by Don Reid
“He’s my aunt’s brother. My aunt Betty Bell’s brother. She’s married to my uncle, and he’s her brother. So he’s just sort of my uncle. I call him that, but he really isn’t.”
“I don’t know. What do you think, Buddy?”
“I don’t know either.”
“Aw, come on. Let’s try it just once. Just one time to see what happens.”
And as with all of Little Cal’s mischievous wiles, he sold it to his friends as something that couldn’t fail. He never really fooled them, but he always sold them, so the three of them headed off for unseen alleys and another untried adventure.
Cal was the first to speak as they each carried a box of soda bottles in the front door of Mulligans. “Good evening, ma’am. We’ve been gathering up bottles and was wondering if you could give us the deposit on them.”
“I’m kind of busy right now, sonny, but if you’ll stand over to the side till these customers pay, I’ll take care of you in a minute.”
The three boys stood silently while Mabel Talley wiped her hands on her apron and stepped behind the glass counter to the cash register. A man and woman stood and paid their check and exchanged good-byes with her as they exited the front door. Then Mabel turned her attention back to the boys.
“All right, boys, what do you have here?”
Harlan and Buddy stood silent while Little Cal did all the talking. “We’ve got empty soda pop bottles.”
“How many do you have?”
“We each have ten.”
“Ten? How did you all come up with the same number?”
“Well, when we got to ten, we just quit gathering them. We figured a dime apiece is all we’d do today. Now, tomorrow we may have more.”
Mabel hit the no-sale button, and the drawer flew open. She counted out three dimes and handed one to each boy, who in return said, “Thank you,” and sat their box on the floor and went out the front door. They waited until they rounded the corner before they started jumping and laughing, but just as they did, Cal bumped into an extremely tall gentleman in a plaid three-piece suit.
“Whoa there, boys. You’re going to knock somebody down.”
They all three looked up, but only one of them spoke.
“Sorry, Uncle Vic.”
“That’s okay, Little Cal. You boys be careful now.”
As they slowed their pace and the giant of a man disappeared in the door they had just come out of, it was Little Cal who spoke again.
“That was my uncle Vic. Just keep walking and don’t look back.”
They all three did and didn’t. But the riches in their pockets helped them overcome their fear, and pretty soon anyone on the street could hear them whooping and hollering and laughing from block to block. It had worked just like Cal had promised it would, and there was no telling how much money they could make before the year was over.
Chapter Twenty
Buddy Briggs came in the side door and found Amanda, Darcy, and Cal sitting quietly in the waiting area. He had no more than sat down than the heavy double doors opened and a man in surgical whites, a mask hanging from his neck, walked out and came to stand in front of the four of them.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Yandell. Are you Mrs. Stone?”
Darcy acknowledged she was, and the doctor continued.
“We’re through with the surgery. He came through it just fine. The bullet tore a bit of his side, but it hit no main arteries; just some nonvital tissue. He may feel some numbness for a few weeks, even a month or so, but it will gradually go away. He should have complete use of his limb in good time. And that’s about it. You can see him in about ten minutes. You can come on back with me now if you like and wait for them to wheel him in from the recovery room.”
He looked the other three over and said as Darcy began to get up, “One of you can come with her if you like.”
Darcy answered him without looking to the other three, “That’s okay. I’ll be fine. I want to see him for a few minutes alone, and then all of you can come back.”
Dr. Yandell and Darcy disappeared behind the double doors.
“Well, that’s good news,” Amanda said to no one in particular.
“Sure is. But I’m a little surprised she didn’t want you to go back with her.”
“You know Darcy. She doesn’t always react the way you think she’s going to. She’s very private, and to be real honest, since I got here—and Cal will bear me out on this—I’ve done most of the talking. She’s had very little to say other than just to tell us what happened.”
“I’m dreading what’s coming next.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s going to be up to me to make her talk more about it. And Harlan, too, just as soon as he’s able. Pretty soon I’m going to have to treat them both in a more businesslike manner than I really want to.”
“Well, for heaven sakes, honey, don’t get rough with them. Give them some time.”
“I can’t give them any more time. I have to talk to the both of them just as soon as I can before this thing gets any colder.”
Cal had said nothing while Buddy and Amanda talked. But then he looked at his old friend and said with a thoughtful and worried countenance, “We both need to talk to him professionally. You’ve got your questions, and I’ve got mine. But I was just thinking maybe we should go back there and see him as our friend first. Might make it a little more bearable for him if we ease into it.”
“You’re probably right, but when I talk to him, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Cal smiled. “That’s okay. When I talk to him I’ll have to ask you to leave too.”
Amanda broke the hint of tension with, “One of you is looking out for his life and the other one is looking out for his soul. I’d say Harlan Stone is in good hands. You two have taken better care of him all his life than he has. And I’d better shut up before I say too much. Thank God he’s going to be okay, and that’s all I need to say.”
Cal laughed and put his arm around Amanda.
