Eden Hill (10 page)

The Glamour Nook was not crowded. Lula Mae Prewitt had brought her daughter, Darlene, for her yearly trim, and Anna
Belle Stacy, freshly coiffed and stiffly sprayed, had stayed to chat. Mavine looked around the room, particularly at the framed beauty school certificate hanging on the wall. One of her oldest friends, Gladys Blanford had run her beauty shop from the front of the little yellow house ever since she and Tom married, and before that she did hair out of her ex-husband George’s home when they lived across the road next to Welby and Alma. Mavine had always felt it led to their divorce, that George got tired of walking through the house in his boxer shorts to get a beer only to find some woman under the dryer in the hallway. Gladys would only say they were happier apart than they were together. That fact never quite showed in her face, but then again, few things did behind two coats of foundation.

Actually, Gladys always said that George had been the reason she was a beauty operator in the first place. And she told the story often. His job at the power plant had him away for long hours and left her looking for something to do. She’d taken a job in Quincy for a few weeks, but the long drive and the work at the five-and-dime didn’t suit her. She’d found a sixteen-week correspondence course from Mr. Timothy’s School of Hair Styling in Hollywood and signed up. Soon thereafter, she’d ordered the advanced course, which taught her how to do coloring and permanents, and came with tinfoil, rollers, and, when she graduated, an elegant embossed diploma.

Gladys opened the Glamour Nook, and most of the women of Eden Hill had become her customers. She was open on Fridays, and sold Avon and Tupperware the rest of
the week, but on slow days she would look over her latest lessons. Mr. Timothy had just opened a school of cosmetology, she’d said, and as a
preferred customer
, Gladys was eligible for his introductory offer. Soon she would offer manicures and pedicures along with the usual gossip. Mavine couldn’t wait
 
—her nails were a wreck.

Not surprisingly, Eden Hill’s newest residents were the topic of conversation.

“I hear she’s in the . . . family way, and due real soon,” Gladys was saying to Lula Mae while unbraiding Darlene’s pigtails. “Anna Belle, you and Grover might want to stock up on diapers and pins.”

“It’s no surprise at all.” Lula Mae hovered over the beauty chair, approving the beautician’s handiwork. “You know how the kids are these days, listening to Elvis and all that electric guitar music. Reverend Caudill says it makes you lose all your virtues. I won’t let Frank listen to the radio anymore.”

Gladys fumbled and nearly dropped the scissors onto the floor. “My husband, Tom, says her husband, Cornelius
 
—I think that’s his name
 
—seems like a decent fellow. Met him at the courthouse when he came by to fill out his tax registration. Supposed to start building soon, he says.” She removed the smock from Darlene and brushed the clippings from the girl’s neck.

“Well, I suppose the deputy sheriff ought to know. Thanks for fitting us in, Gladys. I never could cut her pigtails straight. Afternoon, Mavine. You too, Alma.” Lula Mae handed Gladys a couple of bills from her purse, then pulled her coat over her shoulders. “See you all next time!”

Gladys brushed off the chair by the shampoo bowl, readying the space for two of her most loyal customers.

Before long, both women were styled and curled. Mavine was still sitting under the dryer, and Gladys had teased her friend’s silver hair into a flattering style. Mavine had picked up the latest
Pageant
and was reading it when the dryer shut off.

“Mavine, let’s get you brushed out and ready to go.” Gladys helped her climb into the chair. “Doesn’t Alma look beautiful?”

Mavine returned Alma’s smile. “Indeed, she does.” Soon Mavine was finished, and smiling into the mirror herself. “You’ve done a wonderful job on both of us.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you both in two weeks. Mavine, you can take the new
Pageant
with you if you’d like.”

“No, thank you,” said Alma, taking the magazine from Mavine’s hands, tossing it onto the table, and ushering the younger woman to the door.

“Mavine, you certainly don’t need another of those magazines.” Alma fitted her scarf carefully around her fresh hairdo. “I suppose I’ll walk on home from here. Thank you for the lunch invitation.”

Mavine demurred. “It was your pot roast, Alma. I should be thanking you.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure. And just send the dish home with Welby anytime next week.”

“I’ll do that. Good-bye, Alma, and thanks for your advice.”

