Eden Hill (2 page)

Fourteen years. It had been a good marriage, hadn’t it? He tried hard, but he was beginning to understand that Mavine might want more. Ticky nudged his leg, just as he came to the questions on page forty-six.

Question One: Has your husband been working long hours at a boring career?
Mavine had placed a check mark by this one. Boring career? He ran a simple but good service station. Of course the hours were long
 
—Mrs. Crutcher’s Buick had needed a full ring job and seals to boot. Welby, his mechanic, had worked with him on the engine, but he’d not made it home until after nine several nights running. Virgil let his finger fall to the line at the bottom where she had kept score. The question was a big one, worth
twenty-five points for the right answer. Mavine’s answer scored a mere five.

Question Two: How long has it been since you and your husband have had an intimate romantic dinner together?
She had checked (c), “six months or more.” This didn’t make sense at all, because Mavine had cooked a full meal almost every night of their entire married life. Not counting last night’s chicken meat loaf disaster, it couldn’t have been more than two days. Three at the most. Five points.

Question Three: How long has it been since you and your husband have had marital relations?
This was really puzzling. She’d checked (b), “two weeks or more” and then erased it and changed it to (c), “one month or more.” Her mother had spent most of last Sunday afternoon at their house
 
—perhaps Mavine had forgotten. Besides, her other relations visited way too often. Or could the question be asking about . . .
tha
t
?

The rest of the questions all had something to do with romantic encounters or expensive restaurants or the like, and Dr. LaMour’s reasoning became harder to follow. A trip to somewhere exotic? Zero. Celebrating an anniversary? Another zero. Mavine had checked off several more questions and come up with a score of thirty-five, which, according to Dr. LaMour, meant “better stir the coals and check the pilot light.” Whatever that meant. Pilot lights weren’t for coal fires, anyhow. Besides, this whole article came down to Dr. LaMour’s opinion, which said Mavine ought to be unhappy with him and who he was. He backed up a step and almost tripped over Ticky.
Who does this Betty LaMour think she is,
anyway? And what gives her the right to give my wife these kinds of ideas?

Virgil scratched his chin again. He and Mavine had both worked hard at making a life and a family, only to be told by some sleazy woman in a cheap magazine that it wasn’t enough. They had a solid marriage, a fine son, and a comfortable life, didn’t they? In Eden Hill, that meant far more than caviar and sailboats.

By now, his emotions had all boiled down to one: anger. Not at Mavine, but at Betty LaMour. Let this marriage counselor come here from New York City for a day or two, eat supper at their house, stay the night, and smell the wood smoke and country ham the next morning. Maybe even enjoy some of Mavine’s biscuits and bacon. Though she’d have to skip any of Mavine’s attempts at new recipes. Betty LaMour would see what life together was all about.

He was a good man, and this was a good place. He and Osgood’s took care of decent people, the salt of the earth. The grocery on the corner did the same, with Grover Stacy and his wife, Anna Belle, offering ample provisions to the folks of the community, together with ample supplies of cold-cut sandwiches, ice cream, overalls, and flypaper. There was Willett’s Dry Goods with clothing and fabric, and three churches. Three
fine
churches. Filled every Sunday with wonderful country people who’d give a person the high-bibs right off their backs. Farms and stores, tradesmen and everyday folks. Eden Hill may not be much, but it was everything that New York City could only dream about.

With that thought and another nudge from Ticky, Virgil
tucked the
Pageant
into his coat pocket and returned to reality. He’d ask his mechanic, Welby, about it later. Welby and Alma had been married upwards of thirty years; surely he’d have some insight.

Virgil’s coffee mug was empty again, so he must have paused and pondered for longer than he thought. No matter, Welby would certainly have a fresh pot brewing when he arrived.

“Let’s go, Ticky.” He bent down to scratch the dog’s ears. “Folks’ll be coming by to see us soon.” The mid-November sun had now risen above the horizon, bathing the fields with twilight. Somewhere a tractor started with a rumble, and a truck stopped on Front Street, its brakes squeaking. Sounds of life
 
—good life. He and Ticky walked the rest of the way down the hill to Osgood’s, and Virgil opened the side door just as the sun cleared the clouds and touched the porch of the old house behind him. Another day had begun in little Eden Hill. Farms needed tending, stock had to be fed, and cars and trucks would soon show up to purchase gasoline and service.

He’d get back to the
Pageant
tomorrow, or the day after that. He had work to do.

“Hello, Virgil!” A man in faded khaki coveralls stood up awkwardly from the front tire of a little two-tone Nash Metropolitan, having put the last squeaky twist on a lug nut. “How’s the boss today?” A small but sturdy man of fifty-five,
Welby, limping slightly, the result of a childhood bout with polio, crossed to greet Virgil.

“Just fine!” Virgil grinned. At least Welby, fifteen years his senior, seemed to be on his side this morning. The work may be hard, but here at the service station, Virgil always knew what to expect.

