by Doug Worgul
LaVerne frowned and put his hand on Leon’s shoulder.
“It’s not your fault, boy. It’s an easy mistake to fix. Don’t worry about it. Go back to work. And if you need any more help with reading, just ask me.”
Ainsley Ponairi had eaten everything in front of him by the time LaVerne returned to the table. He smiled at LaVerne.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of vinegar pie,” he said. “Do you recommend it?”
“Wouldn’t be on the menu board otherwise,” said LaVerne. He called for Vicki to bring two slices of vinegar pie and some coffee.
Ainsley ate his pie in silence. He was either out of questions or had concluded that he was unlikely to extract more than another sentence or two from Laverne before another calamity befell. When he had finished, he pushed his chair back from the table and extended his hand to LaVerne.
“Mr. Williams, I’ve got some other stops to make so I must be going now. It’s been a pleasure. My story will probably be published next month in The Blue, the in-flight magazine of Northern Airlines. I’ll send you some copies.”
LaVerne shook his hand and Ainsley turned to leave.
“Oh, one more thing,” he said. “I’d like to arrange to have a local photographer come by and take a few pictures for the article. Would that be alright?”
LaVerne agreed, and that was that.
A week later a photographer called A.B. and set up a photo shoot for the following afternoon.
When the photographer arrived, LaVerne was cranky. He had wanted Angela to be in the picture, but she had left a message at the restaurant that morning to say that their pastor had called asking her to attend a meeting of the Ladies’ Missionary Board at the church and she said she would.
The photographer, a friendly soft-spoken guy named Talbott, took some pictures of the interior of the restaurant, including one of LaVerne in the kitchen standing by the smoker. Talbott repeatedly encouraged LaVerne to smile, but his efforts were largely in vain.
A.B. had carefully assembled some trays of food so Talbott photographed those, then he asked if LaVerne and A.B. would pose for a shot outside in front of the restaurant.
LaVerne and A.B. stood side-by-side, squinting into the sun. Talbott counted down—“One. Two . . .” Then, as he paused before “Three,” A.B. slung his arm around LaVerne’s shoulder—a awkward move inasmuch as LaVerne is a foot taller than A.B.
As Talbott packed up his equipment he asked LaVerne if he had any early pictures of the restaurant, maybe from when the place was just opened. “The editors like to include old photos in the layout when they can. Gives the story added visual interest.”
LaVerne went inside and came back a minute later with a framed 8X10 which he gave Talbott. “This is the only one I got,” said LaVerne. “Be careful with it.”
*
Six weeks later, a package arrived from Ainsley Ponairi. In it were twelve copies of the airline magazine, The Blue, and a note from the writer which read:
Dear Mr. Williams,
First the good news. Of all the barbecue establishments I visited in Kansas City, I enjoyed yours most, and I say so in my story.
Now the bad news. As you may know, Northern Airlines has for many years struggled to remain solvent and was recently purchased by National Sky airline. Northern has shut down all operations and discontinued all flights. This means the magazine will not be distributed.
I am deeply sorry for this turn of events. However, I am certain that word of your excellent food and warm hospitality will spread far and wide without my feeble efforts on your behalf.
Yours truly,
Ainsley Ponairi
LaVerne, A.B, Leon and Vicki each took a copy of the magazine. On the cover was a photograph of a plate of heavily-sauced ribs with some corn-on-the-cob and fries on the side.
“Those ain’t our ribs,” LaVerne snapped. He, A.B, Leon and Vicki flipped pages to the story inside.
The headline read “City Up In Smoke: Kansas City is barbecue capital of the world.” Beneath it was the photo of LaVerne and A.B. in front of the restaurant.
“Jeez!” said LaVerne. “What were you thinking, boy, getting all snuggly on me like that?”
A.B. blushed. “Well, I didn’t think we should just stand there all stiff, like we were soldiers. Anyways.”
Inset, inside the main photo, was the picture LaVerne had loaned Talbott. It was a snapshot Angela had taken the day Smoke Meat opened for business. It was grainy and faded, and in it LaVerne and Raymond stood side-by-side out in front of the restaurant. LaVerne had his arm over Raymond’s shoulders. Barely visible through the window behind them was A.B. standing alone in the dining room, his hands pushed deep into his pockets, a cigarette in his mouth.
True to his word, Ainsley had indeed identified Smoke Meat as his favorite Kansas City barbecue joint, making specific mention of the pulled chuck, the greens and potatoes, and the vinegar pie, also making use of such clichés as “off the beaten path” and “best kept secret”.
He concluded his review with this observation:
Some of Kansas City’s best-known barbecue establishments go to great lengths to prove their authenticity. They demonstrate their respect for Kansas City’s barbecue heritage by festooning their walls with historical photographs of barbecue joints of yore. They decorate in Old West or Urban Rustic motifs in homage to barbecue’s traditional geographic roots. Though sincere, this is all quite self-conscious and ultimately distracting and superficial. Fortunately, none of this negatively impacts the actual barbecue, which is universally delicious, and more often than not the only authentic thing in the joint.
