She nodded. “I’ve been thinking the same thing, Jaxie. There must be a creative way to get a good doctor here. Really, it’s a perfect setting for someone just starting out. And a good place to raise kids. That’s what I keep telling my granddaughter, who’s studying medicine and about to graduate. She could do her internship under me.”
“That would be ideal!”
Gladys frowned. “I think so, too. But, understandably, she wants to live in a place where other young people live. Here, she wouldn’t have much of a social life.”
I could identify with the girl’s reluctance. “Well, maybe we can change that. With a successful revitalization plan, Rumton will appeal to people of all age groups.”
Gladys asked me about my job in Atlanta, and before I realized it, we’d been talking and laughing for an hour. All the while, Elwood whistled softly to a beat in his head and contentedly whittled away tiny pieces of wood, creating a grass design in the body of the walking cane. I asked about his sculptures and learned that he’d been carving since he retired at age sixty-five. He was now eighty-two, which added up to a lot of years’ worth of inventory. Taking a closer look at the oversized carport, I saw that it was crammed with carvings. Pieces stacked behind other pieces, filling the shelves and lining the floor, all delightfully animated. Had his work been displayed in one of Atlanta’s trendy art galleries, the larger sculptures would easily bring a few thousand dollars apiece. I asked why he kept making so many new things when he wasn’t trying to sell them, but Elwood just shrugged.
“I like to carve.”
“But you don’t want to sell?” All the artists I knew only built up a supply of their paintings or sculpture when they planned to show and sell their work.
“Oh, if someone were to ask,” Gladys said, “he might be inclined to sell them something. A few years back, Bull convinced him to put some carvings in her restaurant, to keep her company when nobody else was around. Told him she’d sell them to tourists, if any ever stumbled in.”
Elwood nodded his agreement. “Nothing here I can’t live without.”
“She did sell a whooping crane last year,” Gladys told me. “A couple from North Carolina was headed to Hilton Head when their van broke down. They stopped at Chat ‘N Chew for dinner, and the woman just gravitated to Elwood’s crane statues. So Bull dickered on Elwood’s behalf and got fifty dollars for the bird. Next morning, the wife came back and left with the other one.”
“He sold two pieces, then.”
She laughed, and looked at her husband with an expression of genuine adoration. “Not exactly. The second time the woman came in, she was in tears. Since they’d spent the night and didn’t check in at Hilton Head, the hotel gave their room away. It was the honeymoon suite, where they’d spent their first married night together. Turns out they were celebrating their ten year anniversary. A romantic getaway, without their children. So Bull felt sorry for the woman and gave her the matching crane, as an anniversary present. No charge. She knew Elwood wouldn’t mind.”
Elwood shrugged and stopped to run a piece of sandpaper lightly over the cane. “You’ve given away medical care plenty a times, woman. Before and after you retired.”
The doctors I knew were full of self-importance, and I couldn’t imagine a single one of them welcoming a perfect stranger with a tray of lemonade or giving away free medical services. For that matter, a new patient couldn’t even schedule an appointment without first disclosing what type of insurance they had, or if they were uninsured, how they intended to pay for the visit.
“Yep, she pretty much refuses to take any money at all, now that her practice is officially closed,” Elwood continued, his dark eyes moving up to look at his wife with blatant devotion, before quickly dropping back to the piece of wood in his hands.
Gladys patted his arm. “No reason to be greedy. We don’t want for anything.”
If I were them, I’d sure want for something. A moving van. But they were clearly happy. And quite possibly more committed to each other than any married couple I knew.
* * *
After leaving Elwood and Gladys, and their kingdom of wood characters, I walked in the direction of my car, introducing myself to more locals as I went.
There was a seventy-nine-year-old pharmacist, who, as her front yard sign attested, was also a beekeeper. The drug store, known as the Always Open Apothecary, occupied the bottom floor of her home, and Gertrude lived above it. Despite the name, she only opened for business whenever someone climbed the stairs and banged on her front door. Or happened to catch her resting outside in the hammock, as I had.
