by Bill Higgs
“He doesn’t need to know all of that at his age. Vee asked me what adultery was, and I didn’t know quite what to tell him. He thinks it just means being a grown-up, and can’t figure out why it’s such a sin. Couldn’t you just have him read the Hardy Boys or cowboys and Indians or something?”
Mavine stood and returned to her shelf of classic books. “Virgil, I know you don’t see the value in classic literature, but it’s good for Vee. If I left it up to you, he’d be reading Zane Grey. Or worse, a Louis L’Amour. But all right then, here’s James Fenimore Cooper. So you get your Indians, anyway.”
Virgil followed her into the living room and frowned at her choice of reading material. “Mavine, just what are you so unhappy about?”
“Virgil, he was being disobedient and obstinate. Probably sulking up in his room.”
Obstinate? Something bad, apparently. “All right, Mavine, so Vee was smoking. He knows better and probably ought to have some kind of punishment for it, but that’s no reason for—”
“Virgil, I have such high hopes for our son. He’s a smart boy and is making such good grades in school. I want him to go to the university—I’ve always loved the idea of a university education. To be successful in life. That’s why I give him good books to read; I want him to have the same love for literature that I have. To make his world bigger.”
“And you think making him read on a snow day is going to help? I have high hopes for him too. The hardest thing for him right now would be to think about his friends having fun out on their sleds while he’s stuck in here reading.”
She looked to one side, not a good sign. “Virgil, I kept my schoolbooks after graduation instead of selling them, even though my family could have used the money. They were about the only thing that kept me going with the war on and all. You were stationed at Fort Benning, so you never knew how much they meant to me. Vee’s learning to love them too, even if he doesn’t realize it yet.”
“Vee loves other things right now,” said Virgil, “like being a good, healthy kid. I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“I want Vee to make something of himself, Virgil. Something he’ll be proud of. I don’t want him to end up like you.”
Virgil might as well have been smacked in the face with Mavine’s steam iron. He said nothing for several seconds, trying to sort out the words he had just heard. Mavine clapped a hand over her mouth, then dropped the book on the table with a heavy thud, turned away, and buried her face in both hands. She seemed to be trying to say something, but no words were coming out.
For his part, he bit his own tongue, not sure he could trust the words he might say in return. He loved their son too. Didn’t she understand that? Somehow, in one sentence, she’d reduced him to a nobody. Anger and confusion welled up inside him, and his thoughts were fuzzy and whirling. Was Mavine angry, hurt, disappointed, or confused? All of these? He couldn’t tell, but he knew any response he might make right now would be one he’d likely regret.
Virgil stood, nearly knocking over his chair, only to find himself surprisingly unsteady on his feet. He leaned on the table for balance and took a breath, trying to quench the fires inside and pull his thoughts together into something that made sense. “So, Mavine. Is there something wrong with who I am? I may not have much schooling, and I haven’t read all those classy books of yours, but I think I’ve done pretty well.” His voice was rising in both pitch and volume, so he paused, looking for words that wouldn’t make matters worse.
“I work hard to put this food on your table, keep you in clothes and buy you the washing machine to put them in. And I’ve tried my best to be a good husband for the last fourteen years. Is that not enough?”
“Virgil, I didn’t mean . . .”
Suddenly, an unexpected sound broke the silence. Both looked at the stairway landing, where Vee had stepped on a squeaky board while eavesdropping. The boy’s eyes were wide with fear and confusion, and he turned and ran back up to the second floor.
Virgil felt steadier now, and motioned toward the steps. “And I’d be more than happy to see Vee grow up just like me.”
He started for the front door but turned to pick up his forgotten jacket. “I’m going back to work. And tell Vee I said no more cigars!”
Virgil closed the door harder than he should have, shaking the front room and rattling the windows. Hopefully Ticky would be waiting for him with her tail wagging. Right now, he could use a friend.
Mavine sat at the table, absently running a finger along the edge of The Last of the Mohicans, waiting for the rinse to end. It did, but she didn’t move. Wringing out clothes was not what she wanted to do just then. This was the last load, the one with the sheets and pillow slips in it. It could wait.
