Eden Hill (13 page)

“Does he have anybody to encourage him, give him a boost?” The man was cleaning toilets during the week so he could preach on weekends? The thought boggled his mind.

“Mr. Stacy sits with him at lunch sometimes when the grocery isn’t busy, but that’s about it. Mr. Stacy is a very nice man, but he just doesn’t understand. Can’t understand.”

Reverend Caudill finished his sandwich, both troubled and challenged. Another widower, a minister of the gospel, discouraged just as he had been? Less than a block away,
and he’d done nothing to even meet the man, let alone offer . . .

“Brenda, have him call me.” Not finding a business card in his shirt pocket, he scribbled his telephone number on a small piece torn from the paper plate. “I think I
do
understand, and I’d like to meet with him sometime.”

Mavine was thrilled. Really and truly excited. Not only had Virgil remembered her birthday this year, he was taking her to dinner! An intimate romantic dinner, he’d said! All week long, she’d wondered about what to wear and how she’d look. Mavine had chores to finish during the day, but Gladys had managed to fit her in for a later appointment, so her hair would still be freshly done for the evening.

But it was her new outfit that made her heart sing. She’d taken Virgil’s suit to Willett’s Dry Goods to have it sent out for cleaning, and had seen the dress on the very end of the women’s wear rack. Unlike the usual gaudy prints and muted ginghams Mr. Willett usually carried, this one was a brilliant blue with a rose print, touches of velvet trim, and a lace collar. And it was on sale, and in her size! Almost. Mr. Willett had agreed to take it out a bit in the places where she needed it. She’d saved some of her egg money, and Virgil agreed to let her put the balance on their account.

Gladys seemed happy when Mavine arrived. It was near closing time, and Gladys was finishing up with her last appointment.

“Right with you, Mavine, and happy birthday!” Gladys alternated between combs and brushes, spray and something out of a tube, and her customer sported a sparkling new ’do that swirled forward at the bottom, ending at a point near her chin. “How’s that look?”

The woman seemed pleased with her style, wrapped her head in a scarf, and departed. Gladys cleared off her trays and brushed off the chair.

“Come on up, Mavine. Let’s see what we can do for your birthday date tonight.” The beautician was humming a tune as she collected her scissors and combs. Mavine hadn’t seen her friend in over a week and was quite startled by her joyous demeanor.

Mavine hung up her coat and climbed into the beauty chair as Gladys whistled something catchy and pleasant. Then Gladys did something quite unexpected. She spun Mavine toward her, leaned on the arms of the chair, and looked her right in the eyes.

“I told him,” she said.

“Told who what?”

“Tom. I told him everything I told you and Alma last week. About my Depression baby.”

“And?”

“Alma was right, of course. Tom gave me a great big hug and kiss and told me he loves me. And you know what else?”

Gladys had spun Mavine back around and tipped her head into the shampoo bowl. “Tom said he already knew; my ex-husband George told him. Said he’d never brought it up because all that was in the past and didn’t matter to him.”

“That’s wonderful! Sounds just like the forgiveness and grace Reverend Caudill’s been talking about at church.” She felt her hair being combed, rolled, and twisted as they continued to chat. “You and Tom really ought to come on Sunday, Gladys.”

“Used to a long time ago, Mavine. Never felt quite welcome there, like everyone was looking at me.” Gladys led her to the dryer chair. “Besides, isn’t church for good people? Like you and Virgil?”

“It’s for everybody, Gladys.”

Gladys sighed. “That’s just what Alma and Welby said.” She placed the dryer hood over Mavine’s head and resumed her whistling.

It seemed like only a couple of minutes when the timer on the dryer clicked and Gladys stood by her, still humming. “Time for your comb-out, Mavine.”

The last part of her styling took only a minute or so, with Gladys pulling out bobby pins and tossing them into a basket. “Sit still for a minute, Mavine. I’ve got something for you.”

Something for her?

Gladys fetched a small box and opened it, revealing an assortment of cosmetics. She laughed, her eyes twinkling. “Avon calling!”

Before she could say anything, Gladys had dipped a small brush into something in the box and was dusting it onto Mavine’s face. Lipstick and a couple of other items followed, and then a final flourish with the brush.

“Ta-da!” Gladys gave her customer’s chair a spin facing the mirror.

Mavine couldn’t believe her eyes. The woman in the mirror looked utterly transformed.

