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    Just a Song at Twilight
    Just a Song at Twilight
    Just a Song at Twilight
    Ebook488 pages7 hours

    Just a Song at Twilight

    By Donald J. Richardson

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    About this ebook

    Like many writers, I suppose I have an idealized picture of the past, of my youth, when everything was green and golden and all the calves sang to my huntsmans horn. All the potential was ours, all that mattered was the immediate present, and the future belonged to some non-threatening, never-to-be-achieved time when we might--God forfend--actually get older. So here it is--my paean to my youth--long gone--but never--oh dear Lord above protect us in our innocence and naivete--never to be forgotten.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateNov 29, 2013
    ISBN9781491835791
    Just a Song at Twilight
    Author

    Donald J. Richardson

    Although he has long been eligible to retire, Donald J. Richardson continues to (try to) teach English Composition at Phoenix College in Arizona. He defines his life through his teaching, his singing, his volunteering, and his grandchildren.

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      Book preview

      Just a Song at Twilight - Donald J. Richardson

      Table of Contents

      About The Book

      About The Author

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      Chapter Twenty-Nine

      Chapter Thirty

      Chapter Thirty-One

      Chapter Thirty-Two

      Chapter Thirty-Three

      Chapter Thirty-Four

      Chapter Thirty-Five

      Chapter Thirty-Six

      Chapter Thirty-Seven

      Chapter Thirty-Eight

      Chapter Thirty-Nine

      Chapter Forty

      Chapter Forty-One

      Chapter Forty-Two

      Chapter Forty-Three

      Chapter Forty-Four

      Chapter Forty-Five

      Chapter Forty-Six

      For Gary D. Schmidt (Cyril’s Boy) and Ursula

      About the book

      Like many writers, I suppose I have an idealized picture of the past, of my youth, when everything was green and golden¹ and all the calves sang to my huntsman’s horn. All the potential was ours, all that mattered was the immediate present, and the future belonged to some non-threatening, never-to-be-achieved time when we might—God forfend—actually get older. So here it is—my paean to my youth—long gone—but never—oh dear Lord above protect us in our innocence and naivete—never to be forgotten.

      About the Author

      Donald J. Richardson continues to teach and to try to write—not such a bad fate for one who hasn’t outgrown his youth or his past, seen here through the distorted prism of time—disingenuously remembered. Some of this is literally true—some of it is metaphorically true. You, gentle reader, are urged to sort it out as best you can. Peace and love to all.

      Chapter One

      The mail truck drove into Bedford from the west. The town sat off to the left of the highway, just over the crest of the hill with the blacktop leading into town. Down at the bottom of the hill there was another intersection; Sam’s Texaco Station sat there just off the highway to the south. From the crest of the hill the highway sloped down to the east for maybe a half-mile, past Sam’s before leveling out for another quarter-mile and then finally dropped down into the bottoms.

      The truck turned left into town. The blacktop led into the main part of the hamlet, past the Methodist Church on the east side, past Mel Jackson’s repair shop on the west side, around the right turn and the left one back, past the grade school on the right side, past Smith’s Groceries and Appliances, around another corner past Tom’s Meats and Groceries and U. S. Government Post Office, and finally past the Catholic Church before it faded into dust. Farther on the road led to the Midland Construction Company and to the river.

      The truck pulled up alongside the cement porch on the west side of Tom’s. The driver got out, opened the rear door of the truck, and took out a canvas mail sack; it had U. S. Mail lettered on it. He closed the door and entered Tom’s with the sack. In a few minutes he emerged from Tom’s with the empty mail sack. He opened the rear door again, deposited the sack, and closed the door. Then he started the truck up and made a u-turn in the street to leave Bedford.

