Lucky Strikes (7 page)

“My.” Chester give a low whistle. “He's a skinny one. Good thing I brought a belt.”

“Take him back to his room,” I said. “And don't hurry dressing him.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning don't come back till I tell you.”

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Converse.”

“That's going to cost you extra,” he muttered. Next second, a professional smile pushed through his lips. “Well, hey now, Mr. Watts! What a pleasure meeting you. Name's Gallagher, put 'er there.…”

To my vast surprise, Mina Gallagher come walking through the door a minute later. Blinking in her black wool.

“Very sorry,” she said, thrusting out a mess of hothouse lilies.

I didn't know what to do with them—there weren't a vase in the whole damned house—and things was deeply awkward till Mina said, “Maybe I could arrange them.”

She grabbed an old iron pot off the kitchen rack and threw the lilies in it, then threw in some of the cowslips Janey had picked the day before. By the time she was done, it was like flower stew. She set it down in the middle of the dining table, then went and set in the rocker by the hearth.

“Are folks bringing pie?” asked Janey.

“Certainly,” I said.

But the first to show up was Maggie McGuilkin, and all she brought was her crucifix. It pulsed in her hand like a vole's heart. Lizabeth Shafer held her crucifix straight out in front of her, Gwendolyn Davenport let hers dangle to her waist from a chain of dried berries. Frances Bean forgot her crucifix, so she said “Lord have mercy” three times under her breath.

They brought fear in their hearts, these Christian ladies. Probably expecting to find Old Scratch himself dozing by the fireplace, his cloven hoof a-twitching. Failing to find said devil, they grew no easier in mind. Cast trembling looks, mouthed questions at one another. Finally Mrs. Buckner, who was the boldest of 'em, said, “Melia, honey, where is she?”

“Who?”

“Your mama. Is she … I mean…” She cut her chin toward Mama's bedroom.

“Hell, no,” I said. “She's in the ground.”

Well, you'll learn this. If you're gonna throw a wake, make sure you got a body on the premises. Someone they can sit and stare at and weep over and shoo the flies away from and say, “My, don't she look natural?”'Cause if you don't give 'em a body, they wander round your drafty old shotgun shack, telling you how homey it is and saying things like “She's gone to her reward” and “She's in His loving care” and not believing a word of it and wondering why no one brought pie.

After a time, I went to Mama's room and closed the curtain after me and laid on her mattress.

“Melia?” Janey was peering round the curtain. “Mrs. Goolsby brought applesauce cake.”

The cake brought with it Pastor Goolsby.

“Lord,” he said, standing in our doorway. “Whither thou goest I shall go.”

He didn't pull out no crucifix, but I could see those smoky eyes of his hunting for a Bible or a hymnal or one of those old magazine cutouts of Jesus with the beauty-parlor hair.

“Now, see here, Melia. Between you and me and the Lord, was your mama properly funeralized?”

“'Course she was.”

“I mean with a man of God in attendance.”

“God was there, Preacher.”

I reckon I didn't put him at peace, 'cause, before another minute was out, he'd laid hands on Janey's head and attempted to do the same with Earle, who suggested he reconsider.

Minnie-Cora's current beau brought a mandolin, and now that folks were realizing no hymns was in the offing, Minnie-Cora told him to play “Barbara Allen,” and she sang along in her quavery voice. Jesus, but that song has a lot of verses. I never knew. The rose was just growing up from Sweet William's grave when the door to the house opened and in walked Dudley Blevins, wearing knickers darned at the knees.

“Here,” he said, pushing some bearded irises at me.

“Throw 'em in the pot,” I said.

But Mina Gallagher—like a servant answering a bell only she could hear—rose from her rocker and snatched those irises before he could take another step.

“Terrible thing,” said Dudley.

“Much obliged.”

“I mean I'm sorry.”

“Well, okay, then.”

We stood there awhile, listening to Minnie-Cora sing “Mid the Green Fields of Virginny.”

“Ain't never seen you in a dress before,” said Dudley.

“Why in hell would you?”

Even to my ear, that sounded harsh. So I said, “Glad you don't got to wear that stupid uniform.”

