Everett found himself the star of the Wake Up show.
Early that morning, after a fitful night of sleep and being awakened by a riotous cat fight in the alley, Fayrene got dressed and came down to her small office at the back of the café, and was surprised to find Andy there and on the telephone. The question of why she should be surprised fluttered across her mind and was quickly taken over by embarrassment because of the way Andy looked surprised and sort of ducked his head, lowering his voice and saying into the phone, “Okay…I have to go, but you can tell—”
“Oh…you go ahead and talk! I’m just gettin’ this menu.” And she scurried from the room.
The last thing she wanted to do was make Andy feel unwelcome in her office or anywhere else. After all, she had given the office over to him for doing the café accounts. That had been a good decision, no matter what anyone else (she thought of Belinda) said. Andy did a better job by far than she ever had, and he had taught her a lot, too. Business accounting was just not her strong point. Lots of people wondered how she ever ran the café, and when it came to accounting, she wondered that, too.
She sat on a stool at the counter and hurriedly worked on the week’s menu changes in the ten minutes before the café opened. On the other side of the pass-through, Woody sang along with the radio as he made biscuits. “A-a-amen, alle-lu-yahh…”
Just because she had never seen Andy use the phone, that did not mean he did not use it. He was in the office all the time and likely used the phone plenty. He had looked so surprised…sneaky…at seeing her. Of course, she had been extra early.
Who do you suppose Andy had been talking to? Well, likely some woman.
Heaven knew that she had a whole potful of experience with men leaving her for other women.
Not that Andy was actually with her, she guessed. They…dated. Yes, they did, even if they did not really go anywhere besides the café or Woody’s house. Twice up to Lawton. He worked in her café, ate there, and in a million ways acted as if he was with her. And she was in love with him…and the men she loved had always left her.
“Did you hear about that, Miss Fayrene?” said Woody.
“What?” She had been lost in thought. Shoot, she hadn’t even gotten the menu changes done, and the clock read two minutes to opening.
“Mr. Everett tellin’ about the carousel. It’s been lost in shipment.”
“It has?” She leaned over to catch what was on the radio, but all she heard was Winston saying, “…developments,” and then the Bellamy Brothers started singing.
Woody said, “They were just talkin’ about that the carousel’s gone missin’. I doubt it’s a joke. Mr. Winston was foolin’ like he sometimes does, sayin’ stay tuned for further developments, but you could tell Mr. Everett is full upset.”
“How can somebody lose a carousel?”
“Well, Miss Fayrene, there is such a thing as cargo theft.”
He looked at her in a way that caused her to gaze back at him with a puzzled frown.
There came a rapping on the glass door, drawing her head around. Sheriff Neville peered in and rattled the door.
“Okay. Keep your shirt on.” Fayrene hurried to open. Since his marriage had broken up, Sheriff Neville had formed the habit of getting his coffee first thing from the café, and like most middle-aged men, he liked his habits.
John Cole Berry was with the sheriff. The two men took stools at the counter, and Fayrene came immediately with the first pot of the day.
“Emma is limitin’ my coffee,” John Cole said to the sheriff.
Fayrene rather pulled the pot back, and John Cole gave her the eye. “That’s why I’m here,” he said firmly.
She filled his cup with some trepidation, remembering his heart attack. He looked really good, though. John Cole Berry was a handsome man, Fayrene thought with a mental sigh, as she passed the men’s order ticket through to Woody. What did women like Emma Berry, married for years and years, know that she did not? Maybe that she should have caught her man early and stuck.
Andy came out and joined them, and Woody leaned forward in the pass-through as the talk turned to the loss of the carousel.
“The driver’s missin’, too,” John Cole told them. “The feds have been called in, and hopefully they can find the thing before it’s too late.”
“How can someone hide a carousel?” asked Fayrene, still skeptical. “I mean, there just can’t be too many people linin’ up to buy a carousel.”