      It wasn’t just another stop on Ben Thompson’s route. Every day he drove the mail truck out of Clarksville, Missouri, leaving at three a.m. He always tried to be back in Clarksville by eleven; his day’s work was done by then. Usually he didn’t make it. He looked forward to Bedford because that was his last stop. After he left Bedford, there were only a few miles left. It seemed to Ben that a man ought to be able to get a day’s work done in eight hours, but somehow he couldn’t. Something always happened. If it wasn’t bad weather or somebody complaining, it was a hell of a lot of mail. Seemed like people sent more mail all the time. More mail this year than last, and more last than the year before. Where did it all come from? Still it was a good job, and now he’d made the grade they couldn’t take it away from him. He’d have his retirement in a few years, and then he could just sit back and be on easy street. Not like those RFD men. Ben looked down on those Jeep drivers. They had to slosh their way through mud and snow and ice and every damned condition old Mother Nature threw their way; they didn’t have paved roads the way he did. And those skimpy, little Jeeps couldn’t provide any support to a real man; there wasn’t anything to them. A man needed a good solid two-ton truck under him, where he could look out and see things and look down on what was going on around him. Ben liked his job, even though he did have to stop at all the little towns like Bedford that didn’t have the RFD. He figured he was one of maybe a thousand people who had ever even heard of Bedford. There couldn’t be a hundred people living there, and even counting all their relatives that didn’t add up to much.

      The truck started to build up a little speed on the blacktop after Ben got around the corners and headed south again toward the highway. He swore as he dodged a panting, black dog; he had to swerve again to avoid hitting two kids on bicycles. God damn it! he swore. Damned kids and dogs in these small towns. That’s all he ever saw. He never got to see any women, like the foot men in Clarksville. But then they had trouble with their feet; Ben wouldn’t have traded.

      Ben turned east onto the highway. The truck built up speed rapidly on the downgrade holding to the road easily. It wouldn’t be long now before that new highway would be completed. Couple of years and they’d cut off two or three miles of his route. Instead of going east across those empty bottoms, he’d be able to go northeast into Clarksville, direct. It would take a couple of years yet, but they were started, and it wouldn’t be long now that they’d begun moving the dirt around. He’d get home a lot earlier that way.

      Twelve-year-old Tony Turner was standing outside Sam’s Texaco Station when he saw the mail truck go by. Dad, he called; the mail’s in. You want me to go get it?

      Sam Turner came to the open doorway. No, he said. I have to go in after while. I’ll pick it up then.

      Tony watched the U. S. Mail truck go down the highway east, disappearing over the hill. Then he went back to cutting the weeds in the ditch with the whip.

      Chapter Two

      Herb Smith walked over to Tom’s to get the mail about eleven in the morning. It was a hot morning in June. The tar clung to the soles of Herb’s shoes the way gum that somebody has thrown away after all the flavor is chewed out of it does. His shoes left imprints in the soft, black macadam.

      Tom’s Meats and Groceries and U. S. Government Post Office didn’t have a porch like Herb’s store. Tom’s porch was on the west side of the building with the entrance door set in across the southwest corner, square-like. After a customer went up the half-dozen steps, he was there. At the south side of the building an open wooden staircase led up to the apartment over the store.

      Tom was the postmaster for Bedford. He sold most of his groceries to the tenant farmers and to people Herb wouldn’t carry anymore. Every Saturday night they’d drive in and load up with their week’s groceries. Herb had noticed that it was nearly always the men who bought at Tom’s. He figured the women couldn’t stand the dirt. Or the flies.

      Inside there was an aisle for about two feet or so to the left which then cut to the right and led straight to the back of the store; the aisle was about six feet wide. All around were dusty cartons and cases half unpacked as if they were being set up for display but whoever had started it had never gotten back to it. Regular customers expected it never to be cleaned up; they’d have been surprised if it wasn’t messy like that.

      At the end of the aisle, in the back of the store, was an ancient wood and coal-burning stove with the small, rectangular isinglass windows and the pot belly, sitting there above those cast-iron, splayed-out feet atop the nailed-down square of tin. Near the stove Tom had a cracker barrel. It was a 55-gallon one with stale, yellowed, bulk crackers in it. You were expected to help yourself. It was probably the last one in the country. Around the stove were several wooden boxes and an empty nail keg or two and even one backless chair. On a Saturday afternoon in winter a seat by that stove was a real premium.

