A Light in the Window (47 page)

Puny stopped by the office the next morning to pick up her check. “Here,” he said, handing her the vase full of roses, “take these home.”

“Law, they’re beautiful! Who give you these?”

“Whang-do.”

“Whang-
who?
”

He didn’t answer.

“Sometimes, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You aren’t the only one,” he said.

She thought she’d never seen such a strange look on his face.

Where was the brooch? The cleaners hadn’t turned it up. He had searched the entire room, including the closet, on his hands and knees, not to mention every pocket and drawer.

It was maddening. After all, if something so important could slip away so easily, what else might disappear or run to neglect because of his carelessness? There was the rub.

He was finding scant peace in his own home these days.

Puny was cleaning every blind, curtain, cornice, and shade on the premises, so the rectory could hardly be visited for lunch.

Half the seventh grade was ringing his phone in the evenings to get Dooley’s help with their math homework.

And last, but certainly not least, his cousin had turned his home into a hotel, with food vanishing as if into a bottomless pit.

He could remember the time when there was no one here but himself, when the very ticking of the clock could be heard.

Who could hear a clock tick above the din of a Royal manual, a jam box with twin speakers, a vacuum cleaner, a washing machine, a ringing phone, and a toilet that flushed over his head every time he tried catching a nap on the sofa?

It occurred to him that all the people coming and going under his roof, other than himself, were redheads. He wondered if that could have anything to do with it.

“We are not necessarily doubting,” said C. S. Lewis, “that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.”

He had spent an hour on his knees, asking for the best, believing in the best, thanking God in advance for the best. No, he didn’t doubt that God would do the best for her and for him. But yes, he was wondering how painful the best might be.

At the office, he typed a note to go out with the morning mail.

He stared at what he had written and then typed:

Not knowing what else to say, he took the note from his typewriter and signed it by hand.

He didn’t add that no one had ever hung up on him before.

“Knock, knock!” said Puny, pushing the door open. “I had to go to Th’ Local to git cornmeal. I’m bakin’ you a cake of cornbread tonight.”

“Hallelujah!” Puny allowed him this sterling indulgence once a month. Golden brown, steaming on the inside and crying out for butter, Puny Bradshaw’s cornbread could win a blue ribbon at the state fair.

“I want to ask you somethin’.” She sat on the visitors’ bench, holding the grocery bag in her lap.

“Shoot.”

“You know I said th’ washroom always looks jis’ like I leave it? That’s ’cause it
is
like I leave it. Your cousin ain’t usin’ it.” She raised her eyebrows and looked at him.

“Ummm.”

“The question is, three weeks on th’ same sheets? An’ how many changes of underwear do you reckon she
has
in there, anyway?” From the look on her face, the thought was appalling.

“Well...”

“An’ when does she bring ’er dishes down, for another thing?”

“The middle of the night?”

“I suppose you know she shoves ’em in the dishwasher whether th’ stuff in there is clean or dirty. I found a clean load settin’ in there with a dirty plate an’ glass an’ silverware.”

“Ah,” he sighed.

“For another thing, where does she empty ’er wastebasket?”

“Good question. I don’t know.”

“Not in th’ bag under the sink, I can tell you that. An’ not in th’ garbage cans in th’ garage.”

She let him ponder that.

“I’m makin’ you a nice, lean roast tonight, an’ I intend to stay there ‘til you git home, or there might not be a bite left, if you git my meanin’.”

He hated to say it. “Don’t worry. She eats flesh foods only on Sunday.”

Puny shook her head, disgusted.

He might have walked into a graveyard for the odd silence that hung over the Grill on Wednesday morning.

Over the years, he’d gotten used to the noise in the place, hardly noticing it. Now, he noticed the lack of it.

He was ready for Percy to give him plenty of heat about his cousin, but Percy looked up from taking an order and didn’t even acknowledge that he’d come in.

He sat in the rear booth, strangely anxious. Yesterday morning, he had breakfast with Dooley, skipping the Grill. What had he missed? Was something going on that he hadn’t heard about?

He turned around and looked at the door. Where was Mule? Where was J.C.? He heard only forks against plates and shoe leather against bare floors, as if the Grill were observing a wake.

