what I mean.”
“I know what you mean, Billy. No man from South Carolina wants his Firestones mingling with his Goodyears.”
“Ha ha. Go help yourself to a coffee. Whitey Burke stands in for me when I need a break.”
Billy-boy Harrison slapped a soiled ball cap on his head and worked his way through the tables of coffee drinkers, pausing just long enough to say something to wild-haired Whitey Burke, and then left the hall tossing his keys in the palm of one hand.
Arvo was not much interested in the variety of home-made wares for sale — baked goods, knitted items, sewn aprons, preserves. He talked for a while with Kevin Williams, who was carving a small figure out of a block of yellow cedar — probably another owl to stand amongst the half dozen already lined up on a shelf with his miniature pigs and donkeys. Kevin reported that his mother’s fourth marriage was turning out better than the earlier matches, possibly because this husband had no family to interfere. “I had my hopes pinned on you for a while there, Arvo, before this fellow showed up. You could have been my step-dad by now! She’d told me this time she’d decided to marry a Finn.”
“Did she give a reason?”
“Well …” Kevin shrugged. ”I suppose any old Finn would do. She’d got it into her head that any Finn that isn’t a total drunk is hardworking, generous, and faithful — a sort of saint. For a while there I thought she was after you when she nearly drove me crazy asking the names for parts of a car. But then this other fellow showed up.”
Maybe she had been after him, for a while. This would explain why Marketta Williams — whenever they’d been in the Store at the same time — had pestered him with so many questions about what to look for when you were in the market for a new car. She was an attractive woman, a little flirtatious; she had a habit of putting a hand on your arm while she talked to you. Her interest in cars had eventually given him the courage to invite her to a movie in town. Four different movies, four Saturdays in a row — he could recall their titles if he had to. They’d stopped at the Arbutus Hotel each time for adrink, and twice she’d invited him in to her house afterwards. But then she’d met “this other fellow” somewhere and, he imagined, had been swept right off her feet.
“This guy is a Swede,” Kevin said. “I guess she looked at a map and decided a Swede must be nearly the same as a Finn! Close call, eh? You should be relieved. My mother has a habit of outliving her husbands.”
Arvo left Kevin Williams gouging his little owl out of the block of yellow cedar, then passed by several home-made quilts to examine the prizes to be won in the draw: a weekend in Seattle or a collection of Marjorie McGowan’s jams. He helped himself to a coffee and took it to a table where Jenny Banks sat alone. He would drink the coffee and then go home to wait for Billy there.
“A good thing Picasso never glued car parts to his pictures,” Earl Boyd said, bringing his own mug of coffee to the table. “I seen you eyeing Billy-boy’s works of art. With you around, Picasso would never’ve got his painting to the galleries before you found some reason to hijack them for your workshop! The man would be a pauper to this day.”
“Picasso’s dead.” Jenny Banks said this across the top of her mug.
“So he’d be in a pauper’s grave,” Earl said. “Arvo’s fault.”
Arvo looked down at his own two open hands. “I wasn’t after Billy’s art .”
“Help yourself to one of these buns,” Jenny said, holding out a paper bag to Arvo. “You could be waiting awhile. Sometimes Billy has a little trouble living up to his promises. He told his mother he’d be back in South Carolina for her birthday but he hasn’t got around to it yet. After forty years. You willing to wait that long for Billy-boy’s tire?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t had a visit from the Big Car Manufacturers,”Earl
“I know what you mean, Billy. No man from South Carolina wants his Firestones mingling with his Goodyears.”
“Ha ha. Go help yourself to a coffee. Whitey Burke stands in for me when I need a break.”
Billy-boy Harrison slapped a soiled ball cap on his head and worked his way through the tables of coffee drinkers, pausing just long enough to say something to wild-haired Whitey Burke, and then left the hall tossing his keys in the palm of one hand.
Arvo was not much interested in the variety of home-made wares for sale — baked goods, knitted items, sewn aprons, preserves. He talked for a while with Kevin Williams, who was carving a small figure out of a block of yellow cedar — probably another owl to stand amongst the half dozen already lined up on a shelf with his miniature pigs and donkeys. Kevin reported that his mother’s fourth marriage was turning out better than the earlier matches, possibly because this husband had no family to interfere. “I had my hopes pinned on you for a while there, Arvo, before this fellow showed up. You could have been my step-dad by now! She’d told me this time she’d decided to marry a Finn.”
“Did she give a reason?”
“Well …” Kevin shrugged. ”I suppose any old Finn would do. She’d got it into her head that any Finn that isn’t a total drunk is hardworking, generous, and faithful — a sort of saint. For a while there I thought she was after you when she nearly drove me crazy asking the names for parts of a car. But then this other fellow showed up.”
Maybe she had been after him, for a while. This would explain why Marketta Williams — whenever they’d been in the Store at the same time — had pestered him with so many questions about what to look for when you were in the market for a new car. She was an attractive woman, a little flirtatious; she had a habit of putting a hand on your arm while she talked to you. Her interest in cars had eventually given him the courage to invite her to a movie in town. Four different movies, four Saturdays in a row — he could recall their titles if he had to. They’d stopped at the Arbutus Hotel each time for adrink, and twice she’d invited him in to her house afterwards. But then she’d met “this other fellow” somewhere and, he imagined, had been swept right off her feet.
“This guy is a Swede,” Kevin said. “I guess she looked at a map and decided a Swede must be nearly the same as a Finn! Close call, eh? You should be relieved. My mother has a habit of outliving her husbands.”
Arvo left Kevin Williams gouging his little owl out of the block of yellow cedar, then passed by several home-made quilts to examine the prizes to be won in the draw: a weekend in Seattle or a collection of Marjorie McGowan’s jams. He helped himself to a coffee and took it to a table where Jenny Banks sat alone. He would drink the coffee and then go home to wait for Billy there.
“A good thing Picasso never glued car parts to his pictures,” Earl Boyd said, bringing his own mug of coffee to the table. “I seen you eyeing Billy-boy’s works of art. With you around, Picasso would never’ve got his painting to the galleries before you found some reason to hijack them for your workshop! The man would be a pauper to this day.”
“Picasso’s dead.” Jenny Banks said this across the top of her mug.
“So he’d be in a pauper’s grave,” Earl said. “Arvo’s fault.”
Arvo looked down at his own two open hands. “I wasn’t after Billy’s art .”
“Help yourself to one of these buns,” Jenny said, holding out a paper bag to Arvo. “You could be waiting awhile. Sometimes Billy has a little trouble living up to his promises. He told his mother he’d be back in South Carolina for her birthday but he hasn’t got around to it yet. After forty years. You willing to wait that long for Billy-boy’s tire?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t had a visit from the Big Car Manufacturers,”Earl
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