“Reckon people wanna eat somethin’ that come out of a hearse?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“It hasn’t been used lately,” Miss Tinkham said. “Only a few will recognize it for what it really is. It will look like a glass showcase on wheels to most of this generation. And the main purpose is to attract attention, so that we can advertise the shop and get trade coming down here.”
“Jus’ so long as they buy,” Mrs. Feeley said, “we don’t care whether they eat it or not, although it’s a sin not to eat them pies.”
“Sure hope them worms knows their place.” Mrs. Rasmussen smiled.
“We’ll carry them up on the driver’s seat,” Miss Tinkham reassured her. “Nothing must spoil your pies. Let us rest for the fray, as we’ll need all our strength for what lies ahead.”
“Hadn’t we orta dress as good as we got?” Mrs. Feeley said. “Don’t wanna look like characters or nothin’ like that.”
“Excellent!” Miss Tinkham had stacked back a shocking-pink trapeze dress that some sane individual had thrown out in an alley. A large bow across the back made her derriere look exactly as though it had been gift-wrapped. And my multi-colored thong sandals, she mused, for comfort. But on second thought, perhaps the cork-heel wedges would be better where so much physical effort is going to be involved. “And I must share my bulky costume jewelry with N. Carnation,” she said aloud. “We must capitalize on her rather exotic appearance. We are all so Plain Vanilla.”
Chapter 9
AT A FEW MINUTES past four, the five friends assembled around the hearse laden with precious cargo. Mrs. Feeley had put on her nice “suet,” as she called her black rayon slacks with the neat matching smock. Miss Tinkham particularly admired the bishop sleeves of black lace that Mrs. Rasmussen had added out of a “remlet.”
“Sure simple-ize life if I’d just stick to these here,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Yer covered, kin git around good in these pants and nothin’ tight around yer middle case you wanted to drink a little brew…if you had any!”
“It is a most practical and becoming uniform,” Miss Tinkham said, and wondered if her own shocking-pink silk trapeze would be damaged by the exertion that lay ahead. “But as what might be called a Public Relations Person, I must look glamorous.” Personally, she favored tight toreador pants with a very full low-necked smock of gorgeous material worn with the pants. “Especially if the pants are velvet. It does look like a maternity outfit, but only last week I read of a lady author who favors that costume because she is always ‘with book.’”
N. Carnation had braided bright ribbons into the knots of braid over her ears and was wearing a pair of huge dangling filigree earrings Miss Tinkham had handed her.
Mrs. Rasmussen’s only concession to the occasion was her good drip-dry “poker-dot” shirtmaker worn with a string of red beads.
Old-Timer appeared with a grass sack slung over his shoulder, which he used to hold a pair of pliers, a tire iron, and a monkey wrench.
“Better take a hammer an’ a handful o’ nails,” Mrs. Feeley said. “An’ you can’t fix nothin’ hardly without a screw driver. Why don’t he take my tool kit the fellers give me?”
“He can’t pull the hearse an’ carry the tool kit,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
Miss Tinkham studied a moment: “Why can’t the tool kit ride up on the seat with the worms?”
Her friends looked sheepish.
“The signs!” Miss Tinkham smote her brow and strode into the house.
“Anchors aweigh! Shoulders to the wheel,” she cried, placing the signs across the driver’s seat. The weird caravan creaked forward wobbling slightly and giving off puffs of dust. The ruts in the lane leading to Five Points intersection made the dried-out axles squeal in protest.
“The goin’s heavy, ain’t it?” Mrs. Feeley inquired rhetorically as she wiped away the sweat that was stinging her eyes.
Mrs. Rasmussen nodded and looked grave: “Be right back.”
In a few moments she returned looking sad. She had her precious, almost full two-pound can of Crisco under her arm. She looked at her friends:
“They ain’t nothin’ else for it,” she said, “if we’re ever gonna drag it all the way to the highway.”
Mrs. Feeley pulled her mouth down and Miss Tinkham saw the brown crispness that might make sweet potatoes a little more palatable disappearing as axle grease for the hearse.
“Oh, for a gilded unicorn,” she cried, “or at least a pair of milk-white oxen with garlands of roses around their necks!”
