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“Au revoir,
“Love, Vella Blaine, who does not wish anyone was here.
“That’s it from Mama…. Now, I want to speak a plain word about constipation. Don’t turn the dial. Ladies, regular eliminations of body waste is the best beautifier for complexion, hair and attitude. Increase your energy and your sexual stamina, too, by getting yourself regular. Come see me down here at Blaine’s Drugstore, and I’ll fix you up with some natural remedies. There is just no need to suffer.
“That’s it from Blaine’s Drugstore, providing the best of the old and the new, and we will always beat the big discount drugstores on price. Back to you, Jim.”
“Thank you, Miss Belinda,” she heard him say just as she clicked off, and in a tone that made her think he was red as a beet.
She saw she had dropped ash on the desk and remembered why she disliked smoking. It was just dirty. With relief, she found an ashtray in the rear of the center drawer, then relaxed back in the chair for a couple more puffs, since she did have it lit.
“You look like Aunt Vella, sittin’ there.” Arlo’s head poked around the partition.
“I presume you didn’t abandon the cash register just to make that observation.” She vigorously tamped the cigarillo into the ashtray.
“Huh?” He looked confused.
“What did you want?”
“Oh. Yeah…Inez Cooper is out here at the herbs and vitamins. She wants to know if there’s somethin’ she could slip her husband to make him stop smokin’.”
“Tell her I’ll be right there.” She tossed the package of cigarillos into the trash can, followed by the ashtray.
Passing the soda fountain counter, she told Arlo, “Soon as you get a chance, I want you to switch the desks back around. Put Mama’s desk back in her place, and move mine back into my office.”
She could tell she had confused him again.
CHAPTER 4
The Great Compromise
AFTER TWO DAYS OF TATE GOING BACK AND FORTH across the street between the houses of the two old neighbors and using all his negotiating skills, the matter was settled. Winston and Everett would share hosting of the new Wake Up show for an hour each morning. This could be managed mostly because Willie Lee would join them. Willie Lee’s presence always encouraged people to be on their best behavior.
Corrine stood with her aunt Marilee in the yellow light on the front porch. Each with a baby on the hip, and each disgusted about the early hour.
“You all come right back after the show and get a proper breakfast,” said Aunt Marilee. “And don’t go eatin’ a bunch of doughnuts. Remember your cholesterol, Tate…your sugar, Winston. Don’t you make Willie Lee late for school.”
Corrine, ever vigilant over her younger cousin, put in, “Somebody tie Willie Lee’s shoestring.”
To which Willie Lee hollered back, “I ca-n do it!”
Willie Lee and Winston exchanged looks. Winston well understood the boy. Willie Lee was mentally handicapped but not a baby, and not deaf, either—as so many tended to treat him in his old age.
Corrine and her aunt Marilee continued to stand and watch as the men and boy and dog got into the Bronco that Papa Tate already had warming up. Doors slammed. The Bronco went backing out, and then Aunt Marilee hollered, “Watch out!”
Although Papa Tate no doubt could not hear her with the windows rolled up, he had already slammed on his brakes, avoiding hitting Mr. Everett’s Honda Accord backing out of his driveway so fast that the rear end bounced two feet when the tires hit the street. Then the Honda roared off ahead of the Bronco.
Aunt Marilee looked at Corrine, and Corrine looked back at her. With sighs, they went back in the warm house, turning out the porch light.
At the radio station, Everett had gotten into the sound studio and sat himself in the executive chair at the microphone. He cast a wave to Tate, who bid him good-morning.
Winston took note of the situation. There were two more rolling chairs, both smaller and against the wall. Winston had never sat in either. He was a big man, and required a big chair.
He turned and went to get a cup of coffee, then returned to stand in the studio doorway, sipping it. Everett studiously kept his gaze on some papers in front of him. Tate was leaning over and having a discussion with Jim Rainwater at the controls. Willie Lee had taken one of the chairs against the wall, as he usually did, with his dog’s chin on his still-untied shoe. He grinned with some excitement at Winston, who shot him a wink.
A check of the clock. Two minutes to on-air.
“Tate…could I speak to you and Everett a moment?”
Tate turned. Everett sat there, blinking behind his glasses.
