Woulds

by J. L. Wilson

  I walked across the street to my next stop, the Nature’s Corner Flower Shop, to buy a pot of geraniums to hang on my front porch. I am usually incapable of keeping flowers alive for any length of time, but I had hopes this summer I wouldn’t forget to water the poor things. I discussed the weather with the two ladies in the store, agreeing it was probably a perfect summer day. I accepted commiserations from the staff, all of whom expressed amazement at my shiner. It was, we decided, a real beaut.

  Next I dropped in at the Fourth Street Coffee Shop which relocated to Main Street twenty years earlier but kept the name because all their glassware and paper goods were imprinted with the old name. This tended to confuse anyone new to town but it didn’t faze the old-timers. Once again, I was the topic of conversation, this time about the best way to treat a black eye. The consensus of opinion finally concluded I probably did the right thing using ice, although Art Blandish, John Smalley’s cousin, felt a good steak would have been better.

  By the time I picked up my iced coffee and left the debate behind me, it was close to one o’clock. I figured I stalled enough so I wouldn’t be trapped too long by Marianne. I went to the Barnsdale Bugle office, which sat between the Millworks Antique Store and Friar’s BBQ on Third Avenue. The bell on the door tinkled when I entered. “Marianne?” I called when I saw the receptionist desk was empty.

  “In here,” a voice sounded from a doorway behind the desk. “I’m in the layout room.”

  Well, where the hell is that? I wondered grumpily, walking past the desk and through an open door. A hallway peppered with closed doorways was in front of me, the overhead lights illuminating every other one.

  “I’m here.” Marianne poked her head from one doorway, her blonde-gold hair catching the light and glittering like someone tossed sparkles in her curls. When I neared her, she examined my face. “Tucker, that looks terrible. I heard you got hurt last night in a fight between Rob and Guy. I’m so sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. It was Guy who hit me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean to. He would never hurt a woman. You know Guy. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She went back into the room and I followed.

  A fly? I remember how he pounded Rob the night before and leveled a kick at the cat. He might not hurt a fly but he’d kick a mother cat. “Right,” I said skeptically. I glanced around the small room which barely contained the three desks it held. On each sat a large computer display showing a different depiction of a newspaper page. “If you’re busy, I can come back later.”

  Marianne went to the center display and sat in the office chair there to peer at the screen. “Did you know Richard is coming to town on Thursday?”

  I drew in a calming breath. Trust Marianne to keep me standing here while she considered coming to the point. “Rob mentioned something about it. Richard who?” I leaned against the doorframe and tapped one foot.

  “Richard Fitz. He’s CEO of Fitz Agri-Industries. Haven’t you ever met him?” She swiveled her office chair to regard me with wide blue eyes. Apparently Richard Fitz was such a fact of life that surely everyone knew him.

  “I haven’t met Richard Fitz. I know PJ, of course.” Patrick John Fitz was the Fitz son who was left in charge of the Fitz agribusiness concerns in Barnsdale when his older brother Richard went to Chicago to dabble in real estate. “Every bartender in town knows PJ.”

  Marianne’s lips curved, the pink of her lipstick exactly matching a pink peony on her blouse, the same way her eye shadow matched the palest of pale blue of the background on the blouse. “PJ does enjoy himself. He always has.” She wore dark beige capris and white sandals with big pink flowers near her toes, which were also painted pale pink. On any other fifty-year-old woman, it would seem like an attempt to recreate youth. On her, it was like the style was created for her. “That’s Richard.” She tapped the monitor.

  I took a step closer and saw the screen. A man stared at me, his dark eyes direct and unwavering and with a slight smile on his full lips, as though to say, Here I am, honey. His red-brown hair was long and swept back from his high forehead with streaks of gray giving him a mature, upper-executive appearance accentuated by the broad line of his shoulders in a dark business suit. Richard Fitz wasn’t handsome but he was a man who would always get a second and maybe third glance. “He and PJ don’t look like brothers,” I commented.