“Ship it overseas, lots of buyers,” said the sheriff, his eyes fastened on his plate, heaped with over-easy eggs, biscuits and gravy, which Fayrene plunked in front of him.
“They hide and dispose of whole shipments of computers and plasma TVs. I think they can manage a carousel,” said John Cole.
Fayrene noticed him eyeing the plate of scrambled eggs and a single biscuit, and the fruit bowl, which she had placed in front of him. His eyes shifted to look at the sheriff’s plate, then back to his own, then up at her.
“I ordered the same as the sheriff.”
“And I gave you the heart-healthy special,” said Fayrene. “I want to be able to look Emma in the face if she comes in later today.”
Such was a small town, thought John Cole.
People asked Winston about it everywhere he went, and he would drawl, “Yes, it’s true, sad to say. You’d best get the details from Everett. He’s head of the carousel committee.” Only a few people noticed that he would then turn the conversation and say, “Ain’t this a pretty day for fall? This rain’ll pass—why I remember back in…”
Everett was thrilled with people calling and coming up to him, asking him about the situation. He was flooded with calls on his Everett in the Morning program, and stopped three times on the street just trying to go to the post office and then to pay his water bill at city hall. At home, the phone rang so many times that his wife, Doris, got aggravated.
“I am head of the committee,” Everett told her, “and we have a situation here. Everything is set—the governor and Reba McEntire are coming.” He jutted his head toward her. “It’s my civic responsibility to be available, and keep people informed and get this straightened out.”
To this, Doris said, “I married somebody who never got involved in stuff like this and preferred quiet to a lot of talk. All those years I could not even get you in a good conversation or to go to the PTA.”
After several seconds of looking at her, Everett replied, “Doris, I am older and different. And I’ve got more time now.”
Just then the phone rang. He turned instantly to answer.
Doris regarded him for a moment, then left the room, returning ten minutes later with her jacket and lipstick on, and a purse in her hand.
“I’m going shopping.”
With Tate Holloway talking in his ear, Everett simply nodded.
That evening he was somewhat flabbergasted when Doris returned. She handed him a batch of receipts and said, “Will you help me unload?”
He had to make three trips to the car for an electronic convection oven, an enormous artificial flower arrangement and four large shopping bags. Standing in the kitchen, he looked over the receipts, and his eyes widened. He had never known her to buy so much at one time.
When he mentioned this, Doris said, “I’m older and different, too. You have more time, and I have more money.”
The next morning, Everett came hurrying in late to the radio station. Even though he was late, Winston was still in the act of getting his coffee and bringing it slowly to the booth, wishing Everett a good morning even as Jim Rainwater called, “One minute.”
Everett said, “Car wouldn’t start. Had to get Doris… I got a statement from the carousel committee about the celebration.” He spoke quickly, as if by doing so, he could hurry Winston along to his seat. He was made even more on edge to see Willie Lee coming behind Winston and positioning himself beside his chair.
“I’ll read this at the end of the news,” said Everett, waving a typewritten paper
.
Winston nodded and fumbled with his headphones.
Knowing that no matter the time, Jim Rainwater would not start until Winston was ready, Everett dropped his gaze to his statement and began rereading.
“GET UP, GET UP, YOU SLEE-PY-HEAD. GET UP AND GET YOUR BOD-Y FED!”
Everett jumped. Winston always shouted the call, rather than use the recording, just when Everett least expected it.
“This is 1550 on the radio dial—the Wake Up show with Brother Winston.”
“And Wil-lie Lee and Mun-ro.” The dog barked.
“And Everett,” Everett said quickly, frowning at the dog. He came after a boy and a dog.
Again he returned his attention to the statement, wanting to commit it to memory, while Winston went into his usual chatty opening, giving the weather, the school lunch menu and the news headlines with his comments, which of late had consisted of a lot of retelling things that had happened in the past.