“Doorbell’s out of sorts, but you feel free to knock on my door anytime you need somethin’, Sugar,” Gertrude told me, squinting into the sun from her horizontal position. “Gotta knock right loud, though, in case my hearing aid battery has gone out. You gotta replace the dad-blasted things every couple a days.”
I met lots of colorful people who may have just been humoring me with their friendly nods when I explained why I was visiting.
And I met the town’s only judge, a magistrate and former Ringling Brothers circus clown. Since Rumton’s town hall burned down in the eighties and was never rebuilt, he heard misdemeanors and traffic violations every Wednesday at high noon, in the movie theater. But only when there were cases to hear, he explained, which happened every two or three weeks.
“A lot of the defendants are travelin’ folks who detoured through Rumton for a look-see. Course, we also have jurisdiction over a small area of the highway, so they could just be passing us by. The chief will pull ‘em over for speeding, just so as he can make sure his siren still works. Some of ‘em actually show up for court.”
“The movie theater doubles as your courtroom?” I envisioned the judge, perched on the narrow elevated stage, outlined by the white movie screen. People probably munched popcorn while they waited to approach the makeshift bench, all in the name of helping the volunteer fire department’s fundraising efforts.
He shrugged. “Seats are more comfortable than the folding chairs in the old town hall building.”
I had definitely landed in Mayberry. When I told her about this, Sheila would think I was making it all up. Incredulous at my surreal surroundings, the muscle in my eyelid tightened, threatening to start twitching at any moment.
“Where are you from?” the judge asked as I left.
“Atlanta.”
“No, I mean originally.”
“Atlanta,” I repeated.
Confusion spread across his face. “Well, where are your people from?”
I’d never known my grandparents, and hadn’t thought much about where ‘my people’ were from. Genealogy didn’t interest me.
“I was born and raised in Atlanta. My mother grew up in Marietta, but that’s the same general area,” I answered. “I never knew my father. And my grandparents died before I was born.” I didn’t tell him that I wasn’t even sure where they were from.
“Huh,” he said, not bothering to ask what I did for a living, which was a topic I could have talked about.
Walking the last block to my car, it occurred to me that the locals were more interested in learning where I was from than what I did. In Atlanta, people could care less where I grew up or who my parents were. Everyone was defined by the position they held, the view from their office, and the paycheck they brought home.
Wondering about my ancestors, I pointed a key fob at my Range Rover, and a woman walking her dog stopped to stare. When the locks popped open, she shook her head with incredulity. Apparently, people in Rumton didn’t bother to secure their vehicles.
I decided to pick up some groceries for dinner and ended up at a combination grocery store, hardware store, post office and gas station. Outside stood one regular unleaded gasoline pump, one diesel pump, a mail drop, and a portable marquee that read, ‘COLD BEER & WORMS’. Inside as promised, I found cold beer and worms, the cans of brew iced down in a keg-sized wooden barrel and the worms happily burrowin
g in a container of dirt.
“Howdy, howdy,” a man behind the counter said, through a wad of chewing tobacco stuffed in one cheek. He was reading a gossip magazine, and bold headlines across the cover declared that Oprah was pregnant with triplets. “I’m Billy. My friends call me Buckshot.”
“Buckshot?”
He pointed to a small dark spot on his forehead, just above an eyebrow. “Been here since I was a kid. Got hit by a stray pellet when I was out quail hunting with the fellows. But you can call me Billy. You must be that gal from Atlanta.”
It was as though my forehead were marked in red ink: Atlanta Girl. People knew me upon sight, even after I’d dressed to blend with the locals in khaki shorts and sandals, and a white cotton top I’d found hanging in my closet at Pop’s house.
“Well, nice to meet you Billy. I’m Jaxie, and yes, that’s me. The one from Atlanta. I just need to pick up a few groceries, and some shampoo.” I’d forgotten to pack mine. “Where would I find shampoo and conditioner?”
He spit a stream of tobacco juice into a soda can. “Right yonder, third aisle, next to the shells.”