LaVerne Williams’ place, on the other hand, is authentically authentic. It is the jointiest of joints. An honest-to-goodness neighborhood hangout in an honest-to-goodness neighborhood. A regular kind of place with regular customers. Williams’ restaurant is not a barbecue shrine or a barbecue museum. He’s not in business to honor barbecue. He’s in business to sell barbecue. And the barbecue he sells is uniquely his own. It’s also the best in Kansas City.
LaVerne, A.B., and Vicki were quiet while they contemplated the words. Leon looked on, understanding that the words must have said something important.
A.B. was pissed. “Well that’s just great. Just great. He says we’re the best and nobody will ever even read it.”
He stomped out the front door, lit up a cigarette and paced up and down the sidewalk.
Vicki and Leon stood there a minute, then went back to work. LaVerne went into the office and read Ainsley Ponairi’s article a couple more times.
19
First Round
God and whiskey brought LaVerne Williams and Ferguson Glen together, and for a long time were their primary common denominators. Ferguson loves and hates both God and whiskey more deeply, but LaVerne has a better understanding of how each works.
The first time Ferguson Glen set foot in Kansas City was the day he arrived here to live, which is not to say that he came to make Kansas City his home. Ferguson Glen long ago gave up on finding home.
In July 2002, Ferguson was appointed to the John Stott Chair for Christian Literature at St. Columba Seminary of the Midwest, in Kansas City. Since all discussions and interviews between him and the seminary’s president regarding the job took place on the phone and via e-mail, Ferguson never actually visited Kansas City until he accepted the position. He arrived in August 2002 for good.
The seminary’s fall semester did not start until after Labor Day, so Ferguson spent his first weeks in town meeting seminary faculty and staff, settling in to his office, and acquainting himself with the city. One of his first objectives was to befriend the staff of the seminary’s library. He knew his position would require him to frequently enlist their efforts and expertise. Angela Williams had been the head librarian at St. Columba for ten years. For the five years before that she
was the assistant librarian.
When Ferguson first ambled into the library with a big bouquet of flowers, Angela recognized him immediately from the photo on his books’ dustcovers. Angela had observed that Ferguson’s writing was an acquired taste that not many seminarians had acquired. His books tended to circulate mostly among only few members of the faculty, primarily those of a more contemplative nature.
“Good morning, Father Glen,” she greeted him as he approached her desk.
“Oh, my!” said Ferguson. “Nobody’s called me Father in years. Perhaps decades.”
“Well, then, shall I call you Reverend Glen?”
“Ferguson is fine. But I’m not crazy about Fergie.”
Angela laughed. “What can I do for you today?”
“I just came in to introduce myself,” he said. “My guess is I’ll spend as much time here as anywhere else in Kansas City. So I wanted to make a good first impression. These are for you.”
“No flowers necessary. I’ve read your books. So you’ve already made a good first impression on me.”
Angela gave Ferguson a tour of the library during which he asked her about some of the faculty he’d met, about campus culture, then finally about Kansas City.
“Are you a native Kansas Citian?”
“Born and raised,” said Angela. “Desperately wanted to leave when I was young, but never really got around to it. Though I did live in Texas for a couple of years. My father was pastor of a Baptist church here. And my husband and I have a restaurant here, so I guess I’m here to stay. Which is fine. Kansas City is a nice place. It’s a good home.”
“Ah. A fellow preacher’s kid,” Ferguson laughed. “You appear to have survived it better than I.”
“You seem to have done alright.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
Angela could tell he wasn’t joking and she wondered what he meant by the comment.
“So? Have you found a place to live?” she asked.
“Not yet,” said Ferguson. “They’ve put me up at The Raphael for the time being.”
“Are you looking for a house or an apartment?”
“I haven’t lived in a house since I graduated high school,” he said, pondering the possibility. “I guess I was thinking more of an apartment or a condo. Maybe a loft.”
“There’re some nice lofts just down the block from our restaurant. You should come by for dinner or lunch sometime and take a look. And if you like barbecue, we’ve got the best barbecue in town.”
Ferguson thought about Periwinkle Brown and Wren and his first taste of barbecue.
“I do like barbecue. I like it a lot.”
A few days later, Ferguson Glen showed up at Smoke Meat. It was almost closing time and the place was empty except for A.B. and LaVerne.
LaVerne was tired and immediately annoyed that he’d have to clean up after another customer before locking up for the night, but A.B. cheerfully asked Ferguson what he’d like to eat. He ordered a combo plate—pulled pork and a short end. He took his tray to a table by the front window and ate while he watched workers hanging paintings in a small art gallery across the street. He wondered if there was a liquor store nearby.
After about a half-hour of unhurried dining, LaVerne approached Ferguson’s table. “We’re going to be closing up soon. Can I get you a to-go box for that?”
Ferguson looked up from his meal. “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to take so long. A box would be great. Thank you.”
When LaVerne returned with the box, Ferguson asked him if he was Angela’s husband.
“I am,” he said, extending his hand. “LaVerne Williams. How do you know my wife?”
They shook hands and Ferguson explained about his new job at the seminary and meeting Angela in the library.
