by Bill Higgs
“Just one more cup, Vee.” Alma poured steaming cocoa from the pan into a mug and dropped in a couple of marshmallows. “It’s nearing your bedtime.”
“Alma’s right, Vee. It’s almost eleven o’clock.” Mavine finished her garland with one last white kernel and tied a knot in the string. “Before you go to bed, why don’t you put this on the tree?”
“Okay.” He gathered up the multicolored strand and pulled a chair alongside the tall fir, where Virgil and Welby had just finished their handiwork with the ornaments. Alma and Welby had celebrated Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with the Osgoods for as many years as she could remember, even well before Mavine married into the family.
“Start at the top and work your way down,” offered Welby, a grin brightening his broad face. Vee nodded and climbed onto the chair, stretching to reach the far branches. The glass balls danced as the tree shook, reflecting the colored lights and the glint of the tinsel. He stepped back to the floor and did nothing but stare at the tree for a long time. Bedtime it surely was.
“Good night, Vee!” Welby waved as Vee began slowly climbing the stairs. He stopped for a moment on the landing, taking a last look at the beautiful tree and at his family.
“See you in the morning, Vee.” Mavine wiped her hands on her chocolate-stained apron. “Merry Christmas!”
If Vee had looked very closely, he’d have seen the joy in his mother’s eyes. She’d been talking to him, but looking at her husband.
And Virgil noticed. The man noticed.
“Where’s the best spot to put this thing together?” Virgil’s brow furrowed as he examined the top of the box he was carrying.
Welby pointed. “I guess the floor is as good a place as any.”
The box was made of heavy cardboard and clanked as Virgil set it down. The top featured a picture of a colorful and thriving business and proclaimed in bold letters, Superior Service Station. In much smaller letters it also admitted, An unassembled toy.
“Looks like it could be a long night.”
Mavine entered the living room carrying two steaming mugs. “More cocoa?” Long night notwithstanding, Virgil smiled; he and Welby would be well cared for.
“Thanks.” Welby opened the box, pouring what appeared to be hundreds of tiny tires, oilcans, and other unidentified pieces onto the rug. The instruction booklet was buried at the bottom, along with the decals shown in the illustration. He held it at arm’s length, then pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and parked them at the tip of his nose.
“How’s it look?” Virgil dropped a marshmallow into his mug and took out his own bifocals.
Welby’s eyes twinkled. “No worse than an automatic transmission. Better fetch your screwdriver.”
Mavine switched off the radio, as WNTC had played the national anthem and signed off at midnight after wishing everyone a very merry Christmas. Only faint winter static and some faraway mumbles could be heard. Vee’s toy service station was assembled and placed under the tree, along with pretty packages and a basket of oranges and apples. Welby and Alma had wished them a good night and left until the next morning. Christmas Eve had become Christmas Day.
Virgil poured himself a glass of milk and sat across the table from his wife. “We had a splendid pageant this year. Vee did himself proud.”
“Yes, he did indeed. He reminded me so much of you, in your bathrobe. You even have the same walk. Except for falling down, of course.”
Virgil smiled—a tired grin. “Wasn’t his fault, Mavine. I’ve fallen on my face a few times myself.”
“But you always get up, Virgil. That’s one of the things I love about you.”
“Well, so far nothing’s knocked me down for good. But another service station? Nobody’s done that to me before. It looks like those Zipco owners have moved into their trailer. Can the station be far behind?”
“I’m concerned too, Virgil, but let’s not worry about it. Least not today.” She reached out and took his hands. “It’s Christmas Day already.”
Virgil looked into her eyes and gently squeezed her hands. What had he done to deserve the gifts he’d been given, the ones right here under the same roof as him? Whatever it was, he wasn’t about to argue.
“Merry Christmas, Mavine.”
THE LITTLE RED TEAPOT was whistling noisily, so Reverend Caudill turned off the burner. The screech immediately died down to a gentle wheeze while he prepared his teacup: one tea bag, one spoonful of sugar, and a splash of milk. Grover always said it looked like dishwater, but Reverend Caudill would only smile. He liked it that way.
