Corpus de Crossword

by Nero Blanc

  Gus shook his head. “We can’t just march up there and shout, ‘Stop it right there!’ Why, we’d be laughed right off the property. Taneysville should have considered new zoning years ago. Now it’s—”

  “Which brings us back to the issue of hiring ourselves a good lawyer—” interjected Hoffmeyer, but Stark paid no heed.

  “Addition?” he demanded. “What about the proposed horse barn, the guest house, the Olympic-sized swimming pool? They’re probably planning some kind of fancy beach cabana, too—”

  “There aren’t no beaches in our little sector of the state, John,” Sylvia soothed.

  “You know what I mean,” Stark grumbled. “And didn’t you say you were getting us coffee?”

  “Testy, testy … It won’t do your heart any good to talk on so, John.”

  “Mrs. S tells him the very same thing,” offered Father Matt with a peaceable grin.

  The senior warden glowered him into silence.

  “John, let me repeat my question,” protested Gus in his old-world accent. “How do you propose to halt this construction? From what I hear, the owner’s got more money than G—than is good for any man. Something to do with making magnets, I’ve heard, although how that would—”

  Stark interrupted. “He doesn’t need to build on the hill above our—”

  “Yes, but that’s where the old Quigley place is,” was Hoffmeyer’s reasoned response. “The house and the—”

  “Well, why did he buy Quigley’s property in the first place? Why start there if all he wanted to do was gut the original home and ‘remodel’ it into a make-believe castle? Five thousand square feet! That’s what the addition’s going to be. Five thousand square feet! Do you know how much bigger that is than the old house?”

  “That’s the way it is nowadays, John,” Hoffmeyer said as he bowed his large and shaggy head. “People want bigger, better … These farmhouses that you and me grew up in, that we’ve lived in all our lives … They’re—what’s the word …? They’re stylish all of a sudden. Summer homes, winter homes, weekend homes … Folks like our new neighbor—”

  Stark waved an impatient hand, but Milt continued on his course. “Folks like our new neighbor buy up these homes because they admire that old-timey look—and then they change them around because they want all the modern conveniences. Nothing wrong with liking comfort, John—”

  “They don’t even bother using local builders,” Stark argued hotly.

  Hoffmeyer regarded him, recognizing that the importation of outside laborers irked Stark as much as anything else did. “You and me can’t stem the tide, John. All we can do is try to welcome the newcomers in, try to make them—”

  “Try to sell them fancy bottled water, is more like it! I can hear your cash drawer now; ka-ching … ka-ching …”

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Sylvia murmured, but Trinity’s senior warden ignored her.

  “What’s the fellow planning to do up there anyway? Sit in his fancy glass palace and stare down his nose at us when we come to worship?”

  Father Matthew raised four tentative fingers. “If that’s one of your concerns, John, why don’t you and I simply invite the new owner to join—”

  “I want to know why the man can’t take his damned fortress and put it on the other side of his land!” was the outraged response. “Why can’t he leave us in peace before our roof caves in and the foundation cracks—”

  “But you don’t know for certain we’re sustaining any damage—” Hoffmeyer tried to interpose, but the incipient argument was drowned by the sudden wail of the backhoe, and the tumultuous crash of a tree pitching into the ravine that separated church property from what had once been the Quigley homestead. Sylvia Meigs screamed. A wooden cross hanging on the wall leapt from its nail and fell while a coffee mug jittered off the table and shattered on the linoleum floor.

  “Hell and damnation,” John Stark roared. “I’m going up there right this very minute. I won’t see us threatened like this!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Despite his outburst, John Stark wasn’t a violent man, and his strong reaction had stunned the others into a sheepish and embarrassed silence. One by one they filed up the basement steps and into the encroaching autumnal dusk. The scarlet and gold-hued foliage for which New England was famed had vanished into the fallen, dead leaves of the days approaching November while the air carried the chill and dank of a not-too-distant winter. Except for the steady drone of the earthmoving equipment working the hillside, the fading Sunday afternoon would have provided a perfect time for introspection and reflection, a few quiet moments in which to think back on the past year—or years—of rural existence in the sleepy community of Taneysville.