“You and me both,” he said.

“Where's your uncle got to?”

“He's coming.”

“Planning a big entrance, is he?”

“Something like that.”

Sure enough, Minnie-Cora had just finished off “Black Jack Davis” when the door breathed open and Harley Blevins's silver hair flashed out of the night. Was the only part of him that could've flashed. He was wearing a black serge coat and pants. Black leather gloves. He took off his black hat and bowed his head, then swung his way right into the room. Went to each Walnut Ridge lady in turn and squeezed her one hand between his two. He knew their husbands' names, their kids' names, the names of their dogs and mules, and if there'd been a baby, he'd have kissed it.

“Now who made this here applesauce cake? 'Cause I do not believe I have tasted such opulence in my life. Mrs. Goolsby, this your doing? That's what comes of being married to a man of God. No, I ain't jesting. But don't you go telling my wife what I said, 'cause bless her, she does consider herself a baker, but this here cake. Say now, Preacher Goolsby, I don't like to step on a man's toes, but I was wondering if I might offer a brief word on behalf of the departed.”

“Go right ahead, Brother Harley.”

“Why, thank you.” He placed his hat against his chest. “Brothers and sisters. I mean to tell you. The late Brenda Hoyle—why, she was something else.”

“Amen,” whispered Janey.

“First time I ever met her, I said, ‘How's a little bitty thing like you gonna run this service station all by yourself?' And she said, ‘With my little bitty hands, that's how.' Yes, sir, she had gumption. How many times did I query myself why such a radiant thing should be spending down her days in hardship and toil? Smearing herself with dirt and lubricant when she could be casting her beauteous face upon some deserving husband?

“Well, she went her own way, God bless her. Cut her own switchbacks up the mountainside of life. And while she and I may have had our disagreements about the direction of the petroleum industry and the vis-à-vis relationships of Standard Oil and the independent proprietor, never once did our disagreements hamper my deep esteem for her. Nor did I waste a second wishing her anything but the best in her pursuits.

“And now, my dear friends, the Lord has seen fit to bring our sister Brenda home. And I hereby call unto Him—that's right, Sister Doris, let's us hold
hands
and pray that our Gracious Creator will take pity on these here lambs that Brenda done left behind. Lord, shine Your loving eye upon Melia and Earle and Janey. Let them not be tossed to the pit of lions after all the grievous suffering that has been laid upon them, and grant that, in these lean times, they may find the family and home they got comin' to 'em. Grant that when they look back upon this benighted place, with its sign near ready to come off and its substandard pumps, they may feel no bitterness nor gnashing of teeth. Only joy in the light of your eternal goodness. In Jesus's name, amen.”

“Amen,” whispered Janey.

For the first time that night, the women of Walnut Ridge were beaming.

And who was I to ply my tongue against that of Harley Blevins? I'm the sort that'd sooner die than speak in public, but through a crack in the front door, I saw Chester's face. And then his thumb, pointing up. So I swallowed once, twice, and I climbed on the dining table and cleared my throat loud as I could.

“Evening, folks.…”

But they kept buzzing amongst themselves.

“Evening!”

A slow swivel of heads my way.

“I was just—well, first of all, hey there. Y'all know who I am, so—so I wanted to—to thank Mr. Blevins there for his kind words. They was right kind. I also wanted—I wanted y'all to know that God is great.”

“'Course He is,” said Preacher Goolsby.

“I repeat, God is great. 'Cause He has answered our prayers.”

Harley Blevins's eyes widened a grain.

“Yes, indeed,” I said. “The Lord has seen fit to bless us with a miracle.”

I waited.

“A miracle!” I said louder.

Through the door shuffled Hiram Watts. If he'd've been Herbert Hoover, he could not have terrified those Walnut Ridge women more. They fell back, clutching each other.

As for Hiram, he looked nearly as feared. I took him by the sleeve, led him to the center of the gathering.

“Y'all, I want you to meet Mr. Hiram Watts. Our daddy.”