      Tom had his cash register set up on a counter facing out away from the south wall; there was just enough room behind for him to get around in. It wasn’t possible to see down into the corners back there because there wasn’t enough light, so it couldn’t be said how much dirt and trash was in there. It was probably considerable. Tom wasn’t on the particular side when it came to neatness. He’d tear off the wrapper of a candy bar and out of habit throw it down to kick around or walk on.

      In addition to being dirty, Herb felt, Tom seemed to have an inborn affinity for darkness. He dealt in gloom. The inside of his store was almost as dark as up top in the cupola of a barn on a night when there was a new moon. It was impossible to see how he found things. But Tom never seemed to grope around. He always knew where to look, and he always found it. Most people couldn’t even have seen where they were looking, let alone what they were looking for.

      Tom was sitting on his stool behind the counter holding a Tom Mix comic book in his left hand and an apple in his right. The flies would begin to converge on the apple, but Tom always knew right when to wave and they’d never get settled. Herb smiled. Tom kept them flying around the way a bitch will do with the hounds when she’s playing. Herb watched Tom bite into the apple. He didn’t even bother to look at it.

      Morning, Tom.

      Morning, Herb. Tom glanced up just to make sure it was Herb. He knew anyway; that was just his way. It was a point of pride with Tom. He rarely looked up before speaking.

      Tom slid off the stool and came over to the counter, moving maybe two inches distance all together. Look at that, he said, pointing to the comic book. Herb looked. There was Tom Mix between two men dressed in black, bearing down on him from opposite directions. Over Tom Mix’s head in the balloon it said, You dirty side-winding snakes are finished. This town isn’t big enough for varmints like you and decent folks.

      Herb looked up at Tom. Well?

      Well, hell, they didn’t talk like that. Now, I ask you, would you say something like that if those two was comin’ at you? Hell, no, you wouldn’t. You’d call ’em a pair of dirty sons-of-bitches and if they didn’t clear out you was gonna put ’em out of their misery with a bullet in their damned guts. That’s what you’d say, right?

      Herb nodded. Um hmmm, I guess so.

      Well, why don’t they put it in the comic books then? Tom took the last bite from the apple and dropped the core down behind him. The flies followed it.

      Well, Tom, I guess it’s ’cause the kids read the comic books.

      That’s right, Tom said in serious agreement as if his point had just been proved. That’s just what I’m getting at. You figure it’s right to let kids grow up thinking a man don’t cuss? That’s a sin, it is." Tom threw the comic book after the apple core. The disturbed flies came up in a wave and then settled back down again.

      Now, I’ll bet my whole damned store here that if Tom Mix was alive, he’d roll over in his grave to see how they’re corruptin’ the kids’ morals that way. Don’t you see, Herb? It just ain’t natural. A man has got to cuss to be a man. Ain’t that right?

      Herb was caught. He knew that in the eyes of Bedford, Missouri, a real man, when aroused, had to be able to swear ably. There was a ritualistic approach to it, almost formulaic. Every man used the same identical words, but it was necessary to be able to duplicate that ritual in order to be accepted. To Herb, though, it really wasn’t necessary. "Well, Tom, some men don’t have to swear to be men."

      "Aw, Herb, I’m talkin’ about a man. You gotta cuss to be a man. Right?"

      Herb nodded. I guess so.

      Well, Herb, why don’t you write some of those comic books then, and make ’em real? Hell, you’ve been to college, and you’re a kind of philosopher—hell, you could do it. Why don’t you?

      Herb was used to the question. Whenever Tom had a complaint about something he couldn’t understand or didn’t like, whether it was a United States Government Post Office Circular, The Reader’s Digest, a Tom Mix or a Little Lulu comic book, he asked Herb why he didn’t write things like that, real things, so people could understand them. Herb regularly interpreted the U. S. Post Office Circulars for Tom. When he had finished, Tom invariably asked, Well, why in hell didn’t they say so then? Herb, I just wish you was up there in Washington, D. C. to handle all that writin’. You could make it so I could understand it. Them guys they got are just too dumb.

