The three horses observed this from the far paddock. By now they were accustomed to Harry's spring and fall fits.
Other humans feeling those same urges worked on Saturday. Miranda aired her linens as she planted her spring bulbs. She'd need the rest of Sunday to finish the bulbs.
The Reverend Jones stocked his woodpile and greeted the chimney sweep by touching his top hat. A little superstition never hurt a pastor.
Fair Haristeen decided to run an inventory on equine drugs at the clinic only to repent as the task devoured the day.
BoomBoom Craycroft, adding orange zest to her list of essences, peeled a dozen of them.
Susan Tucker attacked the attic while Ned edged every tree and flower bed until he thought his fillings would fall out of his teeth from the vibrations of the machine.
Big Mim supervised the overhaul of her once-sunk pontoon boat.
Little Marilyn transferred the old records of St. Elizabeth's benefactors to a computer. Like Fair, she was sorry she had started the job.
Sandy Brashiers made up the questions for a quiz on Macbeth.
Jody Miller worked at the car wash with Brooks, Karen, and Roger.
Because of the storm, the car wash was jam-packed. The kids hadn't had time for lunch, so Jody took everyone's order. It was her turn to cross Route 29 and get sandwiches at the gas station-deli on the southwest corner. The Texaco sat between the car wash and the intersection. If only that station had a deli, she wouldn't have to cross the busy highway.
Jimbo Anson slipped her twenty-five dollars for everyone's lunch, his included, as they were famished.
As the day wore on, the temperature climbed into the mid-sixties. The line of cars extended out to Route 29.
Roscoe Fletcher, his Mercedes station wagon caked in mud, patiently waited in line. He had turned off Route 29 and moved forward enough to be right in front of the Texaco station. The car wash was behind the gas station itself, so the kids did not yet know their headmaster was in line and he didn't know how many cars were in front of him. The car stereo played The Marriage of Figaro. He sang aloud with gusto.
The line crept forward.
Jody headed down to the intersection. Five minutes later she dashed back into the office.
"Where's the food?" Roger, hungry, inquired as he reached in for another dry towel.
She announced, "Mr. Fletcher is in line! He hasn't seen me yet. I'll go as soon as he gets through the line."
"I'll starve by then," Roger said.
"He'll be cool." Karen stuck her head in the door as Roger threw her a bottle of mag washer for aluminum hubcaps.
"Maybe—but I don't want a lecture. I know I was wrong to hit Mr. McKinchie." Her voice rose. "I've had about all the help I can stand. I was wrong. Okay. I apologized. Guess you don't want to see him either." She pointed at Roger, who ignored her.
"Well, he's past the Texaco station. You'd better hide under the desk," Karen yelled. "Jeez, I think everyone in the world is here today." She heard horns beeping out on Route 29. Irene Miller had pulled in behind Roscoe, then Naomi Fletcher in her blue Miata. BoomBoom Craycroft, car wafting fragrances, was just ahead of him.
Roger waved up another car. He bent his tall frame in two as the driver rolled down the window. "What will it be?"
"How about a wash only?"
"Great. Put it in neutral and turn off your car radio."
The driver obeyed instructions while Karen and Brooks slopped the big brushes into the soapy water, working off the worst of the mud.
"Hey, there's Father Michael." Karen noticed the priest's black old-model Mercury. "You'd think the church would get him a better car." She yelled so Jody, scrunched under the desk, could hear her.
"It runs," Brooks commented on the car.
"How many are in the line now?" Roger wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm as Jimbo walked down to the intersection to direct drivers to form a double line. He needed to unclog the main north-south artery of Charlottesville.
"Number twenty-two just pulled in," Brooks replied.
"Unreal." Karen whistled.
Roscoe rolled down his window, flooding the car wash with Mozart. He was three cars away from his turn.
"You-all should learn your Mozart," he called to them. "Greatest composer who ever lived."
His wife shouted from her car, "It's the weekend, Roscoe. You can't tell them what to do."
"Right!" Karen laughed, waving at Naomi.
"I bet you listen to Melissa Etheridge and Sophie B. Hawkins," Roscoe said as he offered her strawberry hard candy, which she refused.
"Yeah." Karen turned her attention to the car in front of her. "They're great. I like Billy Ray Cyrus and Reba McEntire, too."
Irene rolled her window down. "Where's Jody?"
"She went to the deli to get our lunches, and I hope she hurries up!" Roger told a half-truth.
"What about Bach?" Roscoe sang out, still on his music topic.
"The Beatles," Karen answered. "I mean, that's like rock Bach."
"No, Bill Haley and the Comets are like rock Bach," Roscoe said as he sucked on the candy in his mouth. "Jerry Lee Lewis."
The kids took a deep breath and yelled and swung their hips in unison, "Elvis!"
By the time Roscoe put his left tire into the groove, everyone was singing "Hound Dog," which made him laugh. He noticed Jody peeking out of the office. The laughter, too much for her, had lured her from under the desk.
He pointed his finger at her. "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog."
She laughed, but her smile disappeared when her mother yelled at her. "I thought you were at the deli?"
"I'm on my way. We're backed up," she said since she'd heard what Roger told her mother.
"Mr. Fletcher, shut your window," Karen advised as the station wagon lurched into the car wash.
"Oh, right." He hit the electric button, and the window slid shut with a hum.
As the tail end of the Mercedes disappeared in a sheet of water, the yellow neon light flashed on and Karen waved Irene on. "He's so full of shit," she said under her breath.
BoomBoom hollered out her window, "Stress. Irene, this is too much stress. Come meet me at Ruby Tuesday's after the car wash."
"Okay," Irene agreed. Her left tire was in the groove now. "I want the works." Irene handed over fifteen dollars. Karen made change.
Roger, at the button to engage the track, waited for Roscoe to finish. The light telling him to put through the next vehicle didn't come on. Minutes passed.
"I'm in a hurry." Irene tried to sound pleasant.
"It's been like this all day, Mrs. Miller." Karen smiled tightly.
Brooks looked down the line. "Maybe Mr. Fletcher's out but the light didn't come on. I'll go see."
Brooks loped alongside the car wash, arriving at the end where the brown station wagon, nose out, squatted. The tail of the vehicle remained on the track. The little metal cleats in the track kept pushing the car.
Brooks knocked on the window. Roscoe, sitting upright, eyes straight ahead, didn't reply.
"Mr. Fletcher, you need to move out."
No reply. She knocked harder. Still no reply.
"Mr. Fletcher, please drive out." She waited, then opened the door. The first thing she noticed was that Mr. Fletcher had wet his pants, which shocked her. Then she realized he was dead.
19
It wasn't funny, but Rick Shaw wanted to laugh. Mozart blared through the speakers, and the car's rear end shone like diamonds after endless washings.
Naomi Fletcher, in shock, had been taken home by an officer.
Diana Robb, a paramedic with the rescue squad, patiently waited while Sheriff Shaw and Deputy Cooper painstakingly examined the car.
Jimbo Anson turned off the water when Rick told him it was okay.
Roger Davis directed traffic around the waiting line. He was relieved when a young officer pulled up in a squad car.
"Don't go yet," Tom Kline told Roger. "I'll need your help."