Eden Hill (4 page)

Virgil stood up and stepped to the doorway, where he could look across the road, scratching at his chin. A new sign was nailed over the old one.

COMING SOON
 
—
ZIPCO SUPER SERVICE STATION

Virgil was a practical man, not given to worry, and especially not prone to excitement. He did note, however, that his coffee cup was upside down and empty. He’d poured the contents down the front of his trousers. Again.

Virgil refilled his mug, then entered his small office off the storage room and took a seat. He had run Osgood’s since he and Mavine married back in ’48. A simple but sturdy concrete block building, the business featured a single gasoline pump in the front. Osgood’s sold only regular gasoline, a sensible motor fuel. Anyone fool enough to own a car that needed premium would just have to buy his gasoline somewhere else.

He’d never bothered with a name brand. The gasoline he sold was just fine, and as far as he was concerned it was Osgood’s. Old crazy Sam Wright used to say that Virgil made the fuel himself in a copper still, just like moonshine. The old men who played pinochle on the porch at Stacy’s Grocery claimed Virgil bought it secondhand from someplace in Louisville. Always good for a laugh. At any rate, he pumped it with a smile and checked every customer’s oil. Over time he’d added Reddy-Start batteries, Safe-T-Made tires, and most importantly his mechanic, Welby. But it was still a
service
station, without frills and without apology. After all, it was Osgood’s.

He stood up and stepped to the doorway, where he could look across the road. What was he so worried about? Whatever was going to be built in the vacant lot across the street, he could handle it.

Probably.

For the first time in a week, Mavine felt like her life was under control. The first load of clothes was clean, wrung out, and hanging to dry on the porch. The smell of bleach, while
distasteful, meant that Virgil’s white undershirts and socks would be clean and presentable. Vee’s jeans and plaid shirts were still grinding away in the Maytag, waiting for rinsing and a trip through the wringer. She’d turned the radio on, with the volume up loud enough to drown out the chugging of the washing machine.

She had begun working in the kitchen and listening to
Swap ’n’ Shop
on WNTC when Virgil came home for lunch. He slammed the door hard, which made the plates in the dish drainer rattle while she was trying to hear the phone number for the woman with the
Encyclopedia Americana
for sale. It was “. . . missing volume 1, A–Annuals, used very little.” Fortunately, the announcer repeated it, since the seller also had “. . . a crystal punch bowl and a wedding gown, size twelve.” The caller had choked up a little when describing the last item. Even twelve years old, the encyclopedia would be a good buy for Vee’s school reports, and as long as he stayed away from papers on aardvarks and John Adams, he’d be just fine. She made a note on the small memo pad she kept next to the telephone.

“Your hamburger will be ready in a minute.” She sniffed the smoke rising from the cast-iron skillet. Almost done. “Mayonnaise is in the refrigerator.”

“Mavine, we’ve got ourselves a problem.” Virgil had parked himself in his usual seat at the end of the dinette. He hadn’t stopped for the mayo.

She froze as last Monday’s conversation once again filled her mind. A problem? Gladys had said much the same thing when she and George were getting ready to separate. Had
Virgil actually read the article as he said he would? Maybe he’d talked to Welby about it. And might he have the wandering eye that Dr. LaMour said all men get? Surely not.

“What . . . what is it?”

“Somebody bought the lot across the street to put in a new service station!” He took off his khaki cap and slapped it on the table. “Welby says it’s nothing to worry about, but how can another service station be anything but bad for Osgood’s?”

This caught her completely by surprise. She couldn’t recall any articles in
Pageant
or
Photoplay
about business competition, and had no idea how to respond to her husband, who was clearly concerned. “So, what will you do?”

“Don’t know. I suppose we should clean the place up a bit.”

“Maybe a new sign with your name on it would help.” She sighed and snatched up the cap, hanging it on the hook next to his jacket.

“I don’t think so. People know who we are and where to find us. Besides, a sign caused all this trouble to begin with.”

“Well, let’s not worry about it at lunch.” Mavine lifted the smoking patty from the pan and placed it on a bun with onions and pickles. “Meals ought to be calm and peaceful.”

“I’ll try.” Virgil leaned over his plate and took a bite. He stopped chewing. “What,” he asked, “is in this hamburger?”

“Oatmeal!” She brightened. “I found the recipe on the back of a cereal box.”

Virgil lifted the top of the bun and stared at her creation. Without a word, he retrieved the mayonnaise jar from the refrigerator and slathered most of its contents onto his sandwich.

V
IRGIL WANDERED
down the hill after dinner, carefully picking his way along in the diminishing light. Not to work; this was a social visit
 
—and a haircut. Opening the door, he could hear laughter and conversation from inside.

“A little longer on the top, Welby.” Grover Stacy laughed at his own joke, his balding pate sparkling under the flickering and dusty fluorescent bulbs.

“I’ll try.” Welby chuckled through the whir of his clippers. “But I’ll have to take it from the bottom.”

Virgil smiled, in spite of himself. He and the others in the makeshift barbershop had heard this conversation again and again. Every time the local grocer climbed into Welby’s chair, in fact. This was familiar and well-traveled ground.

