The Garden of Eden, page 10
Well, it wasn’t there now. That was a fact.
The beer.
He went to the corner of the main room with the sink and refrigerator. Flies hovered over the sinkful of dirty dishes. Murphy ignored the flies and opened the fridge.
No beer.
He closed the door and closed his eyes. He stood there swaying, breathing deeply, in and out, in and out…Then he opened the door again.
Still no beer.
He slammed the door and wandered out onto the porch and sat heavily on the edge.
Saturday morning and he was sober as a judge. Sober as Lester Storm. Probably more sober. Lester kept a bottle in his desk that he could nip on from time to time, whenever he got a little dry. Of course, the judge never suffered from the raging thirsts that afflicted Elijah Murphy.
Murphy sat on his porch racked by sobriety as the sun climbed to the zenith and thought about the injustice of it all, how fellows who didn’t get thirsty but once a week had access to oceans of whiskey and fellows who were so desiccated they were in danger of blowing away didn’t have a solitary drop to dampen their tonsils.
Finally his gaze came to rest on the widow Wilfred’s little white cottage. Wilfred…
Was it possible? Had she been over here? Could she have taken the whiskey and beer? Not to drink—the very idea was ludicrous—but to deprive him of it?
Naw.
Yet the notion didn’t go away. Lester Storm was nobody’s fool, Murphy reminded himself.
The judge had planted a seed in Elijah Murphy’s mind. Now that seed germinated and began to grow.
Matilda Elkins came downstairs with the brunch tray that Mrs. Carcano had taken to her room about ten. “Mrs. Carcano, I don’t know how to thank you.” She headed straight for the kitchen with the tray, her host following behind. She wanted to wash the dishes, but her host wouldn’t let her.
“All that talking we did last night, and I never learned your Christian name.”
“It’s Cecile.” The minister poured coffee, and the two women sat at the kitchen table to drink it. The sun shining through the window made a bright square on the floor.
“The temperature fell to thirty last night,” Cecile said after a while. “We’ll have another frost tonight.”
“Cool nights, foggy mornings, sunny days with the leaves turning, this is the most beautiful time of the year,” Matilda said wistfully. “I am wasting it fretting over this mess.”
“How do you feel this morning?”
“Much better. I guess I really needed to talk to a woman about my troubles.”
“Occasionally we all need someone to listen,” Cecile Carcano murmured.
“You didn’t judge me. I appreciate that.”
Mrs. Carcano sipped her coffee and remained silent. She was a good listener, which is a rare quality in any age.
“I hope you like living here in Eden,” Matilda said.
“I’m sure I will.”
“A fine welcome I offered you.” Her lips twisted sourly.
“Will you be offended if I offer some advice, Matilda? I learned long ago that the most worthless commodity on earth is an opinion about how someone else should handle their problems or live their life. Having been the recipient of too many unwelcome gifts of that sort, I try to refrain from bestowing them upon others. Alas, I am human, so occasionally one bubbles up and begs to be voiced.”
“Please do.”
“I think you should stop blaming yourself for the situation you find yourself in. Nor is it productive to blame your husband or Anne Harris.”
“That’s it?” Matilda asked incredulously. “All that buildup for that little thought?”
“That’s it,” she was assured.
Matilda Elkins patted the other woman’s hand. “Cecile, you are a rare treasure. One way or the other I will survive this, and I hope that then I can be your friend.”
“You already are.”
“I made a decision this morning. Up in your guest room. I want you to be the first to hear it.” Matilda finished the last of her coffee, then continued. “I’m going to let Hayden and Anne stew in their own juices. I am going to do as you so wisely suggested—stop blaming myself—and let them wrestle with an impossible situation created by their own foolishness. The mess is their fault. Whether I blame them or not, they created it. They are going to have to clean it up.”
Junior Grimes was removing a transmission from a wrecked pickup that Saturday afternoon when Billy Joe Elkins found him. Junior’s friend Arch Stehlik was sitting on a nearby fender nursing a beer and lending a hand when something needed to be held.