The toaster clanked and popped up two slices of Roman Meal, medium dark. With a bit of marmalade and a dollop of butter, it would make a fine breakfast.
Right on schedule, the telephone rang.
“Hello, Madeline. Merry Christmas!”
“I still can’t believe what I saw and heard on Christmas Eve! Scriptural error! You can’t let something like that go. And your sermons lately! Soft, I tell you! You must convict the sinners of their sin.”
“Actually, Madeline, convicting sinners isn’t my job.” He laid the telephone down on the counter and retrieved his toast.
“Then just what is your job?”
“Preaching the gospel and serving the Lord.” He stirred the milky liquid, savoring the pungent aroma. “Thank you for calling, Madeline. Merry Christmas.”
The old woman was still talking as he hung up the telephone. He’d risen early to get a good start on the day, and he was not about to let Madeline Crutcher spoil his mood.
He’d taken Christmas Day off, except for dinner with the Stacys. Grover and Anna Belle had made him a regular part of their celebration for many years. It was something he always enjoyed, as his only living family was a nephew at Bible college. The teapot, short and stout like in the children’s song, had been their gift to him.
They’d had a lovely evening, and he’d had the chance to ask a few questions. Yes, the couple seated in the rear on Christmas Eve was almost certainly the Alexanders. JoAnn had been in the store a time or two, it seemed, and Anna Belle’s description matched the woman Reverend Caudill had seen.
And he’d seen the trailer next door. Pink as a Pepto-Bismol bottle, gaudy, and hard to miss. He had new neighbors.
Well. Later today, it would be time for a visit.
The weather had turned markedly cooler, with a brisk and biting wind out of the north. Reverend Caudill, bundled in his overcoat and hat, was surprised by the sound of his tapping on the trailer’s door. He’d been gentle and discreet, but instead of the solid wooden sound he’d expected, it sounded more like a child banging on a pie pan. The wreath on the door shifted slightly at his knock.
A young woman in ill-fitting pedal pushers answered. “Yes? Reverend—Caudill?”
“That’s right. I don’t believe we’ve actually met.”
“No, I don’t think we have. I’m JoAnn Alexander.” She offered her hand. “Do come in, Reverend.”
He took her hand gently and politely. “I don’t want to impose—is your husband here?”
“Sorry, but Neil—Cornelius—has gone into Quincy to see about something to do with the station.” She glanced at her watch. “I expect him back anytime now.”
“Thank you.” Visiting a woman alone was always awkward, and something he tried to avoid. But with Cornelius on his way home, he’d make an exception.
“I’m sorry, but the only seat we have is at the dinette.”
“Oh, that will be fine.” He took his seat and looked around. The furnishings, to put it mildly, were sparse. The living room featured a small dinette with two chairs, a small chest of drawers with a missing knob, and several unopened boxes. “I saw you at our pageant on Christmas Eve. I’m so happy you came.”
“I’m glad too, Reverend. And I’m so sorry that we had to leave early. I’m expecting, you see, and sometimes—” she drew a breath—“a woman becomes uncomfortable.”
“I see. No apology necessary. I hope you
and Cornelius enjoyed the evening.” At the words and Cornelius, he saw a fleeting change in her expression. Dismay? Pain? Anxiety? “Hopefully you can return for worship on Sunday morning. We’d make you most welcome.”
“I’d love to.” She looked to the window. “And I would like for Neil to come as well. But . . .”
So. Cornelius might have been the less comfortable of the two in the back row. A different direction, maybe? “Where do you and Cornelius hail from? Anna Belle at the grocery said she thought you might be from near here.”
JoAnn nodded and indicated a couple of nearby towns. “When we got married in September, we knew we’d need to move. So, here we are.”
Reverend Caudill could add as well as preach, and a quick calculation told him what he needed to know. Probably a good thing they’d not been there for his series on marriage. But he was now here to offer grace. “And we’re so glad you found your way to Eden Hill. Were you part of a church in your hometown?”
“I was. Good people, but . . .” She seemed to search for words again. “They didn’t seem to like Neil very much. And I’m not sure he liked them either. We didn’t have a church wedding.”
