by Bill Higgs
And she would not be silenced. Anna Belle, clearly taken by surprise, muttered something, folded her notes, and waved in the elderly woman’s direction. “I yield the floor to Mrs. Crutcher.”
She not only took the floor; she went straight to the pulpit, climbing the two steps with surprising ease and determination. He considered an attempt to stop her but sat down in the nearest pulpit chair instead. Whatever it was she had to say, let her get it out of her system and be done with it.
Mrs. Crutcher, who was never done with anything, cleared her throat and held up the Life magazine for all to see. “People of the First Evangelical Baptist Church, are you going to let this happen here?” The congregation craned their necks to make out the headline. “It says,” she began, “‘Negro Activists Arrested in Birmingham.’ What did this colored boy do? He tried to go into a white Baptist church, that’s what! Sooner or later some of the colored people from over on the other side of the creek will decide they want to come here. We can’t let that happen! We must pass a resolution to keep something like this from happening here in my church.” She held up the magazine again, picturing a young dark-skinned man seated in a church pew, surrounded by scowling white worshippers.
“Just this week, I saw a colored man walk right in the front door of this church. I couldn’t believe what I saw, so I watched for a long time. Sure enough, he came back out an hour later. He was practicing for something, I tell you.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, this wasn’t it. A headache had begun to drown out both the churning of his stomach and the throbbing at the end of his foot. Judging by the silence in the room, no one else had expected this, either. He’d tried to avoid current events, and they fell into his lap.
“Mrs. Crutcher, this is most inappropriate,” he squeaked. Two deacons rose from their seats, looked at each other, and began to move toward the front of the church. She was not dissuaded, but screeched, “Do I hear a motion regarding this situation?”
Reverend Caudill had lost control of his meeting, and was in danger of losing his breakfast, too. He prayed for help and Pepto-Bismol, and from the very back of the church help arrived.
A figure on the left side stood up slowly and deliberately, but with determination on his face. “I’ve never made a motion in a meeting before, and I’m not sure how to do it,” said Virgil T. Osgood, “but I’m going to make one now. I make the motion that if any colored person comes to this church, they will be welcomed with a smile and ushered to your seat, Mrs. Crutcher.”
Welby jumped to his feet, almost losing his balance. “I second this motion!” He grinned at Virgil.
Reverend Caudill, who chose to ignore the fact that everyone standing was out of order, didn’t know whether to be thankful or to pray some more, so he did both. He also made a mental note to buy a full tank of gasoline from Virgil on Monday. Maybe two or three.
Regaining at least part of his composure, he motioned to Anna Belle, who had dropped her pencil on the floor and had sent Grover looking for it. “The floor is open to discussion. And just what do you say to that, Mrs. Crutcher?” He’d regained the upper hand, headache or not, and wasn’t about to lose it this time. The deacons took another step forward. Sometimes the Lord provided strength just when a person needed it.
Mrs. Crutcher glared at Reverend Caudill, the deacons, and then at Virgil. Whatever she had expected, this didn’t seem to be it. The men in the outside aisles had stopped to look again at each other, and decided to just let her go until she ran out of breath and magazines. “Virgil, what would you do if a colored man tried to buy gasoline at that place you call a service station? Just what would you do?”
Virgil leaned forward. “I’d be honored, Mrs. Crutcher. Mr. Johnson buys gasoline when he goes to town, and I’m proud to say he is a friend of mine. Mr. Warren’s widow gets eggs from Mavine, and gives us tulip bulbs and tomatoes. You knew my father, Mr. H. C. Osgood—knew him well. One thing my father taught me was to treat everyone with courtesy and respect, whether white or colored.”
“Grover, what if one of them came to your store?”
“He’d sell him groceries, just like he does you.” Anna Belle had answered, but then Grover himself stood. His voice was shaky, but his posture was solid. “And if he wanted one, I’d fix him a bologna sandwich—a thick one. With lettuce and extra mayonnaise on it.”
