby changed the attachment on his clippers. “In for a trim?”

  Virgil turned toward the door, where Reverend Caudill had appeared, unnoticed by almost everyone. The minister would come by about once a month for a haircut, but sometimes just to chat.

  “No thanks, Welby, just stopped in to say hello.”

  Grover pointed his chin toward the sign across the street. “I expect you’ve seen the latest, Reverend?”

  “Oh yes. Quite a stir in town about the new service station. I really am sorry, Virgil, if selling our land has put you in a bad situation, but whatever happens, I hope our whole town can welcome the new business and its owner with open arms. ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself,’ as the Good Book says. We ought to wish them every success.”

  “Well, I hope the Zipco does well too.” Welby emphasized his point with a dash of Wildroot on Grover’s scalp.

  “As long as he doesn’t sell produce and cold cuts, I guess a new business is always a good thing.” Grover squirmed as Welby dusted off his collar with a small whisk broom.

  Sam scratched his head again and topped it with an old baseball cap. “Gentlemen, I’m out past curfew. A pleasant evening to all.” With that, he left, and the old Farmall could be heard rumbling off somewhere into the cool night.

  “Sadly, I too must depart.” Reverend Caudill still held his hat. “Might I expect each of you in church on Sunday?”

  Everyone nodded as the minister took his leave.

  Grover relaxed. “So, who’s putting this new Zipco place in?”

  “If it’s the kid I met at the lake a few days ago, there’s not much for Virgil to worry about.” Arlie, who had been unusually quiet, paused to stuff another plug of tobacco in his ample jaw. “Boy’s not too bright, if you ask me. Got himself lost trying to get back to the state highway. You gotta work at it to do that.” He reached for the empty Quaker State can that served as his spittoon.

  “That may be the same young fellow who came by here,” said Welby. He exchanged his scissors for a hand mirror. “There you are, Grover—a little longer on the top.”

  Everyone enjoyed another good laugh. Grover paid Welby and took his place on a brake fluid crate as Virgil mounted the chair for a trim of his own. “Okay, Grover, what’s all this about being able to compete? And if it is the young man we met, what do we need to do?”

  “Stand up to it, Virgil. To be successful, you’ll have to step up to your opponent. Go blow-by-blow with him.” Grover had watched too many Saturday afternoon boxing matches. “Get him on the ropes. If he’s going to do things the big-city way, you’ll have to do the same.”

  Big city? This was Eden Hill, with maybe two hundred on Sunday afternoon when everyone was in church or at home. “Grover, what if it was a grocery instead of a service station?”

  “Same thing. Read a book on that once. I’d need to cut prices, work harder. Probably spruce the place up. Might have to give up our vacation in Florida every year. Have a sale on something every now and then. Let the guy—and everybody else—know that you can do it better.”

  “What about what Reverend Caudill said about open arms?”

  Grover looked out the door, where the preacher was nowhere to be seen. “Then I’d say that you’re giving in to let the other guy win. Might as well take a fall. Oh, Arlie. Before you leave, what’s the almanac say about this winter?”

  The farmer had donned his cap and his barn jacket, and carefully set his oilcan upright on the floor. “Warmer’n last year. Four inches of snow for New Year’s Day, freezin’ rain on January eleventh, and another three inches of snow on Groundhog Day. The critter’s gonna see his shadow and put off spring ’til late March. By then,” Arlie said, “it’ll be time to get corn in the ground, snow or no snow.” The most he’d said all evening.

  The weather was always the closing topic, particularly if Sam had already gone and taken his woolly-worm stories with him. Grover picked up his own floppy hat and twisted it onto his freshly shorn head. “Good to know,” he said to Arlie, who had already stepped toward the door. “At least I can put Anna Belle’s decorations up on the roof and get them off again before the worst of it gets here. You know how she is about her Christmas lights!”

  “Take care, gentlemen,” said Welby, gathering his razors and scissors for his final customer. The door swung shut, and Grover and Arlie walked out through the garage toward Arlie’s truck. After much grinding, the pitiful machine sprang to life, backfiring as he drove away.