      Herb had tried to explain to Tom that he couldn’t write. Tom wouldn’t accept it. Herb had been away to college, even if for only a year, and he ought to be able to. Herb had come to realize that it would have taken a whole roomful of writers to screen and rewrite everything that Tom was likely to read. But there was no point in going over it again. He had give up trying to explain it.

      Mail come in yet, Tom?

      Yup. You got a few bills. And a postcard from your folks. They’re really enjoying themselves there in the Ozarks. Your dad sure likes to fish. Herb nodded. Yeah, he took me out with him once, down to the river. Took him a whole week to convince me. Tom settled himself comfortably back onto the stool. Told me we’d head off a few of those channel cats before they got to the Missouri. He had all the poles and lines and everything.

      Herb smiled. Winton Smith would take anyone fishing with him. Did you catch anything?

      Nope. Didn’t even get a bite, Tom said with satisfaction. But your dad caught a whole mess of ’em. He shook his head, remembering. They never even touched my bait. You reckon they knew the difference? Maybe fish can smell the difference, huh Herb?

      I don’t know, Tom, Herb answered.

      You want your mail, Herb? Tom asked, looking up. He knew Herb did, but he didn’t relish moving himself across to the post office.

      Yes. I’d better get back to the store. I might get a customer.

      Okay, Tom said. He slid off the stool and forged out into the aisle; then he crossed over to the north side of the store where the official post office was. He stood behind the barred window while pulling on his green-visored light shade. Then he found Herb’s mail and handed it out under the bars, keeping back the postcard which he held up to the swinging, unshaded bulb. He studied the picture on it. You ever been to the Ozarks, Herb?

      No, Tom.

      It’s been a few years since I have. Nice country there. This picture looks almost like the real thing. He turned the postcard over in his chunky hands to read it aloud. Herb Smith, Smith’s Groceries and Appliances, Bedford, Missouri. Dear Herb, The fishing here is fine. Have caught fish every day so far. Your mother enjoys it, too. We have got the same cabin again this year, and we’re right at home. We sure do enjoy these vacations. We’ll be moving on to Yellowstone before long, but will let you know when. Hope everything is okay at the store, but I can’t think what wouldn’t be. By the way, how is the highway getting along? Say hello to all our customers. Write to us at the same address. Your dad. Tom studied the writing. He pointed to the signature and the last couple of lines of script. He had to squeeze the last in. Makes it hard to read. I guess he got his penny’s worth though.

      Herb was used to Tom, but he still couldn’t accept it. Tom, he said, didn’t it ever occur to you that you’re breaking the law by reading other people’s mail?

      Tom looked up in surprise from studying the picture. What? He snorted. "Ha! Herb, I’m the postmaster. Every postmaster in the world reads the postcards. Hell, everybody knows that. Even The Saturday Evening Post knows that. Did you see that cover a while back? It showed the mailman reading the cards, and he ain’t even the postmaster like I am. They sure do have some good covers on that Saturday Evening Post."

      Herb had to smile in spite of his irritation. I saw it, Tom. It was my folks’ magazine.

      "Sure. Right there on The Saturday Evening Post."

      Tom, Herb said. It just isn’t right. It’s like—well, it’s like watching somebody undress.

      Herb, you got a dirty mind, Tom said with a leer. "But I’ll tell you something. There’s some folks I’d like to watch undress, and I don’t care what they get in the mail."

      Herb shook his head. It just isn’t right, he said evenly.

      Aw, Herb, your dad don’t have no secrets from me. What has he got to hide? If he’s got something to hide, he shouldn’t be usin’ a post card. He held out the card. Here, he said. Boy, Herb, you’d sure make some kind of postmaster.

      I guess so, Herb admitted.

      "Say, Herb, how is that highway comin’? I ain’t seen anybody to talk to since Saturday."

      Well, they’re making progress, Herb answered. The boys out at Sam’s yesterday seemed to think they’re right on schedule. Sam’s Texaco Station on Highway 30 was the Sunday gathering place for all the farmers and young men in the area. They could shoot pool, play cards or baseball, pitch horseshoes, or just sit and talk and drink beer.