Mrs. Crutcher’s eyes blazed, which caused the deacons to back off a step. “I’m surprised at you—all of you.” Her voice began to waver. All eyes in the congregation were now on Virgil, who had left his seat and begun walking up the center aisle. He stopped square in front of the pulpit, looked directly at its angry occupant.
He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Crutcher,” he said slowly and precisely, “have you forgotten who you are and where you came from?”
The church was silent, except for the slight croak that came from Reverend Caudill. Whatever Mrs. Crutcher wanted to say, she swallowed. Her veins tightened up and the red drained from her face.
After a long pause, she picked up her Life magazine and slapped it solidly on the podium, bringing everyone back to reality. “I’m not finished with you, Virgil T. Osgood.” She looked back at Reverend Caudill. “Or you either, for that matter. And just who was that colored man I saw?”
Reverend Caudill rose to his feet. Something within him welled up and couldn’t stay inside. “That man,” he said, solidly and firmly, “was Brother Jeremiah Taggart, the pastor of the Pentecostal Holiness church.”
He stared at the woman, who was suddenly speechless, and then spoke slowly and deliberately. “And I invited him.”
And with that, she walked down the steps, past Virgil and the deacons, and out the front door.
Reverend Caudill somehow managed to adjourn the meeting, and get to his office for a Goody’s, a Dr. Scholl’s corn plaster, and a shot of Pepto-Bismol, all the time regretting that he was a teetotaler. The congregation—excepting Mrs. Crutcher—had gone straight down the front steps to the fellowship hall in the basement for fried chicken and country ham, biscuits, and apple pie. For most, the potluck dinner was the only reason for staying for the business meeting, but today the entertainment had come before the meal.
“Virgil, that was a brave thing to say. I don’t know exactly what you meant by it, but it was still mighty courageous.” Grover had pulled Virgil aside while Mavine helped Vee find a drumstick among the thighs and wings.
Virgil reddened and looked down. “You just have to stand up for what you believe in. Mr. H. C. Osgood always taught me to do the right thing.”
“Your father taught you well.” Welby had taken his place in line on the opposite side of the food table, and was heaping black-eyed peas onto a plate already filled with chicken and dumplings. “Alma has a table picked out for us over by the door. Will you join us?”
“We’d be happy to.” Virgil set his own overflowing plate down where Mavine had already placed a large cup of strong black coffee from the forty-cup urn. “Welby, thanks for helping me out.”
“Glad to do it.” And with that, both men began eating with enthusiasm, not noticing that the room was quieter than usual and that all eyes were on them. They did notice, however, that Reverend Caudill had taken a seat at the adjacent table, and he had nothing but a small bowl of Jell-O.
The meal passed with only small talk, except for Anna Belle, who came by to ask Mavine how to spell spectacle and bizarre. Mavine was more than happy to write them out for her on the back of the meeting minutes, but seemed more concerned that her onion-and-pickle loaf had met with little interest. In the meantime, Welby had spotted Anna Belle’s apple pie among the desserts and brought two slices back, handing one to Virgil. “Now—” he winked—“are you going to tell me what you know that I don’t? What was all that ‘who you are’ business about?”
“Welby, you know that little settlement up the creek where Mr. Johnson and Brother Taggart live?”
He nodded. “Sure. Colored Mills. I used to fish for smallmouth ba
ss up there.”
“You’re almost right. The name of the place is really Collard’s Mill. A man by the name of Colonel William Collard came in sometime after the War of 1812. Bought some property along the creek and built a flour mill. He came from Carolina somewhere and brought slaves with him to run the place. The big house and the mill are gone now, but several of the little houses are still there. Mr. Johnson lives in one of them. Brother Taggart and his children live in another.
“The colonel had a no-account son by the name of Jack William, who took to some of the slave women. There was a slave girl born about 1840, who was light-colored and had blue eyes. They named her Pearlie, because she was the color of Mrs. Collard’s necklace. Nobody could ever prove it, of course, but everybody knew she was Jack William’s daughter. They kept her around the house, where she learned how to cook and wash, and by the time she was sixteen and Mrs. Collard had died, she was pretty much running the household. Jack William had long since taken off to California to look for gold and Indian girls.