Why in the world had she said such a thing to Virgil? She loved him dearly, didn’t she? She certainly thought so. Running a service station was a fine thing for Virgil—he never even made it to high school, let alone college. He’d had even less opportunity than she had. Was she wrong to want more for Vee than a life like this? Certainly she was wrong to blame Virgil for it.
On the other hand, her husband made a good honest living. He was right—she and their son had never wanted for anything. Her own mother and father had struggled through the Depression, selling eggs, eating crackers and poke salad. Memories of patched dresses and hand-me-downs, darned socks and slivers of soap wrapped in pieces of burlap from a flour sack were still deeply etched in her mind. Her husband had been through it too, as his father worked hard to keep his own repair shop afloat. Virgil had to drop out of school to help, and then was drafted and served his country.
Mavine shoved the novel across the table, just like she’d done with the Pageant a couple of months earlier. Her hands, chapped by laundry soap and dishwater, told a story. Her story. With all her reading, all her dreams, what had she accomplished in life? Was it fair to blame Virgil for her dissatisfaction? Sure, he didn’t act like the men in those magazine articles that Gladys had given her. And the recent sermon series by Reverend Caudill had made her feel . . . what? Afraid? It could be the toy service station Vee had received for Christmas, which seemed as though it might limit his potential. Or maybe it was just her.
Mavine sighed. She forced herself up from the dinette, tossed out the paper napkins, and dusted the bread crumbs into the trash. Laundry was waiting and couldn’t be put off any longer, even with an argument as an excuse.
The wringer started with a mechanical groan when she flipped the switch. Vee’s bedspread was the first to come out of the tub. The fringes were clean again, and the Oxydol had done its job well on the smudge just above Gene Autry’s lasso. Through the mighty rollers it ground, water pouring back into the tub from both sides. “Cowboys!” Mavine grumbled to herself as she pitched it over the clothesline on the porch.
Next came a pair of Virgil’s work pants. Mavine rubbed the stiff khaki fabric between her fingers and paused. The man who wore these wasn’t perfect, but she did love him. And more than that, she realized, he loved and cared for her in every way he knew how. Reaching for the trouser stretcher, she smelled something odd. Burning. Quickly, she turned the wringer off, thinking that perhaps the motor wasn’t powerful enough for a full bedspread going through crossways. No, it wasn’t coming from the machine. Perhaps . . .
“That Vee,” she growled under her breath, “has done it now. Another—cigar!” She spat the word. “It’s A Tale of Two Cities for him now, and maybe War and Peace too.” Mavine ran upstairs, bent on full retribution. She stopped in the doorway and opened her mouth to issue Great Words of Wrath. Nothing came out.
There was no cigar, nor any other vice for that matter. Vee was engrossed in his toy service station, and making engine noises—pretty good ones, too—and it seemed that in spite of her rampage, he still hadn’t heard her. One of Virgil’s old work caps sat on his head, turned at just the right angle.
The oval rug was spread across the bare mattress, toy cars lined up on the pattern as on a racetra
ck. The service station that Santa had given him at Christmas fit well in the center of the bed; even the ramp to the upstairs parking deck lined up nicely with the design on the rug. Vee reached into the garage door and pulled out two cars and a pickup truck; the wrecker was retrieved from the top of his bookshelf. The plastic gasoline pumps were set up in front of his imaginary driveway.
Vee pushed the pickup up the ramp and began filling the cars with gasoline and running them around the track, making all the appropriate sound effects. The book jacket from his recent Hawthorne reading had been turned inside out and made into a fine billboard, lettered in pencil. He’d propped it against the front wall, right between the big doors marked Engine Service and Tune-Ups.
As the Ford in Vee’s hand moved to the left, he looked up with a start. His eyes were red and puffy, and she could see streaks down his cheeks.
“Oh hi, Mom. Sorry, I didn’t hear you coming.” He looked down sheepishly. “Have you and Dad picked out a new book for me yet?”
