Eden Hill

by Bill Higgs

  Virgil sat up sharply in his chair. “What’d Vee do now?”

  “Pulled Darlene Prewitt’s pigtails in the lunchroom, that’s what. If he hadn’t been riding the school bus that afternoon, Mrs. Dawson would have made him stay after school and write sentences on the blackboard.”

  “He got sent to the principal’s office?” Virgil scowled. “Did she say anything else?”

  “Only that he seemed upset about something at home.”

  Virgil looked toward the stairway and scratched his head. “Well, it has been busy around here, with the new service station across the road. Maybe that’s it. Vee doesn’t miss much, you know.”

  “Frank Prewitt got sent to the principal along with him.”

  Virgil stopped scratching and looked straight at Mavine. “What did Frank do?”

  “Fighting.”

  An unexpected twist. “About Vee pulling Darlene’s pigtails?”

  “No, Frank would probably find that funny.” She paused. “Virgil?”

  Here it comes. Virgil steeled himself for it this time. “Yes?”

  “Lula Mae and Arlie are getting—” Mavine paused and swallowed a lump in her throat—“a divorce.”

  “A . . . what?” His friend? Arlie? “Where did you hear that?”

  “Gladys was telling us at the Glamour Nook on Friday.”

  “Mavine, Gladys is a very nice lady and a good friend of yours, but you shouldn’t believe everything she says.”

  “Virgil, she said Lula Mae told her herself. They’ve been talking to Reverend Caudill and some marriage counselor in Quincy. Lula Mae’s tried to make it work, but says Arlie is angry all the time and won’t let her do anything or go anywhere. She’s worried about Frank and Darlene too. Frank’s been in trouble at school, and Darlene’s been sick off and on all spring.” Mavine squinted away a tear. “And I’m worried myself.”

  Virgil, who had never been comfortable around emotions, was at a total loss. Not only had he not seen this coming; he wouldn’t know how to prepare for it even if he had. Arlie could be a bit gruff and short with words and Lula Mae a bit overbearing, but he never thought they might consider ending their marriage. Except for Gladys, that kind of thing just didn’t happen around here. Not in Eden Hill, it didn’t.

  “Virgil?” Her blinking no longer held back the flow.

  He paused. “Yes?”

  “You’ve seemed angry lately too. At Arlie, at Mr. Alexander, maybe even at Vee and me. Could that ever happen to us? Separating, I mean.”

  Virgil started to say something, then paused. He’d called her ideas foolishness once before, and that had not gone well. Clearly his wife was hurting—both for her friend, and in her own imagination—and there was nothing foolish or silly about that.

  He remembered something from his conversation with Welby too. He knew who he was, where his values lay, and just how much he loved Mavine. And he’d picked up some courage. If he could stand up against Madeline Crutcher, he could certainly stand up for Mavine.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve acted like I was unhappy with you or Vee. This new Zipco station across the road is turning out to be more trouble than I thought. We’ll probably make less money, and that will be hard sometimes.”

  She looked away. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Virgil stood up. “Mavine, I’ll never want to be away from you. Ever! And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you. You’re my wife and the mother of our son.”

  She brightened and reached in her purse for a Kleenex. Finding none, she grabbed the nearest dishrag. “Promise?” She wiped at her damp brow.

  “Mavine, when I said, ‘I do,’ I meant it. And I meant all that other stuff too.”

  “But you forgot our anniversary. Again. Everyone at the Glamour Nook wanted to know what you had given me.”

  “Our . . . what?” He sat back down.

  “It was Thursday. I really thought you’d remember this year.”

  It was all making sense now. “I’m so sorry, Mavine. I’ll make it up to you.” He started to say something about stress and business and Zipco, but thought better of it. He was already in enough trouble.

  This was one of those situations where anything he might say would be wrong. Everything he’d said and done that he thought showed deep affection, she’d seen as shallow. And all the things he was trying to do to keep their little business afloat weren’t enough. On one hand, Welby and the Bible seemed to be saying that Cornelius was his neighbor, and he needed to be, well, neighborly. On the other hand, Mavine wanted more effort on his part.

  It was going to be hard to keep God and his wife both happy.