  “Okay, Virgil, you’re all done.” Welby was cleaning his implements with alcohol and tidying up. “What do you really know about this young fellow?”

  Virgil sat up straight so Welby could lower the chair. “His name is Cornelius Alexander. Comes from a couple of counties over. Papa knew his granddad from back when he had the machine shop. The old man went into the car business right before the Depression hit. Cornelius’s father is a pretty good mechanic, too, I hear. The boy’s been to some business school, and has a wife and a baby on the way. You want to know any more than that?”

  “Nope.” Welby smiled, placing his tonsorial tools in a drawer. “Virgil, you’re more like Mr. Osgood every day. How’d you find out all that?”

  “Friends, and a few phone calls this afternoon.” Virgil was pushing his long arms through the sleeves of his tattered jacket. “Papa always said that it pays to know something about people.”

  “Mr. Osgood was right,” said Welby, as he stepped out the side door. “But I suppose it depends whether you know what’s worth knowing. See you tomorrow.”

  Homer Cicero Osgood had been right about a lot of things. About being a good father, about how to run a good business, about life. After he got out of the sanatorium, H. C. had become a bricklayer, a trade that brought him through the war. He’d also learned how to lay concrete block, and had helped build Osgood’s not long before a heart attack took him before his time.

  Yes, indeed, his father had been a good man. Virgil put Arlie’s Quaker State spittoon and his own office chair back in their places, picked up what he needed off his desk, turned out the lights, and closed the door.

  The night air proved much cooler than he expected, so he put his left hand into his pocket to keep it warm. His right hand held the Pageant magazine. Mavine hadn’t said any more about it, but while the storm had blown over, he was sure she hadn’t forgotten. Mavine forgot nothing.

  As he fingered the folded paper and the metal clip, the conversation with his wife came to mind. Life at home was almost back to normal. Mavine had been quite talkative at breakfast yesterday, had asked him at lunch how his day was going, and had made his favorite supper: spaghetti and meatballs. She’d even worn a new dress she bought on sale at Willett’s Dry Goods. And he’d barely remembered to pay her a compliment.

  Maybe he was the one who had been acting strangely.

  He ought to just let it go, but he hadn’t been able to get past the coming of the Zipco service station. Activity had picked up across the road. A red pickup truck with out-of-state plates had been by at least twice. Folks had spotted a younger man with a ducktail haircut, presumably Mr. Alexander, going over what appeared to be blueprints. A lineman from the Rural Electric Cooperative had installed a pole and run some wire, and someone else had driven wooden stakes topped with bright-orange flags. Clearly something was about to happen.

  Compete? Yes, he could do that. He wasn’t on the mat, and he wouldn’t need to be saved by the bell. Whatever roundhouse Zipco might swing, he was up to it. When all was said and done, he would be the one with his arm lifted and his chin held high. Winner and still champion.

  But the Pageant magazine hadn’t gone away either. Tomorrow was Frid
ay, and Mavine was having her hair done early because of Thanksgiving. He’d be sure to compliment her on that. Hopefully Gladys wouldn’t send anything else home with Mavine.

  He opened the service station door, flipped the lights on, tossed the magazine facedown onto his cluttered desk, turned the lights back off, and locked the door behind him. One problem at a time.

  REVEREND CAUDILL was trying to write a timely Sunday morning message on a well-worn typewriter, but the words, verses, and illustrations he’d planned to use were all piling up in a mental train wreck. The chilly weather earlier in the day had turned stormy as well, soaking him to the skin as he’d hurriedly changed the letters on the sign in front of the church. It was still pouring, and rainwater from the leaky roof was dripping into a metal bucket in front of his desk. Each drop echoed like the tick of a clock, reminding him that Friday night was upon him and Sunday was one second nearer. It was annoying, and his joints and disposition were both deteriorating.