Virgil worked his way through the smells of motor oil and Monkey Grip until he located the aroma of fresh coffee drifting from a large pot on the workbench. His thinking was still hazy, and his mug was empty. At least one of these situations could be easily remedied; Welby brewed ten cups at a time. “Is Mr. Willett’s car about ready to go?”

“Yep. Just need to check the brakes. He’ll be coming by at lunchtime to pick it up.”

“That’ll be fine.” Perhaps he and the world were indeed just fine. By now, Welby’s joyful demeanor and a full mug of steaming black java had lifted his spirits.

“Welby, I’ve got a question for you.” He’d just reached for the
Pageant
when a decrepit truck coughed into the front lot, rattling and squeaking its brakes.

“Arlie?” The sound of the ancient vehicle was distinctive and unmistakable.

“Mornin’, folks.” A disheveled but cheerful Arlie Prewitt met them at the front door. He wore a denim jacket over his union-made bib overalls, which looked as though they served as work pants, sportswear, and probably pajamas. “No gas today, just some Nabs.” Arlie selected a cellophane package from the Tom’s rack and dropped his quarter into the small can alongside with a noisy clang.

“Where are you going, Arlie?” Welby wiped his hands on a shop rag. He needn’t have asked. There was only one place the farmer would be going this early in the morning without a hog in the back of his truck: the lake.

“Fishin’. Wanna go?” Arlie had often said he’d rather fish than eat, and he enjoyed eating very much. “Last good day of the year, probably. I got my boy Frank up early to feed the sows so I could go. Sure hope he doesn’t hit anything with the old John Deere.”

“Sorry, Arlie, but we’ve got too much work to do today.” Virgil truly was sorry; he enjoyed fishing almost as much as his friend. “Let us know what you catch.”

“I’ll bring it by and show you! By the way, did you fellows see the sign?”

“Sign?” Virgil looked at Welby, who shook his head.

“Across the road. Sun’s up, so you can see for yourself. Gotta go now, ’cause they won’t be bitin’ all day.”

“Well, have fun. And tell Lula Mae that Vee will definitely read his Sunday school lesson tonight.”

“I’ll do it. See ya.” Without further explanation, Arlie stuffed the package into one of his many pockets and climbed into the truck, which spat forth dark black fumes, ground its gears, and rumbled into the already-smoky morning.

The two stared in silence for a long time as Arlie’s truck growled into the distance. Welby spoke first. “I’ll be. What do you make of that?”

The sign, new and freshly painted, stood in the vacant lot across the road from Osgood’s.

FOR SALE: 1.32 ACRE(S)
 
—COMMERCIAL POTENTIAL
 
—
150 FOOT FRONTAGE
 
—
WELL WATER
 
—
IDEAL FOR SERVICE STATION
OR STORE

Underneath were the name and telephone number of a real estate firm in nearby Quincy.

Virgil’s shaking hand lost what was left of its steadiness, sloshing coffee onto his shoes. Stable and secure had just flown out the window and headed for the treetops.

M
AVINE SAT
at the dinette for a long time, staring at the soiled dishes and silverware scattered about the counter. The morning hadn’t gone at all the way she’d hoped. Was Virgil right, and was the
Pageant
article just a lot of foolishness? Her husband had seemed bewildered by her question. After all, the man was nothing if not practical. Could the question be important to her, but wrong to ask Virgil?

Out of habit, she turned the radio back on.
Town Talk
had already started, with the county extension specialist giving tips on choosing the freshest turkey and someone from the Rotary Club talking about their rummage sale. Poultry and used clothing were the furthest things from her mind this
morning. With a twist of a knob the Philco fell silent again, leaving the clock as her only distraction. She opened the hot water tap, found a clean dishrag, and shoved all the tableware into the sink with a clatter.

Dr. LaMour’s article had seemed to her both good and timely. The questions about romantic dinners and special evenings were a bit silly, she had to admit, but the part about working long hours had captured her interest. Virgil had been spending a lot of time down at Osgood’s lately. Sometimes he’d leave the house right after breakfast and not return until after supper. He’d always call, but working through lunch? And a few evenings last week, he’d gone back out after a quick TV dinner and not come home until nearly nine o’clock.

Of course she trusted him. They’d met in grade school, when Virgil was ten and she was eight. Because he had started school late and had repeated a year, they found themselves in the same class. He was handsome and kind, and by the time they were in the eighth grade, she was smitten. When war came and he’d joined the Army, he’d promised to write every week and return to Eden Hill and marry her. Promises he’d kept.

They had a fine son
 
—the spitting image of his father
 
—and they had never wanted for a place to live or food on the table.

But she also respected her friend Gladys. They’d been in the same class all through school, and while Gladys might exaggerate now and then, she knew a lot about marriage
 
—make that
marriages
 
—and how wedded bliss could become wedded bust. Her kidding was good-natured, of course, but
she’d sent the
Pageant
home with Mavine and mentioned she ought to show it to Virgil.