  Instead, the noise increased the group’s consternation; and, locking the church door behind them, they began scattering across the parking area like loose marbles.

  “Can I give you a ride, Sylvia?” Curtis Plano asked.

  Both widowed, it was generally accepted by the locals that the two were “keeping company” although neither had as yet admitted to a relationship.

  “Why, thank you, Curtis.” Sylvia sounded duly surprised and grateful. “Going to be a cold winter, according to the Almanac,” she sang out to the other vestry members as she approached Plano’s car. With a polite flourish, he opened the door with his right hand while the left remained buried in his coat pocket.

  “And early,” was Milton Hoffmeyer’s agreeable response.

  “We’ve had ’em before,” Gus Waterwick added.

  “And doubtless we’ll see many more.” This was Father Matt’s offering, and it was greeted—like many of his ruminations—with the kindly benevolence of a grandparent patting a child on the head.

  “You will, Father,” Sylvia chortled, “but I don’t know how many decades the rest of us old-timers have—”

  “One … maybe two, if I’m real lucky,” Curtis interposed with a good-natured laugh.

  “Then you’ll have to make the most of them,” she rejoined.

  John Stark didn’t speak through the entire leave-taking. Instead he eased himself into his station wagon in silence and drove up the lane toward what had been the Quigley place.

  “I hope he don’t get himself in trouble,” Gus observed in a worried tone.

  “Or us,” was Milton Hoffmeyer’s pensive reply.

  Stark’s car climbed the tree-lined and twisting village lane toward the dirt drive that had once been the approach to Hiram Quigley’s farm; a home that had remained an unobtrusive neighbor to Trinity Church through generations of Quigleys and generations of parishioners. The modest wood-frame house with its low-slung doorway, introspective windows, single chimney, and antiquated kitchen covered by a sagging rear roof had been such an accepted part of the Taneysville landscape that no one could have imagined it wouldn’t always be so.

  “Old-timey,” Stark muttered, “stylish …” His lips were pinched white and his chest pounded with feelings he couldn’t quite name. Without intending to, he remembered Sylvia Meigs’s warning about his heart, and thumped a hand against his breastbone as if willpower alone could calm him.

  He stopped the car and climbed out. The rutted drive was jammed with vehicles: workmen’s pickup trucks, a bulldozer, a chipper, a stump grinder. Numerous felled trees littered what had once been a kitchen garden.

  “Hell and damnation,” Stark swore. Normally, he wasn’t a swearing man any more than he was a violent one, but the circumstances were working powerful changes on his psyche.

  He strode in the direction of a person who seemed to be the foreman. “You’ve got to stop this! People can’t hear themselves think!” Stark shouted above the noise of the backhoe.

  The man merely turned and peered down at him. He was far bigger than Stark, and thirty to forty years younger. His hair and face were the same color: a tawny, reddish pink. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m the senior warden of—”

  “A warden, eh? Well, we ain’t got no escaped priso
ners here, warden.” The man also raised his voice above the din, but it was clear from his posture that he was the one on solid ground and not his visitor. “I only hire top-notch workers. Can’t afford not to. Not with the time schedule we’re on, and all … You know, I would have took you to be retired there, warden—”

  “No, you misunderstood. I’m—”

  “You gotta speak up—”

  “Of the church! I’m the warden of a church, not a prison!” Stark bellowed. “Of the church down there!” He pointed insistently. “The one your machinery is—”

  “Take it easy there, mister—”

  Stark’s blue eyes flashed with rage. “Don’t you know that this is the Sabbath day! It’s Sunday!”

  The foreman’s face broke into an easy smile. “This could be Independence Day and New Year’s rolled into one, and my crew would still be working. We’ve got to get these foundations dug before the November freezes set in or we’re toast; and right now we’re behind schedule … Architects! You gotta love ’em … They give the owner a pretty picture, and bing-bang, you’ve got a whole new hole to dig …” He made to move off, but Stark grabbed at his arm.

  “Your machinery’s damaging our church!”