      Tom grew reflective. "Best damned thing ever happened to this town, you know that? Yup. The best damned thing. Bringin’ business in like that and creatin’ jobs and work. Why, this town could begin to grow again. More business is just what we need. Stimulates the economy," he said authoritatively.

      Herb tried to be noncommittal. I guess it’s all right.

      "All right? Herb, sometimes I think you’re not interested in getting ahead in this world. Hell, don’t you want more business? Don’t you want Bedford to be more than a two-store town?" Tom was almost aggressive.

      I don’t know, Tom, Herb answered, turning to look toward the front of the store and the dusty, fly-specked window. I like things the way they are, I guess.

      You’re backward, Tom said with a grin. He removed the visor and came out into the aisle. You just wait. That highway’s gonna bring in more business than you or me know what to do with."

      That’s what I’m afraid of, Herb said.

      "Ah, what are you worried about? Boy, Herb, if you’d graduated from college, you’d really be a mess, wouldn’t you? It was silent for a moment. I’ll tell you one thing though," Tom said.

      That’s that? Herb asked.

      Your dad sure writes a good postcard.

      Herb smiled. Yes, he does, he agreed. I’ll see you, Tom."

      Okay, Herb.

      Herb picked his way out of the store where the gloom made it seem cool, back into the June heat. He was looking forward to a Pepsi Cola. He had begun restricting himself to only five a day, and the first one always seemed to taste best. It made him look forward to getting the mail, too. He walked a little faster, making the sweat start in earnest.

      Chapter Three

      When Herb got back to the store, Jeff Brown was waiting for him. Herb took the Back in a few minutes sign off the screen door and hung it on the inside handle of the main door. When he walked in, he saw Jeff standing beside the counter. The main part of the store ran east and west, with the counter along the south wall parallel with the wall. There were glass cases first, then the counters, and then the cash register. The pop cooler was beside the cash register, last in the line of counters. Then toward the back of the store, sitting east and west was the glass-fronted meat and cheese counter with the scales on top of it.

      Herb walked to the pop cooler and slid the top back. He reached his hands down into the cold water. His hands chilled quickly, and he shivered a little. Then he pulled out a Pepsi and uncapped it at the cap remover on the end of the cooler. With his left hand he slid the top of the cooler back. He tipped up the Pepsi in his right hand. It was cold and refreshing with hardly any sweetness. He turned to Jeff. Morning, Jeff, he said.

      Morning, Mister Herb. Jeff just stood there. Herb realized that Jeff wasn’t there to buy anything. Somebody who came to buy said what he wanted. Jeff was only thirteen, so he wasn’t there for sitting and talking either.

      What can I do for you, Jeff? Herb asked between drinks from the Pepsi.

      Uh, Mister Herb—I—uh—nice weather, ain’t it?

      Yes, it is, Herb agreed.

      Jeff shifted from his left side to his right. Well, Mister Herb, I was wonderin’. How’s your business been lately?

      Herb looked at Jeff critically. Jeff was the second oldest child of Harrison Brown. They were the only Negro family living in Bedford. There was prejudice in Bedford, Herb knew, but less than, say, in Clarksville. At least Washington and Jeff and Carry Nation went to school in Bedford and didn’t have to go to Clarksville to the Negro school. Jeff wasn’t big for his age, but Herb knew he was strong. More than that, he was intelligent. He always seemed to be one of the team captains when the kids were playing. Jeff always took charge of the team he had, and the other kids did what he told them to, even Washington who was much bigger and stronger. So now, Herb realized, he was looking for a job. Herb wondered idly whether or not he could afford to hire anybody, Negro or not. There were some people in Bedford who would not come into the store if Jeff was there.

      Business has been pretty good, Jeff. Sometimes it’s too good, he said.

      What do you mean? Jeff asked seriously.

      Well, Herb answered, there are times I’d like to be able to get away and I can’t, being here by myself, you know. If I want to go to Clarksville, I have to close up, and I don’t like to do that.

      Yes, Jeff said. Well, maybe—maybe if you had a helper, or somebody—maybe you could get away then. There was asking in the statement; Herb knew it.