“Anyway, Colonel Collard always looked on Pearlie as his granddaughter, and disowned Jack William. When she turned eighteen, the colonel granted her freedom, but she stayed around to take care of the man, as he was getting along in years. After he died, she took up with a white mill hand by the name of Thomas Osgood.”
Welby’s brows rose. “An ancestor of yours?”
Virgil nodded. “It was a common-law marriage, but they managed five children along the way. Pearlie inherited the place, and she and Thomas tried to keep it going with the rest of the freed slaves, but it never worked out. The railway came through Quincy a few years later, and the mill went out of business. They tried to make a boardinghouse out of it, but that didn’t work out either, and late one night some people came and burned the place down. Said it wasn’t right for whites and coloreds to live under the same roof. They beat Thomas up something terrible, and he died. Pearlie died soon after that—of grief, they said.
“Of the five children, two lived to tell the story. One of them was my great-grandfather Robert Osgood—H. C.’s grandfather. Dad always taught me that it was important to remember who you are and where you came from. So you see, Welby, my great-great-grandmother was half-colored, and kin to many of the colored people who live in Collard’s Mill today.”
Welby sat in silence. “You know, Mr. Osgood never told me that story. I knew he grew up in Eden Hill, but I had no idea of that part of his history. But what does this all have to do with Mrs. Crutcher?”
Virgil pushed aside the empty pie plate. “I said that Pearlie had two children that lived. The other was a girl, Sophie, who married a man named Joseph Wright. Joseph Wright was Madeline Crutcher’s father.”
Welby narrowed his gaze. “So her grandmother was half-colored Pearlie?”
“That’s right, and she knows it well. We’re all related—the Osgoods, the Crutchers, the Wrights, the Johnsons, the Taggarts, and probably most of Eden Hill. We’re all the same, Welby. Neighbors. Just like in Reverend Caudill’s sermon this morning. And sometimes we’re even kin. We just need to learn to act like it.”
AFTER SIX LONG AND DISCOURAGING MONTHS, the Zipco was finally ready to open. Cornelius had picked up some packages yesterday at the bus station in Quincy, ones he’d been expecting. To his delight, the uniforms looked much better than he had anticipated. The polished brass buttons featured the Zipco logo, and the patent-leather bands shone on the peaked hats. Another box had Zippy the Clown written on the side, and he set it aside near the motor oil display until Zippy arrived. Later that afternoon, the florist had delivered four dozen red roses individually wrapped in waxy paper, which Cornelius had stored inside the indoor drink cooler to keep them fresh. Their grand opening was going to be everything he’d hoped for.
The weather was his only disappointment. It had looked like rain the night before and JoAnn had heard a rumble of thunder while nursing Suzy during the night, so he was glad for the umbrellas he’d bought yesterday at the five-and-dime. All his vending machines were lit and stocked, the streamers and pinwheels were in place, and the newly painted sign that proclaimed Grand Opening Today! had replaced the Coming Soon placard on the plywood frame out front.
The underground tanks were installed and filled for both regular and premium, the snack rack was loaded with bags of chips and crackers, and Charlie was ready to tackle oil changes and tire rotations. The pavement and parking area still smelled of new asphalt, and the driveway bell dinged nicely when Cornelius stepped on it with the heel of his freshly shined shoe. Perfect.
The illuminated Zipco sign was the coup de grâce. It rotated several times each minute with a slight whir, proclaiming its inviting message like a lighthouse beacon. The fluorescent tubes lit the trademark lightning bolt with confidence and authority, and the changeable sign just below proclaimed the price of regular gasoline at 27.9 per gallon, with premium at 29.9. Virgil’s station across the street, he also observed with smug delight, was still dark at almost six o’clock. When the sun finally began to lighten the overcast sky, Virgil’s unlighted board and single pump would still read 29.9 cents per gallon—regular only.
“Well, here goes, Charlie!” At exactly six o’clock Cornelius flipped a switch, which powered the neon sign in the window that proclaimed Open. The display buzzed and flickered to life as a sleepy JoAnn, carrying an even sleepier Suzy, walked to his side.