Winston said sweetly, “Just a minute before airtime, Ev.” Tate turned his gaze to the other man, causing him to reluctantly get up and come out of the room.
“I just want to say thanks for the opportunity, Tate, and thanks for joinin’ us, Everett. I know we’re gonna have us a time.” As Winston spoke, he eased himself around the men and slipped through the studio door, and headed directly for the big armchair at the microphone. In one movement, he plopped down and put the headphone to his ear with one hand, reaching for the microphone with the other.
“You dang…” Everett was beside himself.
“Thirty seconds,” said Jim Rainwater.
Everett pulled one of the smaller chairs over and took hold of the microphone. Winston did not let go. The two glared at each other. Tate threw up his hands and walked out.
Jim Rainwater counted, “Five…four…three…two…you’re…on.” His finger pointed.
Winston jerked the microphone toward him. “Goooood mornin’, Valentinites! Rise and shine. GET UP, GET UP, YOU SLEE-PY-HEAD. GET UP AND GET YOUR BOD-Y FED!”
For the last part, Everett joined in, his face jutted so close to Winston that they about rubbed whiskers. The result was the call coming out sort of like an echo: “GET-et YOUR-or BOD-od-Y-ee FED-ed!”
“You’re listenin’ to the Wake Up call with Winston…”
“And Everett!”
“And Willie Lee and Munro!” Willie Lee had squeezed in between the two old men. Munro let out a bark.
“Wa-ake UP, ev-ery-bod-y!” said Willie Lee happily, followed by another bark from Munro and Jim Rainwater’s sound track of a trumpet playing reveille.
The audience share had increased tenfold over the past two days as word had spread about the reveille and the feud. People all over town tuned in just to hear the amazing Wake Up call from one—now four—of their own. Truckers picked up the radio out on the highway, and there were even a few listeners from as far away as Kansas and West Texas, people who experienced the early-morning show out of Valentine via skips in the signal.
Many listeners had their radio volumes turned up in order to join in with the reveille. The Dallas route bus driver, Cleon Salazar, was one of these. He sang out, helping to wake himself up and jarring a number of his dozing passengers.
Deputy Lyle Midgette, a perpetually cheerful soul, also joined in, repeating the words at the top of his voice as he drove home, windows wide and cold air snatching his breath.
Woody Beauchamp, an equally cheerful soul, reached over the pan of hot biscuits just in time to turn up the volume on the radio and holler out. His new friend, Andy Smith, jumped and almost fell back out the door, while upstairs in her bathroom, Fayrene Gardner stamped on the floor.
Rosalba Garcia stood ready with a pot lid and wooden spoon. At the yell from her radio, she went calling out and banging over the beds in her all-male household. At the discovery of the empty bed of her youngest, she was alarmed, until she looked under the bed and found that, after two mornings, he had anticipated her actions and gone to sleep underneath, with pillows and quilts as insulation. Not to be thwarted—this was the son born in America and she meant him to go to college—Rosalba dragged him out by his ankle.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, there were a number of listeners who deliberately tuned out, or at least down. These people wanted to hear the pertinent information of the weather and road conditions, school lunch menu and sales at the IGA, but they did not want to be jarred out of their skins, nor did they want anyone else in their household to be awakened.
Having gotten Aunt Marilee back to bed with both tiny tots, Corrine went all over the house, making certain every radio was turned off. Then she fell gratefully back into her own bed for another half hour’s sleep before getting up for school. One needed sleep when one lived in a nuthouse.
Across the street, Doris Northrupt sighed peacefully, giving thanks that her husband was gone, and that she could sleep to midmorning, when he would return. Retired life was good.
Julia Jenkins-Tinsley used the new iPod she had purchased the previous day; however, she couldn’t get it to work, so she had to jog listening to her own breathing in the cold morning air.
Inez Cooper turned her kitchen radio off in midreveille. “Idiots,” she said, as she counted her husband’s morning pills into the little medicine cup. She stuck in one of the quit-smoking herbal pills Belinda had given her. Norman would never notice an extra pill. She had gone all over his workshop and found two packages of hidden cigarettes, which she had torn up into the trash. Now, with firm determination, she set a small pamphlet about quitting smoking next to the coffeemaker.