Mavine smiled and felt a tear or two of her own. Vee had turned back around to put the little cars away, but before he did, she caught a glimpse of him about fifteen inches taller and fifteen years older. The cap was a good fit. The boy was a good fit too. Suddenly, she wanted more than anything else to have Vee Junior grow up to be just like Virgil Senior.
“Oh, Vee,” she said, giving him a teary kiss, “I just came up to tell you that I love you, and that maybe I’ve been a bit too hard on you today.”
Vee was visibly embarrassed. “Aw, Mom . . .” He turned his head aside. “It’s . . . it’s okay. Sorry about the cigar.”
“Why don’t you have a grilled cheese sandwich and go out and ride your sled? I know the other boys are out—I saw them through the kitchen window, probably heading for the old logging road.”
“Okay . . . thanks!”
“Just be back before your father gets home. And wear your mittens!”
Vee was already halfway down the steps. Mavine looked at the elaborate toy, which Vee had left on the bed. The makeshift sign caught her attention again, so she picked it up. Osgood’s Superior Service, she read.
“Vee,” she said, knowing full well that he was out of earshot, “you’re going to grow up just like your father. And maybe that’s the best thing.”
As she walked back into the hallway, she became aware once again of the smoky odor she’d forgotten. On an impulse, she dashed into her bedroom. The iron, left on all morning, had burned a brown mark right into her new pinstripe blouse. Oh well, she thought, it’s just been that kind of day.
“I just don’t get it.” Virgil related the lunch conversation to Welby, who had had more experience in such things, and the older man just shook his head.
“Doesn’t make sense to me either. You’ve always been a man of good character. I suspect she’ll get over it.” Fortunately, they were both so busy mounting snow tires that afternoon—“A bit late,” Welby had said—that Virgil didn’t think any more about it until the long walk up the hill at closing time.
“Well, Ticky, what do you think we’ll find?” Ticky, to all appearances, agreed with Welby and just wagged her tail.
What he found was his favorite spaghetti and meatball dinner, candles on the table, and his slippers waiting for him at the door. Mavine threw her arms around him and shouted, “Welcome home!” Virgil felt his face flush and started to say something—then thought better of it. Whatever was happening, he wasn’t about to argue.
The spaghetti was delicious, and later on that night, after Vee was sound asleep, things got even better.
REVEREND CAUDILL was tired, and he hadn’t even finished his breakfast. His phone had rung, as usual, at six this morning. At least he could now answer on the extension he’d had installed in his bedroom, without having to get up and walk to the kitchen. Mrs. Crutcher’s telephone call was as reliable as the little Westclox on his nightstand, and didn’t need to be wound up every night.
This time, it had been something more about being too gentle in his sermons, and why couldn’t he be more like Reverend Lewis Pritchett, whom she listened to on WNTC on Sunday afternoons? And couldn’t he please wear something besides that hideous tie in the pulpit? He’d thanked her for her concerns and gently wished her a pleasant day.
Too soft? Well. He’d once liked the evangelist’s style and delivery as much as she did. When the man had a good lather going, he could bring the Beast of Revelation right into your living room, with the lake of fire thrown in for good measure. Trouble was, after Reverend Pritchett’s last revival in Eden Hill, Reverend Caudill had spent several months patching up the damage he left behind. The man might be a dynamic revival preacher, but a pastor Pritchett wasn’t.
Sure, there were several decisions made at those meetings several years back. Four baptisms, including two adults: a good report to his district supervisor. But one couple in the congregation had threatened to leave, claiming the evangelist’s edge was just too sharp. He’d had to smooth out some ruffled feathers and bandage up some hurt feelings. And move the church forward.
But he was a pastor. And as a pastor, he was responsible for his flock and for their spiritual nurture, wasn’t he?
Reverend Caudill reached for the sugar bowl and spooned a generous portion into his oatmeal. The snow was still falling, and he needed more than a cup of tea to give him the strength to shovel the sidewalk and put the chains on his ten-year-old car.