  The next few minutes passed awkwardly, with Mavine saying nothing and clunking around in the kitchen, and Virgil flipping through the new Popular Mechanics. Saying nothing was better than offering anything when he had failed, so he decided to just wait until she became talkative again. And Arlie’s marriage falling apart? That explained a lot. Virgil decided he didn’t like magazines, so he tossed it in the basket by the couch.

  After about ten minutes, Mavine had put all the pots and pans away and cleaned the basket in the coffeepot in preparation for the next morning. She wandered past the table, patted Virgil on the shoulder, and said, “I love you anyway,” and went outside to check on her zinnias.

  By evening, the family had come to a truce. Mavine had agreed to allow Vee to watch Wild Kingdom on television—but only because the host was named Marlin Perkins and she thought it would be educational. Virgil had planted some flower seeds where Mavine wanted them, touched up a couple of places on the chicken coop he’d missed the first time around, and still got to spend an hour at the lake. He caught one pitiful bluegill and lost two of his best lures. Having had all the fun he could stand, he went to bed at nine thirty—well before Mavine retired. Since he too was worried about Arlie and Lula Mae, he tossed and turned until almost ten before falling into a fitful sleep.

  Virgil, at Mavine’s suggestion, set his alarm clock for five thirty on Monday, climbed into his rigid trousers and shirt, gulped down his coffee, and headed out his front door thirty minutes later. There was no work to do at six o’clock, but she’d claimed, “You’ll look so much more successful.” If it would make her happy, it would be worth it.

  Ticky and her three puppies followed along, running in circles. He patted her head, grateful for the company and companionship. Across the street the Zipco sign was illuminated and turning, a glowing beacon in the morning twilight. Sometime over the weekend, the price signs had been updated, reducing the cost of gasoline another penny per gallon for both grades. Mr. Alexander was chatting with a customer. Charlie was filling the woman’s tank with deeply discounted fuel while two more cars waited in line.

  MADELINE CRUTCHER’S DEATH came as a surprise to everyone, and apparently to Mrs. Crutcher as well. She had neglected to report the upcoming event to Reverend Caudill, who’d noted her absence on Sunday morning with some satisfaction, considering it part of the general blessing of the day. But after two days without a single complaint or early morning telephone call, he asked Deputy Blanford to check on her. Reverend Caudill had tried to call her house, but she rarely answered the telephone, so twenty rings meant nothing one way or the other. Even when she did answer, he usually wished she hadn’t.

  Tom had found her dead as could be, still sitting at the kitchen table. “Reverend,” he’d said, “she was in her robe and bedroom slippers. The slippers had bunny rabbits on them, just like a little kid might wear. There was a bottle of ketchup on the table, but her cat had finished whatever had been on the plate. That’s a hard way to go.” Tom had found something to feed the cat, he’d said, and then called the funeral home.

  At least it had been quick and painless. Natural causes, according to the coroner. Arrangements were to be handled by a mortuary in Quincy, but the visitation would be held at the old Crutcher Funeral Home in Eden Hill. It had been closed ever since her husband, Tom Crutcher, had died several years before. Their
son, Del, didn’t want it, not with his job in town at the hardware store, though he’d kept the building and would occasionally open it up for local clientele. “Mama wanted it that way, Reverend,” Del had said when they met. “She told me not to sell it because she might need it someday. Looks like she finally did.”

  Del had helped him write the obituary for the Quincy Reporter:

  MRS. MADELINE W. CRUTCHER

  May 18, at home. b. Aug. 9, 1880 in Eden Hill, widow of Oscar Thomas (Tom) Crutcher. Survivors include two daughters, Mrs. Virginia Cousins of Winchester and Mrs. Carolina Wilson of Pasadena, California; one son, Mr. Delbert Crutcher of Quincy; a sister, Mrs. Alene Burton of Lawrenceburg; four grandchildren; and several nephews. She was a member of the First Evangelical Baptist Church of Eden Hill, Daughters of Confederate Defenders, and a former member of the Quincy County Library Association. Visitation will be Wednesday evening at the former Crutcher Funeral Home on Front Street in Eden Hill. Services will be held noon Thursday at the First Evangelical Baptist Church, Rev. Eugene Caudill officiating. Interment will follow in the Eden Hill cemetery.