“Amanda, my love, you should have been a judge. You have such a knack for bringing the short, blunt truth to light.”
She hugged him back and said, “Was that Ellie you went to call a while ago?”
“And on top of everything else,” Cal said directly to Buddy, “she’s psychic.”
“No. Just common sense,” Amanda replied. “Who else would you be calling at seven thirty in the morning? How is she? And the kids?”
“I don’t know about the kids. She wouldn’t let me talk to them. She seldom does. They call me, and I try to call them when I know she’s not there. This morning … well, this morning I had a weak moment. I shouldn’t have called. But I thought—silly me—that with all that was happening, maybe we could actually talk. But she showed her usual amount of warmth toward me and toward Harlan. ‘Is he dead?’ That was as much interest as she could muster up.”
“Don’t be too hard on her. This can’t be easy for her, either.”
“Then she could put a stop to it.”
“I know, Cal. I know,” Amanda said as she patted his arm.
“Hey, Reverend. If you’re through pawing my wife and crying on her shoulder, let’s go back there and be ready to see him as soon as we can.”
“Leave your wife out of this, Lieutenant. And don’t forget, I can still take you.”
And just like in the old days, two friends, shoulder to shoulder, went through the double doors looking out for the third one.
Chapter Twenty-One
Victor Albert Princeton, known to Little Cal and eventually to Harlan and Buddy as Uncle Vic, was the local celebrity of Mt. Jefferson. There had been a few others. There was an actor who called the town his birthplace but had left before the age of ten to subsequently find a certain amount of glor
y on the legitimate stage. He had costarred in a few Broadway plays and many road productions, a couple of which had played in the Crown on its way down the eastern coastal states. His name of fame meant little to the citizenry of Mt. Jefferson, as the name they saw in larger-than-life size on the marquee was Daniel King. Those who remembered him only had a few reminiscences of Danny Brusenbecker, who had danced and sung, “There’s A Little Star Shining For You” in a grade school talent revue.
Mary McCabe Powers left her mark on the city library. She was born just doors away from it and wound up with her name attached to it for a time. After moving to New York as a young woman, she wrote a series of adventure books for girls, first published in 1901, that was recommended reading for third and fourth graders throughout the United States. She came back to visit once—when they christened the library the Mary McCabe Powers Library—but didn’t stay long. Someone discovered that the man, twenty years her junior, who was traveling with her as her manager, was really her secret lover. After the ceremonies on a Friday evening, she was asked to leave and was gone before the sun rose on Saturday. Each year for nearly a decade there was an effort to get the city council to change the name back to the Mt. Jefferson Library, and after nine attempts by a number of determined committees, the proclamation was finally granted. But even years later, overdue books with Mary M. Powers Library stamped on their first blank pages would still pop up in boxes at auctions and flea markets.
But the real celebrity was Uncle Vic.
Vic Princeton was born before the turn of the century in a small apartment above his father’s cigar store at 271 Culbertson Avenue. He went through the local school system and graduated with no particular honors and little fanfare. His popularity did not become evident until he moved to the Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, area a couple of years after completing his education. He found himself cleaning lockers and mowing the golf course at the Blue Ridge Country Club in the capital city. This opened the door for him to pick up jobs caddying for most of the local players and some of the pros who stopped in occasionally to play the links. The six-foot-five blond-haired teenager studied every swing and putt and absorbed every good and bad habit of every duffer and hustler he encountered. With a little help from the club pro, he found himself getting matches with some of the better players and then getting entered in a few amateur tournaments. Within eighteen months, he was being called a prodigy by the old timers. And before his twentieth birthday, he saw action in his first all-professional tournament that brought him statewide recognition. A few more wins up the East Coast put him in the national spotlight, and pretty soon his trademark plaid knickers, pince-nez glasses, and precise putts on the green made him a permanent force in the world of sports.
In the 1920s, he found his path to worldwide fame when he won the U.S. Open, the British Open, and two PGA Championships. The name Vic Princeton was on the lips of every sportscaster on three continents. He was in the newsreels in all the theaters. He was photographed giving lessons to Hollywood’s most beautiful starlets. And there was a famous picture, one that made all the news services, of Calvin Coolidge and him teeing off side by side—both with big smiles and the little trademark glasses.
Vic never really left Mt. Jefferson. It was always a winter home for him to come back to, world-weary from his travels, and the hometown people loved having him among them. He brought a quiet and respectable air to the town and eventually established a business that would forever connect him to his roots. At the height of his popularity, he opened a restaurant on Main Street and named it Mulligans. The townspeople returned his favor by supporting him and making his celebrated little eatery a long-standing success. Many golf fans drove out of their way from all over America to eat lunch or dinner there. They came to try the Fairway Steak and the Greenside Salad and to see the pictures on the wall. Black-and-white pictures of Vic and Max Baer arm wrestling; one of Vic and the Babe each swinging a nine iron like a baseball bat; and even a picture of the four Marx Brothers deluging Vic with golf balls while he covered his head with his hands to protect himself.
