I wasn’t concerned I’d ever be asking “Aunt Evelyn” to pass me the meat loaf during Sunday supper either. With a face as plain as butcher paper, a figure that resembled a snowman’s, and the personality of a garbage truck, her chances of landing Walt Buchanan were about as good as mine with Rock Hudson. But I was surprised to learn that she didn’t know that he only went in for pretty gals who were, as Viv described them, “built like brick shit houses.” Uncle Walt’s dates had to have a lot on the ball and possess a good amount of charm to boot. Qualities that described Aunt Jane May to a T, even that last one, when she wasn’t going off on Frankie, Viv, and me, anyway.
“Speak of the devil,” Viv muttered when our aunt appeared on the back porch.
“You can finish up tomorrow,” she called out. “Biz, come in here now and get yourself cleaned and changed. We have hungry men to feed and this supper isn’t goin’ to make itself.”
* * *
“Ya ask me, this heat is givin’ everyone a chronic case of pissy-itis,” is how Aunt Jane May characterized the mood that was wet-blanketing Summit as I helped her put the finishing touches on the most important meal of the week. “I swear, I can’t go anywhere these days without someone speakin’ snippy or acting like they’re bendin’ over backwards.”
She wasn’t “whistlin’ Dixie.” God-fearing people I’d known my whole life, who never raised their voices or uttered a cross word, were on edge. A fight had broken out at Top’s Bar and tumbled out onto the sidewalk, and we’d heard that a couple of the nuns from St. Thom’s had gotten into a tussle over a pack of fish sticks at Rusty’s Market.
“And now we got this emergency meeting to deal with and”—Aunt Jane May looked down at her hours of hard work—“this food is gettin’ cold.” She untied her gingham apron, snatched up the platter of Southern fried chicken and the tureen of milk gravy off the kitchen counter, and nodded at the remaining bowls. “Set the taters in front of your uncle and the corn bread next to your father.”
Doc would usually wear his navy blue suit when we’d gather in the formal dining room on Sundays, but even he was affected by the heat. He looked just as handsome in a starched white shirt and charcoal slacks when he held the chair out for Aunt Jane May, then me, and took his seat at the head of the table.
You couldn’t tell he was six foot two when he was seated. Same as me, most of Doc’s height was in his legs and I inherited my broad shoulders from him, too. I had my mother’s light blue eyes, but his reminded me of my favorite crayon—cornflower. A lustrous chestnut, his hair was combed back from his forehead and held in place with Brylcreem—“just little dab will do ya.” And when he finished shaving in the morning, he slapped Old Spice on his cheeks with hands that built hideouts but also healed. That woodsy, cinnamon smell would still be lingering on him the nights I didn’t sleep with the girls. I’d strain to hear the sound of our woody station wagon pulling into the cobblestone driveway, the squeak of the back door, his soft footfalls coming up the staircase and then down the second-floor hallway. I didn’t want to scare him off, so I’d pretend to be asleep when he came into my bedroom to brush the hair off my forehead and check for a fever that might take me away in the middle of the night, the way one had my mother. That tender act never failed to make me feel less like a consolation prize and more like a cherished consequence and I’d sleep the sleep of angels and dream of Sunday suppers when the man of so few words would say a little something to me. When he’d told me a few weeks ago that he thought I’d grown and he’d get the yard stick out after dessert, I couldn’t spoon what remained on my plate down fast enough.
After Doc gave thanks to the Lord for the food we were about to receive, he commented on how lovely the table looked, thanked Aunt Jane May for preparing the meal, then turned to me. “Are you and your friends enjoying your summer vacation, Elizabeth?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. We’re having a swell time,” I said, but I thought how quickly that could change if Evelyn Mulrooney got her way at the emergency meeting.
The girls and I were so desperate to head over to the town hall after supper that I was tempted to ask Doc for permission, but Aunt Jane May would go purple in the face if I undercut her and would strongly “suggest” we meet out in the kitchen. I could find myself washing dishes and polishing silver for the rest of the night and I couldn’t risk that. Frankie, Viv, and I had plans. Big plans. I already saw myself as the weakest line of our threesome and I couldn’t bear being the one who threw a monkey wrench into them.
From his seat next to mine, the sheriff of Grand County tucked his napkin into the top of his tan uniform shirt and said to me, “A penny for your thoughts.”
I grinned at what he’d been saying at the start of Sunday supper as far back as I could remember, then told him what I always had, “Make that a nickel and you got a deal.”
“You drive a hard bargain, kiddo,” he said as he produced one from behind my ear.
Good looks ran in our family, so he turned heads. He had the same coloring as his brother, but he was an inch taller, with a much more powerful physique. He also had darling dimples, was good with a gun, and had a rough-around-the edges way about him that the single ladies in town seemed to find irresistible.
Frankie thought the sheriff did a good job of keeping the peace and treated Mud Towners more fairly than many in town did, but she didn’t care for how opinionated he could be. Viv thought he was a barrel of laughs and got a kick out of his magic tricks. I adored every inch of him except for how he thought of Broadhurst as a dent in the otherwise shiny exterior of our town. Viv was right. He could be so charming. But Frankie was right about him, too. He was a loudmouth, that’s for sure.
I would’ve wagered the nickel he gave me that at some point during the meal he’d start spouting off about one of his favorite topics and reveal some much needed information about tonight’s meeting that might be useful to the girls and me. It wouldn’t take much to get him going. All I had to do to nudge him onto his soapbox was mutter into my napkin just loud enough for him to hear, “Broadhurst.”
“That hospital might look good on the outside, but it’s nothing more than a fruitcake factory, am I right, Biz?” Uncle Walt circled his finger around his ear and waited for me to do the same because, even though we weren’t, he thought we were on the same wavelength. “But,” he added with a grin, “if tonight’s meeting goes like I think it will, that could soon change.”
Oh?” Doc looked up from the piece of cornbread he was buttering. “Why’s that?”
“Evelyn Mulrooney has assured me that she’ll convince folks once and for all that those lunatics are a danger to the town. For God’s sakes, Martha Winchell barely survived that car crash.”
That wasn’t true. That was just one of his big blusters.
Mrs. Winchell was only shaken up the morning she was on her way home from the library when one of the Broadhurst patients popped up in the back seat of her Rambler, pointed at the book she’d checked out, and told her how much he’d enjoyed Gone with the Wind. It wasn’t his fault Old Lady Winchell goosed the gas and ended up in the Schroeders’ front yard with their bird bath doing double duty as a hood ornament.