Eden Hill (24 page)

Another customer lost. “So, we’ve got our changes all planned. I’m hoping it will dry out so the backhoe man can dig for the septic tank next week. Del should be bringing more paint this afternoon. It still won’t leave us much time before Mavine wants us to have what she calls a ‘grand reopening.’”

“Sounds good!” Welby could always be counted on for affirmation.

Virgil sighed and rubbed his stiff neck. “I’ll need you to watch the pumps out front. I’ll be in the back clearing out the office.”

Virgil’s desk was a legendary mess. He didn’t do much of his work there, largely because he could never find anything, but mainly because Welby usually helped him with his sums when he was trying to pay bills, and he typically placed his orders for gasoline and supplies when the representative
stopped in every other week. The room served as his phone booth and catchall, and little else.

Nevertheless, it had to be cleaned out, which meant that he’d have to sift through the piles of papers and catalogs to see what needed to be kept. The telephone was on top for a change, and was holding down several old newspapers, along with an old JC Whitney catalog. Below that lay a yellowed issue of
Grit
from 1957 and one of Vee’s long-forgotten school papers with an A in the upper left-hand corner. He was ready to shovel everything into the trash when he uncovered something unexpected: the
Pageant
, its shiny paper clip still marking the troublesome article.

Virgil looked at the magazine again, then at the framed photo of his family that had replaced the Safe-T-Maid calendar, and finally at the little mirror in the corner. Was Mavine right about a grand reopening? Or was Welby right, and he ought to help Cornelius succeed? He’d talked those questions over right in this very building, on more than one occasion. Jesus said, “Love your neighbor.” Virgil also seemed to recall something about serving Jesus being the most important thing of all. Did that mean he had to love Cornelius Alexander as much as he loved Mavine? The thought made his head spin.

Virgil flipped open the
Pageant
again. He certainly hadn’t done any of those terrible things that Betty LaMour said men do, but had he truly lived up to all the things he’d vowed to Mavine: to love, honor, and cherish her?

And what about Vee, who looked to his father for advice and an example of good living? And what about Mavine
herself? She’d been so worried about Arlie and Lula Mae separating, which he’d brushed aside, but was she also really worried that something like that might happen to them? What kind of example was
he
setting for his own family?

No, those questions hadn’t gone away. If anything, they were more troubling than ever.

He’d been ten years old when the previous preacher had given his invitation, and he’d professed his faith and been baptized, in the same baptistery he’d lost his temper in just a few weeks before. “Jesus is Lord,” he’d said all those years ago, and meant every word. Still did.

But sometimes doing what Jesus commanded didn’t seem so simple. Wasn’t following Jesus supposed to make you a good husband? Reverend Caudill had said something to that effect in his sermons. But Welby was saying he needed to be more like the Good Samaritan. One or the other he could manage, but both?

He pulled a chair inside the door and sat with his head in his hands for a long time. He’d always provided for Mavine and Vee, and had tried his best to live a good life. Sure, he’d made his share of mistakes, but his family had always come first for him, as it was with his father. He wanted to honor Mavine in every way, and to be what she wanted him to be, but Welby was right too. Cornelius was a neighbor, and neighbors were to be treated kindly and, well, neighborly. The Golden Rule. Yes, the Bible and Mr. H. C. Osgood had both taught him the right thing.

Vaguely he became aware of a spot on the leg of his khakis. It was neither rain nor coffee nor antifreeze, but
an unexpected tear that had fallen. He
would
do right by Mavine, and right by Cornelius. And he would do right by Virgil T. Osgood, both junior and senior. There was a way, and he would find it.

The driveway bell sounded, announcing the arrival of a customer. Welby’s tools clattered into their trays, and he could hear the man’s uneven footfalls heading out into the rain. Good. Welby was taking care of business and wouldn’t see him like this. No matter
 
—he pulled up the old oil drum that served as his trash can and got to work. After all, the room wasn’t going to empty itself.

Mavine placed supper on the table and sat down, grateful that everyone seemed in a pleasant mood. Surprisingly pleasant. Vee Junior had eaten nothing for lunch but potato chips because he’d traded his cheese sandwich
and
his banana for a
Little Lulu
comic book. As this lacked both literary and nutritional merit, he was more than ready for spaghetti and meatballs if not for
Oliver Twist
, which was Mavine’s latest disciplinary assignment.

Mavine considered asking Virgil about Osgood’s
 
—the painting, the uniform, the restroom, all the things she’d suggested. But seeing her husband’s contented, placid expression, she smiled gently. Maybe, for tonight, those matters should rest. Mealtime discussion instead included the washout of Vee’s picnic, finding homes for Ticky’s pups, and one mildly contentious topic: Virgil’s need for a haircut.

“It’s way too long in the back. Not professional. Why
don’t you go see Welby tonight? And take Vee with you. It’s summertime and I’ll not have you both going around with sweaty hair on your necks.”

“Aw, Mom.” Vee hadn’t yet learned when not to argue.

“Vee, go with your father. And no back talk, or you’ll be reading
David Copperfield
.”

Welby’s barbershop was nearly full when Virgil and Vee arrived, with only a couple of empty seats left in the makeshift waiting room. Grover was in the midst of his usual political debate with Sam Wright, whose Farmall was parked awkwardly beside the station. Sam appeared to be losing, as he squirmed in Welby’s barber chair and lent his support to Calvin Coolidge in the upcoming presidential race.

“Sam, he’s been dead for thirty years.”