Things had definitely gone wrong for Gladys. Her first husband divorced her some years ago. All she would say was that things didn’t work out. “Don’t let it happen to you,” Gladys had said.

No, whatever might be going on, Virgil would never do anything like that. Mavine knew her husband. He’d never had a secret, and wouldn’t be able to keep one anyway.

She dried the last item, her blue Fiesta biscuit plate, and glanced again at the clock. The hands on the dial had moved much more than she had expected, and the sun was now pouring in the window over the sink. Monday was laundry day, and Vee’s blue jeans and Virgil’s work khakis were piled in the basket on the back porch. Clothes needed to be cleaned, and housework couldn’t wait any longer.

She started the water to fill the tub on the Maytag and picked up a pair of tan pants from the pile. As Virgil could be absentminded, she felt all the pockets for ballpoint pens and loose change. The texture was warm and familiar, gentle and well-worn. Yes, she could trust the man she’d married.

But Virgil
did
seem caught off his guard, defensive and irritated. Like a fox caught in the chicken coop.

Reverend Eugene Caudill sat on the edge of his bed, still dressed in his pajamas and slippers. He’d slept in until almost seven and was getting a late start. Last night’s sermon on
repentance had taken almost an hour, and followed the half-hour Sunday night hymn time that his song leader, Toler, had managed to drag out to forty-five minutes. After covering up the baptistery and turning down the furnace, he’d made it to bed sometime after eleven. Much later than he liked.

The framed photo next to the alarm clock drew his gaze, as it did every morning. Their framed wedding picture, hand-colored like they did in those days. Louise had been so beautiful in her long gown, and he looked confident and hopeful in his dark suit. His hair had been the coal black of his Scottish ancestors then, and her smile showed no hint of the weakened artery that would suddenly burst just four years later. The church had been very supportive, of course, and had helped him through the loss, though he’d nearly given up his pastorate to pursue something else. So his recent sermon series on marriage had been somewhat uninformed; even he recognized that. How should he know enough to preach on marriage when he had been widowed for twelve years? He still missed her dearly, and some days he wished he had resigned.

But he was a pastor, called to preach and to shepherd this flock. With effort, he struggled to his feet and made his way to the kitchen to start breakfast. The teakettle had just begun its low whistle when the phone rang. He turned off the gas flame as the telephone jangled a second time. The caller could wait.

He took a cup and saucer from the cupboard, arranged them on the counter, and answered the phone on the fifth ring. “Good morning, Madeline.” The day would
be a total waste unless Mrs. Madeline Crutcher called to raise Cain about something, and she rarely disappointed. Behind schedule, too; his phone usually rang at six in the morning.

The old woman was already in midsentence: “. . . selling the church’s property! Where is the vision? Why was I not consulted?” The elderly widow was red in the face, something he could tell even over the telephone.

“And,” she continued after a deep breath, “where will I park my Buick?”

He poured the boiling water into the cup with his free hand. “Madeline, the church didn’t, doesn’t, and won’t need the vacant lot. What it
does
need is a new roof, and offerings are down. My vision’s fine, thank you very much. You weren’t consulted because you didn’t need to be. You’ll probably park your car in my space at the church like you do now. And furthermore, Madeline, how well are you keeping up on your stewardship pledge for this year?”

Mrs. Crutcher said something about her elite heritage and then questioned his own and hung up. Reverend Caudill shook his head and reached into the cabinet for a tin of Tetley and a Goody’s headache powder. The week was not off to a good start.

He swirled his tea bag in the steaming water and then added the contents of the little foil pouch. As his cup began to turn cloudy, an alarming thought occurred to him. Could the woman possibly be right, and he and the board wrong? The First Evangelical Baptist Church had bought the adjacent property for a possible parking lot after Canter’s feed
store burned to the ground back in fifty-eight. He’d turned out to watch the fire along with the rest of Eden Hill’s residents. Evangelist Lewis Pritchett, whom he’d brought to town for the church’s spring revival meeting, was never one to miss a divine opportunity. Standing on the roof of his Cadillac, he’d preached to the whole community on the terrors of hellfire, using a bullhorn he kept in his trunk for just such occasions. More than forty people had come forward, including Madeline Crutcher. She’d convinced the board that Divine Providence had made the land available, and the church needed to purchase the property. Very persistent. So they did just that, against his recommendation.

Eventually everyone realized they’d been had. Most people in Eden Hill walked to services, and those who didn’t parked on the grass or across the street at Osgood’s, which was closed on Sundays. The congregation had voted again last week and decided to sell the lot and use the proceeds toward repairs to the building’s aging roof. Reverend Caudill had called the real estate agency in Quincy and signed the papers. The agent had brought his sign late Sunday afternoon and set it up just back from the road.

Yes, it was the right thing to do. Absolutely. The aspirin in the medicine had begun to take effect, and the caffeine was helping to clear his foggy head. If
 
—when
 
—she called again, he’d tell her so.

The apostle Paul had a thorn in his flesh. Reverend Caudill had Mrs. Madeline Crutcher.