Of course, Billy Joe had visited the junkyard many times before. Here in the splendid isolation of Junior’s junkyard on a low ridge above Eden, the intricacies of the human dilemma could be discussed man to man, free from inhibitions created by the presence of women.
For women rarely came here, and when they did, they didn’t stay long. The hundreds of junk cars tastefully arranged around a mountain of worn-out tires in this garden of weeds seemed to create angst in feminine hearts. Or maybe it was the numerous snakes that inhabited the place. Whatever, here teenage boys could drink beer and smoke cigarettes and talk dirty and tell lies about their sexual exploits free from the possibility of being spied upon by members of the opposite sex. For some reason most males needed places like this, and in modern America they were getting harder and harder to find.
“Whatcha doin’?” Arch asked Billy Joe as he settled onto a nearby fender.
“Oh, nothing much,” Billy Joe replied.
Junior poked his head out from under the pickup to see who Arch was talking to. “Hey, Billy Joe. Whatcha doin’?”
“Nothing much. What are you doin’?”
“Nothing much, and that’s a fact. Hey, Arch, how about holding this wheel here for a second while I pull these bolts.”
Arch Stehlik winked at Billy Joe and climbed down off his fender. He flipped away his cigarette and handed Billy Joe his can of beer. Billy Joe took a swig.
As usual, Arch looked dirty. He did small logging jobs for a living and apparently every stitch he owned was hopelessly impregnated with oil, grease, and dirt, for Billy Joe had never seen him in clean clothes. His hands were always grimy, too. His hair was long and unkempt and he wore an equally well groomed beard. When he ate at Doolin’s, as he often did, the occasional tourist usually looked at Arch with misgivings and tried to stay out of his space. One day a year or two ago it had dawned on Billy Joe that Arch probably enjoyed their reactions.
“Lift up a little more, Arch.”
“Takes two experts for these delicate operations.”
“Seen this one on General Hospital.”
“That’s what we are, a couple of brain surgeons.”
“You did real good in that game last night, Billy Joe,” Junior said from under the wrecked pickup. “That last pass downfield was as good as I ever seen anyone throw a ball, and I mean that.”
“That was a hell of a fine throw,” Arch agreed. “Right on the money. And the Blankenship boy caught the ball, too. Usually he drops the long ones that come right at his numbers, so he does.”
“Seems like if the ball goes over ten yards in the air he has too much time to think about it,” Junior said, his voice slightly muffled.
Billy Joe laughed. Yeah, it was sure good to sit here in the junkyard with Junior and Arch. They always knew the score.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw something brown, something that moved. A doe. She came ambling toward them, stopped once to look them over, then came up to Billy Joe and sniffed his hand. Flecks of orange paint were visible on the ends of the hairs on her flanks, but other than that, she was a big, healthy doe in the prime of life.
“Junior, Mary is here and wants a treat.”
“There’s a couple of Snickers bars in the cab of my roll-back,” Junior said from under the pickup. “Give her one.”
Billy Joe unwrapped a candy bar as the doe stamped her feet and twitched her tail. He fed it to her bite by bite and rubbed her big soft ears as she chewed.
“She’s looking real good, Junior.”
“Mary’s my sweetheart,” Junior declared. Arch grinned at Billy Joe.
One spring night several years ago when Junior and Arch were running the roads, a doe had jumped in front of Junior’s pickup. The pregnant doe was eviscerated by the impact. As a devastated Junior bawled like a baby, Arch freed the unborn fawn from its birth sac and blew air into its nostrils. Fed milk from a bottle and cared for like a human baby, the fawn survived. And thrived. And developed a taste for candy bars.
Due to the unusual method of its arrival—“an immaculate reception,” Junior called it, although the birth had been a bloody mess—when he was pondering names he wanted something biblical. Alas, his knowledge of the Bible was confined to a few poorly remembered, garbled stories from Sunday school. He settled on the name Mary.