  Del had come out to get the place cleaned up and meet with the minister, and they both went to Stacy’s Grocery for lunch. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” said Grover, as he cut off a slab of bologna from the big roll in the meat case. “You want mayonnaise and lettuce on that?”

  “Thanks about Mother, but no thanks on the mayo. It was just one of those things.”

  “Has everyone in the family been notified?” Grover placed the sandwich carefully on a paper plate, arranging chips and a pickle on the side.

  “Everyone I can reach. Mother never talked much about her family, except for her sister, Alene, but I have telephone numbers for my sisters. Her only friends were in the Daughters of Confederate Defenders. A strange group of women.”

  Reverend Caudill raised an eyebrow.

  “They put on all kinds of airs claiming to be of pure white blood, or something. Never made sense to me. Thanks, Grover!”

  By this time, Grover had come around the counter carrying two sandwiches. “Outlived most of her friends, I’d guess. Most of the folks from church will be there, though. They always come out for a funeral, and will cook up something if they know where to send it. You and your wife need anything?”

  “No, thanks, we’re fine. I do need some sixty-watt lightbulbs, though. A couple of the torchieres are burned out.”

  “Just got some in,” Grover reached into a large box behind the cold-cut case. “Sam, we’ll get back to the game in a minute.”

  Sam Wright, who had been playing pinochle with Grover at the table before Del and the minister arrived, grumbled. Not only had he given up his table to a paying customer, but he also had to abandon the best hand he’d had in months.

  “Do I have to go?” asked Virgil, as Mavine finished ironing his white shirt. “You know how fidgety I get.” At issue were the suit and tie as well as the visitation.

  “Yes. And I expect you to look nice and well-groomed.”

  “She was a grumpy old woman. I didn’t think much of her.”

  “Nobody did. But you used to service her car and eat her green beans at church potluck dinners. And you’re friends with Del. Besides, I’ve already made a casserole and you know I can’t go by myself.”

  “A casserole? Who are you going to give it to?”

  “I’ll find somebody.”

  Virgil groaned but hoped she couldn’t hear. He still remembered the seafood Jell-O ring Mavine had brought to the church potluck last spring. Grover didn’t have any canned salmon, so Mavine settled for some of Virgil’s crappie from the freezer. Somehow, it just wasn’t the same.

  “Here—put this on.” The shirt was crisp, having had a dash of Grover’s heavy-duty starch.

  Virgil knew when he was beaten. None of his usual excuses had worked, including the itchy suit and wrinkled shirt, the latter of which Mavine had more than rectified. Mavine’s sense of correctness and respect for the dead was not about to be questioned. But she was right, of course. The truth was, he simply didn’t care for funerals, or anything else the least bit morbid. The idea of spending time around a lot of people and being introduced to new folks didn’t sit well at all. He shrugged in resignation and buttoned up the shirt all the way to the top.

  “Mom, do I have to?” Vee Junior had just come downstairs wearing the mandated tie. He was scratching at both his shoulder and his back.

  “The answer is yes to both of you. Honestly, I don’t know what has gotten into you two. Gentlemen, this is called ‘courtesy.’” Vee started to reply, but a glare from Virgil cut him off. Mavine made hand motions indicating that the casserole was to go in the trunk of the car. Right now, and without further argument.

  The trip was made in silence, except for Vee complaining about the late supper. Several cars were parked by the funeral home when they pulled up.

  “Good to see some lights on.” Mavine was trying to make conversation. “It has looked pretty dreary for the last couple of years.”

  “It’s a funeral home, Mavine. It’s supposed to look dreary.” Virgil had no intent of being talkative, cheerful, or otherwise lively, particularly in front of a mortuary. He was relieved to see Reverend Caudill standing at the door, greeting the bereaved as they wandered in.

  “Evening, Reverend. So sorry to hear about Mrs. Crutcher,” mumbled Virgil, trying to look more comfortable than he actually was. It wasn’t only the location that made him feel funny; Virgil just wasn’t the kind to wear a suit and tie. He’d have felt the same way at a party.

  “Evening. Glad you and Mavine could come, Virgil. So sad, so sad. I should have realized something was wrong when she wasn’t at services on Sunday.”