“Even a ol’ sway-back horse would be better’n nothin’,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Well, do we or don’t we?” Mrs. Rasmussen held out the last treasure of cooking fat. “Shoot the works?”
“Aw, let’s go for broke!” Mrs. Feeley said and got out the wrench to see if she could budge the axle caps. Old-Timer picked up an old piece of shingle and started applying the grease.
“Put some on the springs,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Do or die! Onward! Onward!” Miss Tinkham pointed a skinny finger aloft and began to sing the “Song of the Volga Boatmen” as she pushed valiantly forward.
Perhaps it was only her imagination, but the hearse did seem to roll over the rutted ground more easily. She cast anxious glances back to see that the urns did not topple over. Their diameter was so great that they held each other up and were riding as peacefully as the best-behaved corpse the hearse had ever carried.
The sun sweltered down as the caravan headed west going through the brick pillars that marked the entrance to The Mansion. By common consent the hearse pushers and pullers stopped to catch their breath.
“Be easier when we hit the hardtop,” Mrs. Feeley said, “an’ oncet we do, we sure gotta stay on the strip!”
When the zooming freeway was reached, a gush of wind from the traffic as it sped by nearly knocked Miss Tinkham off her feet.
“Whoosh!” she cried. “An excellent place to get our clothes pressed while we are still wearing them! When we pull off to the shoulder of the freeway, we must keep well back from the traffic. They are going so fast they could turn the hearse over.”
“They want ’em to drive fast on these here speedways,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. She pointed to a spot obviously designed by the highway department for repairing flats or tinkering with engines.
“Ideal,” Miss Tinkham agreed and they backed the hearse so that the glass sides ran lengthwise and parallel to the freeway. “Those two cars,” she said happily, “almost had a collision because the drivers were craning their necks to look at our display.”
Attention was what she had wanted and attention was what she was getting. Old and young alike turned in the seats of the swiftly passing cars to stare at the bizarre equipage and its contents.
“Take a sign!” Miss Tinkham handed one to Mrs. Feeley who held up the long stick and paraded vigorously up and down the highway’s edge with it. “COME TO FIVE POINTS! BARGAINS! FREE BREEDERS!”
Some of the cars began to slow down and Mrs. Feeley wondered why they were laughing so hard at her sign.
Mrs. Rasmussen marched stolidly, turning her sign well toward the traffic. LUSCIOUS FRESH RASPBERRY 3.1416! $ One Dollar! $
“Hey,” Mrs. Feeley shouted, “that banana wagon’s been by twicet!” Miss Tinkham thought she, too, recognized some of the same cars, especially a red Jaguar driven by the inevitable two dainty young men and a large Dalmatian dog.
They are pulling off the highway, she thought jubilantly and nonchalantly turned her back on them, whirling her sign like a parasol: JUNIOR LEAGUE THRIFT SHOP AND WORM RANCH! AFRICAN GIANTS! RED WRIGGLERS! HEARTS AND FLOWERS FLORICIANS!
She decided to purchase herself a modest monument for having overcome her distaste for hucksterism and its jargon. “The absolute vulgarity of the murdered language is irresistible to them.” She smiled inwardly. “I do wish I had included mention of a glamellia and a few split carnations! But the eyebrow pencil was all used up!”
Once the friends
got on their financial feet again, she would start her Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Flowers. Dyed daisies, tortured gilded chrysanthemums, rhinestone-studded gardenias, carnations with the calyx split and mangled, camellias made out of gladiolus—called Glamellias, oof! She must not unswallow now, because custom—trade had arrived. The creatures with the spotted dog, no less.
“What would it be?” The older one removed his sunglasses to see better.
“It wouldn’t be anything,” said Miss Tinkham. “Anyone, including a blind man on a galloping horse, can see it is a hearse.”
“Tart!” the willowy partner commented.
Mrs. Feeley drew near at just the wrong time.
“Who was you callin’ ‘tart’?” She bellied up to him.
“Ohhh,” he giggled behind his hand. “No offense. Her speech is slightly astringent!”
“We’re the decorators from Fairy Oaks!” his companion simpered. “Our studio, you know.”