I’d seen polished seashells in tourist-town beachwear shops, but I never would have guessed Rumtonians bought shells. “You carry shells?”
“Sure, sure” he said, putting down the rag mag and giving me the once over. “I got 12 gauge and 20 gauge. You bird hunt?”
I shook my head. Wishing I were at my favorite Atlanta grocery store and sipping an iced latte, I filled a carry basket with the makings for a pork chop dinner. When I got to the shampoo aisle, I found two choices. Dandruff control or regular. I would have to make a trip out of town soon to buy my regular hair products from a salon, not to mention get a biweekly touch up on my roots. A massage would be good, too. I needed a massage. And a facial. Stress lines were probably wreaking havoc with my skin.
While Billy rang up my purchases, punching in the price of each item by hand, I picked up a Rumton Review. The town’s version of a newspaper, it was a weekly newsletter that Billy produced on his computer in the back room. He explained that stories were routed to him via fax machine or gossip, and a local teenager took a picture for him once in a while. But what caught my attention was the back page of classified advertisements, which gave me an idea. I needed information about the history of Rumton and figured Pop wouldn’t mind if I used his phone number for people to contact me. I’d already used his phone more in two days than it had been used in two months, or so he said. Without writing anything down, Billy listened to what I wanted my advertisement to say.
“Can do. That’ll cost you a ten-spot. Oh, and don’t be surprised if it’s more’n a week ‘till the next Review hits the newsstands. I always aim to get it out on time, but sometimes things get busy around here. Get busy around here.”
I’d have to ask Pop if getting shot had caused Billy to repeat things.
Rubbing the spot on his forehead, he nodded. “Yep, can get real busy around here.”
I thought about my Sunday morning tradition – stretching out on my balcony with the three-inch thick Atlanta Journal-Constitution, a chocolate dipped biscotti, and a giant cup of coffee. I’d pore through the arts and leisure section, read book and movie reviews, check out travel stories, and flip through a stack of sale fliers. Feeling a bout of home sickness, I decided that I needed to get my assignment done and get the heck out of Rumton. Sooner rather than later.
“No problem, uh, Billy,” I said. “By the way, where are the Rumton Review newsstands?”
“Aw, they’re not stands, really. It’s just a figure of speech. I print up a hundred or so copies and put a stack on the counter at Bull’s place, one at the theater, and another stack at Duckies.”
“What’s Duckies?”
“That’s Walter’s place. A pub. Horseshoes every Thursday and karaoke every Saturday.”
So Rumton had entertainment, after all. People threw rings of metal at poles sticking out of the ground on Thursday, watched an outdated movie on Friday, and listened to each other sing badly on Saturday.
“Thank you, thank you,” Billy said when I left.
* * *
Returning to Pop’s house, I was greeted by a large dog I surmised to be Flush. Tail wagging at full speed, he shoved his nose into my bag of groceries. Right behind Flush, Bandit snatched the car keys from my hand and ducked behind a tree.
“Hey, you little thief! Bring those back here!”
Chasing her inside, I found Riley and Pop playing a game of cards at the kitchen table. Skipping pleasantries, I dropped the food on the counter. “Which way did she go?”
Pop shuffled the deck and dealt two hands. “You won’t find her, Lass, if she’s of a mind to hide. But no worries.” He grinned at me. “I know where she keeps her stash.”
“Good, then you can get my car keys back while I cook your dinner. We’re having pork chops, mashed potatoes, broccoli and rolls.”
“It won’t take you long to recover the keys. Aye, there’s an old spittoon by the living room fireplace. Take a gander in there. They’ll be on top.”
A faraway look suddenly came over Pop’s face and I realized he stared at me. Or, rather the cotton top I wore.
“What’s wrong?”
He smiled, but his face held sadness. “Nothing’s wrong. Just made me think of Suzie, you wearing that top. I thought I gave all her clothes to the church.”
I looked down at the shirt. It was a simple white scoop neck, with orange stitching around the collar and sleeves. Seeing the expression on Pop’s face, I immediately felt awful. “I’m so sorry. It hung in the closet, and, well I guess I should have asked before I put it on. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay, Lass. No worries. It looks pretty. You ought to keep it.”