  Well. He’d finished his series on marriage last Sunday, and this was Thanksgiving weekend, with Christmas coming on its heels. He’d put off his sermon preparation all week long, trying to decide on a topic he could live with. Certainly thankfulness would have to be somewhere in his homily, and God’s providence needed to be a part of it as well. He’d known that all along, of course, so a few ideas had already been rolling around in his head. If he could toss in some Pilgrims and a feast, even better. But somehow with this very busy week, he’d found himself late to this part of his ministry. Again. Not somewhere he liked to be.

  Giving thanks was hard.

  He’d left the sermon title out of the bulletin, typed up on the same old Underwood earlier this morning. The Scripture passage was unspecified as well, but he’d chosen a couple of hymns that he thought even his song leader couldn’t butcher, including “We Gather Together” and “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come.”

  Why was he having such a difficult time with this? Perhaps the estimates for the church roof repairs had gotten to him, with numbers in five figures that made his head spin. He’d spent all morning on the phone with contractors, and the revenue from the property sale wasn’t going to cover even half of it. The couple in today’s counseling session had gotten nowhere, and spent all afternoon getting there. Then there was Wednesday night’s prayer meeting where Madeline Crutcher prayed for the next pastor whenever the current pastor left, and that it might be soon. Another week like this, and he might do just that.

  The thought gave him pause. Maybe he had overstayed his welcome. He shivered; the idea that Madeline Crutcher might be prophetic sent chills up and down his spine. Clearly the old woman had gotten under his skin. And what about Eden Hill? After sixteen years as pastor, was the church or the town better for his having been here?

  He hoped so. The First Evangelical Baptist Church had called him as pastor straight out of Bible college in ’46, still wet behind the ears but with a fire in his heart. The first few years hadn’t been easy. The former pastor had retired after thirty years, having seen the little congregation through two world wars and the Great Depression. A fine leader, with a good legacy.

  Still, since he and Louise arrived he’d watched the church grow, and there had been some glorious moments. He’d married Arlie and Lula Mae Prewitt as his first official wedding, and had recently baptized their daughter, Darlene. Virgil and Mavine tied the knot a couple of years later, and they remained involved in the church, as was their son, Vee Junior. Grover and Anna Belle had become active members, close friends, and strong supporters. And Madeline Crutcher? Well.

  He and Louise had hoped to raise a family here, to put down long tender roots in the rocky soil. He’d loved his work back in the early days, even the hard parts. Young and energetic, he found the days exciting and full of hope. The church was growing, with young families, veterans returning home, and babies booming.

  Louise. Even after twelve years, the pain of her sudden passing was a weight he couldn’t shake. Her death had left him insecure, broken, and unsure of his call. God was always good, but the unanswered questions were never far from his mind. Was he angry with God? Probably. Had he been knocked off his ministerial path? Certainly he’d wobbled a bit. Not a day went by without him wondering if he and Eden Hill wouldn’t both be better off if he were selling life insurance or aluminum siding. But then something always reminded him that his calling hadn’t changed yet. Still, it was hard to be thankful.

  Louise had died on Thanksgiving Day.

  Grover and Anna Belle had invited him over for the holiday yesterday, as they had for years, and offered strong encouragement along with good food. His church was solid, but little challenges kept coming along. All the things that weren’t taught in Bible college, and he’d had to learn the hard way. Would a little bit of grace from the Almighty be too much to ask?

  The machine still held a blank sheet of paper, and a full thirty minutes had gone by without a single hunt or peck at the keyboard. Something had to be done, and soon. All of his papers from Bible college were organized on the shelf behind him, and he pulled out two binders: one on the Psalms, and the other on Paul’s letters to the Corinthians. He considered the thickness of the material on the Psalter, looked at the clock, and chose the shorter New Testament books instead. Dog-eared and well-worn, some of the pages had little tabs with subjects written on them. One had two topics: thanksgiving and grace.