Had I to do it again, I'd have made sure his clothes fit. The stuff Chester brought was too big in some places, too small in others. He looked like he was being stretched and shrunk right before our eyes.

“Pleased to meet you,” he whispered.

A deep silence fell across the room. Then, from out the quiet, came the tinkling voice of Frances Bean.

“Likewise.”

(I will always think kindly on Frances Bean.)

“Reckon you can imagine how joyous it is to be reunited,” I said. “A family once more, under the same roof. Carrying on Mama's wishes and dreams.”

More quiet.

“What I mean is I hope you'll find it in your hearts to be glad for us.”

“'Course we are,” said Mrs. McGuilkin, rallying.

“It's a little sudden is all,” said Mrs. Davenport. “We didn't know nothin' about no daddy.”

“He's been on the road a lot,” said Janey. “And he's been on trains.”

“Lordy,” said Harley Blevins. “Let me be the first to shake this feller's hand. Give Uncle Harley a shake, will you? There you go, that's the—oh, Jesus, I didn't hurt your hand, did I? Folks tell me I got a strong grip. Hiram, you an outlander? From the three or four words I heard so far, I figured you for an outlander.”

“His people are from Cumberland,” I said. “Just like Mama's.”

“He don't sound like he's from Cumberland. He sounds like he's from, I don't know, Ohio. Maine. Maybe nowhere. Where you
from
, Mr. Watts? You can hear me in there, can't you?”

Hiram nodded.

“We was just wondering where you're from.”

“All over,” said Hiram.

“That so? Why, that's a very general place to be from. You fixin' to stick around awhile?”

Hiram said nothing.

“I mean, it's awful fortuitous,” said Harley Blevins. “You floating in here like this.”

“It's the Lord's doing,” I said.

“It's
some
doing.”

Bit by bit, he peeled his eyes off Hiram. “Know what, Melia? Me and you need to talk.”

The house was still swarming with folk, so Harley Blevins pointed his elbow toward the door. Opened it easy and slow and motioned me outside.

I caught a glance of Dudley on the other side of the coffee urn. His mouth swung open a little, but the door was already closing after us.

Lord, it was chilly. And not 'cause of the weather but on account of I was wearing a dress for the first time in I don't know how long.

“Melia,” he said. The chaw in his mouth kept pushing against his cheek, like a hornet fighting to get out. “We known each other a good long while, ain't we?”

“Couple years.”

“That's a lifetime in business, darlin'. Point I'm making is, we can be straight up.”

“Sure thing.”

“Now, this daddy of yours. He didn't land here by no accident, did he?”

“There I must differ, Mr. Blevins. It was every bit an accident.”

The weirdest smile took hold of his mouth. “I can't hardly believe it,” he said. “You're holding on to this shit heap.”

“It's what she would've wanted.”

“What do
you
want, Melia?”

Standing there in what passed for a front yard, I could see pretty much the store, the gas pumps, the air pump, the service bays. That damned sign, creaking with every breeze. It all looked like the world's saddest carnival.

“I don't recall my wants having much to do with anything,” I said.

“Well, there ain't nothing keeping you here now. I mean, assuming we could arrange for your comfort and all, why, you and yours could be on your way tomorrow.”

“We could,” I said. “But we won't.”

“And why's that?” he said.

“'Cause I think Brenda's Oasis should stay as is.”

He smiled.

“'Course you do. Say now, how 'bout I keep the name? In memoriam, like.”

I shook my head, turned away.

“Ain't just the name, Mr. Blevins. Them truckers come down the hills every morning, and they're looking for a
place
. Not just any place, neither, but somewhere they can shake out their legs and, I don't know, whatever they got coiled inside. Oh, I know this ain't a
real
oasis—like they got in the Sahara—believe me, I know
all
the things it ain't. But for them fellers, for a few minutes every other morning, it's real. Kinda. And that's something. At least it ain't nothing. With all respect, Mr. Blevins, if you get your hands on this here station, it'll die.”

“Ain't no business ever died on me.”

“Oh,” I said, “it'll make you some money, but it'll be good as dead.”

I stared off to the road, where a couple beards of fog had crept down from the mountains.