Riley laid down some cards. “Suzie’s been gone for more’n thirty years, and he still pines for that woman.”
Self-conscious, I smoothed the fabric over my abdomen, wondering about his long ago partner. “Have you ever wanted to get remarried, Pop?”
“Heck, no!” Riley answered for him. “There was some ripe pickins ‘round here, too, twenty-five, thirty years ago.”
Pop harrumphed and argued with Riley’s assessment. Deciding not to be nosy and push the matter, I set to finding my keys in the raccoon’s stash. His dog danced around my feet, alternating between sniffing my legs and pushing his big head into my hand to be petted. Pretending to scold the four-legger, Pop formally introduced me to Flush while I familiarized myself with the kitchen and started dinner. I’d heard that meat should be marinated before cooking it, and decided to give Sheila’s method a try. She marinated everything in a formula of Coke and bourbon for at least an hour, and I knew firsthand that her meals were delicious. I dumped the pork chops into a bowl and added the cola and booze. So far, so good.
“It smells mighty good in there,” Riley said, even though I hadn’t actually started cooking anything. It was his way of inviting himself to eat. “You got enough to fill another belly?”
“Sure,” I said and added another pork chop to my marinade. And since Flush had shown up, I added another, and finally threw the last one into the bowl thinking that one of the men might want a second helping, if Bandit didn’t get to it first. I might as well go ahead and cook the entire package.
Next, I washed potatoes, jabbed them with a fork, and stuck them in the microwave. Thank God Pop had a microwave. If I was expected to cook on occasion, I needed all the help I could get. I had no idea how long it took to boil potatoes and figured the microwave would be quicker, anyhow.
I wasn’t sure about microwaving the broccoli, though, and decided it would taste better steamed. Dropping it in a pot, I added a little water and turned on the heat. Next, I arranged the frozen rolls in a pie tin and stuck them in the oven to cook. Three hundred and fifty degrees for twenty minutes, the package said. No problem.
Looking at my watch, I realized I’d done it all in about ten minutes! The whole cooking thing wouldn’t be so b
ad after all. Feeling victorious, I rewarded myself with a glass of chardonnay. It wasn’t the brand I usually drank, but it was all the general store had in stock, and it wasn’t too bad.
“Well, we’re waitin’, Jaxie,” Riley said, patting a seat at the table. “Come an’ tell us all about it.”
I joined them. “Tell you all about what?”
“Yer first official day traipsin’ around Rumton!”
“Well, I haven’t learned much about the infrastructure yet, but I met a lot of people that are really, uh…;quite fascinating.” Bizarre was more like it.
“‘Round here?” he said. “Fascinatin’ people?”
Flush nuzzled my hand, wanting to be petted and I obliged him. “Sure. A circus clown judge who hears cases in a movie theater, a pharmacist who only opens for business when someone wakes her up, and a man who carves beautiful sculptures, but doesn’t bother to sell them.”
Pop looked confused. “What’s so unusual ‘bout all that? In Atlanta, you got a judge with three wives in three different cities, a pharmacist headed to the brig for selling pain pills to young’uns, and an artist painting canvases with endangered reptile feces. I read that newspaper of yours. Last Sunday’s, I believe it was.”
I didn’t subscribe to the daily paper because I didn’t have time to read it. But I never missed a Sunday edition and had brought last week’s paper with me. Pop must have thoroughly read all the local news stories that I always skipped over.
“We’re just plain ‘ol ordinary folk ‘round here,” Pop continued. “You want to cross paths with fascinating people, seems to me Atlanta’s got a good supply.”
It was clear we came from opposite sides of the world. And since I was living for free in Pop’s home, I decided not to debate the issue and went with the cordial route. “Atlanta has a lot more people, that’s for sure. I think I met every single person in this town today. Except the mayor. I really need to introduce myself to Mayor Handstill and discuss his thoughts on revitalization.”
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