  Memories returned in a rush, especially those of a class on sermon preparation and delivery he’d taken his first year. His professor had been a gentle soul whose soft-spoken preaching style never shook the rafters, but whose words were penetrating and powerful. The man had said that grace and thanksgiving went hand in hand, and that everything given was given in grace. Everything.

  He opened his Bible to the text from 2 Corinthians and found himself in the fourth chapter, one of his favorites. The first verse immediately caught his eye, the one on which he’d initially centered his vocation: “Therefore seeing we have this ministry, as we have received mercy, we faint not.” Easy to find; he’d underlined it years before. But what was that a bit below it? “For all things are for your sakes, that the abundant grace might through the thanksgiving of many redound to the glory of God.” Grace?

  And thanksgiving.

  Had he been given a chance to begin anew, and not even realized it? Had he been so jaded by the loss of Louise that he couldn’t even see the opportunity he’d been given? And wasn’t God’s grace wide enough to cover his own discouragement?

  Yes, yes, and yes.

  The men gathered at Welby’s last week had seemed concerned about the change the new Zipco might make in Eden Hill; he’d seen it in their eyes. And he had a few worries of his own. But might not change be a good thing, an opportunity even? Should he be the first to say so?

  And believe it?

  Well. His sermon would be on thanksgiving and grace, and things made new! Using his two forefingers, he began typing. He tipped his head back so his bifocals could do their job; he could never remember which key went with which letter. Soon an opening line appeared at the top of the page, and he gave the carriage return lever a resounding shove. Another line, and then another.

  It was well after eleven o’clock when he finished. Late again. The rain had finally ended, but the bucket was still announcing every drip with a softer plop, slower than before. The reverend twisted the knobs on the carriage and took out the last sheet. Done at last! It wasn’t as elegant as he would like, and there were a few smudges where he’d used the little round eraser and the brush, but it was a sermon, and he was pleased.

  He’d called it “Turning Points.” Yes, change was good.

  “NEIL, YOU’VE barely touched your breakfast.”

  JoAnn was right. He’d eaten only a single piece of toast, and hadn’t even bothered with butter. She’d eaten several slices as well as an apple and a bowl of Cheerios.

  “I’ll finish it.” He scribbled a couple of notes on the yellow legal pad between hi
s plate of fried Spam and his glass of Tang before looking up. “Breakfast is tasty, thank you.”

  Cornelius Alexander rearranged the papers and writing tablet, wishing he had a real desk instead of a cluttered folding table. Their tiny quarters at the Sleepy Head Tourist Court in Quincy were sparse, but would do for now. The little apartment featured a saggy bed, a kitchenette with a small but noisy refrigerator, and a single light bulb, which dimmed and brightened along with the blink of the aging neon sign in front. The bathroom walls were missing a few of their plastic tiles, but the water was hot and it was only fifteen dollars a week.

  “Look at this, JoAnn. We have over an acre to work with, and the lot slopes off to one side. Good drainage. With the station here where it’s already been leveled—” he pointed to a rough rectangle scribbled in blue pencil on the lined paper—“our home will fit nicely right back here. There’s already a well for our water.”

  “Neil, right now the whole thing is nothing but a vacant lot. Just when do you expect to build this new home?”

  “Soon, JoAnn, soon. Once the station gets up and running and the profits start accruing. Why don’t you see if Queen for a Day is on TV?”

  “What TV? It quit this morning. Right during the Today show.”

  “Our dream house will have a good television. Maybe even color!”

  JoAnn bit her lip, then reached across the table to snag Cornelius’s uneaten Spam.

  He’d rented the little efficiency cabin a couple of weeks before. Far from ideal, it was still the closest thing they could find to Eden Hill, some twenty minutes away. Since the site of his new business was currently a small plot of bare land that had once been a feed store, much needed to be done. With so many things to arrange, he’d worked out a deal with the motel’s owner to use the telephone in the office. Few wanted to stay here anymore, so it was little used anyway. The eight other units were temporary homes to traveling salesmen and farm workers passing through. By late November, the place housed one Fuller Brush distributor and the Alexanders.