And the tie with the Lord’s Prayer printed on it? Well. It had been a birthday gift from his late wife, the first year they were married. Mrs. Crutcher would just have to put up with it.
Cornelius Alexander gathered up the breakfast dishes from the postage stamp–size table and placed them in the sink. JoAnn was having trouble bending now, so it was the least he could do. The well pump started as soon as he turned on the tap. Hot water, one of their few luxuries, began churning up suds in the tiny sink.
“Neil, when are we going to get a telephone? We’ve lived here for over a month now.”
“Soon. Very soon. It was supposed to happen today, but the installer might not be able to get here with the roads being what they are. I haven’t forgotten about it, JoAnn. I need to make some telephone calls myself.”
“Then I suppose you’ll need to go spend the day in Quincy. Again.”
Her sarcasm was not lost on him. Hormones, maybe? “I’ll need to put the chains on the car and wait until they plow the road. Even then, I’m not sure there’s much that can be done today.”
“So, another day with no phone.” JoAnn Alexander sat in a worn easy chair in the living room. Cornelius had acquired the cushioned seat—JoAnn called it an “upholstered monstrosity” —from a thrift store in Lexington for five dollars, and while not comfortable, it was at least serviceable. The green in the worn plaid fabric clashed with the blond paneling, but then again, nothing else matched either. Someday soon, he assured her, a brand-new couch with real leather would take its place.
He’d made a lot of promises in their two years together, and he intended to keep every one, right back to the first day he ever saw her. They’d met at a fraternity party when she was only nineteen. He was twenty-one, had striking good looks, a ducktail haircut, and a green Ford Victoria, and he was an Alexander. What else could a girl need?
A lot more, it seemed. College hadn’t worked out, but business school meant he could still follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather and become head of Alexander Motors someday, just like he’d promised. A dream house, the good life. Vacations to the beach every summer and a wardrobe that Liz Taylor would envy. Whatever JoAnn wanted, he intended to give her.
And a houseful of children. They had a good start on that, at least—a promise kept. JoAnn had dropped out of nursing school when she discovered she was pregnant. And when her father found out she was “with child,” as he put it, a wedding was hastily arranged: a short courthouse exchange. The whole thing had taken less than ten minutes in front of the justice. Her mother
was more sympathetic, offering to let her come home if things didn’t work out.
They certainly hadn’t worked out the way either one of them had wanted—at least, not yet. In the last year, she’d gone from being a single coed with a promising future to an expectant mother sitting in a trailer in a town that didn’t even have a stoplight. And he’d gone from an impoverished student to a business owner. In debt, yes, but with a prosperous future on the horizon. He was sure of it.
But JoAnn wanted it all. Right now. And they’d argued again last night.
He couldn’t blame her. The Zipco Super Service wasn’t coming together nearly as quickly as he’d hoped, which meant no income. Sure, they were able to draw on a line of credit with Zipco, but everything was behind schedule. And now a winter storm and freezing temperatures. At least they had heat from the little propane furnace.
And a television. The set had come from the same place he’d found the chair, and for only another five dollars. A genuine seventeen-inch Silvertone. It was eleven years old and the little rabbit ears would only get channel three, but it did make a snowy and wobbly picture.
Now if she wanted to watch Queen for a Day, at least she could.
With the dishes dried and put away, Cornelius sat at the dinette and shuffled through some scattered papers, trying to decide which phone calls had to be made first. He jotted a list of figures and added up the numbers. The sums were bad. Then he added them again, to the same discouraging result. “JoAnn, we’re going to need to take out another loan.”
She sighed. “How much more are we going to have to borrow? That line of credit, or whatever you call it, has got to run out sometime.”
“It’s not a problem. Once Alexander’s Zipco Super Service opens, we’ll be making lots of money. We’ll be able to pay back the loans in no time. Our grand opening will be spectacular, with clowns and giveaways. It’ll be the biggest thing Eden Hill has ever seen. Customers will be flocking to our gas pumps, and buying things from inside as well.”