Eden Hill Page 11

  “Yes.” His grin was less strained this time. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Excellent!” Reverend Caudill beamed and named the date. “Thank you. I must be going now.”

  “You’re welcome, Reverend.” JoAnn nodded, her delight evident.

  The pastor turned as he opened the door. “And Cornelius?” His eyes twinkled. “Church is exactly where you belong.”

  “OKAY, WELBY, I need your advice.” Virgil took off his cap to scratch his head, vaguely noticing that his hairline was farther back than it used to be. “You and Alma have been married for what, over thirty years?”

  “Thirty-two in August.”

  “I’ve been trying to compliment Mavine lately, and I’m still in the doghouse. Even when I try to do the right thing, it never seems to fix the problem. It only makes it worse.”

  “You’re thinking like a repairman, Virgil.” Welby had returned to a disassembled carburetor on his workbench. “Logically.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Welby peered toward the rafters a moment before continuing. “It’s like this: we find out what’s wrong with cars, and we make it right. If they’re low on gasoline, we fill them up. If the brakes squeak, we put in new parts. If the oil’s dirty, we change it. Find the problem and fix it.” He held up a broken spring. “Right?”

  “Well, yes. My father, H. C., and the Army both taught me that. What are you getting at?”

  “It took me a long time to learn this, Virgil, but women aren’t like cars and trucks. Men aren’t either, for that matter. They don’t always tell us where they’re hurting or why. Sometimes I think they don’t know themselves.”

  Welby selected a shiny new spring from a small metal parts box, and twisted it into place. “But I’ve found one thing that always seems to work, at least with Alma.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Leave that kind of thinking here at Osgood’s. When you go back up the hill to your house, you’re there to be a husband and father, not a service station operator. Try to find out what she wants most from you. Ask her outright, if you need to. It sounded to me like she feels she’s not getting enough attention and appreciation from you.”

  Virgil let those ideas sink in a bit. “And what about when we disagree?”

  “Well, part of loving Mavine is wanting the same things she wants. Take Vee, for instance. I’ll bet if you encourage Vee in his studies, it’ll mean as much to Mavine as if you did it just for her. Maybe he’s meant to go to college.”

  The words were painful, but as soon as he heard them, Virgil knew they were also the truth. “So, how do I fix it?”

  Welby chuckled. “Start by not trying to ‘fix it.’ People aren’t meant to be fixed; people are meant to be loved, Alma always says. Show her you love her, Virgil. Do something really nice for her.”

  “Like what?” Virgil poured a full mug of coffee, finishing off what was in the percolator.

  Welby had disappeared under the hood of a large Chrysler. “Does she have any special occasion coming up, like a birthday or anniversary?”

  Something clicked. “Her birthday is a week from today. But I’ve already gotten her a gift.”

  “Maybe the best gift is to spend some extra time with her. Just with her. Remember that magazine article you showed me a few months back? It was pretty silly, I’ll agree, but sometimes you find wisdom in the midst of foolishness.”

  The magazine. It was somewhere on his desk, having been back and forth from his coat pocket for the last couple of months. “Yes, I believe you can.”

  “Then there you are. Okay, let’s see if this thing will run. Start it up, Virgil.”

  He slid into the wide seat and turned the key. The engine started smoothly and settled into an easy idle.

  “Purring like a kitten.” He closed the hood with a gentle shove. “I’ll bet Mavine will be just as happy as this Chrysler.”

  He had to agree. But, he noted, the Chrysler did come with a service manual.

  Wives didn’t.

  The Pageant was where he remembered it, only turned upside down under a box of wiper blades. The paper clip still marked the page, and he stumbled through the article again. If he ignored the big words and just looked at Mavine’s answers to Betty LaMour’s questions, he began to see a pattern. Welby was right, of course. He’d not been a good husband. Not because he didn’t have good intentions, but simply because he didn’t know how. And he still didn’t. But he was going to do something out of the ordinary for her birthday.

  One of the questions had something to do with an “intimate romantic dinner.” He smiled. Well, if that’s what Mavine wanted, then he would do just that.

  His telephone directory was buried under the same heap as the magazine. Leafing through the yellow pages, he found what he was looking for. The restaurant answered the phone on the first ring. “I’d like to take my wife to dinner next Friday night. An ‘intimate romantic dinner.’”

  Reverend Caudill rolled another page out of the Underwood and laid it facedown on top of the stack. All morning long he’d sat in front of his typewriter, pecking at the keys and listening to the melting snow drip into a bucket by the window. Yes, it was Friday, but these were the final touches on his Sunday message, not the beginning. And this time he knew where the sermon was coming from and where it was going. For the first time in years, he was excited.