Footsteps sounded on the little metal stairway, followed by the squeak of the door hinge. Reverend Caudill stood as the young man he had seen on Christmas Eve stood in the small doorway.
“Reverend Caudill? What a surprise.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance. I was telling JoAnn how good it was to see you at our time together on Christmas Eve.”
Cornelius smiled and shook the pastor’s hand. “JoAnn enjoyed it very much.”
The conversation shifted to general pleasantries. Cornelius seemed more at ease talking about his new Zipco station, while JoAnn became quieter. After a couple of minutes, Reverend Caudill picked up his hat. “I must be going, but might I offer a prayer for you folks?”
Both said yes almost simultaneously. JoAnn appeared relieved, and Cornelius managed a polite smile.
The reverend prayed aloud for the couple, but in his own heart, he offered an unspoken parallel line of supplication, knowing today’s would be the first of many visits. What they both needed was God’s grace. And Reverend Caudill would do whatever it took to make sure that grace was what they heard and saw from the First Evangelical Baptist Church.
Mavine hated washdays. Even with the help of her shiny new Maytag, it meant a long day. This morning’s snow made matters worse. Instead of drying the laundry outside, she would have to use the indoor clothesline. It sagged in the middle, so she would have to hang her dresses on the ends. And somehow, a porch decked with dangling underthings was just inappropriate in a way the line in the yard wasn’t. On top of it all, there were seemingly endless loads of ironing.
She sighed and turned to the domestic task at hand. Virgil would be home for lunch soon, and she’d need to have something ready for him to eat. Or, like Vee, he could fend for himself at his noon meal. Mavine looked at the basket of dirty clothes, and out the window at the snow that was still coming down. With a twist of the taps she turned on the water, measured some Oxydol in a tin cup, and started tossing soiled things from the wicker basket into the Maytag. Lunch would just have to wait. The laundry certainly wasn’t going to wash itself.
As the last of the basket’s contents disappeared into the sudsy water, her nose began to tingle from a pungent odor. An acrid, smoky scent. Had she left the iron plugged in after pressing her clean things? Mavine raced up the stairs in a panic.
The scent was strong as she rounded the landing. When she reached the upstairs hallway, the source was clear. Wisps of gray smoke were curling from beneath Vee Junior’s bedroom door. Mavine flew into the room in a panic.
“Virgil T. Osgood Jr.! What are you doing!”
The cigar was fat, brown, and smelly. Vee was startled, wide-eyed, and in serious trouble. Mavine promptly snatched the abomination from the boy’s mouth and, holding the disgusting thing at arm’s length, marched it to the bathroom and dropped it into the toilet. It sizzled as she pushed the handle, hoping it wouldn’t clog the plumbing.
She took a deep breath and strode back into Vee’s room, where she discovered him on his bed, shoulders crumpled, cowed and contrite. A cigar! How could he do such a thing? With effort, she tried to remain patient and calm.
“Vee, you know better than this. I’ll decide later on your punishment, but I can tell you this. Your snow day that you were so happy about is going to be a reading day. Frank and Eddie will be riding their sleds without you today.”
“Aw, Mom.”
“And just wait until your father gets home.”
Mavine descended the stairs one slow, deliberate step at a time. Doing laundry could sour even her best mood. It could also set her mind to wandering in places it shouldn’t go. About what was, and what might have been. Maybe it was just the Clorox. And now she had this discipline matter to contend with.
Mavine paused and scanned her bookshelf, looking for the punishment to fit the crime. She considered reading the classics a positive discipline for Vee. Virgil, on the other hand, usually considered a trip behind the henhouse more appropriate when needed.
She’d always hoped to become a teacher. An English teacher. Reading and literature had been her best subjects in school. Straight A’s in both. Mrs. Randall had introduced her to the classics, and she’d been smitten from the first day. Mrs. Tandy, the librarian at the little four-room high school, would bring her books from the public library in Quincy. And when the bookmobile came once a month, the appearance of the little white panel truck was the highlight of the week. Some of the other students had teased her, called her “teacher’s pet.” But she didn’t mind.
