The Choiring of the Trees - Donald Harington [78]
One by one the men looked away from the stove or from the chessplayers and took notice of the two ladies who had entered the store. One by one the men’s jaws dropped open.
“How be ye, boys?” the old woman said. The response, she later explained with a light laugh to Viridis, was exceptional: it was customary for a man greeting a woman simply to touch the brim of his hat, or perhaps just to raise his hand in the direction of the brim, or, at the very most, to grasp the crown of the hat and gently raise it before setting it back down. Each one of these men whipped his hat entirely off his head and held it to his heart, and some of them even stood up. Holding their hats thus, they chorused, each and severally, “Howdy do, ladies,” and “Fine mornin, ma’ams.”
The storekeeper, Willis, standing up, was nearly as tall as Nail. “I’ll be jimjohned,” he exclaimed, looking at Viridis. “You shore guv me a turn. I thought fer a secont thar ye were Grammaw. Don’t she put ye in mind of Grammaw, Paw?” he said to one of the seated men, a very old man who simply nodded and didn’t take his eyes off her.
“This here gal is Miss Verdus Monday,” the old woman said, in a thick approximation of the local speech. “She hails from Little Rock, and come all the way here jist to see what she can see about Nail Chism’s trouble. She thinks he’s blameless. Don’t ye, gal?”
Viridis had never before in her life been called upon to speak in front of a group, especially not a males-only enclave of general-store loungers. At first she could only nod in response to the question, but then she found enough voice to add, “Yes, and I hope all of you do too.” She looked around at them, one by one. Each man was nodding his head.
“Willis, have ye still got that phaeton yore grampaw was so partial to?” the old woman asked the storekeeper, and when he nodded, she said, “We’d be obleeged to ye iffen ye’d hitch her up so’s this gal could git up towards the Chism place.”
“I’ll carry ye myself, ma’am,” Willis offered.
But the old woman said, “No need of that, Willis. Jist hitch it up to two of yore best hosses and bring it around.”
As Willis exited through the rear of the store toward his livery barn, one of the others said to the women, “Don’t ye gals be rushin off. Stay more and pull ye up some cheers or kaigs.”
“Yeah,” invited another man, “lift yore hats and rest yore wraps.”
“She’ll be back directly, I reckon,” the old woman said. “Won’t ye, gal?”
“I’d like to talk with each one of you about Nail,” Viridis said.
“Shore thang,” they spoke or grunted assent: “Any old time.” “You bet.” “Come back when ye can visit more.”
Outside, the old woman indicated the phaeton that Willis was bringing into the road and asked Viridis, “Ever driven one of these? I’d go with you, but I think you’d feel more comfortable on your own, wouldn’t you, now? Look, you turn right at Jerram’s corner up there and you’re on the Right Prong Road. Stay on it eastward without turning off to the left or right until you’ve reached the top of that mountain yonder. You’ll see the Chisms’ house on a cleared knoll set back from the road a ways on your left. Nancy Chism is going to be tickled to see you. So will they all. If I don’t see you at bedtime, I’ll know they talked you into staying. But come back when you can.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Viridis admitted.
“You’ll thank me enough with the pleasure of your company,” the lady said.
Viridis drove the two-horse phaeton without any trouble, although she’d never driven one before. She drove in the direction she had ridden Rosabone the night before, up between the clinics of the two doctors, past the stone bank building, right at Jerram’s store, which would become mine, right on the road I live on but not turning to the left on the Bournes’ trail. I wasn’t there anyway that morning. I was in school, across the creek, the other way. All oblivious to her driving the fine phaeton of Governor Ingledew right past