      Sure, but who can I get? Jeff was going to have to ask for the job. Herb went on. "See, it’d have to be somebody trustworthy. Somebody willing to assume responsibility for running the store. And who wouldn’t disappoint me."

      Oh, Jeff said.

      Herb was afraid he’d gone too far. Do you know somebody I could get? he asked.

      No, I guess I don’t, Jeff answered dejectedly. I thought I did, but I guess I don’t.

      Well, that’s too bad, Herb said. He dropped the empty Pepsi bottle into the case next to the cooler. I’d sure like to be able to leave this store once in a while without having to worry about it. You know, walk over to get the mail, or go into to Clarksville or something like that. He’d actually be doing me a favor if he came to work for me.

      Jeff lifted his head. "Mister Herb, maybe I do know of somebody."

      Who is it? Herb asked, keeping his face neutral.

      Well, Jeff answered, he’s not exactly too old.

      Oh, Herb said.

      As a matter of fact, he’s pretty young yet.

      How old is he? Herb asked.

      Thirteen, Jeff said. But he’ll be fourteen next year.

      That’s not very old, Herb said.

      No, Jeff agreed, that’s pretty young. But you don’t have anything against young people, do you?

      Oh no, Herb answered quickly. I was even young once myself, he said with a smile. Does he have any experience?

      Experience? Jeff echoed. You mean at working in a store?

      Um hmmm. Or anything else.

      Well, no, not exactly. There was a pause. But he wants work, Jeff said. And he’d be a good helper. Lots of people say he’s a quick learner, and he works real hard, too.

      Herb smiled at Jeff. I guess I could talk to him. How much would I have to pay him?

      I don’t know, Jeff said. I never thought of that. I mean I never thought to ask him. How much you suppose, Mister Herb?

      Herb backed up against the counter to lift himself up onto it with his hands, letting his feet swing free. Well, he said, some farm hands make a hundred a month around here. I don’t reckon he’d be worth that much. I guess I’d be willing to start him at around $20 a month, if he was good. Let’s see, there’s about twenty-five working days a month, so that’d be—how much a day?

      Eighty cents, Jeff said with hardly a pause to figure it.

      Herb looked at Jeff as if seeing him for the first time. That’s quick, he said. I could use somebody quick with figures. And that’s not too bad a rate. I’ve pulled weeds for fifty cents a day.

      I know, Jeff said.

      This somebody you know, Herb said, looking intently at Jeff. Is it you?

      Jeff nodded seriously. I’d be a good worker for you. And I’d work whenever you said; I mean it.

      Herb grinned at his seriousness. Jeff, I know you would. How about a bottle of pop?

      Jeff eyed Herb speculatively. He didn’t accept pop from just anybody. Can I have a Vess Cola? he asked.

      Sure, Herb said. What flavor?

      Orange.

      Herb slid off the counter and got the orange out for Jeff. He opened it and handed it to Jeff. Jeff drank from it. Okay, Jeff, you talk to your folks. If it’s okay with them, it’s okay with me.

      Really, Mister Herb?

      Yes, really, Herb answered. But you gotta quit calling me Mister.

      Okay. Okay, he repeated excitedly. Boy, this is really gonna be great. He drank from the orange again.

      Herb considered leaving it at that, but he realized it wouldn’t be fair. There’s just one thing, Jeff, he said, looking at Jeff evenly.

      Jeff knew what he meant. Yeah. What if somebody—?

      Herb’s mind was made up. "You’ll be working for me, not for anybody else. So nobody can say anything to you. If they don’t like who I got working here, I guess they can go over to Tom’s. They get more over there anyway, by the time you figure in the dirt. Jeff smiled faintly. But somebody might say something sometime, until they get used to the idea. All we have to do is get them used to you working here, and then it’ll be okay. Is that all right with you?"

      Jeff replaced the empty bottle in the rack. I don’t want to lose you any business. I don’t want to cause any trouble for anybody, ‘specially somebody trying to help me.

      Herb tried not to be angry. Jeff, he said quietly, "if there’s any trouble, it won’t be caused by you. Besides, we don’t want that kind of business, anyway. Do we?"