“So you’re the one!” LaVerne scowled. “Why, I oughta kick your ass for giving my wife flowers.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” laughed Ferguson. “In fact, the real reason I’m here in Kansas City is that I’m on the run. There’s a posse of pissed off husbands chasing after me.”
LaVerne laughed. “Hope the folks up at the seminary don’t find that out.”
“So,” said Ferguson, “I haven’t found a place to live yet, and Angela said there are some nice lofts in this area. She also said you serve the best barbecue in town. I haven’t had barbecue anywhere else in Kansas City, yet. But this sure was good.”
“Thank you,” said La Verne. “You’ll find out soon enough there are lots of other good places, too.”
“Is there a place here in the neighborhood where one can sit and enjoy a good glass of bourbon? If so, would you care to join me?”
LaVerne thought for a moment, then went back into his office, returning with an unopened bottle of Wild Turkey. He took a couple of glasses from a rack behind the counter, crossed the dining room, locked the front door, flipped the OPEN sign over to CLOSED and shut the blinds. He sat across from Ferguson and poured them each a glass.
A.B. poked his head in from the kitchen and called out “Goodnight, boss.”
Ferguson called back, “You’re welcome to join us, young man.”
A.B. shook his head. “Nah. I’m going to catch Mother Mary’s first set at the Levee. Thanks anyways.”
LaVerne saw that Ferguson was confused.
“Mary Weaver is a blues singer. She’s a regular here. My man, A.B. there, is a big fan. Her nickname is ‘Mother’.”
The men took long draws on their whiskey.
“You like the blues?” LaVerne asked.
“I do,” said Ferguson. “Though I’m probably more of a soul and traditional R&B kind of guy. I’m kind of stuck in the Sixties.”
LaVerne nodded. They each took another drink.
“Are you from Kansas City originally, LaVerne?”
“No. I grew up in Texas. North of Houston. I came here when I was 20 years old to play ball with the Kansas City Athletics.”
“What was that, around 1965 or ‘66?”
“ ’67. The last year before they moved. You like baseball?”
“I liked the ‘68 Tigers. And I liked them again in ‘84. They haven’t given me much to like since. I grew up in Michigan.”
LaVerne topped off their drinks.
“You and Angela have kids?” Ferguson asked.
LaVerne let his gaze drift to the wall behind Ferguson.
“Yes. A son. Raymond. He died in 1986. He was nineteen.”
Ferguson looked over at the menu board on the wall behind the cash register. He wondered what vinegar pie might be.
He wondered what it would feel like to lose a child. He wondered what it would feel like to have a child.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“That’s okay,” said LaVerne. “It took awhile, but God helped me through it.”
He held the bottom of his glass between his forefinger and thumb and slid it back and forth sideways on the table. Ferguson held his glass with his fingers around the rim, slowly swirling the whiskey inside.
“You married?” asked LaVerne.
“Was,” said Ferguson.
They looked at each other and smiled small self-conscious smiles and shook their heads.
“That’s okay,” said Ferguson. “I’d like to say God helped me through it, but he’s never seemed very interested in helping me. So I’ve stopped expecting it. In any case losing a seven-month marriage isn’t much of a tragedy. I’d rather God spend his time helping people who’ve lost their children.”
“It’d be nice if he spent his time keeping children alive,” said LaVerne.
“I haven’t yet figured out exactly what it is that God does,” said Ferguson. “Maybe somebody over there at St. Columba can help me.”
They drained their glasses and LaVerne poured a bit more into each.
“What do you think about the seminary?” LaVerne asked.
“So far, so good,” Ferguson said. “Though I wouldn’t have guessed in a hundred years I’d end up in Kansas City.”
“Me neither,” said LaVerne. “And it’s been almost 40 years.”
Ferguson leaned back in his chair and stared at his bourbon.
“I taught for a few years at a small liberal arts college just east of Grand Rapids. It was an older school that was originally located downtown. But eventually they needed more space and some better facilities so, with some money from one of their alumni, who was also one of the Amway billionaires, they bought some land out in the country and built themselves a brand new school. It was beautiful. State-of-the-art. All glass and gleaming steel. And right in the middle of campus was this lake. Well, they called it a lake. But it was really just a big man-made pond, with pretty landscaped islands. And every once in a while as I’d be walking to class, I’d see a turtle on one of the rocks out on one of those islands. And I’d think: How’d that turtle get there? I mean there were no other lakes or swamps or rivers anywhere near that school. So, if that turtle walked to that campus pond on its own, it walked a long way, which couldn’t have been its plan. There’s no way it could have known the pond was there. It probably left home one morning on some turtle errand and got distracted, or lost, or something, and ended up at the campus pond. The question is: Did ending up at that pond save his life or ruin his life? After all, if he hadn’t found the pond he’d probably have died wandering around lost. On the other hand, he never found his way home either, did he?”
Ferguson took a deep breath.
“I guess the other possibility is that the landscapers who built the pond went out and bought a turtle wherever it is you buy turtles and put it in the pond to make it more like a real lake. Either way, the turtle didn’t plan on being there.”
LaVerne was thinking about Delbert.