Eden Hill (27 page)

If he were going under, at least he’d do so in a blaze of glory.

Reverend Eugene Caudill was usually grateful for a holiday, especially one that fell during the middle of the week. A day to get at least one sermon ahead, to relax, or to stamp out any congregational fires. Today he found himself with an inferno.

He hadn’t seen such a traffic jam since he’d been in Eden Hill. Even the grand opening at the Zipco station hadn’t created that much of a hubbub. And Mavine dressed like an opera singer? What was that all about? And Virgil in his Army uniform, the sign, all the flags.

He’d stopped by to see Cornelius Alexander on his way home, a man who probably couldn’t even remember the Korean conflict, let alone World War Two. An empty driveway, an empty garage. And the bags under his eyes. Clearly the man had been through a bad night. All was not well there, either.

And the drop in price at the Zipco. This looked like desperation. He’d worked at a service station to help put himself through Bible college, and he knew what gasoline ought to cost. Cornelius was losing money, no doubt about it. What was his task as pastor? The Osgoods, and now the Alexanders, were part of his flock. What’s a shepherd supposed to do when his sheep are fighting each other?

Eden Hill was falling apart
 
—again. He needed time to
think, and he needed a headache powder. As he opened his desk drawer, he spotted his new
 
—and expensive
 
—fishing license tucked between some old sermon notes and a letter he needed to answer.

It was almost dark now, and somebody, probably Frank Prewitt, had fired a skyrocket that lit up the evening sky. With a sudden flash of inspiration and a glance at his watch, he picked up the phone to call a familiar number.

“Arlie? Eugene Caudill. I need to borrow your boat.”

Cornelius was back to sleeping in the bedroom, for which he was grateful, but JoAnn was still not talking much. Meals seemed especially quiet. She’d called her mother long-distance a couple of times, which he should have expected. He’d tried to call Zipco several times the day after Independence Day as required to report the adjustment in his prices, and got no answer. Reverend Caudill had called last night with an invitation, or rather an order, to accompany the pastor on a fishing trip on Sunday afternoon. He’d agreed: the station would be closed, and the diversion would do him good. Fishing it was, then.

Friday had shown some improvement in sales. The real estate lawyer had stopped in again, and the fellow who ran the tractor repair shop came in and bought several cans of brake fluid. Charlie was agreeable to scaling his hours back to three days a week, as long as he could work for Arlie the other two days.

The mailman had come about one o’clock, just as he was closing. He’d brought the monthly telephone bill, a postcard from Cornelius’s friend Wrenchy, and another ominous-looking letter he’d had to sign for, this time from an attorney in Columbus, Ohio.

Cornelius opened the letter with resignation
 
—the ax had certainly fallen. The way his week had gone, he could be on the street by Monday. He took a deep breath and began to read. As he read, he gasped. This was not at all what he’d expected. He had to read it a second time, sitting down and focusing on every word.

Dear Mr. Alexander:

This letter serves as official notification that an investigation of the Zanesville International Petroleum Company by the office of the Attorney General has resulted in multiple indictments of the principal(s) of the company. These indictments include multiple felony fraud charges, and lawsuits have been filed on behalf of franchisees.

As all business operations have been halted, any monies owed are deferred for at least ninety days pending litigation and a full audit.

The letter concluded with more legalese, the name of a company that had agreed to supply gasoline to Zipco franchisees, and other information.

He stared at the letter in disbelief; this was better news than he ever could have hoped for. His ship may still be on the rocks, but he’d have at least ninety days to arrange the lifeboats. He tucked the page back in the envelope and ran to the trailer to tell JoAnn the news.

“JoAnn! Look at this! JoAnn?”

She wasn’t there. She and Suzy were both gone. No note, nothing. Just gone.

V
IRGIL HAD SPENT
the morning checking out Mrs. Crutcher’s Buick, now Mr. Willett’s, getting it ready for the title transfer. Mr. Willett’s Nash Metropolitan was now parked outside Virgil’s garage where the Buick had been. Yes, he could fix the rusted-out muffler, and he would sell it for a reasonable commission, same as he’d done for Del and the Buick.

When the phone rang, it took Virgil a few seconds to find it at its new location on the front counter. Reverend Caudill’s call was unexpected but welcome. Yes, Osgood’s
had a very successful event, and yes, he’d be happy to accompany Reverend Caudill on a fishing outing.