“Oh my, Gladys. I can’t believe this! You’ve done an incredible job.” While she’d used a tiny bit of makeup in the past, she wasn’t sure if someone forty years old should look quite this good.

“Virgil doesn’t know what he’s in for tonight.” Gladys laughed. “Okay, Mavine, off you go to your date. Just watch the lipstick when you get dressed.”

She reached for her purse. “What do I owe you, Gladys?”

“Not a thing, Mavine. It’s your birthday, remember? And besides, you and Alma have given me so much more than you know.”

Mavine hung Virgil’s suit and dress shirt on the hanger on the porch, as he was coming back early to change clothes. She dressed upstairs in their bedroom. Vee had gone to spend the evening with Welby and Alma, who promised to bring him back after Virgil and Mavine’s special night out.

The dress was a tight fit, even after Mr. Willett’s alterations, but she could make do with it. She’d covered her mouth with a tissue when she put it on, so as not to get any of her fresh makeup on it, and looked in the mirror. Virgil would be more than pleased. Her purse wasn’t a close match, but it went fine with the dress and the shoes, so she went
downstairs to meet her husband. His expression was everything she’d hoped for.

“Mavine, you look absolutely beautiful!” His tie was crooked, and he shifted awkwardly in his suit, but he was ready for their dinner date.

“You look pretty good yourself.” She smiled, and her heart beat a bit faster. Yes, this was going to be a special birthday.

They drove into Quincy, turning left at the main intersection. Another left turn, then a right, and they pulled into a parking space.

“Here we are, Mavine.”

“Here we are? Virgil, are you sure this is the right place?”

“Yes, it is. I called ahead and made reservations.”

Mavine looked around. The place advertised
Dine in or carry out
with a large neon sign, and as she stepped out a young girl passed her, carrying a tray to a waiting auto. A cartoonish figure in checked overalls stood in front of the door, holding high a sandwich on a tray, and a jukebox somewhere was playing something with a beat.

Virgil held the door for her as they entered. She walked inside in a daze. The place was filled with young patrons eating with their fingers and slurping milkshakes.

“We’ve been expecting you, Mr. and Mrs. Osgood.” A young man, twenty-five or so, led them down rows of booths into an empty area at the back. Dimly lit and almost hidden, a table with two chairs was tucked in a small alcove. “Here you are.”

The waiter held the chair for Mavine and seated her gently into place. Virgil plopped into the seat across from
her. They were each given menus with colorful pictures of the offerings for the evening.

She looked at the menu in some disbelief, and then at Virgil with astonishment. How could she tell her friends about her birthday, which turned out to be celebrated . . . here?

When the waiter returned, Virgil ordered the same meal for each of them. Something called a Big Boy platter: a double-decker cheeseburger with fries and a milkshake. The house specialty, the young man had said. Mavine kept her hands in her lap, her gaze fixed on the mustard stain beside the pepper shaker.

After the waiter had gone, she lifted her eyes toward Virgil, with a tear working its way out in sadness, disappointment . . . anger, maybe. She wasn’t sure.

And then something amazing happened.

“Happy birthday, Mavine.” Virgil had somehow pulled two candles and holders from a pocket in his suit, and lit them with a match. “I hope this is intimate and romantic enough. I’m sorry if I don’t know exactly what that means, but I hope this is something you’ll enjoy. Welby said this was his favorite restaurant in Quincy.”

In the candlelight she looked at her husband. There was something tender and innocent about his face. “It’s lovely,” she said. No, it wasn’t white tablecloths and seven courses, but it was her birthday with her husband, who cared enough about her to take her to dinner.

Later, Virgil gave her a little wrapped box with a pair of gloves inside. And the waiter brought a modest cake with a
small number of candles
 
—nowhere near forty. Before they left, Virgil put a dime in the jukebox and played “Crazy” twice in a row. And he held her hands, just like they used to do when they were first married.

Patsy Cline wasn’t a string quartet, but for Mavine Osgood, a double cheeseburger and fries might just as well have been truffles and caviar.

C
ORNELIUS SHOOK HIS HEAD
and drummed his fingers on the only clear spot on his messy desk. He’d agreed to something called “Work Day” at the First Evangelical Baptist Church, and while it felt right, he was trying to figure out why. And where had he seen something like this before? The Zipco manual was somewhere under the Goodyear catalog and the overdue electric bill. Tossing the papers aside, he found the thick notebook and began flipping through it. Yes, there it was in black-and-white, right in chapter four: “Community Relations.”