Out at the edge of town, John Cole Berry was filling a travel mug of coffee and remembered just in time to punch the button that silenced the radio on the coffee machine. Standing there, sipping his coffee with both relief that Emma still slept and anxiousness about the busy day ahead, he felt a tightness come across his chest. He did not have time for Emma’s worries to transfer to him, he thought, taking up his jacket and slipping from the house. He was able to catch the reveille fifteen minutes later on his truck radio and have a good laugh.
Having slept a peaceful night in her own bedroom, Paris Miller was putting on her eye makeup while listening to her boom box set to low volume. She smiled at the Wake Up call. She loved sweet Willie Lee and Munro, and Mr. Winston, too, who had always been so kind to her. Sometimes she imagined her grandfather was like Mr. Winston; he could be, if only he would stop drinking. Turning off the radio, she tiptoed to the kitchen, carefully closing the door to her grandfather’s room as she passed. She prepared the coffeemaker, and set out an orange and a packaged sausage biscuit, all in readiness for her grandfather when he got up. If she could just love him enough, he would quit drinking.
Two miles away in her king-size bed with the leather head-board, Belinda slept soundly beneath fine Egyptian 1200-count cotton sheets and down comforter, head cradled on a soft pillow, with earplugs and a violet satin eye mask. A few feet away to the right, on the night table near her head, was a small decorative plaque, which she had purposely placed there the previous night. It read: Today I will be handling all of your problems. I do not need your help. —God.
Belinda had found the plaque stuffed in the back of a cabinet while searching for a bottle of aspirin. She had thought that she was only too glad to dump all of her problems on anyone who would take them. And with that, she rejected all responsibility if Arlo did not open the store on time, and she herself would get there when she got there.
She was still asleep past all three reveilles and did not hear the telephone ringing.
Lyle did, though, as he came in the back door. The caller was Arlo, saying that he had overslept and was sorry. Lyle went in and saw his beautiful Belinda sleeping peacefully, and was a little hesitant about awakening her. While fearless in the face of armed robbers, dangerous illegal-alien smugglers and desperate crack dealers, the deputy was definitely wary of waking his wife. After gazing at her a moment, he solved his problem by turning around and going down to the drugstore himself. Any mistake he could make behind the soda fountain counter could not be as great as waking a soundly sleeping Belinda Blaine.
Despite all the years he had been with Belinda, he had never in his life worked the soda fountain counter. Belinda never would let him do anything. But opening the door was easy, and he had help from a few customers to get the coffee and latte makers going.
Andy Smith, who needed shaving supplies and who had heard that Blaine’s Soda Fountain had the only latte in town, and that it was good, hopped over there to get a cup. He was a little disconcerted to find a deputy sheriff, with a gun protruding on his hip beneath the white apron, waiting on him.
“Hi, man. I’m Lyle Midgette.” The tall man with boyish eyes offered his hand with a friendly grin. “What can I get for ya’?”
“Uh, nice to meet you. I’m Andy…Smith.” He shook the man’s hand. “I’ll have a latte, if you please.”
CHAPTER 5
Growing Up
“WEAR A COAT!” CALLED AUNT MARILEE FROM the kitchen.
“O-kaay!” returned Corrine, who was in the foyer and had no intention of complying. She leaned into the hall mirror, put on lipstick. Aunt Marilee was not likely to approve of either the lipstick or the Wonderbra underneath Corrine’s blue sweater. Her aunt was bound and determined that Corrine was not going to follow in the footsteps of her mother, who, as Aunt Marilee put it, “has lived a life more difficult than she had to.”
Aunt Marilee was Corrine’s mother’s older sister. Corrine had come at a young age to live with her aunt because her own mother had had “difficulties”—those being men, drinking and destitution. Aunt Marilee had been known to say, “Put men and drinking together and you get the third without a doubt.” Corrine had never known a father, until Papa Tate.
While her own mother had been for some time “on her feet,” as it was said, had a solid job and a stable relationship with a prominent, well-to-do man, and she and Corrine got on well, Corrine chose to remain with Aunt Marilee and Papa Tate. For one thing, that Corrine’s mother had still not married but lived with her boyfriend drove Aunt Marilee nuts. The main reason, however, was that Corrine could not bear to leave her aunt. Her own mother said that Corrine and Aunt Marilee were two peas in a pod. Corrine supposed this was true, and oftentimes did not like it. But she knew that Aunt Marilee needed her in a way that her own mother never had.