“Neil, there’s . . . no one here.”
“Oh, they’ll be along soon enough. ‘Give the customer what he desires . . .’”
“Neil, for that Zipco book to be any good you need to first have a customer.” Without another word, JoAnn trudged back to the mobile home.
Cornelius was in trouble and he knew it. He’d known it all along, but he finally had to admit it. His debt to Zipco would take years to pay, and his wife was unhappy with him as well. Suzy was probably disappointed with him too. The eastern sky was now glowing, and he could hear a tractor starting somewhere on the other side of town. He was about to say something to Charlie when he noticed a pair of headlights coming down the street. Were they slowing down?
“Charlie! It’s a customer! Stand at attention! Remember chapter five!”
Charlie did as he was told—he, too, had read the Zipco manual. Both stood arrow straight in their best West Point military form when Welby’s ’56 Chevy pulled up to the regular pump. The bell sounded an agreeable welcome as the tires rolled over the hose.
“Good morning, Mr. Alexander—and a fine morning it is indeed. Might you be good enough to fill it up with regular?”
“Absolutely, sir!” Charlie was following his directions to the exact letter, as Cornelius, puzzled, adjusted his hat and walked to the driver’s window.
“Good morning, sir! And what brings you here this fine day?” His voice held a trace of cynicism, which he couldn’t conceal. Including their first awkward meeting, he’d run into Welby several times over the last few months, but he didn’t know exactly what to make of this. According to the manual, a competitor was to be treated with suspicion, especially one who had declined a job offer. Was he spying on them? The book admonished him to be wary of darting eyes and sideways glances. Welby showed no signs of either.
“I just wanted to congratulate you on your grand opening!”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but where do I put in the gasoline?” Charlie, red-faced, held the filler nozzle but could find no obvious place for the spout to go. He looked like a dog in search of a hydrant.
Welby smiled. “I’ll show you—it’s kind of odd on these.” And with that, Welby climbed out of the car and limped to the rear. “It’s right here. See?” Welby pushed the concealed button that caused the taillight to pop out of the way, revealing the elusive opening. There was no ridicule in his voice, only help and gentle assistance. “Some of these Chevrolets are a bit tricky!”
“Thank you, sir!” Charlie inserted the nozzle and squeezed, and the numbers on the pump began to whirl.
“Well,
thank you, Welby!” Cornelius, while still wary, was indeed grateful for Welby’s advice. Truth was, he didn’t know where the gasoline filler was on a ’56 Chevy. He also had no idea why this man would come by on his way to work at his competitor’s station, but was still happy to have a customer. Any customer.
“That’ll be $2.25, sir.” Charlie had finished dispensing the fuel, closed the cap, and pushed the taillight back into place with a solid click. At a nod and a whisper from Cornelius, Charlie took the two bills and the quarter from Welby and tipped his hat.
“Thank you, sir. We appreciate your business!”
Cornelius spoke next. “Might I give you a rose for the little lady in your life? It’s our special gift to you for our grand opening.” He had four dozen roses in the drink cooler, and at this rate might still have forty-seven at the end of the day.
“How kind of you, Mr. Alexander!” Welby clutched the stem carefully as he climbed back in the car. “Alma loves roses. Thank you so much—and again, good luck!” He started the car and drove directly across the street to Virgil’s and began to open up.
Several others came by in the next hour. Grover, with some more greasy biscuits from Anna Belle, stopped in and departed with a rose and a Nehi orange drink. Mr. Willett ventured over to see what was going on and to see if the Zipco carried floor mats for his Nash Metropolitan.
By eight o’clock, Cornelius was becoming discouraged, as he hadn’t had a customer in almost an hour. He was also becoming a bit concerned about Zippy, who had yet to appear. “Charlie, why don’t you go ahead and open his box and have it ready when he arrives?”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie pulled a penknife from the pocket of his uniform and sliced through the tape. “Uh, Mr. Alexander?”
Both Cornelius and Charlie looked in the package in disbelief. Inside was a clown costume, a Zippy hat, a bright-red rubber nose, a bag of balloons, and mimeographed instructions.