  “When we were growing up, we called Richard ‘Leo,’ because he was the king of the Lions. Our football team,” she added, like I was unaware of that fact after living for decades in town. “Richard was a standout quarterback. He went to the University of Iowa on a full scholarship. He probably could have played in the pros but his father wanted him to work in the company.”

  The mention of Fitz Agri-Industries made me think of Will and the information I carried in my purse. Richard Fitz was CEO of the company which owned the Yoke. I pressed the bag harder against my side like I could keep data from leaking out. “I think Richard Fitz was in town a few years ago, but I never met him. He doesn’t often leave Chicago. Why’s he coming? Checking up on things?”

  She turned back to the screen, frowning at this glib dismissal on my part. “He’s coming to speak at Founding Family Day. It’s a special celebration this year.”

  “Why special this year?” When I first moved to town, the annual town-creation anniversary was called Founding Fathers’ Day. I pointed out that the fathers probably needed a few mothers to found a town. The council at the time, most of whom were women, agreed and the name was changed to its current title. A few people in subsequent city councils tried to change it back, but the name stuck.

  “It’s the town’s Dodransbicentennial.”

  I blinked at her, my mouth agape. “The what?”

  “Our 175th anniversary. Richard is going to speak at the town picnic. After all, the Fitz family had a great deal to do with the settling of the town.”

  Settling of the town and enslaving most of the people. The sour thought surfaced and vanished. Old Henry Fitz, the patriarch of the Fitz conglomerate, used to have a reputation as a tight-fisted, narrow-minded autocrat who ran his companies like an Army. I’d heard stories about Old Henry from townspeople who worked for one of his many business concerns.

  “Richard is also coming to put to rest any fears about the salmonella outbreak and to reassure the townspeople their jobs are secure,” Marianne continued, her face placid.

  “And that’s the story you’ll print.” I crossed my arms and shot a glare at her computer screen. “Everything is hunky dory and life can go on as usual.”

  For an instant, her sweet, careful veneer slipped. Her baby blue eyes narrowed. “A lot of people in town have jobs tied to the factory. If it dies, the town dies.”

  “My cow died last week, so I don’t need your bull. The town isn’t that reliant on the Fitz family for its survival.”

  Her face relaxed, the girl-mask back in place. “You Southerners. You have such colorful expressions.” Marianne straightened a piece of paper on her desk. “You don’t know what it was like in town before the factory opened. We don’t want to go back to how it was.”

  I ground my teeth. Marianne always brought out my Southern side, even though I shook the dust of Catahoula Parish from my feet half-a-lifetime earlier. All that remained of my Southern roots were two graves in a mournful rural cemetery and an alcoholic brother who was knifed to death and buried somewhere outside New Orleans. I left that life behind me when I married Ron Church, but there were times when the past crept up and grabbed me by the ankle.

  “I expect Guy will be back by then,” she continued, oblivious to my annoyance or, more likely, uncaring about it.

  “Back? Where’d he go?”

  She blushed prettily. “He left me a note. We were going antiquing but he had to leave town on business.” Her eyes went to a folded square of paper on the corner of the desk. “Guy loves to shop for things for his new house and he likes to have me along, to give him my opinion.”

  G
uy’s so-called new house was a McMansion in Nottingham Court, a subdivision west of town. Homes there cost about half-a-million and sat on two and three acre lots. Guy’s house was so big it seemed like a motel from the road. I wondered if Marianne regretted pushing Rob into marriage when she saw Guy’s Porsche and his fancy house. Water under the bridge. No use thinking about woulds, as my Mama said. Coulda shoulda woulda. “Speaking of Guy, how is Rob today?” I asked brusquely.

  Marianne sighed. “I have no idea. He stayed at his man cave last night. He’s such a river rat.”

  “Man cave? The cabin?” I considered the small house on a bluff over the river, rustic but pleasant. “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem cave-like to me.”

  Marianne nudged something on the desk. It was an ad for Barnsdale Hardware, the store Rob used to own until he got in trouble with debt and had to sell it to the clerk, Stewart Warman. “That place on the river suits Rob,” she said. “He loves it almost as much as he used to love that dusty old hardware store.”