“Love you,” she called out to Aunt Marilee as she grabbed up her backpack and raced out the front door in her blue sweater.
“Good morning,” said Rosalba, coming up the steps.
“Good morning,” Corrine answered, halting her racing and walking more sedately. Her gaze surreptitiously went to the side, down Rosalba’s legs to her feet, watching her movements. Corrine tried to move the same. Rosalba was a sexy woman. And she was probably the only nanny-housekeeper who wore fishnet stockings and high-heeled pumps. No one could figure out how she could go all day in those shoes.
A big gleaming blue tow truck waited in the driveway. The door flew open, and her friend Jojo extended her hand. Corrine grabbed it, put her foot on the chrome step and hauled herself up into the tall vehicle. It was not easy to remain a graceful lady doing that.
Over behind the wheel, her friend’s elder brother, Larry Joe, said, “How you this mornin’, Miss Corrine?” and winked at her.
“Just fine,” she said. Stupid. Couldn’t she think of something more clever?
The big truck backed out and started off for the school. Corrine, her gaze on Larry Joe’s hands on the steering wheel, tried to think of something to say.
“Did you hear Granddaddy and Everett this mornin’?” Jojo asked.
“No. After we told them goodbye, me and Aunt Marilee went back to bed.”
“You must be the only ones in town. They were really funny. Willie was good, too,” she added loyally. “He’s speakin’ more clear.”
Jojo Darnell was Winston’s real granddaughter and Corrine’s best friend. They shared a love of horses.
Larry Joe Darnell, who had been driving them to school most mornings that year, was Winston’s oldest grandson, manager of the Texaco, a hunk, twenty-four and the love of Corrine’s life.
Corrine said, “Yeah, I know. It’s that new speech teacher they hired at the first of the year. Aunt Marilee says she’s a miracle worker.”
“You mean Monica Huggins?” Larry Joe said.
“Uh-huh,” Corrine replied, wondering at the left turn Larry Joe took onto Porter. That was not the way to school. She saw him looking over at her with a curious sparkle in his eyes. Larry Joe had these blue eyes that just shone out from his face. “Do you know her?”
“Well, that’s who we’re pickin’ up this mornin’,” put in Jojo.
Corrine looked at her, saw a pointed expression on her face.
“I’ve known Ms. Huggins for a few years,” said Larry Joe as he drove on down the street and pulled into the driveway of a small bungalow. “I went to junior college with her brother. I got her car in my shop….” He shoved the shifter into Park and hopped out. The truck rumbled.
The teacher came out the red front door. Larry Joe met her on the walkway and gave her a quick kiss. Corrine felt Jojo elbow her, but she kept her gaze straight ahead. She didn’t want Jojo to see her face.
Larry Joe escorted Ms. Huggins over to the driver’s side of the truck and helped her get in to sit right next to him.
“Good mornin’, Ms. Huggins,” Jojo said.
Corrine didn’t say anything. The lapse did not appear to be noticed. Jojo and Larry Joe were busy talking to the teacher.
“I don’t know,” Jojo said, in answer to Corrine’s question about how long Larry Joe had been seeing Ms. Huggins. “We just found out about her last night, when he brought her home to supper.”
Corrine quickly stuck her burning face into her locker in a search for books. She could not bear to reveal herself to Jojo, who knew that Corrine had a crush on her older brother, but her friend had no idea as to the depth and breadth of it. Jojo was several years younger than Corrine. She had not yet been in love.
Jojo, a loyal friend, said, “I don’t think Mama likes her. I heard her tell Daddy that she does not think Ms. Huggins is Larry Joe’s type.”
“What type would that be?”
“Well…I don’t know. But Mama said that Ms. Huggins does not seem like the type to like a pot of beans…whatever that means.” She frowned in puzzlement.
Corrine understood and agreed, although what she said was, “I think Ms. Huggins is older than Larry Joe.”
“Two years—I asked her—and you’re only sixteen.”
The comment stabbed. “So?”
“Well, Mama also said it was about time that Larry Joe was finally interested enough in a woman to bring her home for supper. It looks sort of serious. And, well, he can’t wait around for you to grow up.”