“The successful Zipco owner will involve himself in his community. Join a civic club, support youth activities, sponsor
a Little League team, and become involved in a local church or synagogue.” Yes, he’d made the right decision. And the church was certainly local
 
—right next door, in fact. They were neighbors. Hopefully JoAnn would be pleased with him for this. And he certainly hadn’t given her much to celebrate lately.

Reverend Caudill had been persistent; he’d give him that. The pastor had paid several visits to the station, checking on progress, which remained at a standstill. He’d also come by their mobile home a couple of times and had encouraged them to visit on Sundays. But in spite of the pastor’s invitation, he remained wary. His father held a poor opinion of preachers, a viewpoint Cornelius had no doubt inherited. Only in it for the bucks, he’d said.

This particular reverend certainly didn’t seem that way. A bit stuffy in his black suit, but friendly and agreeable. A good neighbor. Disarming. And he’d never mentioned money. Not even once.

But he had talked about
service
. Work Day was tomorrow, and a number of the men of Eden Hill would be coming, he’d said during his visit earlier today. “And bring a paintbrush,” he’d added in parting, peering over the top of his bifocals.

Virgil usually looked forward to Fridays, and this one was promising indeed. Three cups of Mavine’s black coffee had cleared any lingering cobwebs, and the double helping of scrambled eggs and bacon from her iron skillet would hold him until at least noon. Vee was actually out the door on
time
 
—and remembered to close it behind him
 
—and a fresh pair of khaki work trousers hung taut on their stretcher. All was right with the world.

Until Mavine sat down across the table from him.

“Virgil?”

He gulped and looked around. “Yes?”

“The chicken coop. Will you please paint it? I got the eggs this morning, and I was ashamed of what it looked like. You promised to fix it up last fall, but you said it got too cold. Well, spring is here.”

He drew a long-overdue breath, grateful that his most recent failure involved only paint and a brush, not romantic flair. And he
had
promised. Winter had been cold, hard, and seemingly endless, but the snow had been gone for over two weeks now, and crocuses were beginning to poke up by the back porch. Buds had finally appeared on the trees, and patches of green were popping up in the brown yard. Mavine was right. But ashamed of a chicken coop?

“Okay, Mavine, I’ll do it next weekend if the weather holds.”

“Can you please do it tomorrow? Vee can help.”

“Tomorrow is church Work Day, and I promised Reverend Caudill I’d be there.”

Which he had. Every third Saturday in April was Work Day at the First Evangelical Baptist Church, when Reverend Caudill would round up every man he could find, pass out paint, hammers, and buckets, and see to it that whatever needed fixing was repaired. Grover would bring a radio and tune in
The Saturday Morning Gospel Barn
on WNTC, and
while the minister preferred hymns to twang, he wouldn’t complain as long as the work got done. Since the women stayed home, the men usually didn’t argue either.

Unfortunately for Virgil, this was not an acceptable excuse for Mavine. “As long as you have a paintbrush in your hand, you can put a coat on the henhouse after Work Day is over. I’ve already talked to Reverend Caudill. He said you’ll be finished right after lunch, and that you’ll have some help.”

Paintbrush? “I’d planned to try for some white bass at the lake with Welby. Spring run, you know.” He went for sympathy and found none. Mavine’s upturned eyebrow assured him that when he got home tomorrow afternoon, the outbuilding would be waiting, and so would she.

“Tomorrow.”

“But Welby
 
—”

“Welby will be digging up Alma’s flower beds tomorrow afternoon. I’ve already spoken with her too.”

“Okay, Mavine. I’ll paint the henhouse.” He sighed. It was a disappointment, but he took some comfort in knowing Welby was having the exact same conversation at that moment with Alma. With that, he put on his cap and headed down the hill.

Welby was already hard at work, as usual, and not alone. Arlie was at the station too, which was less usual
 
—Virgil expected him to be plowing his cornfield for spring planting, or more likely, fishing. Reverend Caudill was also there, no doubt hoping to recruit more workers for the next day. All three men were examining the back of Arlie’s truck, which had been in a fight with something and lost. The rear bumper was bent outward at a sharp angle.

“Frank hung it on a stump chasin’ that old brown sow of mine. Shoulda whupped him good,” Arlie was saying, “not for tearin’ up the truck but for runnin’ the hog. He knows better than that.”