After a couple of minutes, Everett became aware that Winston had gone from talking about the rainy weather to telling about a tornado that had taken place back in 1945, and how it had torn up a German prisoner-of-war camp and sailed Winston’s wife’s chickens a quarter of a mile to her cousin’s yard. “I’m not makin’ that up. You can ask Coweta.”
Everett waved and pointed at his watch.
Winston frowned and gave him a puzzled look.
“I need to make the announcement.” Everett waved the paper.
“Oh, okay, folks…here’s an announcement.” Winston sat back.
Everett looked at him with raised eyebrows, then quickly took over the microphone. “This is Everett, with an announcement from the Carousel Park Committee. As most of you probably know, the carousel has been lost in transit. Authorities are working hard on tracing the shipment and expect to find it quickly.” (He wanted to present everything in the best light.) “However, there is a chance it may not be present in time for the Valentine Carousel Park Centennial Celebration festivities, which are already planned.
“The centennial celebration will take place. I repeat—Valentine’s hundredth anniversary event will take place as planned. We have both the Honorable Governor and Reba McEntire scheduled to join us. The carousel building is in full operation and the landscaping directly around it almost finished. There will be free refreshments, a chili cook-off, a car show sponsored by the Flatlanders Street Rod Club and a PRCA sanctioned rodeo sponsored by the Valentine Roundup Club at the rodeo grounds, which adjoin Carousel Park. A parade will kick it all off in the morning, and you won’t want to miss any of…it.”
A sound drew his head around. While he had been making the announcement, Winston and the boy had left the sound booth. Everett now saw Winston in the doorway, coffee cup tilting from one hand, while his other reached out for the frame as he sort of melted downward.
Everett stared at Winston’s crumpled form on the floor. At the boy kneeling by Winston’s head.
Music suddenly played into Everett’s ears. Jim Rainwater lunged from his chair toward Winston, shouting something at Everett that he had trouble hearing. Then the young man’s lips and voice came together. “Call 9-1-1!”
“You carry on, Everett,” was the last thing that Winston Valentine said.
“I will,” Everett said, but Winston’s eyes had already closed.
Willie Lee, with Mr. Winston’s head on his knees, saw Mr. Winston’s pale spirit rise. He felt a warm breeze across his cheeks and a certain pressure on his shoulder, Mr. Winston saying goodbye.
Mr. Winston’s face relaxed. He was gone.
A quiet seemed to sweep the whole town, as listeners tilted their ears to the radio and held their breath, waiting for Winston’s voice, while song after song played and the half hour passed without the signature reveille. Many along Main Street heard the siren and went to the window to see the emergency squad pass. Eyes met questioning eyes. Winston’s name was mentioned, but in a whisper that was quickly hushed. “Don’t talk like that!” As if by not speaking of it, it might not be true.
At the café, Woody took two sacks of garbage out to the bin in the alley, and he looked up at the sky, saw the clouds clearing, the rising sun shining golden. And he noted that there was not a bird singing. Just an eerie silence.
Woody came back in and said, “I imagine Mr. Winston has done passed on.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Woody!” said Fayrene, tearing off her apron and running across the street to the drugstore, more than usually heedless of automobiles.
Later, Woody was to mention the phenomenon of the sky clearing and no birds singing that happened at the time of Winston’s death, and lots of people eagerly agreed that they had noticed the same, in the way people like to do with those stories.
When Winston’s son, Freddie, came to town and heard the tale, he privately, with a mixture of sadness and awe, told his wife, “All my life Daddy managed to make himself larger than life. There was just no way to match him.”
CHAPTER 22
Dearly Departed, But Not Gone
WHILE BIRDS COULD BE HEARD SINGING AS MUCH as usual—plenty of people stopped frequently to check—and the sun shone and a light breeze blew, a definite pall swept over the town. Losing both the carousel and their beloved leading citizen within two days was a blow that left the town stunned.
