Eden Hill (12 page)

Mavine walked home in twilight, her coat doing little to dispel the chilly air. Her head was still spinning. The visit to the Glamour Nook had taken longer than she’d planned, so dinner would be late. No matter
 
—there were leftovers in the refrigerator. She’d learned so much this afternoon.

Alma had been a wonderful friend to her and to many over the years, and had showed what true friendship meant. And Gladys? The woman had been through more than anyone knew. How could a person not hurt for a woman who’d lived such hardships?

The sun was going down when she returned to the house on the hill. Vee would be home from school, and Virgil would soon be closing Osgood’s for the day and returning himself. If she could be anything in the world, she now realized, she wanted to be a woman like Alma. Wise and compassionate. Not complaining about her situation, but content. Focused on others, not herself.

And filled with grace.

Cornelius had spent the entire day in Quincy writing checks, arguing with contractors, and trying his best not to lose his temper in the process. Another challenge, and then another. Permits. Licenses. Red tape and regulations. How hard was it to get a business going? All he wanted to do was walk in the door of their pink trailer home and into the welcoming arms of his loving wife. He climbed the metal steps with anticipation and yanked the door open.

Reverend Eugene Caudill, Bible in lap and hat in hand, was seated at the dinette.

“Good evening, Cornelius. I was afraid I’d miss seeing you tonight, but JoAnn said you’d be home any minute.”

The last thing he wanted this evening was another visit from the pastor. “Good evening, Reverend.” Cornelius hoped he sounded more enthusiastic than he felt.

He forced a smile. His wife seemed determined to get him together with Reverend Caudill and the First Evangelical Baptist Church. They’d attended a couple of times, at JoAnn’s insistence. If it made her happy, then he’d go along, but it did make him uneasy.

“So, how have you been? It’s been so good to see you both in church.”

“She’s enjoyed it very much. Though we’re still finding out where we belong in Eden Hill.”

The minister made no move to leave. “JoAnn was telling me how hard you’ve been working, and that you’ve been making good progress toward opening.”

“I suppose so.” The easy chair was empty, so he took it. “It’s been an uphill climb, though.”

JoAnn chimed in. “Reverend Caudill stopped by to ask you for something.”

Cornelius paused. His father had always said preachers were trying to get their hands into your pockets. “Pastor, I’m afraid we’re in no position to
 
—”

“Oh no, not money.” The pastor rose to his feet. “It’s a favor, actually.”

“A favor? What sort of favor?”

The older man grinned disarmingly. “We have a few things at the church that need doing. Chores and repairs. One Saturday a year we all get together and get them done. Will you put it on your calendar?”

Cornelius hesitated. His first response was to decline. He was tired, and anything that smacked of manual labor was just too much to ask right now. But then he looked at JoAnn. She was smiling and looked to be at peace. And heaven knew he’d let her down enough already.

“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.”

“O
KAY,
W
ELBY,
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 arrived, 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.”