“We didn’t, but we might have,” Miss Tinkham said. “What else are you interested in?”
“The vahses are gorgiss. Simply devine. How much?”
“You will probably resell them on one of your interior desecration jobs, but you understand, we give no professional discount.”
The languorous young man waved his braceleted wrist limply: “We have this Texas oil millionaire and for two years we have been looking for Texas-size ashtrays. I’ll give you two hundred for the pair.”
Mrs. Feeley’s eyes grew round and seemed to get bluer.
Miss Tinkham turned her back on the young man and went over to the hearse: “Buy the squabs.” She came back carrying them.
“We were…” Before he could complete his sentence the Dalmatian leapt from the car and jumped on Miss Tinkham. Cars on the highway were slowing down to such an extent that the other drivers in the rear of the line of cars set up a terrific honking. An elderly woman, slowing down to peer at the grotesque scene before her, stalled her engine, panicked and couldn’t get the car started again. The honking became antiphonal.
Miss Tinkham, knocked off balance by the weight of the Dalmatian, lay at the edge of the road clutching the squabs to her breast, two in each hand. The fifth one slipped away from her and the dog devoured it with scant ceremony.
“Them squabs is two dollars apiece,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Orta be five, after knockin’ Miss Tinkham down! Damn Shetland pony!”
“We’ll pay for it.” The elder of the two gestured to his companion who handed over two limp one-dollar bills.
“Literally highway robbery at that,” he swished.
“It’s ten dollars,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Five squab.”
“He only ate one!” the elder cried.
“He slobbered all over the other ones, an’ ain’t nobody gonna pay for dog slobber, squabs’s slick enough already!” Mrs. Feeley’s tone left no room for argument.
A crowd was gathering near the hearse and cars were lined up dangerously on the freeway. Angry motorists, not interested in the finer things of life, honked in hostility at the blockage.
Seeing ten dollars snapped irretrievably into Mrs. Rasmussen’s change purse made Miss Tinkham feel more gracious and forgiving.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to knock me off balance,” she said. “We are not sure we want to sell the vases. But do defy the law of gravity and drop up to our shop some time. We have many delightful things you would find useful and profitable in your studio.”
“Didn’t you say two hunnert?” Mrs. Feeley asked, cocking her head at the vases.
“I still do,” the decorator said.
“Must be money in that there racket,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Let me tell you, dearie, there is!” The young man leered. “Do I get the vahses?”
Mrs. Feeley looked at Miss Tinkham and thought of all the cold beer two hundred dollars would buy. It might even get the electric lights turned on so Mrs. Rasmussen wouldn’t have to work so hard without her electric icebox. “Wouldn’t you like a bucket of earthworms?” Miss Tinkham said sweetly. “African giants? Red wrigglers?”
“The vahses.” The young man stroked his crew cut reflectively.
Mrs. Feeley nudged Miss Tinkham with the toe of her white canvas shoe and nodded slightly.
“Remember Ben Hur Grossman’s part in this wedding?” Miss Tinkham whispered.
Mrs. Feeley sighed and still thought one hundred dollars was better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick.
A large truck belonging to a public utility company screeched to a halt almost on top of the bargainers. Three husky, vigorous-looking young men wearing olive-green coveralls jumped from the truck and bounded over to the ladies.
“What carnival did you run off from?” the first one asked. He was tall and white-skinned, in spite of the sun. His hair was blue black and he walked with the balance and poise of a boxer. He had the long, craggy kind of face built to take punishment.
“Hellooooo!” Miss Tinkham said gaily. “What caught your eye?”
“We’re linemen. James, here, he made us come back. Says that sign with the 3.1416 means ‘pie.’ Does it, honest? Have you got any?”
“Indeed we have!” Miss Tinkham gestured to the pies in the hearse. “Fresh raspberry. The best! Of course, pi is really a mathematical symbol.”
“Man, let me at ’em,” the young man said hungrily. A second young man, spare, wiry, with receding hair that ended in a kewpie twist on the top of his head, humorously curving nostrils, and translucent brown eyes, held out a dollar bill to Miss Tinkham.