Welby had taken the day off, and Vee Junior was grounded and reading
The Complete Sherlock Holmes
after he and Frank had cherry bombed the henhouse, sending feathers flying, wood splintering, and Mavine’s nerves fraying. “Those hens won’t lay for at least a week, and you’ve ruined your father’s paint job,” she’d said, so she dropped the Big One. Only Virgil’s intervention had diverted her from assigning
War and Peace
.

The gasoline trade had dropped off on Friday, as he expected. They’d had a good grand reopening, probably their biggest day ever. Best of all, Mavine hadn’t made him wear his old Army uniform today, which turned out to be as itchy as his suit. Even with all of his wife’s starch, his usual khakis were infinitely more comfortable, and he could wipe his hands on the legs without incurring Mavine’s wrath.

He’d pulled the Nash into the garage and jacked up the front end when the phone rang again. The muffler for the Nash would be delivered next week instead of today because the driver had been a little too independent on Independence Day and didn’t make it in for work. Virgil sighed; Welby and Alma were visiting family in Indiana and wouldn’t be back until Tuesday night. No matter, he could operate the welder by himself, and Ticky would be there to keep him company.

In the meantime, he would flush out the Metropolitan’s radiator and dream of crappie and bluegill.

Reverend Caudill was already seated at the little table at Stacy’s Grocery when Brother Taggart and Bob arrived. Turning this into a weekly gathering had been his idea, and as long as Grover was agreeable he’d keep it up.

“Welcome, gentlemen! Please pull up a chair.”

“Thanks.” Bob was wearing denims and scuffed shoes. “We just had our Work Day, so I’m a bit scruffy.”

“Thank you, Reverend.” Brother Taggart slid into place with a smile.

Grover came out from behind the meat case to where the men were seated, offering his greetings. “Well, what’ll it be, fellows? Bologna? Dixie loaf? I think Anna Belle got in some ham.”

“You know, a ham sandwich sounds good.” Bob grinned. “And might I have just a little mustard?”

“My specialty! And you, Brother Taggart?”

“I’ll have the same.”

“And you, Reverend? Your usual bologna? Thick sliced?”

“That sounds good.” Reverend Caudill smiled; the grocer knew him well. While he’d answered Grover, he was watching Brother Taggart. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Bob
 
—who was long-winded
 
—led in prayer, and by the time they looked up, their sandwiches and potato chips were ready and waiting. Grover was standing respectfully by the table.

“Anna Belle made a big pot of iced tea, if you’d like some.”

Everyone enthusiastically agreed. Lunch was mostly small talk, with Bob telling a joke about three preachers who met for dinner (the punch line landed on the Methodist), and the Pentecostal answering with one about a rabbi and a ham sandwich. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh.

Bob took a deep drink of his sweet tea. “The past week has sure been an encouragement for me. I’ve had two good counseling sessions with parishioners who were having spiritual problems, and I’m working on a new sermon series. The Lord knows just what I need and when I need it. What’s happened with the hardware store, Brother Taggart?”

The preacher looked up from his ham sandwich, his countenance having fallen. There was no longer any funny story on his lips or humor in his eyes. “The owner has refused to renew our lease. There’s a padlock on both doors. And a sign that says
Negroes Go Home
. There are only a couple dozen of us, both colored and white, but we have no place to go. Will you pray for us?”

Reverend Caudill hadn’t seen this coming. Bob seemed surprised as well. Brother Taggart had shared the likelihood last week, but somehow the other pastors never dreamed it would come to this. A church without a place to gather? Reverend Caudill had no idea what to say. Now his friend was a pastor without a pasture, leading a flock without a fold.

He led the three in prayer as only a Baptist can do, calling to mind Moses and the Israelites wandering in the wilderness and Joshua leading them forty years later into the Promised Land. He prayed that somehow God’s purpose would be seen
in their struggle, and that they, like Noah, could come to rest on the mountaintop.

And he prayed for a miracle. “‘. . . ask any thing in my name, I will do it.’ Amen. Straight from the Gospel of John, gentlemen.”

“Thank you, both of you. I need to get back to Collard’s Mill and visit some folks so we can figure out what we’re doing tomorrow. And do keep me and my little church in your thoughts and prayers.”

Reverend Caudill stood to shake hands with both. “Anything I can do to help, I’m more than willing.”

Reverend Caudill’s old Underwood was clacking away as he typed the poem at the end of his message for Sunday. His luncheon gathering had left his belly full but his heart troubled. Padlocked out? On the weekend when everyone was celebrating freedom? It just wasn’t right.

Brother Taggart and his tiny congregation could certainly use a good helping of grace.