“Death comes in threes,” Julia Jenkins-Tinsley said, with a raised eyebrow. This idea was picked up and repeated, with speculation as to who would be next. A number of wives shouted it at their husbands at opportune times.
“The carousel ain’t dead,” someone pointed out. “It’s just stolen.”
“Near enough. It’s gone,” was the dour reply.
The passing of Winston Valentine has left a wide hole in our town, in our hearts and, dare I say, in the world, wrote editor Tate Holloway late that night as he composed his editorial for the Valentine Voice.
The editorial would go on to be a eulogy that took up half of the front page and then the second and third with photographs of major events from Winston’s life entwined with the town.
There would also end up being a photograph of the long funeral procession, led by the antique black-and-gilded hearse pulled by two white furry-footed draft horses in show livery, with Winston’s grandchildren on horseback, followed by three long black limousines of family and close friends, and nearly a mile of cars and trucks. The procession snaked slowly down Main Street, a street, Tate Holloway sentimentally pointed out, that Winston had helped build and had walked nearly every day of his long life.
The funeral was the largest Clara Chisum could ever recall at the Chisum Funeral Home. Claire Ford reported that her Goodnight Motel was booked to capacity, and she allowed three RVs to camp in the motel lot, and hook up to electricity and water. A number who attended the funeral had never personally met Winston but had been listening to him on the radio so long that they felt as though he was their kin.
The president of Blue Boy Dog Food, which Winston had advertised, flew in by helicopter, bringing two retired congressmen. Three country-music stars that had passed the height of popularity but were still recognizable showed up in dark cars and dark glasses. It was reported that at least three elderly people out at the nursing home got out of their beds and arranged for a generous orderly to drive them over. One man, who caught Winston’s program on a skipping radio signal, came all the way from Kansas.
The day of the funeral was bright and sunny and warm for fall, as had been every day since the morning of Winston’s death. Even with all the people gathered and talking, there was a sense of quiet. Barely a breeze ruffled the turning leaves in the large elms towering over the graveside service, and while birds sang, there were precious few.
Winston viewed the scene from above. He wasn’t flying. He just seemed to be suspended there, and Coweta beside him.
She said, “There’s our children…oh, honey-bunnies, don’t be too sad.”
“Helen ain’t,” said Winston.
At that
moment, his son’s wife was leaning forward and frowning as she watched chairs being brought for Vella and Belinda to sit at the end of the family line.
“They’re not family,” Helen said to Freddie. Her voice traveled to Winston clearly above the other murmuring. It was like a movie film, where the microphone zoomed in.
Freddie did not respond, just kept staring at the flag-and-flower-draped coffin in front of him. He did actually look sad, thought Winston, who stretched forward an unseen hand that could not touch.
Helen poked Freddie with her elbow. “They aren’t family, Freddie. They need to sit behind.”
“Someone ought to poke her in the behind,” Winston said.
A second later a bird dropping splatted on Helen’s shoulder. Winston looked at it, then looked upward, but he didn’t see a bird. He didn’t see clouds or actual sky, just all around him a sort of glow. He looked over at Coweta, who grinned at him.
“Who did that? I didn’t…did I?” The idea was both disturbing and enticing.
“No. I don’t know who did it, but that’s how these things generally work.”
Winston was a little disappointed.
He ran his gaze over the faces, people he had known much of his life—some he could recall when they had been born—remembering the tragedies and triumphs they had gone through.
There were each of his children. Funny how he did not know them so much anymore. He never had known Freddie, didn’t think anyone did, especially not Freddie.
“Oh, honey, look, there’s our grands.” Coweta pointed as the children were lined up on the other side. Five, because Rainey had two children now. Willie Lee and Corrine joined them. Corrine slipped her hand into Larry Joe’s.
Vella pulled a tissue out from her bosom and pressed it to her nose. She kept her back straight, but her lips trembled. She and Belinda held hands. Winston never thought he would live to see the day that happened, and come to think of it, he hadn’t.
Little Town, Great Big Life Page 24