Only two vehicles in the gravel lot: Arlie’s truck and the telltale ancient red Farmall tractor that meant it was Sam Wright’s week for a trim. The retired crop duster and local eccentric had been stripped of his driver’s license a couple of years before, after driving his Oldsmobile into the front of Stacy’s Grocery. He failed the ordered vision test, as expected, and his driving privileges were revoked. Somewhere, though, Sam learned that a license was not required for agricultural vehicles, so he bought the used Farmall from Arlie.

Virgil let his mechanic set up a barber chair in the storage room of his service station, since the men and boys of Eden Hill needed maintenance just as their cars and trucks did. Welby would trade his rumpled coveralls for a starched white coat, and exchange his box wrenches for electric clippers. He might cut hair the same way he cut engine gaskets, but the vehicles he repaired ran very well, and the menfolk of Eden Hill usually looked quite presentable. The little shop helped Welby with extra income and provided a place for the men to talk about the women, who would all get together at Gladys’s on Fridays and talk about the men.

Virgil owed Welby this much and more. When his father, H. C. Osgood, had needed an assistant for his little machine shop, twenty-year-old Welby had joined the operation. When H. C. had spent eighteen months in the sanatorium with tuberculosis, Welby ran the business and made sure that the Osgood family had food on the table, even working part-time as a night watchman at a bank in Quincy. H. C. never forgot his kindness. Virgil hadn’t either.

Welby and his wife, Alma, enjoyed being “uncle” and “aunt”
to Vee. They had no children, nor any nearby nieces or nephews. Besides, they had all been like family for nearly as long as any of them could remember. It was a good arrangement.

Virgil always looked forward to Thursday nights, but this week he especially welcomed the diversion. The new Zipco station going in across the street had him rattled, he had to admit. At least Mavine seemed herself again, though he hadn’t quite figured out that magazine incident. As with many things beyond his ken, he’d just let it rest, and thankfully the storm had blown over. For now, at least.

He was tired too. Much of the day had been spent ordering snow tires and antifreeze for the coming winter, and getting answers to some questions. He nodded to each familiar face before finding a seat on an old office chair.

The room went silent, and everyone’s gaze fell on him. He felt like a smallmouth bass, snagged by Arlie’s fishhook.

“So, Virgil. What’s this about a new service station going in where the old feed store used to be?” Grover was still perched in Welby’s chair, receiving his usual trim.

“Looks like the church sold it to somebody to build a Zipco Super Service station. Sounds like some kind of a big company like Texaco or Standard Oil.”

“I’ve seen some of those fancy service stations, and they have all kinds of things going on. Road maps, free coffee cups with a fill-up.” Grover twisted in his seat. “Some of those places are open late into the night, just like the truck stop. Think you can compete with this Zipco thing? I know when the A&P in Quincy has a sale going on, we lose some customers.”

Compete? That’s what he’d done in junior varsity football and what he’d seen on
Wide World of Sports
on TV. He never dreamed he’d have to
compete
for Osgood’s. Was he supposed to tackle the Zipco operator and keep him away from the goal line?

Welby answered for him. “Oh, we’ll be just fine. You and all the good folks in Eden Hill bring us your cars and trucks now, and we’ll still be seeing them when this new Zipco comes in. Isn’t that right, Virgil?”

Virgil nodded. He was grateful for Welby’s answer, as he was trying to come up with one of his own. “Yes, you’ve always done right well by us.”

“Well, I’m seventy-five years old this year, and I’ve seen them come, and I’ve seen them go. The Depression got a lot of us.” The croaky voice had come from Sam Wright, his silver hair freshly trimmed.

Grover leaned forward as Welby pumped up the chair. “Sam, just where did the Depression get you? Somewhere in the head?”

Sam stiffened. “Mr. Stacy, it cost two of my friends their crop-dusting business. Couldn’t afford the gasoline to keep the planes in the air. I took a chance and bought my Waco from one of them. Got it for a song.”

Grover rolled his eyes. “Sam, it’s not 1935 and the New Deal anymore. We got John Kennedy, not FDR, in the White House. I think you want to forget that sometimes.”

The elderly man’s voice became louder and croakier, bordering on a cackle. “Kennedy? I voted for Nixon, of course, as any sensible person
 
—”

“Gentlemen, an argument isn’t helpful.” Welby clipped both Sam’s tirade and the scruff on Grover’s neck.

“That’s easy for you to say.” Grover turned, almost losing an ear. “You voted for both Kennedy
and
Nixon in the last election.”

“They’re both such nice men.” Welby was not easily dissuaded.

Virgil began to relax
 
—the subject had changed, and the evening’s entertainment had begun. Sam would liven up any conversation, whether here or playing pinochle on the porch in front of Stacy’s Grocery. Reliable or not, he was at least amusing. Gladys said he was half blind and whole nuts and had spent time in a lunatic asylum in Ohio, but then again she couldn’t always be trusted either.

He had to admit to some of the same doubts. H. C.’s shop had almost gone under in ’35, and Virgil remembered many a night with thin soup and dry bread for dinner. Some said the stress of it all had put his father in the sanatorium. But the Osgoods had made it through, hadn’t they?