  The man stared hard at the hand clinging to his arm. Stark released his grasp, but maintained his confrontational stance. “Sue the owner if you want, fella, but don’t go hollerin’ at me. I don’t make the rules. I just follow them … And that’s the same thing I told all the other folks who’ve been barging in here with complaints. You want a stable; you want a pool, a pump house, guest house, summer kitchen, you name it … just call me up. But don’t come here and start yellin’ about destroying the community, or not giving local laborers a chance to work—or ruining a neighboring building. Or history—I don’t know nuttin’ about history.” Again, he began to walk away, then stopped himself and gazed curiously at Stark. “I never heard of a church that needed a warden … What kind of a place is it anyway? Like a rehab house?”

  “It’s an Episcopal church, a very old church, and you—”

  “Yeah, I know … I know … We’re wreckin’ the neighborhood. Talk to the owner, if you want, fella … But right now, I’d suggest you leave before you get hurt. This here is a construction site—”

  “I can see that,” Stark countered testily. “That was my line of work before—”

  “Well, there you go then, pops. You know exactly what I’m up against. Winter setting in and a homeowner breathing fire … Architects! Yeesch. And there’s more rocks in this ground than I got in my head for takin’ on this friggin’ job in the first place.” He walked off before Stark had time to respond.

  It was dark by the time Milton Hoffmeyer pulled into his own narrow lane. His hands clutched and reclutched the steering wheel as he stared unhappily at his home. White shingles, a freshly swept porch, light streaming from the ground floor windows, the curtains hung just so. Milton’s wife was far more fastidious than he; and he knew when he walked in the door he’d smell the familiar aroma of Sunday night supper: a soup with dumplings she’d made by hand and an apple crisp with fruit picked from their own trees. The apples would be the strongest scent, winey and redolent of autumn. The linoleum floor would be immaculate, the tea towels beside the sink pressed and clean, the countertop spotless as though no one had been chopping or peeling or slicing.

  Another spasm of misery attacked him. Although he hadn’t expressed the opinion as vociferously as John Stark, he was just as upset about the changes being worked on the Quigley house. Why does “progress” need to barge in here? Milton thought. And why now—just as I’m thinking of retiring? How come we let big spenders from Boston or Newcastle buy up our land and change it? All they do is make us feel small, make us feel old and useless.

  “Is that you, hon?” he heard as the kitchen door swung open. “Whatever are you doing skulking out there in the car? Come in before you take cold.” Backlit, his wife appeared featureless, but her shortish hair fluffed around her face like a fuzzy white halo, and her entire persona seemed to emanate good.

  Hoffmeyer dragged himself from the car.

  “That vestry,” his wife sighed goodnaturedly. “It’ll be the death of you.”

  “It’s not the vestry this time, May—”

  “Not one of your regular rows with John?” She stood aside to let her husband pass through the door. His long back was bent and dispirited. “I swear, I don’t know why you two like bickering so much. You’d think you would have had enough of it by now. Enough of it several decades ago. Maybe enough of it when you were young—”

  “It’s not a disagreement with Stark this time, May. It’s all that mess up at Quigley’s—”

  “Uh-oh … That sounds like John talking—”

  “I hate to admit it, May, but I think he’s right …” Hoffmeyer shook his bearlike head.

  “Nothing you can do, Milton. Besides, that church has been around a mighty long time—”

  “John’s concerned about structural damage. He went up to the site—”

  “Oh dear, I hope he doesn’t get himself into mischief. You know how bullheaded he can be.” She closed the kitchen door behind them, and returned to her place at the stove. “What do they say? If it ain’t broke …” May stirred her soup, adding a pinch of salt, a pinch of thyme, a generous pat of yellow butter. The problematic issue of the senior warden disappeared in a cloud of scented steam. “We had a call from young Milt while you were gone. He sounded real happy, real upbeat. He said his campaign’s going great guns. The latest polls said he was holding his lead.” She smiled as she worked, all troubles banished. “Just think of that … a grandson who’s almost in public office. Public office! I still can’t believe it … Milton Hoffmeyer the Third, United States Congressman. Don’t those words have the grandest ring. He said he’d see us on Election Day … Now, you go and wash up. Supper’s almost ready.”