Velma poured his coffee, wordless.

“Has somebody ... died?”

“I wish,” she said curtly, taking the pot to a nearby table.

He might have been a tourist for all they cared.

J.C. slammed into the booth, throwing his briefcase in the corner. He thought how the editor’s red face was not a good sign along with sixty pounds of extra weight. “I hope you been on your knees,” he growled.

“About what?”

J.C. stared at him, wide-eyed. “You don’t know what’s goin’ on?” “I don’t have a clue.”

“Edith Mallory has stuck it to Percy with a hoe handle.” He wiped his perspiring face with a much-used handkerchief. “That’s who owns this place, in case you didn’t know. Kicked up his rent ...”

“How much?”

“Double, can you believe it? Nobody in this town goes up double.”

“What does double mean?”

“Double means highway robbery—better’n two thousand bucks a pop. The only way Percy can swing a rent like that is to raise prices on the menu. You wanna pay four bucks for a poached banty egg on toast? This crowd’ll never go for it. Mack Stroupe is circling like a vulture, even as we speak. If Percy moves off Main Street, Mack is fixing to add on to his hot-dog stand and serve breakfast. He’ll have grits tastin’ like they were cooked in a crankcase.”

“Edith Mallory ...”

“Look,” said J.C., “I respect that you’re not big on foul language, but I gotta say it. You know what the woman is.”

In case he didn’t, J.C. told him.

“So if he doesn’t come up with the rent, he’s out?”

“Big time.”

“And if he does, he jacks up his prices and stands to lose his trade ...”

“You got it.”

“I thought somebody had died.”

“Yeah, well, somebody could, and it might be Percy. This could kill him. This place is his life. And lest you forget, buddyroe, th’ Muse is right up those back steps there. Who knows when I’ll get my little notice in th’ mail?”

“Where’s Mule?”

“Out lookin’ for a place Percy can move into.”

The Main Street Grill not on Main Street? It was unthinkable.

“Pat Mallory wouldn’t have done a thing like this in a hundred years,” said J.C. “He ate his breakfast at the Grill every morning of his life, desperate to get away from that barracuda. He would have paid Percy to keep it open.”

Velma stopped to pour J.C.’s coffee.

“Don’t worry,” the
Muse
editor told Percy’s wife. “There’s still such a thing as th’ power of th’ press ...”

“Whatever that means,” said Velma.

Mule slid into the booth. “Let me tell you, it ain’t out there.”

“No luck?” J.C. said.

“One little old bitty place stuck off behind the Shoe Barn, and she owns that, too.”

“Does she really think Percy can cough up the new rent, or is she trying to run him out?” asked the rector.

“Tryin’ to run him out is the deal. Has some fancy dress shop from Florida she wants to bring in, th’ kind that would draw customers from Wesley and Holding, all around.”

He didn’t think he could eat a bite for the churning in his stomach. “How much time do we have?”

“This is the twelfth of April, right? We got to the middle of May and not a day longer. Percy begged for time, but did she give him any? No way.”

“There’s got to be something we can do.” One look at the anguish on Percy’s face as he worked the grill was about all he could take.

“There might be somethin’ ...” said Mule. The rector wondered why the realtor was staring a hole through him.

“I could dig up some dirt,” said J.C., “and spread it across the front page. First thing you know, she’d come runnin’ in here to hand over the deed, forget droppin’ the rent ...”

“Stop talkin’ junk and talk sense,” snapped Mule.

“See there?” said J.C. “Everybody’s got their back up. It’s enough to make you sick to your stomach.”

Velma appeared and slid J.C.’s order to the end of the table and set down the rector’s poached eggs. “You done eat?” she asked Mule.

“Cornflakes at six a.m.,” he said. “I could gnaw th’ legs offa this booth, but Fancy’s got me on a low-fat diet.”

“Fancy barks, he jumps,” grunted J.C., busting open his egg yolk with his fork.

Mule looked at the rector. “I hear you know Edith Mallory pretty well ...”

“She’s a member of Lord’s Chapel.”

“You’ve been carted around in that Lincoln of hers a few times, not to mention you’ve been seen over in Wesley ridin’ around ...”