When Mary was grown, Lula Grimes insisted she go to the junkyard. The deer liked candy and made a royal commotion in the store every time she managed to get in, which she did on a fairly regular basis. When an unsuspecting person opened the door, she would dart inside, charge straight for the candy display and gobble candy, wrappers and all, as humans fluttered and tittered nervously, unsure of just what to do, until Lula arrived to shoo the deer out.
The flecks of orange paint were the remnants of last fall’s racing stripe. Afraid someone would shoot the doe, which had no fear of humans, Junior painted an orange stripe completely around her body parallel to the ground.
“You’re going to have to freshen up this racing stripe,” Billy Joe said as Mary munched candy.
“Yeah. Gonna get to that pretty soon.”
Billy Joe petted the deer and the men talked about football while Junior finished the transmission. Billy Joe helped them inch it from under the pickup and put it on Junior’s roll-back. Then Junior produced more beer from a cooler in his truck cab. After checking for snakes, they found places to sit. Mary accepted a good petting from each of them, then wandered off.
At an appropriate place in the conversation, when they were ready for another subject, Billy Joe got around to the reason he came looking for Junior. “I had a little problem last night after the game,” he began.
“Oh,” said Junior.
“Huh,” said Arch.
“Me and my girlfriend, Melanie Naroditsky, were parked up on the Canaan road and engaged in a little romance.”
“Getting some, were you?”
“Trying to. Then ol’ Delmar Clay came sneaking along.”
“That Delmar…”
“The son of a bitch sneaked up on us. We were heavily engaged when all of a sudden camera flashes started going off. He said, ‘Hold that pose,’ and took a couple of pictures.”
“I’ll be damned,” Junior said. “Never heard of anything like that. Delmar drives up on people all the time at night and runs them off, like it was illegal to get laid, but I never heard of him taking pictures before.”
“Junior, he really embarrassed Melanie. Made her cry. Shamed her. It was a damned mean thing he did.”
“That it was,” Arch agreed.
“That isn’t the worst part. He recognized Melanie. Said something to the effect that her dad would have a cow when he heard about this. And he had just taken pictures. So she’s scared to death that he will send the photos to her father.”
“He won’t,” Junior said. “He knows better than that.”
“You think?”
“Delmar hasn’t got the guts. I know Frank Noroditsky. He’d be ticked at Melanie, all right, but when he heard the whole story he’d go after Delmar Clay with his fists. Beat him within an inch of his life. Maybe kill him.”
“So he would,” Arch muttered.
“I don’t want him to find out about it,” Billy Joe said fervently.
“Don’t sweat it. Neither does Delmar. He wants to keep living.”
“So what do you think he’ll do with those pictures?” Billy Joe asked.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Arch said. “I think the bastard will have them developed and look at them and not show them to a soul. If he shows them around, Frank will hear about it eventually, and then Delmar won’t be able to run far enough or fast enough.”
“Forget the pictures,” Junior said, nodding his agreement.
“Tell Melanie she has nothing to worry about,” Arch advised. “ ’Course, that won’t do much good, but it’s about all you can do.”
After a bit Billy Joe said, “Boy, I’d sure like to get even with Delmar Clay. Lay one on him.”
“You aren’t the only one,” Junior said. “He doesn’t have a friend alive.”
“Except his wife,” Arch noted.
“Can’t figure her,” Junior mused. “What does a nice girl like her see in Delmar?”
“There’s no telling about women,” Arch declared. “For some reason the girl must have figured she couldn’t do no better. Maybe one of those inferiority complexes. There’s just no way of knowing.”
“Arleigh Tate told Dad that the only reason Delmar’s a deputy is politics,” Junior told his friends. He explained the voting power of Mrs. Clay’s relatives.
“Still, there must be a way to teach Delmar a lesson,” Billy Joe insisted.
“Let’s think on it,” Junior advised. “Maybe me and Arch can come up with something.”
Billy Joe left a half hour later. Arch and Junior helped themselves to another beer. As they sipped, Junior lay back in the weeds and stared at his mountain of old tires.