“So, what about it, Reverend?” Welby changed the attachment on his clippers. “In for a trim?”

Virgil turned toward the door, where Reverend Caudill had appeared, unnoticed by almost everyone. The minister would come by about once a month for a haircut, but sometimes just to chat.

“No thanks, Welby, just stopped in to say hello.”

Grover pointed his chin toward the sign across the street. “I expect you’ve seen the latest, Reverend?”

“Oh yes. Quite a stir in town about the new service
station. I really am sorry, Virgil, if selling our land has put you in a bad situation, but whatever happens, I hope our whole town can welcome the new business and its owner with open arms. ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself,’ as the Good Book says. We ought to wish them every success.”

“Well, I hope the Zipco does well too.” Welby emphasized his point with a dash of Wildroot on Grover’s scalp.

“As long as he doesn’t sell produce and cold cuts, I guess a new business is always a good thing.” Grover squirmed as Welby dusted off his collar with a small whisk broom.

Sam scratched his head again and topped it with an old baseball cap. “Gentlemen, I’m out past curfew. A pleasant evening to all.” With that, he left, and the old Farmall could be heard rumbling off somewhere into the cool night.

“Sadly, I too must depart.” Reverend Caudill still held his hat. “Might I expect each of you in church on Sunday?”

Everyone nodded as the minister took his leave.

Grover relaxed. “So, who’s putting this new Zipco place in?”

“If it’s the kid I met at the lake a few days ago, there’s not much for Virgil to worry about.” Arlie, who had been unusually quiet, paused to stuff another plug of tobacco in his ample jaw. “Boy’s not too bright, if you ask me. Got himself lost trying to get back to the state highway. You gotta work at it to do that.” He reached for the empty Quaker State can that served as his spittoon.

“That may be the same young fellow who came by here,” said Welby. He exchanged his scissors for a hand mirror. “There you are, Grover
 
—a little longer on the top.”

Everyone enjoyed another good laugh. Grover paid Welby
and took his place on a brake fluid crate as Virgil mounted the chair for a trim of his own. “Okay, Grover, what’s all this about being able to compete? And if it is the young man we met, what do we need to do?”

“Stand up to it, Virgil. To be successful, you’ll have to step up to your opponent. Go blow-by-blow with him.” Grover had watched too many Saturday afternoon boxing matches. “Get him on the ropes. If he’s going to do things the big-city way, you’ll have to do the same.”

Big city? This was Eden Hill, with maybe two hundred on Sunday afternoon when everyone was in church or at home. “Grover, what if it was a grocery instead of a service station?”

“Same thing. Read a book on that once. I’d need to cut prices, work harder. Probably spruce the place up. Might have to give up our vacation in Florida every year. Have a sale on something every now and then. Let the guy
 
—and everybody else
 
—know that you can do it better.”

“What about what Reverend Caudill said about open arms?”

Grover looked out the door, where the preacher was nowhere to be seen. “Then I’d say that you’re giving in to let the other guy win. Might as well take a fall. Oh, Arlie. Before you leave, what’s the almanac say about this winter?”

The farmer had donned his cap and his barn jacket, and carefully set his oilcan upright on the floor. “Warmer’n last year. Four inches of snow for New Year’s Day, freezin’ rain on January eleventh, and another three inches of snow on Groundhog Day. The critter’s gonna see his shadow and put off spring ’til late March. By then,” Arlie said, “it’ll be time
to get corn in the ground, snow or no snow.” The most he’d said all evening.

The weather was always the closing topic, particularly if Sam had already gone and taken his woolly-worm stories with him. Grover picked up his own floppy hat and twisted it onto his freshly shorn head. “Good to know,” he said to Arlie, who had already stepped toward the door. “At least I can put Anna Belle’s decorations up on the roof and get them off again before the worst of it gets here. You know how she is about her Christmas lights!”

“Take care, gentlemen,” said Welby, gathering his razors and scissors for his final customer. The door swung shut, and Grover and Arlie walked out through the garage toward Arlie’s truck. After much grinding, the pitiful machine sprang to life, backfiring as he drove away.

“Okay, Virgil, you’re all done.” Welby was cleaning his implements with alcohol and tidying up. “What do you
really
know about this young fellow?”

Virgil sat up straight so Welby could lower the chair. “His name is Cornelius Alexander. Comes from a couple of counties over. Papa knew his granddad from back when he had the machine shop. The old man went into the car business right before the Depression hit. Cornelius’s father is a pretty good mechanic, too, I hear. The boy’s been to some business school, and has a wife and a baby on the way. You want to know any more than that?”

“Nope.” Welby smiled, placing his tonsorial tools in a drawer. “Virgil, you’re more like Mr. Osgood every day. How’d you find out all that?”

“Friends, and a few phone calls this afternoon.” Virgil was pushing his long arms through the sleeves of his tattered jacket. “Papa always said that it pays to know something about people.”

“Mr. Osgood was right,” said Welby, as he stepped out the side door. “But I suppose it depends whether you know what’s worth knowing. See you tomorrow.”