“One for me, too. That’s the cleverest ad I ever saw, ma’am.”
“Didn’t I tell you it would bring high-class clientele?” Miss Tinkham said to Mrs. Feeley. She handed her the two dollars.
“Don’t forget me.” The third youngster was bronze as an Indian, with shiny blue-black hair and gleaming white teeth.
“Surely you’re not going to eat one each?” Miss Tinkham said.
“If we like ’em, we’ll take all you got. They don’t make good pies at the Club,” the first boy said.
“What club?” Miss Tinkham welcomed anything after Fairy Oaks, the owners of which were ogling the young linemen.
Mrs. Rasmussen and Mrs. Feeley moved in to surround the boys who were eating pies by the simple process of breaking them in half, holding one half in each hand, taking alternate bites first from the left and then from the right. Ruby juice ran down their chins.
Miss Tinkham set the bucket of worms out nearer the highway. Mrs. Rasmussen looked around for N. Carnation and brought her into the circle.
The bronze boy looked at her and smiled.
“Quehúbole!” she said softly.
“Qué tal?” the boy said shyly.
“Buen tal,” she replied.
“Hey, Jesse,” the biggest boy said, “now you met somebody to sling the lingo with.”
Miss Tinkham pricked her ears up and smelled a mouse. “Jesse, indeed. He’s of Mexican descent. I wager his name is Jesús! We must cultivate him for N. Carnation’s sake, so we may communicate more freely.”
“Who in addition to Jesse is having the inestimable boon of eating Mrs. Rasmussen’s pies?” she asked blithely.
“I’m Bim, ex-pug, Champion of the Asiatic Fleet, International Lover (in New Orleans) and the Last of the Big Free Spenders, an’ essetra,” the powerfully built fellow said. “Bim, lest there be no misunderstanding, stands for Big Ignorant Marine.”
“How wonderful!” Miss Tinkham almost embraced him.
“This here is James,” he said. “He studies a lot. He’s the one with the high I.Q. He figgered the sign out.”
“Do we get the vahses?” one of the interior decorators slithered close to the group, wriggling deliciously.
As always, when surrounded by young, healthy American men, Miss Tinkham crackled and sparkled with delight in their presence.
“You getta no vahses today,” she chuckled. “That, my deah, is a paraphrase of a ver
y robust joke, but it expresses my sentiments. Do come to the shop. Just drive down off the freeway at the second underpass and come to Five Points intersection. Very simple and I feel sure you will find it worth your trouble.”
“I’ll give you three hundred and that’s my last word,” the decorator said waspishly.
Mrs. Rasmussen looked imploringly at Miss Tinkham.
Ham, meat, butter, olive oil. And lashin’s o’ beer, maybe enough beer to soak our tired feet in, her amber eyes seemed to say.
Miss Tinkham wanted to keep the vases for window dressing. They would lure many a customer to the shop. They were, in a sense, her pièce de résistance. But there was such a thing as holding past the top market. She had better relent. There was already ten dollars in the kitty from the squabs and three from the pies and the lads said they wanted the remainder. She was ashamed of her own reluctance to grant Ben Hur Grossman his half. He would have been lucky to get $75 for the pair. But then he didn’t look like the type who was a natural psychologist, or who had read Tom Sawyer.
There was a stir at the edge of the highway and Miss Tinkham saw a man lift the bucket of earthworms and dump them into a fishing pail in his truck. Old-Timer took the bucket and came over to Mrs. Rasmussen with the money. “Two more dollars.” Mrs. Rasmussen clicked her purse with finality. One hundred and sixty-six net for an afternoon’s work wouldn’t be too bad. Miss Tinkham thought and was about to capitulate when another sports car drew up and a well-dressed man wearing a funny little round cap got out.
“What do you want for the hearse?” He came to the point.
“It’s not for sale,” Miss Tinkham said pleasantly.
“I’m not going to dicker with you. Name it and I’ll pay it. I want it,” he said.
A considerable crowd gathered around leaving cars parked at the edge of the freeway. The everlasting human curiosity about any kind of trade or deal being consummated between two people drew them irresistibly.
Let's go For Broke Page 11