      No, I guess not, Jeff said rather half-heartedly.

      Okay, now, Herb said. You talk to your mother about it. When do you want to start?

      This afternoon? Jeff asked hopefully.

      Fine, Herb agreed. Tell your mother I want to talk to her if she can come in sometime.

      I will. I sure will. Mister Herb—.

      Herb smiled. No more Mister, he said.

      Okay. I just want to say—.

      Go on, go on, Herb said in embarrassment, pushing Jeff gently toward the door. He watched Jeff walk toward the front of the store. Jeff, he called after him, you better wear shoes if you can.

      Okay, Herb. I’ll see you in a little while. He skipped out the door and down the steps. Herb knew he’d have to run to keep the blacktop from burning his bare feet, but he figured Jeff would have run even it if hadn’t been hot.

      Herb walked into the back of the store and placed the mail on the old wooden desk where he did his bookkeeping. He sat down to open the mail. All were bills except the card from his folks. Herb looked at the card again. It was a nice picture. There was a beautiful blue lake with trees all around it and one small boat out in the middle with two fishermen in it. It looked just like the type of place he imagined his father would be happy in. As far back as he could remember, his father had been planning vacations and trips, but somehow he just never got to take them. There was always something that came up at the last minute. It had got so that the planning was merely perfunctory, not really aimed at anything. One time they were going to see the St. Louis Cardinals play in St. Louis. The Cards were his dad’s favorite team; everybody in Bedford followed the Cards. But somehow the trip was never made. Herb couldn’t remember why now. It must have been important though.

      Herb wondered if his father really enjoyed the summer trips. He said he did, but that might just be an act. Suppose all those years of planning had taken all the fun out of the actual fishing itself. Winton Smith had put a lot of his time into planning fishing trips and excursions. It would be ironic if now the real thing was much less than the anticipated. Of course, Herb thought, it would be more than ironic. It would be almost tragic. Here’s a man who has lived his life for one big reason, the outdoors and nature, and suppose he finds out that he has been deceived all along? How can he react? Herb realized that there would be no way he would ever know how his father felt. If he did not enjoy the trips, how could he say anything? How could he admit that that major portion of his life had gone for something that in the end turned out to be sour? Herb could almost feel sorry for his father, but that feeling was not a true one. Winton Smith wasn’t a man who needed pity. He stood tall above all other men, and you did not feel sorry for such a man. You respected him and tried to understand him. Herb had read Death of a Salesman in college, and it occurred to him that his father resembled Willy Loman. Not physically, or mentally either, because in some respects Willy Loman was really pitiful, whereas his father wasn’t. But they were each committed to something; and in Willy Loman’s case that something turned out to be false. Herb prayed that his father’s commitment was to something real and true. Even so, he envied his father in that he had found something to commit himself to; Herb was still looking.

      Herb looked over the bills abjectly; he had begun to realize that running Smith’s Groceries and Appliances was sometimes unpleasant. That was especially true when it came time to paying, or collecting, bills. If only the charge customers could pay. Then everything would balance out. But as it was, the store kept on losing money. Not really losing—on paper there was a small profit. But it was as worthless as the profits of the stock market of the ’20s. There just had to be a certain amount of capital for expenses, and Herb was finding it was getting tighter and tighter. And now he had gone and hired a helper.

      He had tried everything he could think of. He had tried reminding them; that didn’t work. They just couldn’t pay if they didn’t have the money. Some had gone over to Tom’s because Herb had made them feel guilty. He had tried firmness and pleading and the friendly approach and appealing to their sense of fairness; nothing worked. They just didn’t have the money. Sometimes Herb felt that it was useless to try to continue the store. The only way it could end was in bankruptsy. All their charge business they conducted in Bedford; all their cash business they transacted in Clarksville. If they bought a major appliance, they bought it in Clarksville. Herb was finding out that he couldn’t make a cash profit. He wondered how much longer he’d be able to keep the store open. He wondered how his father would feel. How was he going to tell him? Herb shoved the bills aside and reached for his lunch.

