A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗

Two people were sitting in their cars when I got back to the store, waiting for a storm to blow through. And, of course, waiting for me. I tried to get help from Billie, a local woman who enjoyed time away from her three demanding kids, but she needed to take one of her passel to the pediatrician in Boone. I parked as close to the store as possible, ran from my truck, unlocked the front door, and tore off the Sorry sign. As they hurried in, dripping wet, I made my apologies. I felt better when one nodded and the other even smiled, seeming to understand the circumstances.

I knew I shouldn’t dread customers, but at that moment, all I wanted to do was brew some coffee and grab something to eat. Besides, if they were like the parade so far that week, they were mostly in the market for a firsthand report on the biggest news since Jimmy Carter campaigned in town six years ago.

“Hey, honey,” a third customer warbled as she came through the door, her sensible plastic rain bonnet and long yellow slicker keeping her dry. “How’re doing?”

Dammit, what a cynic I’ve turned into, I said to myself. Myrtle and Roy Ledford, her husband of fifty-two years, were some of my best customers. And early on, they’d welcomed me into their home, where I’d sampled my first—and last—moonshine. Something interesting always happened there. One evening, Roy pulled out his grandfather’s wax-canister phonograph and played a recording of a tinny voice singing, “I thought you were a dream, but you were just an old string bean.” Another time, they regaled me with stories of Roy’s bootleg days, right out of Thunder Road. He’d gotten caught and sent to the federal prison in Ohio. Ever since, thirty some years later, locals still referred to him as “Roy He-Went-Up-the-River Ledford.”

I always returned from their home laden with gifts—canned peaches and freshly baked bread, honey and jam, biscuits and pies. Until folks got to know you, being new could generate suspicion. But others wanted to be the first to entertain you, sometimes so they could one-up their neighbors, but mostly out of genuine kindness.

Myrtle’s voice sounded as though she had Parkinson’s, but she was as healthy at seventy-one as I was some twenty some years behind her. She’d suffered from the lousy medical care at the local hospital, when the slip of a scalpel during a simple procedure had damaged her vocal cords. “You sure had a rough day yesterday,” she added, piling groceries into her basket.

“You was lucky you had that old dog with you,” Roy added. 

“I was, Roy. In fact, I’m lucky to have Jake any day.”

The mention of his name sent Jake howling upstairs. He’d turned out to be the perfect shop dog. The first day he joined me in the store, he just naturally knew how to behave when strangers came and went. He held strong opinions about being part of the scene.

“Speaking of the devil,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

The rain had let up, so I didn’t have to rush up the stairs. Good thing. My ankle felt better, but it still bothered me enough to cause a limp. I’d barely opened the door before Jake flew past me, down the steps. I followed, and as I rounded the corner, I saw him pressing his nose against the door where it met the frame, willing it to open. Roy obliged, so I took advantage of the moment and sat on one of the benches out front under the overhang, where the seats were dry. The sun was out again, and the fresh spring air carried the sweet scent of the hyacinths blooming nearby.

I looked over at Abit’s empty chair. Where was he? I should’ve been glad he was off doing something more constructive, but I liked knowing he was nearby. I cracked the front door and asked, “Everybody doing okay?” Jake looked up sheepishly as Roy rubbed him behind his ears. He broke away and started running around the store, sussing out smells and possible rodents; he was better than any cat. “I want to check on Abit.”

“You go ahead, honey. We’ve got a good bit of shopping to do,” Myrtle answered for everyone. 

I took my time up the long flight of stone stairs to Vester and Mildred’s front porch. As I approached the house, I could see Abit sitting at the table, talking to his mother, finishing off a piece of apple pie.

“Hey, Della, how’d it go?”

“Well, as good as could be expected. I wanted to let you know I’m back.”

Mildred didn’t frown, like she often did when I made a fuss over Abit. She had a prim mouth that said more about her thoughts than the few words that came out of it. I worried that she didn’t trust me, or maybe she didn’t like sharing her son’s attention. “Mildred, thanks for last night. It was good to talk to all of you.”

“I know that was mighty hard on you,” Mildred said. Looking down at the cars pulling up in front of the store, she added, “And I know you’ll be busy for the next few days with shoppers and gossipers. Why don’t you stop by for supper tomorrow evening? I’m cooking a fresh ham.”

Mildred’s cooking was better than some four-star restaurants in D.C. I flashed on a table laden with homemade biscuits and beans and corn pudding and probably another fresh pie. “Sounds great, and I could use some company. It’s harder at night.” When I squeezed Abit’s shoulder, he spoke through a mouthful of pie, something that sounded remotely like, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Three more cars were lined up, with another pulling in as I headed down their steps. Lately, it felt as though all I did was go up and down stairs. Some days, especially before June when the tourists came, maybe only ten people shopped all day, and I was wishing for one of those now. Then I remembered my bank balance and quickened my step, best I could.