He came to a school building closed for the summer, and finally a town square typical of most in the south, dominated by a Baptist church and the town hall, with other businesses scattered around, interspersed by vacant lots-a drugstore, grocery, cafe, hardware, a blacksmith shop in front of which stood a brand-new gas pump topped by a white glass eagle.
He stopped before the office of the town newspaper, absently gazing at his reflection in the window. He fingered the few precious bills in his pocket, turned and glanced across the square at Vickery’s Cafe, pulled his hat brim down lower and strode in that direction.
The square held a patch of green grass and a bandstand wreathed by black iron benches. In the cool splash of shade beneath an enormous magnolia tree two old men sat, whittling. They glanced up as he passed. One of them nodded, spat, then returned to his whittling.
The screen door on Vickery’s Cafe had a wide red and white tin band advertising Coca-Cola. The metal was warm beneath Will’s hands and the door spring sang out as he entered the place. He paused a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. At a long counter, two men turned, regarded him indolently without removing their elbows from beside their coffee cups. A buxom young woman ambled the length of the counter and drawled, 'Howdy. What can I do for y’, honey?'
Will trained his eyes on her face to keep them off the row of plates behind the counter where cherry and apple pie winked an invitation.
'Wondered if you got a local paper I could look at.'
She smiled dryly and cocked one thin-plucked eyebrow, glanced at the lump of wet green terrycloth he held against his thigh, then reached beneath the counter to dig one out. Will knew perfectly well she’d seen him pause before the newspaper office across the street, then walk over here instead.
'Much obliged,' he said as he took it.
She propped the heel of one hand on a round hip and ran her eyes over the length of him while chewing gum lazily, making it snap.
'You new around these parts?'
'Yes, ma’am.'
'You the new one out at the sawmill?'
Will had to force his hands not to grip the folded paper. All he wanted was to read it and get the hell out of here. But the two at the counter were still staring over their shoulders. He felt their speculative gazes and gave the waitress a curt nod.
'Be okay if I set down a spell and look at this?'
'Sure thing, help yourself. Can I get ya a cup of coffee or anything?'
'No, ma’am, I’ll just…' With the paper he gestured toward the row of high-backed booths, turned and folded his lanky frame into one of them. From the corner of his eye he saw the waitress produce a compact and begin to paint her lips. He buried his face in the
A husband?
Will’s eyes backtracked and read the whole ad, the same one she’d tacked up on the time board at the mill.
WANTED-A HUSBAND. Need healthy man of any age willing to work a spread and share the place. See E. Dinsmore, top of Rock Creek Road.
A healthy man of any age? No wonder the millhands called her crazy.
His eyes moved on: somebody had homemade rag rugs for sale; a nearby town needed a dentist and a mercantile establishment an accountant.
But nobody needed a drifter fresh out of Huntsville State Penitentiary who’d picked fruit and ridden freights and wrangled cattle and drifted half the length of this country in his day.
He read E. Dinsmore’s ad again.
His eyes narrowed beneath the deep shadow of his hat brim while he studied the words. Now what the hell kind of woman would advertise for a man? But then what the hell kind of man would consider applying?
The pair of locals had twisted around on their stools and were overtly staring. The waitress leaned on the counter, gabbing with them, her eyes flashing often to Will. He eased from the booth and she sauntered to meet him at the glass cigar counter up front. He handed her the paper, curled a hand around his hat brim without actually dipping it.
'Much obliged.'
'Anytime. It’s the least I can do for a new neighbor. The name’s Lula.' She extended a limp hand with talons polished the same vermilion shade as her lips. Will assessed the hand and the come-hither jut of her hip, the unmistakable message some women can’t help emanating. Her bleached hair was piled high and tumbled onto her forehead in a studied imitation of Hollywood’s newest cheesecake, Betty Grable.
At last Will extended his own hand in a brief handshake accompanied by an even briefer nod. But he didn’t offer his name.
'Could you tell me how to find Rock Creek Road?'
'Rock Creek Road?'
Again he gave a curt nod.
The men snickered. The smile fell from Lula’s sultry mouth.
'Down past the sawmill, first road south of there, then the first road left offa that.'
He stepped back, touched his hat and said, 'Much obliged,' before walking out.
'Well,' Lula huffed, watching him walk past the window. 'If he ain’t a surly one.'
'Didn’t fall for your smile now either, did he, Lula?'
'What smile you talkin’ about, you dumb redneck? I didn’t give him no smile!' She moved along the counter, slapping at it with a wet rag.
'Thought y’ had a live one there, eh, Lula?' Orlan Nettles leaned over the counter and squeezed her buttock.
'Damn you, Orlan, git your hands off!' she squawked, twisting free and swatting his wrist with the wet rag.
Orlan eased back onto the stool, his eyebrows mounting his forehead. 'Hoo-ee! Would y’ look at that now, Jack.' Jack Quigley turned droll eyes on the pair. 'I never knew old Lula to slap away a man’s hand before, have you, Jack?'
'You got a right filthy mouth, Orlan Nettles!' Lula yelped.
Orlan grinned lazily, lifted his coffee cup and watched her over the brim. 'Now what do you suppose that feller’s doing up Rock Creek Road, Jack?'
Jack at last showed some sign of life as he drawled, 'Could be he’s goin’ up to check out the Widow Dinsmore.'
'Could be. Can’t figger what else he’d of found in that newspaper, can you, Lula?'
'How should I know what he’s doin’ up Rock Creek Road? Wouldn’t open his mouth enough to give a person his name.'
Orlan loudly swallowed the last of his coffee. 'Yup!' With the back of a hand he smeared the wetness from the corners of his mouth over the rest of it. 'Reckon he went on up to check out Eleanor Dinsmore.'
'That crazy old coot?' Lula spat. 'Why, if he did, he’ll be back down in one all-fire hurry.'
'Don’t you just wish, Lula… don’t you just wish?' Orlan chuckled, bowed his legs and backed off the stool, then dropped a nickel on the counter.