Alma smiled and started for her own little cottage just
across the street. Yes, her older friend’s counsel was good and trustworthy. She’d known Alma nearly as long as Virgil had known Welby, and she had deep appreciation for the woman’s friendship. A friendship that went far beyond sharing lunch on a cold Friday in January.

The roast? Virgil and Vee would likely eat the leftovers for Saturday’s lunch. Between the two, the pan would likely be licked clean and would only need a quick dunk in the sink with a splash of Lux Liquid to get it sparkling.

Dishwashing detergent? Oh dear. She was completely out, having used the last of it this morning. Fortunately, Stacy’s Grocery was right on her way home, and she could quickly stop in and still return in time to have the kitchen straightened up before Virgil returned. Her funds were low, but she had a dollar bill left
 
—enough for a squeeze bottle of the bright-pink dish soap.

Anna Belle was minding the counter when Mavine arrived, her hairdo still glued together from a fresh coat of Aqua Net. Not surprisingly, the store was quiet. Grover, clad in his usual greasy apron, was helping the only other customer retrieve an item from a top shelf at one side. She couldn’t see the woman clearly, nor did she recognize the voice.

The Lux was right on the shelf where she expected, near the Duz and the Oxydol. She also grabbed a loaf of butter-top bread
 
—Virgil’s favorite
 
—and a pound of packaged ground beef from the meat cooler. The total was well over a dollar, but with the change in her coin purse she could just make it. Tucking the bottle of detergent in her elbow, she walked around to the cash register. Grover spoke and waved
as he went back behind the meat counter; she could only nod without dropping something.

A young woman stood at the register, chatting with Anna Belle. Her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail. There were several items on the counter, including a tin of Spam, a jar of Tang, and some cans of beans.

“That’s two dollars and eighty-eight cents.” Anna Belle pulled back the handle on the register, ringing the bell and allowing the drawer to spring open.

The shopper rummaged in her worn handbag. “I’m . . . so sorry. I’m a bit short. I’ll put the pinto beans back.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Anna Belle slid the can into a paper bag along with the other purchases. “I think Grover put the peanut butter on sale this week, so you’ve got just enough.”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Stacy. We really appreciate it.”

Anna Belle handed her customer a few coins and the paper bag. “No problem at all. It’s been a delight to see you today. Oh, have you met Mavine Osgood?”

The woman turned and faced Mavine. Young. Pregnant. Exactly as Gladys had described her.

There was an awkward pause. The younger woman looked up and down before offering, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Osgood. I’m . . . JoAnn. JoAnn Alexander.”

Mavine felt a wash of emotion and a surprising chill. The armload of groceries needed both hands, so she merely nodded as she placed her purchases on the counter.

“Good to meet you . . . too.” She tried to smile. Tried very hard.

Anna Belle took the items from Mavine’s hands and lined them up. “JoAnn’s husband, Cornelius, will be running the new Zipco station.”

“So I hear.” Mavine looked for any sign of pleasure in JoAnn and found none. “When do you . . . expect to open?”

“Soon, Cornelius says.” JoAnn slung her own purse onto her shoulder, tucked the grocery bag under her opposite arm, and moved awkwardly toward the door. “Very soon . . . he says.”

Mavine wasn’t sure, but thought she saw a lump rise in JoAnn’s throat.

“I’ll get that for you, Mrs. Alexander.” Anna Belle had already stepped from behind the counter and opened the door.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stacy. And please thank Mr. Stacy for us as well.” JoAnn hesitated for a moment. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Osgood.”

Mavine, her hands finally free, gave a feeble wave.

The air that blew in was as cold as Grover’s meat freezer. Along with her attitude, she realized. So this was the competition. The woman seemed harmless enough, sad even. Beans and Spam? Yet Virgil had seemed worried about the Zipco station. And he probably was right. . . .

“Mavine?” Anna Belle was behind the counter again, and had already checked and bagged her groceries. “One dollar and seventy-six cents. You okay, Mavine?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” She handed over the dollar bill and squeezed the little coin purse for the balance. Nickels and pennies fell onto the counter, with one rolling off onto the floor.

“Sorry. I’m . . .”

“I’ll get it, Mavine.” Anna Belle scooped the coins into her hand, giving back a dime and a penny in change. “Why don’t you go get some rest before Virgil gets home. You look like you’ve had a long, hard day.”