  I liked that dusty old hardware store. It was crowded with all kinds of nifty things, like a throwback to the Vermont country store days when men sat around a pickle barrel and talked. “I saw a sign on the door that they’re closed.”

  Marianne straightened the ad. “Temporarily. Stewart’s remodeling. He told me it will be completely modernized and with the latest inventory, like at Home Depot in Des Moines.”

  “I didn’t know hardware went out of style.”

  “Of course there are innovations and changes.” Marianne tilted her head to one side, her blonde curls slipping over her shoulder. “I suppose it was for the best that Rob sold the store. Stewart has a lot of innovative ideas.”

  I doubted Rob would have agreed, but I nodded then made a show of checking my watch. “You said you needed to talk to me about something?”

  Marianne faced me. “I want you to refuse to serve Rob alcohol when he comes to your bar.” She kept her hands folded in her lap. Unlike my hands, which were chapped and red from the dish soap at the bar, hers appeared smooth and pale with long nails painted with dark pink polish. She wore two rings, one a single band on her left ring finger and the other a large heart-shaped ruby on her right hand. I didn’t remember ever seeing the ruby before. It was certainly large enough to be noticeable.

  “It’s not that easy,” I replied. “I have to have a reason to refuse to serve him.”

  “He’s an alcoholic. Isn’t that reason enough?” Her harsh tone of voice was at odds with her pretty-girl appearance. “Look at what happened last night. His drinking impairs his judgment and he makes stupid mistakes.”

  “Hitting Guy wasn’t a stupid mistake. Letting Guy hit him back was stupid.”

  Marianne stood slowly, a graceful maneuver reminding me of a cat unwinding herself from a sleeping position, sinuous, effortless, and totally unself-conscious. She towered over me even though I wore platform sandals and she wore flats. “Rob has been ill and his medication doesn’t mix well with alcohol. If he’s harmed by his drinking, it will reflect badly on your bar.”

  “If he’s harmed, it will be his own damn fault,” I retorted. “Don’t make threats about my business, Marianne.” I turned to leave.

  “I’m not threatening. I’m telling you. Rob is an alcoholic. If you serve him alcohol, it may have bad consequences.”

  I bit back the retort I longed to hurl at her. Why the hell don’t you talk to him about it and lay down the law with him, not me? “Okay. I’ll discuss it with Rob if he comes in again.”

  “Good Lord, don’t do that! He’ll hate it that I interfered.”

  Marianne appeared so appalled by the idea I resolved there and then to make sure to mention it to Rob the first chance I got. “Rob is a grown man. He can make his own decisions.” I started for the door.

  “I’m not sure Rob remembers how to make decisions. He won’t do anything unless Richard approves of it.”

  I stopped. Marianne stared at the picture on the computer screen, her face thoughtful. “Really?”

  Marianne’s mask settled back into place. “He respects Richard so much. We all do.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said doubtfully. “I have to get to work now.”

  “I’ll make sure you get a chance to meet Richard when he’s here.” She followed me to the door. “I’m certain he’ll want to meet the owner of our successful little restaurant.”

  Little restaurant? The Oak’s Acorn reservation list was full every night. We had reviews in Midwest Living, Our Iowa, The Iowan, the Des Moines Register and the Kansas City Star. Little restaurant? I longed to strangle Marianne with her own curls but I settled for a brief and insincere smile. “Can’t wait to meet him, too, and hear what he has to say about the egg contamination.” The King returns. Let’s hope his subjects welcome him.

  “Yes, it will be good to get the facts.” Marianne paused, hanging back in the hallway doorway while I went to the front door. “I hope you’ll reconsider, Tucker. Rob really shouldn’t be drinking.”

  “See you later,” I said breezily, stepping onto the sidewalk. “And good riddance,” I added when I heard the door close behind me. I strode to my car, anxious for fresh air. A conversation with Marianne always left me feeling like I stepped out of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory due to the surfeit of artificial sweetener.

