Eden Hill Read Free

with ample supplies of cold-cut sandwiches, ice cream, overalls, and flypaper. There was Willett’s Dry Goods with clothing and fabric, and three churches. Three fine churches. Filled every Sunday with wonderful country people who’d give a person the high-bibs right off their backs. Farms and stores, tradesmen and everyday folks. Eden Hill may not be much, but it was everything that New York City could only dream about.
    With that thought and another nudge from Ticky, Virgiltucked the Pageant into his coat pocket and returned to reality. He’d ask his mechanic, Welby, about it later. Welby and Alma had been married upwards of thirty years; surely he’d have some insight.
    Virgil’s coffee mug was empty again, so he must have paused and pondered for longer than he thought. No matter, Welby would certainly have a fresh pot brewing when he arrived.
    “Let’s go, Ticky.” He bent down to scratch the dog’s ears. “Folks’ll be coming by to see us soon.” The mid-November sun had now risen above the horizon, bathing the fields with twilight. Somewhere a tractor started with a rumble, and a truck stopped on Front Street, its brakes squeaking. Sounds of life   —good life. He and Ticky walked the rest of the way down the hill to Osgood’s, and Virgil opened the side door just as the sun cleared the clouds and touched the porch of the old house behind him. Another day had begun in little Eden Hill. Farms needed tending, stock had to be fed, and cars and trucks would soon show up to purchase gasoline and service.
    He’d get back to the Pageant tomorrow, or the day after that. He had work to do.

    “Hello, Virgil!” A man in faded khaki coveralls stood up awkwardly from the front tire of a little two-tone Nash Metropolitan, having put the last squeaky twist on a lug nut. “How’s the boss today?” A small but sturdy man of fifty-five,Welby, limping slightly, the result of a childhood bout with polio, crossed to greet Virgil.
    “Just fine!” Virgil grinned. At least Welby, fifteen years his senior, seemed to be on his side this morning. The work may be hard, but here at the service station, Virgil always knew what to expect.
    Virgil worked his way through the smells of motor oil and Monkey Grip until he located the aroma of fresh coffee drifting from a large pot on the workbench. His thinking was still hazy, and his mug was empty. At least one of these situations could be easily remedied; Welby brewed ten cups at a time. “Is Mr. Willett’s car about ready to go?”
    “Yep. Just need to check the brakes. He’ll be coming by at lunchtime to pick it up.”
    “That’ll be fine.” Perhaps he and the world were indeed just fine. By now, Welby’s joyful demeanor and a full mug of steaming black java had lifted his spirits.
    “Welby, I’ve got a question for you.” He’d just reached for the Pageant when a decrepit truck coughed into the front lot, rattling and squeaking its brakes.
    “Arlie?” The sound of the ancient vehicle was distinctive and unmistakable.
    “Mornin’, folks.” A disheveled but cheerful Arlie Prewitt met them at the front door. He wore a denim jacket over his union-made bib overalls, which looked as though they served as work pants, sportswear, and probably pajamas. “No gas today, just some Nabs.” Arlie selected a cellophane package from the Tom’s rack and dropped his quarter into the small can alongside with a noisy clang.
    “Where are you going, Arlie?” Welby wiped his hands on a shop rag. He needn’t have asked. There was only one place the farmer would be going this early in the morning without a hog in the back of his truck: the lake.
    “Fishin’. Wanna go?” Arlie had often said he’d rather fish than eat, and he enjoyed eating very much. “Last good day of the year, probably. I got my boy Frank up early to feed the sows so I could go. Sure hope he doesn’t hit anything with the old John Deere.”
    “Sorry, Arlie, but we’ve got too much work to do today.”