Verbena’s cousin Virgil A. Newton had been with the dairy for more than forty years. He’d been up every morning at 3 A.M., dressed in his starched white uniform, black leather bow tie, and cap, and was out at the dairy loading his truck by 3:40 and in town by 4:15. As he drove through the empty streets, the whole town would be sleeping. It was Virgil’s own private world, a world before the town woke up and all the clatter of cars, machines, and people began. A few dogs barked, and a couple of roosters crowed now and then, but mostly, it was quiet, and Virgil went out of his way not to disturb the silence of the dawn. At each house, he would ease his truck up to the curb as quietly as he could and stop, then carry the wire basket of milk up on the porch and place it down as softly as he could. He even wore black leather shoes with double thick soles. When he picked up the empty bottles, he tried not to have them rattle too loudly.
Later that morning, people all over town would open their doors, pick up the milk he had left, and never give him a thought. But Virgil had been there every day, rain or shine, in the heat or freezing cold of winter, long before the paperboy, the bread truck, and the mailman arrived.
But the years had gone by, and his route became smaller and smaller. The A&P grocery store started selling milk and cream in cardboard cartons, and people didn’t want to fool with bottles anymore. And then one day, the dairy stopped home deliveries all together, and he was put to work counting inventory. His new hours were from 8 to 4, but still, he could never sleep past 3 A.M. And sometimes when he woke up, he would get in his car and drive around town before dawn, remembering a time when he was still delivering milk.
He would drive his old route and watch the older people’s lights come on at around 5 A.M. Elner Shimfissle was usually in her kitchen by 5:15, and her neighbors by at least 5:30. Elner was like him. She never wanted to miss a sunrise. He remembered when Glenn Warren and his family used to live in that house. There used to be around seventy-five houses in this part of town. Now there were only a few of the older houses left, but he could still remember each one and who had lived there.
Sometimes while driving around in the early mornings, Virgil, who could whistle, would start whistling one of his favorite tunes.
The way you wear your hat,
The way you sip your tea,
The memory of all that…
No, no, they can’t take that away from me.
Virgil had loved being a milkman. Old Mr. Swensen had been such a nice man to work for. But he had died, and the son-in-law had pretty much taken over, and a few weeks ago, Little Miss Davenport had died. Nothing stays the same. Life for him had been just a series of transitions. From glass bottles to cardboard cartons, driving a truck to counting inventory at the plant. Working for a nice man, then working for a bastard. The dairy had always been a local family business before that guy wangled his way in.
Nobody liked working at the dairy anymore. It used to be a happy place. Not now. What did that sweet lady see in that guy? He heard things from the girls who worked in the office, things Vincent had done. Somebody should tell her.
1998
Almost everybody has a secret they take to their grave, and Bonnie Gumms, a recent arrival at Still Meadows, was no exception.
Bonnie had taught line dancing out at the Red Barn for years, and being a professional of sorts, considered herself to be in show business. She had once met Tammy Wynette, and she certainly knew all the country-western songs. Although she had reached a level of local semi-celebrity, she was restless and not satisfied with her lot in life. Bonnie was always waiting for something exciting, always looking for a new face, craving some unknown thrill.
And then one night, it happened. As she was showing her class a new move, she’d looked up and thought she spotted the famous singer Willie Nelson quietly slip in the back door of the Red Barn. And he was now sitting alone at the bar. She had heard that he sometimes did that; just sneaked in and out of a place, not telling anyone who he was. Between sets, her heart started to pound as she casually walked over to get a closer look. It was him all right. The same old, wizened face, the scraggly hair and beard, the telltale red bandana wrapped around his head. Bonnie tried her best to just leave him alone, let him have a little incognito, but her proximity to greatness was just too much to handle. Finally, she could no longer contain herself, and she sidled up beside him at the bar as quietly as she could, hoping he would appreciate that she was professional enough not to blow his cover. Besides, if she had, he would have been mobbed, and she would miss her chance at rubbing elbows with the great Willie Nelson. After a moment, she leaned in and said in a low voice while looking the other way, “By the way, I know who you are. But don’t worry, I won’t say anything. Just wanted you to know I’m a big fan.”
He looked at her, somewhat taken aback, but answered in the same low tone, “Thank you, honey, I really appreciate that.”
“Just passing through?” she said, glancing up at the ceiling.
“Yep,” he nodded. “Nice place you got here. And those are some pretty fancy moves you have out there on that dance floor, young lady,” he said with a dangerous twinkle in his blue eyes. “Whatcha drinking, sweetheart?”
The next morning, Bonnie woke up at the motel with the world’s worst hangover, and Willie was gone, obviously on the road again.
It was bad enough that she’d had sex with Willie Nelson, a man twice her age, but then later she found out that the man wasn’t even Willie Nelson. How horrifying. Now, some twenty-four years later, when she was actually in her grave, Bonnie still kept her mouth shut.
—
THE NEXT PERSON TO ARRIVE at Still Meadows was none other than Bess Goodnight, and Lester Shingle’s friend, as promised, immediately called out, “Hey, Lester…wake up! One of the Goodnight women is here.” Bess had been one of the four women out at the Blue Star Bowling Alley the night he had been murdered and was a prime suspect.
Then, as fate would have it, only six months later, Bess’s twin, Ada Goodnight, joined her sister up on the hill. Now two prime suspects had arrived!
From then on, Lester Shingle was wide awake and carefully listening for clues. He was on the alert to hear if he was mentioned in any of their conversations. So far, nothing. Just a bunch of chatter about births and weddings and crap like that.
2006