  I drove six blocks to the old glove factory and parked on the west side of the lot. At this time of day it was in full sun, but come nightfall the trees separating the parking lot from the neighborhood park would provide shade and relief from the heat. When I neared the back door of the Acorn, my keys in hand, Alan emerged from the Parlor and headed straight for me.

  “What’s up?” I asked when I saw his uncharacteristically grim expression. “What’s wrong?”

  He met me in the parking lot, blocking my way to the path leading to the Acorn. “It’s the mother cat. She got hit by a car this morning.”

  “What?” I glanced automatically at the arbor near the back door where pink clematis climbed over the wooden trellis. “When?”

  “I’m not sure. One of the bus boys told me about it. He found her on the grass near the roadside when he came in to work. She wasn’t there when I came in earlier. I, uh, I took care of the body.”

  I didn’t want to ask what he meant. “Oh, damn.” Sudden tears made my eyes hot. “Son of a bitch. Some idiot was probably driving too fast and hit her.” I moved to the arbor. “What about the babies?” I’d seen four small furry critters previously, staggering around, but the black-and-white mother kept a protective eye on them and didn’t let them stray far.

  “They’re fine. They were either weaned or close to it, because when we found them, they let us get close and they drank some milk I put out.” Alan followed me and watched me peek through the tangle of vines and boxes. “One of the waitresses’ roommate came and got them. She said her roommate’s mom wanted two kittens, but that leaves two kittens who need a home. She can’t have pets in her apartment. So either we find them a home or they have to go to the pound.” Alan peered expectantly at me.

  “Oh, no.” I held up my hands, backing up. “After Scooter died, I swore I’d never have a pet again.” Two years earlier I held my beloved little tuxedo cat when she was euthanized after the vet discovered she had liver cancer.

  “Well, maybe we can find them a home. I can check with John Smalley. Maybe he needs some barn cats.” Alan pulled out his cell phone. “I snapped some pictures. Here they are.”

  I stared down at four adorable piles of fur. Two were gray-and-black tabby cats, one with longer, fluffier fur. One was orange striped and one was white, gray, and orange, like a paint-splotched mixture of all the other ones. “Which ones did the roommate’s mother take?” I stared at the picture.

  “The orange one and the short-haired tabby.” Alan tucked the phone back in his shirt pocket. “I’ll check with John. Maybe he knows someone who might want them.”

  “They’re so little. They’ll be lucky if some crow does
n’t swoop in and get them if they’re taken to a farm.”

  “We’ll see. I talked to John earlier when he dropped off the pork chops. You should see the radishes he brought in. They’re big but they’re really sweet, too. Usually big radishes are too sharp, but these are amazing.” Alan patted my shoulder. “I’m sorry about the cat, Tuck. Sometimes it’s a crappy world.”

  “Yeah, no kidding.” I shook my head wearily. He went with me to the back door, opening it by tapping in the security code on the door lock.

  “Are you okay to work tonight?” he asked as we entered the hallway leading to the Acorn. “How’s your eye? Has the swelling gone down?”

  I flicked on the lights, inhaling the scent of floor polish and beer which characterized the place. “I’m fine. No headaches, no eye blurring. All I needed was a good night’s sleep.” I did all my usual opening chores on autopilot: unlocked the back access door to the restrooms, unlocked the staff break room, and verified the overhead fans and lights were working.

  I walked around the main room, giving it a cursory check to make sure the overnight cleaning crew did their usual excellent job. Alan went to the front door and unlocked it. “I stocked the bar an hour ago,” he said. “And the till is loaded.”

  I knew he’d handle those details, but I still went behind the counter and verified the contents in the dishes of lemons, limes, and other perishable supplies we shared with the restaurant. I checked behind me, through windows that used to be above the factory but which now looked over the brewing operation. I waved to Miller, our brew master, who walked around the vats and kettles in the attached brewery. I turned back to the bar and entered my access code to the cash register which was also linked to our inventory system. “Thanks, Alan, for taking care of the momma cat. I appreciate it.”

  He paused near the door which led to the Parlor. “You can’t save ’em all, Tuck.” He unlocked the door and went into the restaurant, closing the door behind him.