      Herb made his own sandwiches at home and brought vegetables from the garden. He liked growing things outside and working in the soil. It was something he had inherited from his mother. For as long as he could remember, they had had a backyard garden. During the Depression when his father could hardly afford to keep the shelves stocked, they had eaten fresh vegetables. Just like everybody else, they hadn’t had meat every day, but they had had good food. Like his mother, Herb had come to respect nature; he knew that a man could find peace there when he was disturbed about man-made problems. He pulled out two tomatoes, one carrot, and a few radishes. He set them on the paper sack, relishing the way he knew they would taste. Then he went to the cooler and pulled out his quart of milk. Herb had found that by eating, he could almost forget about the bills. He sat down to eat with pleasure. The store and its problems could wait until he had finished.

      Chapter Four

      Leona Brown took off her apron and hung it up. Then she went into the bedroom. She took down her hat and pinned it on, working by feel. She didn’t like to wear a hat, but if a person was going to town, she had to wear a hat.

      She walked outside, catching the screen door so it wouldn’t slam. Carry Nation, she called.

      Carry Nation was working in the garden, hoeing. Leona was proud of her, even though she was only twelve. Washington was supposed to be helping, but he couldn’t be counted on. He’d probably wandered off to the river by now. Carry Nation came to the house. Yes, Momma?

      I have to go into town now. You see if you can get those beans hoed; then maybe you better pick the bugs off the potatoes. When I get back, we’ll make us a cake to celebrate for Jefferson.

      Okay, Momma. How long you think you’ll be gone?

      ’Bout two hours, I guess. Well, go ’long now. Carry Nation went back to the garden. Leona ached inside when she thought about how her family had to drag along from day to day to try to get a meal on the table. A little girl like that, just twelve years old, having to work out in the hot sun. And Jefferson, thirteen and already got himself a job. It was a shame and a pity they had to work like that.

      Leona began the long, dusty climb up the hill toward Bedford. Jefferson had left right after dinner, wearing his white shirt and his shoes. She hoped he didn’t get too important what with having a job. It didn’t take very much to make a person forget what he really was. But then Jefferson wasn’t likely to. He was the smart one in the family. Leona thanked her God that there was at least one. Maybe that made up for Washington. She knew that it didn’t, though. Somewhere something was written down that said that Washington had to be what he was. There just wasn’t anything she could do about it. For a long time she had refused to believe that Washington wouldn’t grow out of it. Harrison had talked and talked, but Leona wouldn’t listen; she had to have faith in her children. But it didn’t do any good. Some things a body wasn’t supposed to understand. She supposed Washington was one of them. A body had to have faith though. Many times when Harrison had been downhearted, Leona had had to encourage him. It was hard, but it was her job; she believed.

      The dirt was yellowish-brown and powdery, almost like sand. She hoped it would rain before long. The garden things were getting dry, and they needed those vegetables. She was glad Harrison had got that job working for the Richmonds, even if it was only part-time. Harrison should never have worked for a man like Bill Hawkins. Bill Hawkins was trash. No good trash who was filthy and didn’t deserve to have his own farm like that. She saw her black shoes were getting covered with the powdery, yellow dust. She’d have to stamp them when she got to the blacktop.

      A car came down the slight grade pulling its dust cloud along after it. It went past Leona, leaving her surrounded by the thick, heavy dust. She turned her back to it, covering her mouth. After a moment, she turned and continued up the hill. They just needed the money. If it wasn’t for that, Harrison wouldn’t have had to work for that Hawkins in the first place. If he was a real farmer, he’d need a lot more than just one good hired man to run that place of his. But he wasn’t. Leona had been around farm people all her life. She knew good farm stock. Bill Hawkins wasn’t a farmer. He should be a traveling medicine man, or work in a carnival, cheating people out of their last greasy, sweaty coins. There was something about him that was dirtier than the dirtiest filth of the earth. He had evil in him. He didn’t deserve to plow the Lord’s earth any more than she deserved to go into a white church. That was something that was either earned or ordained, and neither one fit him.

      When she reached the edge

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