Years before the public ever thought about it, Vic Princeton knew Mt. Jefferson was where he would retire. When the traveling got old and wore on his body and his nerves, this restaurant would be his shrine and his throne. He would have all he ever wanted and would never have to leave home again. His public would come to him—and they did for years and decades, just to get an autograph, a steak sandwich, and a handshake.
The little hellion who wreaked havoc up and down Main Street all of his adolescent life was no kin to Victor Princeton. Little Cal Vaxter called him Uncle Vic because he was the bachelor brother to Cal’s aunt Betty Bell, who was the wife of Cal’s uncle Paul, who was the brother of Cal’s father, Ernest. Cal called men all over Mt. Jefferson uncle and referred to their wives by their first names, putting Miss in front of it.
This showed no disrespect but rather the proper respect. So when Little Cal’s best friends started to call the world-famous Victor Princeton Uncle Vic, no one thought a thing about it. And how the feelings between them turned from fear and annoyance to love and respect was a story deeply imbedded in their early history.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Opening the cash register for change and moving boxes of empty soda bottles to the back became a standard three-day-a-week event. Every time the no-sale button caused the bell to chime as the drawer flew open, Vic looked up from his newspaper or bowl of soup or conversation he may have been having. And every time he did, he noticed the same three boys always standing at the exit counter with their hands out. One Friday afternoon, as the boys went out the door and joyfully past the front window, he watched them as they ran across the street, laughing and talking and punching one another. With his back to her as he still surveyed the street outside, Vic said, “Mabel. Those three boys. They’re in here a lot?”
“Oh, yes. Two or three times a week.”
“And always for the same thing.” It was a statement more than a question.
“Always. Soda-pop bottles. I take them out back and put them with the others.”
“How much do they usually collect?”
“Oh, usually fifteen cents or thirty cents. Something like that.”
“Fifteen or thirty. That would give them all equal amounts.”
“Yeah, I guess. Why?”
“Just thinking. If three boys are picking up bottles along the road or in the park or wherever, it’s strange they would always get the same amount each. Three boys would probably make it a contest to see who could get the most. Wouldn’t you think so?”
There was a silence in the near-empty restaurant. And when Mabel didn’t answer, Vic turned to look at her and prompt her.
“Well, wouldn’t you?”
“I see what you mean, Mr. Princeton. You think there’s something fishy going on.”
“Tell Tootie, when he comes in to clean tonight, to count all the empties out back and put a note on my desk. And then keep a count of how many you take back to the alley each evening.”
“Count every bottle? You want us to count every empty bottle every time?”
“It won’t be that many, and it won’t be that long. Just do it for the next day or so, and then I don’t think we’ll have to do it anymore.”
“All right. Tootie won’t like having something extra to do, but I’ll tell him. He’ll grumble and gripe about it.”
“That’s okay,” Vic said as he went back to his table and picked up his coffee cup. “He’ll get over it.”
At Tootie’s first count that Friday night, there were sixty-seven empty Coca-Cola bottles in the alley by the kitchen door of Mulligans. By 3:00 p.m. Saturday, there were seventy-four. Most of Mulligans’ soft drink sales were fountain drinks, which were served in paper cups for lunch and glasses for dinner. Vic Princeton was just hanging up the phone after putting in a food order to the regional w
holesaler for a Monday morning delivery when the front door opened and three boys stepped in with paper sacks in their hands. He knew two of them but recognized all three as the bottle boys from the day before. He turned to a young waitress who was wiping down a table and said, “Nancy, go out back real quick and count the empties. Hurry up, and I’ll explain later.”
“We have some more bottles,” the tallest boy said to Mabel, who was standing at the register, having just rung up a couple who was leaving.
“Already? You were just here yesterday. How many do you have now?”
Before they could answer, Vic came out of the back and intercepted the transaction.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. What could I help you with?”
“We, uh, were just, uh, talking to Miss Talley about some bottles,” Cal answered quickly.
“Bottles? You’ve got bottles in those bags?”
“Yes sir.”
“Where’d you get them?”
“Out along the road and over at the ballpark under the bleachers,” Cal lied.
“It’s terrible the way people throw things out along the road, isn’t it? You find a lot of broken ones, I’ll bet.”
“Yes sir. Sometimes.”
“Cal, do you always do all the talking for these guys?”
“No sir. Not always. They can talk, too, sometimes.”
“That’s good. I know one of your friends here. You’re the Stone boy, aren’t you? H. V.’s boy?”
“Yes sir.”
“But you, son, I don’t know. What’s your name?”
“Buddy.”
“I see. Well, fellows, I’m going to make you a little bet. I’m going to bet you that I can guess how many bottles you each have in your bag. And if I get it right, I don’t owe you a thing. But if I get it wrong, I’ll pay you double. How about that?”
The three boys looked at one another, confused about how to react to such a deal. Oddly, it was Buddy who spoke first.