  Virgil was quite relieved when the pastor motioned him inside and to a corner. The Crutcher Funeral Home was the same old place he remembered: frumpy and run-down. The new lightbulbs and fresh dusting couldn’t hide the neglect that had taken its toll over the years. Madeline Crutcher was on display in a side room lined with heavy curtains. Mavine took Virgil by one arm and Vee by the other, easing them both inside, over their protests. “Couldn’t I just wait in the lobby?” Vee pleaded.

  “Absolutely not! You’ll both show some respect for the dead!” It was a whisper, as if Mrs. Crutcher might wake up if someone actually spoke, but it was a whisper that would cut steel. Both did as they were told.

  Several floral arrangements were on display by the coffin. Del and his wife, Elizabeth, were seated nearby, chatting with Welby and Alma. Welby looked even more uncomfortable in his suit than Virgil, but seemed more at ease around people.

  “Such a shame,” Welby was saying. “Very sad. I wish more people were here.”

  Alma shook her head in agreement. She too had brought a casserole, which she was holding in her lap: something brownish-green with onion crisps on top. She offered it to Del, who shook his head.

  Virgil spotted Deputy Blanford and extended his hand. At least he could wear his uniform instead of a suit. “So sorry, Tom. I heard you were the one who found her.”

  “Part of the job, Virgil,” said the officer, who was also squirming. “Been over to the lake lately?”

  For the first time since he arrived, Virgil relaxed. Misery loves company, and he’d just found a kindred spirit. If he was lucky, he could talk fishing with the men until it was time to go home.

  Mavine was quite willing to let Virgil talk with the other men, whether it was about fishing, cars, or sports. This was awkward for him, she knew. As long as the husbands kept out of the way, the women could do the important things. Like exchanging covered dishes and warm condolences.

  “I swear,” said Gladys, “getting Tom to a visitation or a funeral is like pulling half his teeth. In fact, I think he’d rather have that done. What’s that, Mavine?”

  “A casserole. It’s a new recipe I found on the back of a cornstarch box.”

  “Looks interesting. What’s in it?”

 
“Cauliflower, rutabagas, eggplant, tomatoes, and zucchini—plus, of course, the cornstarch to thicken it up. The box said it won first prize at a county fair somewhere in Arkansas last year.”

  “What’s the white stuff on the top?” Gladys asked.

  “Coconut and whipped cream. The box said you could serve it as dessert, too.”

  Gladys nodded and smiled.

  The Prewitts had just come in, carrying soup pots and pans covered with aluminum foil. Arlie and Frank made a beeline to the gathered men; Lula Mae and Darlene had gone straight toward Mavine and Alma. “Such a shame, such a shame,” Lula Mae muttered, taking a sturdy chair offered by Alma. “She was such a shining light in the church.”

  “Sad, indeed.” The irony was not lost on Mavine, who remembered the equally sad news about Lula Mae and Arlie. “You’re both dressed so nicely tonight.”

  “Thanks, Mavine. Arlie sold one of his hogs, so I was able to buy a ten-yard bolt of fabric from Willett’s. He ordered this in especially for me; I really liked the daisies. So Darlene and I both have new dresses.”

  “Ten yards worth?” The fabric was covered in daisies. Big daisies.

  “Last year I could get by with seven, but Darlene’s grown and my patterns work better with an extra yard. And then there’s the curtains in the kitchen.”

  “Is Vee here tonight, Mrs. Osgood?” asked Darlene, with stars in her eyes.

  “Yes. He’s with the men, I think.” They’d be grown soon enough, but for now she thought the whole thing cute.

  Several others had come in toward the end of the visitation, including Grover and Anna Belle, and surprisingly, Brother Taggart. Reverend Caudill had relinquished his spot at the door and was moving throughout the room, talking with each of the mourners. He chatted at some length with Virgil, desperately searching for something good to say about the deceased at the funeral the next day. “All I can think of is that she always paid cash,” Virgil had said.

  Fortunately, Welby and Alma shared a couple of anecdotes about Mrs. Crutcher once bringing cookies to vacation Bible school, and the time she’d given the church some fans from the funeral home. “A shame,” Welby said. “And such a good woman too.”