  It had been a good week—mostly. Madeline Crutcher had made her usual series of early morning phone calls, including one on Wednesday morning to let him know that she wouldn’t be at prayer meeting that night because of the weather, and again at the crack of dawn Thursday to apologize for not being there. He’d dug his car out of the snow by Tuesday so he could make his pastoral calls: Arlie had needed a visit after Frank had gotten into some kind of trouble at school, and one of his deacons was in the hospital in Quincy. The patient was going to be fine, but Reverend Caudill’s own nerves were shot from driving on the slippery road.

  And last night it snowed again, and this morning his Chrysler wouldn’t start. Just kept cranking until it let out one last groan and would budge no more. Welby and Virgil pushed it into Osgood’s, promising to have it back by the end of the day. Not a bad metaphor for his life over the last couple of years. His inner battery, his source of energy, had gone flat. But his whole outlook had been different of late. More pastoral encouragements, more counseling breakthroughs.

  He looked over at Louise’s sweet face, once again wishing she were with him—sitting across the room or puttering in the kitchen. But he noticed, instead of a tear on his cheek, there was a smile on his lips. And Louise’s smile in the picture looked a little brighter too. Why this had all happened he didn’t fully understand, but he was grateful.

  Perhaps it was his visits to the pink trailer next door. JoAnn had grown up in the church, he’d learned, and seemed to have some level of faith, but Cornelius was tougher to get a handle on. The man had been cordial enough but was wary and suspicious. What little interest he had in the church seemed more social than spiritual, almost like a business partnership. He was willing to attend with JoAnn, but he was doing so to please her.

  Well. God had brought Cornelius next door to him, almost like an assignment.

  He’d stopped in on the Alexanders several times, usually in the evening when he could catch them both at home. Nicodemus had come to Jesus at night, so why couldn’t Reverend Caudill take Jesus to them the same way?

  Or perhaps it was his Sunday afternoon conversations with Grover and Anna Belle. They often invited him for dinner after services, and he usually accepted. The couple had been his biggest supporters when Louise died and had said then that they’d always be there for him. Took him under their wings, built him up. Neither was a theologian or a pastoral counselor, but he knew exactly what the love of God looked like. A tall, take-charge grocery clerk dressed to the nines and a shy and hesitant meat cutter in a soiled apron.

  His growling stomach informed him that lunchtime had arri
ved, and his taste buds reminded him that he was not going to have another bowl of condensed tomato soup. Time for a trip to Stacy’s Grocery.

  The grocery was relatively quiet when Reverend Caudill arrived, and he soon remembered why. Grover and Anna Belle were on vacation, and not due back until tomorrow. Every year they spent a week in Florida with family. They’d miss at least one Sunday at church, so he’d have to find someone to do nursery duty. If the church had any children in the nursery, which right now they didn’t.

  Brenda, the young woman who helped out when the Stacys were gone, had the store all to herself.

  “Hello, Reverend. What might I do for you today?”

  “I know Grover isn’t here, but might I trouble you for a bologna sandwich? Brown bread, if you have any.”

  “Yes, sir. We don’t have fresh meat while Mr. Stacy is gone, but we do have cold cuts.” She sliced a chunk of the loaf with a large knife. “Anything on that?”

  “No, thank you.” As much as he liked his mustard and horseradish, he’d wait for another time to indulge. “What do I owe you, Brenda?”

  “No charge, Reverend.” She presented him the sandwich, cut in two on a paper plate with a pickle and a handful of chips. She motioned him to a seat. “Mr. Stacy’s instructions, sir.”

  “Well, thank you. I’m just a bit surprised.”

  “He does it for my father too.”

  “Your father. Is he a pastor?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s the preacher at the Pentecostal Holiness church. Brother Taggart. We meet at the old hardware store across from Willett’s Dry Goods.”

  Of course. He’d just not put it all together. Their church was best known for loud evening meetings that ran long, often with electric guitars and drums. Some said the place was often lit up well after midnight, with maybe twenty-five people there, sometimes dancing and shouting. It was also known for having both white and Negro participants, which Madeline Crutcher often pointed out.

  To him the worship style seemed improper and outrageous. But whites and Negroes together? Well. That sounded like what the church ought to be.

  And Brenda, her skin the color of his creamed tea, was gracious and endearing.

  “How’s your father doing?” It was small talk, and he knew it.

  No one else was in the store, so she came over toward his table, keeping a respectful distance. “To tell you the truth, Reverend, he’s very discouraged. It’s been a really hard year for him. He works full-time as a janitor at the elementary school in Quincy since the church can’t pay him anything. Mr. Stacy lets me help out here sometimes. Momma died several years ago, and I’m raising two little sisters.”

  “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 gi
ven 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.”