She wanted to go to the teachers college. She wanted to be the next Mrs. Randall.
And then she fell in love, and the war came. Marriage. A son.
A son who couldn’t care less about the classics, and apparently preferred stogies to fine literature. Mavine returned to the kitchen and sank into the chair with her head in her hands.
Virgil’s morning had been busy. By the time he broke for lunch, he’d already used his wrecker to pull Arlie’s truck from the ditch and Mrs. Crutcher’s Buick out of the creek, spent an hour trying to find brake shoes for Grover’s Plymouth so he and Anna Belle could drive south for their vacation, and listened to Sam Wright spout off something about surviving an avalanche in the Himalayas.
Mavine was seated at the kitchen table when he arrived, but the only aromas in the room were soap powder and bleach. The dinette and the stove were clean and bare, with no evidence of cooking or food preparation in sight. And no sign at all of Vee.
“Hello, Mavine. Are we just having sandwiches today?” The washing machine was chugging and sloshing away, so she’d also been working this morning.
“I suppose so. There’s bread in the breadbox, and Dixie loaf in the refrigerator.” Her voice seemed strained and tired.
He tossed his coat onto the back of his recliner. “You feeling okay, Mavine?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just not hungry right now.”
Opening the refrigerator, he grabbed the milk bottle and a small Tupperware that contained an old package of lunch meat. It popped when he opened it—not a good sign. A quick sniff, a grimace, and he reached for the peanut butter in the pantry.
Virgil sat down across from Mavine, and then remembered his milk still sitting on the counter. He arose and walked back across the room. “Are you sure I can’t get you something? There’s some leftover soup . . .” His voice trailed off, as he found Mavine not listening. She sat at the dinette and looked out the window.
He retrieved the forgotten milk, spread the peanut butter generously onto a slice of bread, and thought for a minute. Once again, he couldn’t think of anything he’d done recently to deserve the cold shoulder, and this year he’d even remembered her birthday gift—early, for a change. Even though it was still over a month away, he had already bought her a nice pair of gloves from Wil
lett’s Dry Goods.
Had Mavine come home with yet another Pageant magazine? The old one was back on his desk—somewhere. Why couldn’t the Glamour Nook subscribe to something like the Saturday Evening Post? Norman Rockwell would never get him in trouble with his wife like Betty LaMour did.
“Sorry you’re not hungry, Mavine. Are you unhappy with me about something?”
“No, not at all, but I am unhappy with Vee. He’s been a real challenge this morning.” With that, Mavine returned to the back porch. Sounds of running water suggested rinsing of some kind, and soon the machine resumed its low rumble. She returned to the table, taking a couple slices of bread on the way past the counter.
“What did Vee do now?”
“I caught him smoking this morning.”
“Smoking? Smoking what?”
“A cigar—a big fat one. I suspect he got it through the mail—from an ad in one of those horrible comic books he reads. The men all have blue hair, the women have way too much bosom, and they all use bad grammar. You’ve seen the mail-order advertisements in the back. Where do you think he got that disgusting thing he took to church last Sunday?”
“Mavine, he’s ten years old. He spent his own allowance, and he also got a genuine miniature spy camera and a book about throwing his voice. And he told me it only cost four dollars for everything. Postpaid.”
“That’s not the point. It’s what he did with it.”
Virgil tried hard not to smile at the memory. Somehow Vee had placed the whoopee cushion in Toler’s chair during the opening hymn. When the song leader sat down after the final notes of the amen, the entire congregation heard the expected result. Toler turned red as a beet, Reverend Caudill gave him a look that would freeze steam, and almost everyone else just tried to keep from laughing. Vee couldn’t, so Mavine had hauled him out by the ear. His penance had been to read The Scarlet Letter.
“Mavine, boys do stuff like that. I think you get a little carried away sometimes.”
“What do you mean, ‘carried away’?” Mavine’s voice was rising. “Vee needs to behave in church and pay attention to the Sunday sermons. And he needs to know the facts of life.”