Sam was not dissuaded by trivialities. “He can do a better job dead than any of these candidates could do alive.”

“Gentlemen, the presidential election is over a year away. Can’t we find something else to talk about?” Welby was not only trying to get Sam to hold still and not lose an ear; he was asserting his own neutrality.

Sam fired a parting shot. “I still think he ought to run.” He paid his two dollars, both silver, and waved to Grover, who was next in line, before bidding good night.

Just as Grover was issuing one final comment to Sam, a tall figure appeared at the open door, cutting Grover off midsentence.

“Mr. Willett? How good to see you tonight! What brings you here?”

“Haircut. Don’t you cut hair on Thursday nights?” As Mr. Willett had never been seen there before, this was a reasonable question.

“Indeed we do.” Welby adjusted the chair for his next client. “It’ll be a bit of a wait, though. Several fellows ahead of you.”

“That’s fine.” He glanced around, finding the empty seat Grover left behind. “No hurry.”

“Nobody’s in any hurry here.” Grover was relishing his political victory. “Don’t you usually get your hair cut in Quincy?”

“Yes.” And with that said, he picked up an abandoned
Field & Stream
magazine and would say no more about it.

Grover’s haircut took all of two minutes, as Welby had only a fringe and a few unruly top strands to work with. The grocer had soon finished, paid, and was standing in a corner rubbing his shiny head, freshened with Wildroot tonic. Virgil’s cut took only slightly longer, as did Vee’s crew cut and butch wax. Both decided to stay along with Grover and watch the rest of the evening’s proceedings. Welby thanked them both, pocketed three dollars, and beckoned to the latest arrival.

“Well, Mr. Willett, you’re next. Come on up.” He retrieved his scissors from the jar of alcohol where they had been placed. “How would you like it cut?”

Mr. Willett climbed awkwardly into the seat, with Welby lowering the pedestal as far as it would go. “Clean and neat.
Not too short, but not too long either. Something sensual and alluring, maybe?”

The room suddenly became quiet. Every set of eyes stared, and someone coughed. Virgil recognized the words
 
—they were both in the article by Dr. LaMour
 
—but Mavine had blushed when she explained to him what they meant, and they were embarrassing to him, too. They certainly weren’t something Mr. Willett had found in
Field & Stream
. He was very glad Reverend Caudill was not here this evening, and wished that Vee wasn’t either. Welby was turning a bit red, and Grover’s jaw had fallen to his second shirt button.

“Let’s see what we can do.” Welby hesitated for only a second and then draped a large cloth over Mr. Willett, being careful not to disturb the tape measure still hanging around his neck. Given Mr. Willett’s hairline and bald spot, Cary Grant or even Jimmy Stewart was out of the question. He began trimming the back and bringing out the fullness on the sides with his comb. The barber, or perhaps the mechanic, would rise to the challenge.

Mr. Willett sat still and smiling in the chair as scissors snapped and clippers buzzed, bits of pepper and an occasional trace of salt falling onto the white cloth. Welby, who disliked silence even more than politics, spoke first. “Well, Mr. Willett, how is business at the dry goods store?”

The man in the chair beamed. “It’s been quite good lately. I have a new line of ladies’ sportswear and even some bathing suits coming in. Lula Mae Prewitt has been by recently, and bought some fabric and notions. I have a new customer too: Mrs. Alexander.”

“Glad to hear she’s getting out some. New baby, you know.” Welby grinned at Virgil, who looked at Grover, who looked at the
Field & Stream
magazine left behind by Mr. Willett.

The conversation continued, with even Virgil and Grover pitching in, and Mr. Willett saying little. Welby produced a hand mirror so his customer could examine the completed handiwork.

“It’ll do.” He twisted his head from side to side to examine the back through the large mirror on the wall. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing at all! The first one’s always free.” Welby brushed his client clean with a small whisk. The haircut wasn’t quite James Bond, but it wasn’t Maynard G. Krebs, either.

“Thank you, Welby. And Virgil, I’ll have your uniform ready next week.” Mr. Willett checked his image in the mirror, smiled, and started toward the exit.

“And thank you, Mr. Willett.” Virgil had heard more words from the man in the past five minutes than he’d heard from him in the last ten years. Some people just weren’t predictable.

Grover, whose chin had regained its normal position, seemed dumbfounded. “Uniform? Virgil, are you going to start wearing a uniform like this young fellow across the
 
—?”

For the second time in one evening, Grover’s words were cut short by a new arrival. Cornelius Alexander stood in the doorway. Vee studied his tennis shoes, while Welby beamed with delight. “Welcome to my barbershop, Mr. Alexander. You’re next in line!”

If Mr. Willett’s attendance had been unexpected, Cornelius’s appearance was inconceivable to both Grover and Virgil, who looked to each other for an explanation. Vee continued examining his lowtops. Welby’s reaction was characteristic, that is to say inviting and casual, as if this happened every day. He ushered his new customer into his chair, made him comfortable, and pumped the chair to an appropriate level.

“What’ll it be, Mr. Alexander?”

“I generally wear it in a ducktail, with the front long enough to pull over behind my ear on the left.” He scanned the small room. Virgil and Grover were by now looking at each other, while Vee had found a comic book and had buried his freshly burred head in its colorful pages.

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Alexander. I think you know Virgil and Grover.” Both managed a courteous gesture.

Grover rose with some effort and offered a hand. “Very good to see you again, Mr. Alexander. Good to see you at church, too. Anna Belle and I have enjoyed watching your daughter in the nursery.”