“I think I will, Anna Belle.” Yet another hard day.

C
ORNELIUS WAS ENJOYING
his breakfast, a fine morning meal of his usual fried Spam and soft-scrambled brown eggs. JoAnn had learned to make good coffee, and his glass of Tang, while not quite orange juice, was tasty. She usually drank canned apple juice and ate bacon instead of the saltier canned meat that he preferred.

“Neil,” she said, “I’m so relieved the telephone is finally in. Just in case . . .” She spread her fingers on her expanding middle. “Just in case something were to happen.”

“Like what? The doctor says you’re doing just fine.”

“Well, I always worry.”

JoAnn worried really well. She worried about the baby;
she worried about their new service station; she worried their trailer would roll down the hillside into the creek. Someday, they’d build their dream house right here: a modern brick split-level with a front porch. But for now, be it ever so humble, this was home for Cornelius and JoAnn.

“Everything will be all right, JoAnn.”

“Promise?”

“Trust me.”

Cornelius was gratified to sit behind a real desk instead of their rickety dinette, even if the massive pile of papers in front of him still left him frustrated and unclear where to begin. He’d spent a full day back in early December arranging for a plumber, a septic tank specialist, an electrician, and the telephone company to take care of the details. These things were needed for both the mobile home and the business, of course, but no, it couldn’t be all done at once, they said. It seemed that the electrician had to arrange for a pole to be moved, the plumber and the septic man both had to dig ditches, and everybody expected to be paid on the spot. The building and the gasoline pumps couldn’t be built until everything else was in place, and a station with no building and no gasoline for sale was just a lot of bills, invoices, and bank notices. Which was precisely what he’d been looking at as the New Year dawned.

But now, at the end of January, and with another advance from the friendly Zipco people, he had a building, lights, hot water, and restrooms. And telephones. The gasoline pumps
and their underground tanks would still need to wait until a thaw, as the ground was now solidly frozen. He’d waited this long; what were a few more weeks? As long as he was open before the baby came, they’d be fine.

Today was his day to hire a mechanic, and a friend from high school was his prime candidate. Last he’d heard, the man had gotten married and moved to Quincy. Cornelius was reaching for the phone when it rang.

“Neil, it’s JoAnn. The toilet is leaking again and you need to fix it. Now. When an expectant mother has to go she has to go. Now.”

“Why don’t you come here and use the restroom at the station?”

JoAnn sighed. “Neil.” Her words were rapid and clipped. “Can we at least have a working toilet in our own home?”

“I’ll fix it. Yes, now.” Couldn’t at least one thing go right? He tossed the phone book on the desk, knocking several items to the floor. Why did he get the impression his reception at the pink trailer would be as cold as the draft that blew under his door?

Three hours, a shower, and a change of clothes later, the bathroom in their mobile home was patched but functional. He picked up the phone again and gave the operator the number for his old friend Wrenchy. Several rings later, Wrenchy’s wife, Janet, answered. No, Paul
 
—Cornelius had never known his given name
 
—wasn’t there right now, but
he was hoping to be out of prison on good behavior soon. Could Cornelius maybe call back in a few weeks? He wished them good fortune and hung up the phone.

It was now early afternoon, and he was hungry and tired. He’d lost the entire morning, and still had no mechanic, no parking lot, but only a pile of bills several inches thick on a used gray metal desk that no longer seemed quite the luxury it did just a few hours ago. At least the place had a roof, and he had heat from the bottled gas stove in the corner. Whatever. He might as well go home and check on JoAnn and have some lunch.

He jumped at the knock. It wouldn’t be JoAnn
 
—she would call first. “Come in!”

The door opened slowly to a tall, slender woman clutching a purse. Behind her, and somewhat shorter and less imposing, stood a stocky and balding man holding a brown grocery sack with a slight stain on the bottom. The apron he wore was blowing about in the chilly January air, and looked as if it may have been white at one point but hadn’t been washed in weeks. The woman was first to speak.

“Hello! You must be Mr. Alexander?”

Cornelius hesitated for a moment, and then remembered Customer Relations 101 from business school
 
—and page thirty-four of the Zipco handbook. “That’s right, Cornelius Alexander. The Third. My wife calls me Neil, but you may call me Cornelius. Please come in.” He stood and reached for her offered hand, wondering how they had learned his name.

