to be sure Mack made it to work. He talked with her a minute, not sounding too irritated at her checking up on him. He will be all rightâRita feels this more than knows it. After so much grief, a family has to land at a resting place. Sooner or later things get betterâthatâs the way itâs always worked. After you suffer a little while, the Lord lifts you up and restores you. She canât remember the chapter and verse that makes this claim, but she knows itâs there.
Against what Tom the mechanic claims is his better judgment, heâs installed a new starter in the Ford, and now the car sits in Ritaâs driveway. She notices that it could stand a good washing. Thisthought brings Amos Mosley to mind. Rita developed a relationship with Amos merely by watering her car on the same Saturday afternoon that he watered his. They wandered around their tires and fenders, tepid water splashing out of green hoses, and exchanged some pointless remarks about weather before eventually talking of how the kids were doing and who was living where now and what the latest count of grandchildren was. Amos offered to wash Ritaâs car whenever he washed his. She said it wasnât necessary, but she wouldnât stand in the way if he decided to give the Ford a squirt or two while he was at it. Two weeks later Amos was hosing down his car, and Rita wandered out to chat and offer him a glass of iced tea. It was June and hot enough to dry a person out even as he hoisted a garden hose. Amos washed his car, then wandered across the strip of grass between their properties and washed Ritaâs car. She protested, but mildly. It isnât a romantic relationship, but a friendly one, a small, regular contact with another person.
Amos has a bad autumn cold this weekâallergies probablyâand both cars look neglected. But itâs shopping time. Rita snaps on her seatbelt and heads for the grocery store.
When Rita walks in the door, Bud says, âGot stuff here for you,â meaning a bag of vegetables and day-old baked goods behind the magazine rack. Bud is the only person manning the store. It is definitely a one-person grocery, a small storefront that at one time was part of a larger store. Some days, especially bright autumn ones when kids go back to school, Rita walks along Main Street and is caught up in old visions. She sees Beulah as its old self, full of folks, noisy but not too much, with posses of children stopping at this very grocery (it was Bruenerâs Grocery back then) on their way home from school, sorting pennies, nickels, and dimes out of sweaty palms for just the right selection of bubble gum and jawbreakers, Tootsie Rolls, Fireballs, the sweet wax fangs and mustaches around Halloween, and wintergreen candy cigarettes. Years ago a wall went up where the bread and bakery aisle used to be, and now the area churches use the other side as a thrift store, collecting odd pillow-cases, pans, and clothing donations to distribute to the poorest of the poor. The grocery is a small, depressed version of its older self; Bud hires help from time to time but mostly handles every bit of stocking, pricing, and checking by himself.
He expects Rita every Monday afternoon. She shops for herself and half a dozen other old folks, and she scavenges the produce that is beyond selling at regular priceâthe too soft or too ripe or too spotted. In larger groceries such items would get shrink-wrapped together and sold at a deep discount. But Rita is on a mission, and Bud goes ahead of her, setting aside the not-so-prime goods and having them ready Monday afternoon, because most of his shipments come in on Monday morning. This way he deprives no one and puts the lesser products in able hands.
Rita comes by for meat scraps later in the week. Bud still cuts meat to order; this is a necessity in a town with so many older citizens. Some of them are too shaky to handle a butcher knife anymore. And most live
Against what Tom the mechanic claims is his better judgment, heâs installed a new starter in the Ford, and now the car sits in Ritaâs driveway. She notices that it could stand a good washing. Thisthought brings Amos Mosley to mind. Rita developed a relationship with Amos merely by watering her car on the same Saturday afternoon that he watered his. They wandered around their tires and fenders, tepid water splashing out of green hoses, and exchanged some pointless remarks about weather before eventually talking of how the kids were doing and who was living where now and what the latest count of grandchildren was. Amos offered to wash Ritaâs car whenever he washed his. She said it wasnât necessary, but she wouldnât stand in the way if he decided to give the Ford a squirt or two while he was at it. Two weeks later Amos was hosing down his car, and Rita wandered out to chat and offer him a glass of iced tea. It was June and hot enough to dry a person out even as he hoisted a garden hose. Amos washed his car, then wandered across the strip of grass between their properties and washed Ritaâs car. She protested, but mildly. It isnât a romantic relationship, but a friendly one, a small, regular contact with another person.
Amos has a bad autumn cold this weekâallergies probablyâand both cars look neglected. But itâs shopping time. Rita snaps on her seatbelt and heads for the grocery store.
When Rita walks in the door, Bud says, âGot stuff here for you,â meaning a bag of vegetables and day-old baked goods behind the magazine rack. Bud is the only person manning the store. It is definitely a one-person grocery, a small storefront that at one time was part of a larger store. Some days, especially bright autumn ones when kids go back to school, Rita walks along Main Street and is caught up in old visions. She sees Beulah as its old self, full of folks, noisy but not too much, with posses of children stopping at this very grocery (it was Bruenerâs Grocery back then) on their way home from school, sorting pennies, nickels, and dimes out of sweaty palms for just the right selection of bubble gum and jawbreakers, Tootsie Rolls, Fireballs, the sweet wax fangs and mustaches around Halloween, and wintergreen candy cigarettes. Years ago a wall went up where the bread and bakery aisle used to be, and now the area churches use the other side as a thrift store, collecting odd pillow-cases, pans, and clothing donations to distribute to the poorest of the poor. The grocery is a small, depressed version of its older self; Bud hires help from time to time but mostly handles every bit of stocking, pricing, and checking by himself.
He expects Rita every Monday afternoon. She shops for herself and half a dozen other old folks, and she scavenges the produce that is beyond selling at regular priceâthe too soft or too ripe or too spotted. In larger groceries such items would get shrink-wrapped together and sold at a deep discount. But Rita is on a mission, and Bud goes ahead of her, setting aside the not-so-prime goods and having them ready Monday afternoon, because most of his shipments come in on Monday morning. This way he deprives no one and puts the lesser products in able hands.
Rita comes by for meat scraps later in the week. Bud still cuts meat to order; this is a necessity in a town with so many older citizens. Some of them are too shaky to handle a butcher knife anymore. And most live
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