  CHAPTER 4

  By five past seven Sunday evening the regular customers at Eddie’s Elbow Room—the nearest workingman’s drinking establishment to “downtown” Taneysville—were in a jovial, almost celebratory, mood. The Patriots had just upped their record to 6 and 2 by beating the Buffalo Bills 15-14. They’d accomplished this by kicking their fifth field goal of the day with three seconds left on the game clock—a forty-seven-yarder that literally bounced on top of the crossbar before dropping to the turf on the plus side. Eddie’s ten or so patrons had responded to this last-minute triumph with the expected whoops and hollers and more than a few elongated sighs of relief. A round of beers had been purchased by Big Otto Gunston, a fifty-something electrician renowned for the size of his walrus mustache, his arm-wrestler’s forearms, and his equally obvious paunch—and conversation had become a boisterous analysis of the game just won.

  “What we need is a quarterback who can run the damn football,” Gary Leach groaned at Eddie Apollo as the taproom’s owner punched the TV remote, darkening the set and silencing the professional analyzers. “The old ticker can’t take too many games like this. What are they trying to do? Murder me before Christmas?” For effect Leach pressed his cold beer to his chest, but everyone knew the gesture was purely for show. Unlike Big Otto, Gary was proud of his physique; he kept a set of dumbbells in his basement, and was always ready to try out a new high-protein or high-carb diet—as long as it didn’t mean eliminating the day’s closing ration of brewskis. “I mean, come on! Is this pro ball or what?”

  In answer, the other patrons merely hoisted their drinks, and the taproom drifted into momentary silence.

  The establishment was standard fare for rural Massachusetts: a collection of neon Budweiser, Coors, and Miller signs decorating the walls and windows; a parking lot within easy view; and queued up on the gravel, a small line of pickup trucks. The bar at Eddie’s Elbow Room seated fifteen, but was never filled to capacity—except for the World Series, Super Bowl, and Stanley Cup. Beyond the bar sat eight tables with checkered plastic tablecloths and beyond that, the k
itchen. Laminated menus were wedged between shakers containing salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. The menus offered up hamburgers, French fries, grilled cheese sandwiches, et cetera—all prepared and served by Eddie’s wife, Tina, a woman with coal black hair and the kind of figure not normally found in Taneysville.

  Nearly every man, no matter his age, upon his first visit to Eddie’s would misinterpret the relationship, and make a pass at Tina. This was a great source of entertainment for the regulars, since Eddie stood well over six feet tall and was no slouch when it came to muscle. Occasionally the regulars would draw straws to determine who would get to enlighten the neophyte as to his imminent demise. And Eddie would play into the game by standing with his massive arms folded across his chest and a brutal expression on his face. In reality, he was a bit of a “gentle giant” and would enjoy the show as much as anyone.

  “The Pats need a QB like that guy Philly’s got,” Gary continued. “What’s his name?” It was a rhetorical question; no one bothered to answer.

  Like most of the customers at the bar, Gary Leach was a local craftsman—a mason—who’d been unable to secure work on the renovation of the old Quigley place. The same held true for nearly all the men at Eddie’s on this particular evening, and the subject of the renovations and additions was a sore topic with every one of them—but a subject that was bound to come up sooner or later—and more often on a football night, because the Patriots’ current placekicker just happened to be named Quigley as well.

  “Run the ball?” Stu Farmer laughed. “I’d be happy if the bum learned how to throw the ball. Four intercepts? Come on, where’s that come from? If it wasn’t for the Toe and his three-pointers, we would a been shut out fourteen-zip.” Like Big Otto, Stu was also an electrician. He was twenty-one years old, gangly as a string bean, and had lived in the environs of Taneysville all his life. His source of pride—as well as a good deal of needling from the denizens of Eddie’s Elbow Room—was a blond ponytail that fell halfway down his back. Technically, Stu was Big Otto’s assistant, but that was only when work was good; when it wasn’t Stu picked up what odd jobs he could—and slept in his truck when he couldn’t make rent. By referring to the Patriots’ placekicker as “the Toe,” rather than Quigley, he’d hoped the conversation would stay with football for a while longer. No such luck.