“I’m Anna Belle Stacy, and this is my husband, Grover. I
 
—we
 
—run Stacy’s Grocery up on the corner. We’ve met
your wife, JoAnn, but we’d like to welcome you to Eden Hill as well, Mr. Alexander.”

“Thank you.” Grover and Anna Belle, wasn’t it? The woman was pleasant enough, smartly attired in a light-blue tailored suit. Her husband, who had yet to speak, was at least smiling.

Anna Belle continued, “We have a little gift for you and JoAnn to help you feel at home. If there’s anything we can do to make this time easier for you, just let us know.”

Grover held out the bag, still smiling. “I hope you like venison biscuits. We have more back at the store.”

Cornelius managed another smile, thanked them kindly, and took the greasy bag from Grover’s outstretched hand.

“We’ll be going along now,” said Anna Belle, “but do come see us at the store sometime. JoAnn told us about your upcoming new arrival. Congratulations to you both!”

“Thank you.” Cornelius nodded and waved, but they were already gone. He looked at the bag of venison biscuits and whatever else it was and placed one hand beneath it to catch a drip before it landed on his trousers. The liquid looked like motor oil. Maybe this Grover fellow was selling this stuff wholesale to that rinky-dink service station across the street . . .

Across the street!
He set the bag on a shop towel, wiped his hands on another, grabbed his coat and hat, and hurried out.

“Name’s Welby, Mr. Alexander, just Welby. I saw Grover and Anna Belle over at your place. I hope they made you feel welcome here in Eden Hill.”

“Please just call me Cornelius, Welby. And the Stacys were very warm indeed,” he offered. “In fact, in a roundabout way, they suggested I come over. I noticed you had just finished with a customer and thought I might have a chat with you.”

“Me? How can I be of help to you, Mr. Alexan . . . Cornelius?”

“You’re the mechanic here?”

“That’s right. Have been for years.”

“Then I’d like to make you an offer.”

“An offer?” Welby wiped his hands on a rag. “And what would that be?”

“I’d like you to come and work for me at the new Zipco Super Service. You’d be working for a nationally recognized brand, with the possibility of advancement. I’ll offer a week’s paid vacation and a competitive salary
 
—and we provide Zipco uniforms complete with a hat.”

Welby smiled. “Why would I leave Virgil? I’m very happy here, and I can take off and go fishing on a nice day if I want to. I can even take Vee Junior with me.”

“I’ll pay you 25 percent more than what Mr. Osgood is paying you. I need a good mechanic like you.”

Welby grinned. “Well, I’m not sure you know how much that is, but Virgil has always taken good care of me, just like his father before him. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Alexander, but I’ll just stay with Virgil.”

“Will you think about it?”

“Already did. You seem like a fine man, Mr. Alexander, but Virgil and Mavine and Vee Junior are like family to Alma
and me. I hope you’ll have family like that someday. Is there something else I can help you with?”

Cornelius hadn’t expected
this
, and it took him several seconds to manage a courteous smile. “Well, thanks anyway.” As an afterthought, he added, “Would you by chance have a half-inch bolt to fit a toilet flange?”

“No, we’re fresh out. Sorry. You might check at the tractor shop on the other side of town. They carry a line of hardware. Farm equipment, you know.”

Virgil cleaned a spot on the front window of Osgood’s with a shop towel. The dirt wouldn’t give up willingly, so he used the same spray bottle he used on windshields. Several pulls of the trigger later, and the grime relaxed its grip and came off on the cloth. No customer was at the pump, but Welby was having a long and extended conversation with someone. The glass still wasn’t as transparent as he’d like, but he could make out some details.

Welby was speaking to a younger man; seemed to have a ducktail haircut. After the conversation, the man walked across the road to the Zipco station and opened the front door.

Cornelius Alexander. Why had he been talking to Welby? Was he spying? Trying to find a crack or two in Osgood’s armor?

He’d heard of such things. As soon as the old feed store lot was sold last fall, Virgil called his Army buddy Mac, who
ran a service station up in a city a couple of hours away. He’d run into him at a convention several years back, and Mac had been through a rough stretch. Three different stations in as many years, all of which had failed. “Competition nearly put me under,” he’d said. “Don’t let the other guy even get near you.”