“Patience, Arlie.” The pastor stood to one side to avoid an oily puddle. “Have you tried talking to the boy about his poor behavior?”

“I’ll talk to him about it with a belt behind the barn! That fool kid . . .”

Welby, under the truck with his feet sticking out, interrupted. “Arlie, your bumper was already bent, so don’t blame it on Frank. You’re going to need a new one. It doesn’t look like anything else is hurt, so I can bend that bracket back in shape with a torch and a pipe wrench.” He rolled his mechanic’s creeper out from under the truck.

“So I can count on each of you fine gentlemen tomorrow morning?” the pastor asked, looking at each one in turn. “We have just the sort of work to be done that you do so well.”

“What’s that, Reverend, bending metal? Arlie’s sure good at that, now.” Grover had wandered in unnoticed, munching on something wrapped in a paper napkin.

“Hey, fellows, it
is
my truck, and I’m gonna have to pay for it.” Arlie was red in the face, but his language was surprisingly restrained. Apparently Reverend Caudill’s presence kept the color out of Arlie’s speech.

“Just kidding, Arlie.” Grover wiped his mouth with the remainder of the napkin. “Stop by the store for some venison sausage when you’re done. Anna Belle baked some biscuits to go with it. On the house!”

Reverend Caudill, who was not about to allow his question to be dodged successfully, repeated it as a statement. “So. I will expect all of you good men to be at the church at nine o’clock. Sharp. And Virgil?”

“Yes?” Virgil had been standing by the arc welder, watching the proceedings and slurping his coffee.

“Bring a paintbrush. A big one. I’ve already talked to Mavine.”

“Best I can tell,” said Welby, munching on a pepper loaf sandwich, “the women just have it in for us.”

“How’s that?” asked Virgil, reaching for the jar of mustard. The two had walked over to Stacy’s Grocery for lunch and were relishing thick-sliced lunch meat with all the trimmings.

“None of them will be at Work Day. Alma said it’s because we do repair work much better than the women, and besides, they’ve just had their hair done and don’t want to get it all messed up.”

“Are they going to mop floors with their hair?” Grover pulled up a third chair as everyone laughed. “I think they just don’t want us showing them up. You boys want some of that venison sausage? Anna Belle has some left over.”

Welby assumed a nauseated look and waved his hands, while Virgil said simply, “No, thanks. Mavine piled on the bacon this morning, so I barely have room for lunch. By the way, where is Anna Belle?”

“Oh, she’s off to the beauty shop like the rest of them this afternoon. Got a lot to talk about when they all get together.”

Welby, who was beginning to show some color coming back into his face, seemed eager for the change of subject. “Probably talking about us, just like we talk about them on Thursday nights. Must have something to do with hair, I think.”

“You may be right,” Virgil brushed crumbs off his shirt. “Well, I’ve been given my marching orders for tomorrow. Painting something. What will you two be doing?”

“Reverend Caudill wants me to see about the motor on the furnace blower,” said Welby. “He said it squeaks at him during the sermon and it gets too cold if he turns it off. How about you, Grover?”

“Well, for some reason he thinks I’m just the one to clean out the gutters. Said he saw me on the roof putting up Anna Belle’s decorations last Christmas, so he knows I have a ladder. What he doesn’t know is that I was hanging on to it for dear life. We’re also going to bring over some cold cuts at lunchtime. Have to eat, you know.”

“You reckon Arlie’ll come this year?” Virgil asked.

They all looked at each other. “Hard to say.” Grover peered out the window. “You know how he gets sometimes.”

Reverend Caudill was the first to arrive for Work Day, and he headed straight for the sanctuary to turn up the thermostat by the baptistery. The ogre in the basement was a
terrifying thing
 
—an old coal furnace that had recently been converted to fuel oil. Fortunately, the pilot light was burning, so it came on as soon as he adjusted the dial. Good
 
—the less time spent belowground the better. More than once, his Sunday sermon had been inspired by an unpleasant trip to the cellar. Few in the congregation knew the reverend’s heated homily last year about the three Hebrew children in the fiery furnace had been brought on by a balky and terrifying pilot light. Well. Inspiration is wherever you find it.

Welby walked in carrying a large box, followed by Virgil, whose hands were also full. “Welby, why don’t you go on down to the furnace room and see what you can do about the blower. I’ll just stay up here. It’s scary down there.”

“That’ll be fine,” answered Welby. “I brought some tools and an oilcan.”