“I gotta get rid of those tires, Arch. Near as I can figure, I got eight thousand of the damn things. I’m running out of room and a fellow from the environmental has been sniffin’ around askin’ questions.”
“Haul ’em to the landfill.”
“I tried that. Loaded up a truck and hauled ’em down there, but they wouldn’t let me dump ’em. Said they didn’t want me filling up their landfill with old tires.”
“Eight thousand tires. That’s a lot.”
“That it is.”
“I hear there’s companies now that melt them things down and make rubbers out of ’em, or some such. Why don’t you call one of them outfits?”
“Going to. On Monday. I saw a couple ads in a mechanic’s magazine and wrote down the phone numbers. I gotta get rid of them tires before the environmentals haul me into court.”
“Who’d have ever thought that tires would be a problem?”
“Well, I never did!” Junior stated emphatically. “I’ve been taking them off cars for years. Been lettin’ people come up here and just throw ’em on the pile. Been picking ’em up outta cricks and offa hillsides whenever I see ’em and hauling ’em up here. Never charged anybody a nickel, and now the gover’ment is after me. Don’t seem fair, so it don’t.”
“Life never is,” Arch told him.
They were each working on their fourth beer when Junior asked Arch, “Where do you think Delmar will get those pictures developed?”
“He ain’t got a lot of choices. There’s Doolin’s—”
“We send ’em away. And any tit shots would be commented upon by the developer people, and my mom would raise holy hell. Remember Tom Saperstein? Took an artsy shot of his ol’ lady buck naked and Mom told him he ought to be ashamed. Told him to get his dirty pictures developed someplace else.”
“The food stores in Indian River send them to the same lab your mom uses,” Arch continued. “I know the guy who drives their pickup and delivery route around here.”
“That’s right.”
“But Benny Modesso at the Indian River Drugstore offers two-day service. I think he sends film to a custom lab in Capitol City. ’Course, he costs more.”
“Benny Modesso…,” Junior mused, and reached for another beer.
SEVEN
On Sunday morning the sun rising over the Blue Mountains made the frost glisten on the blades of grass and leaves. The sunlight made the white crystals sparkle like diamonds and worked a magical transformation—the frost turned to heavy dew everywhere the sunlight touched it. The long shadows protected patches of white crystals for a few more moments.
Cecile Carcano walked slowly through the frost, feeling it crunch ever so slightly under her boots, pausing occasionally and looking back at her tracks. She climbed the low hill behind her house and stood in the old apple orchard watching the sun work its magic.
Another perfect morning. At Doolin’s they assured her that nature had arranged this fantastic weather to welcome her. It wasn’t true, of course. The foggy mornings and afternoon thunderstorms of summer were over, and the autumn rains would soon come. In a few weeks drenching rains would pound the last of the leaves from the trees and saturate the earth for the coming winter. That was the cycle, as old as the planet.
“Savor the Days.” That was the title of this morning’s sermon, her first as the new minister of the Eden Chapel. And of course, Cecile Carcano had a slight touch of nerves.
She had originally intended to deliver her best sermon, a tautly written little masterpiece about man’s relationship with God that she had slaved on for months at divinity school. The professor gave her an A+ on it.
The Reverend Mr. Davis, the retiring minister, had assured her all would go well her first Sunday. He avoided commenting upon her sermon and merely bestowed a variety of platitudes and comforting words, which did nothing to quiet her anxiety.
Moses Grimes, one of the trustees, had been thoughtful when she talked to him earlier in the week. “They’ll be looking you over,” he admitted. “They want to see what kind of minister you’re going to be. If you use the pulpit to advance your social concerns, you won’t make it here.”
“I have social concerns, Mr. Grimes. I care about people. That is one reason I became a minister.”
“I understand. But the pulpit is not the place to tell people how to vote or what they should want their congressman to do. These people come to church to hear the word, to sing the old songs, to spend a few moments in the graveyard with their folks who’ve gone on before them.” Moses Grimes searched for what he wanted to say. “For these folks, church is a link with the past.”
