Best We Can Do – Part 2

Read Part 1 here.

---

After Will found out through the grapevine that he couldn’t work on Horsearound’s jobs, and he knew he couldn’t get away with cuffing beers and meals from the club much longer, Will went to the Kitchens’ to see his old high school buddy Pudgie Kitchen, who was a tradesman, too.  

He pulled into their driveway and the truck rattled to a stop, next to a half dozen cars in various states of ruin. The Kitchens’ yard was littered with tractor parts, a rusty snowplow, ladders, empty paint cans, and some junk furniture.

Will limped up to the wooden steps of the porch and knocked on the door of the neatly built brick cape. Mrs. Kitchen came out to the porch drying her hands on a dish towel.

Will was a little startled to see her because he hadn’t seen her since he was in high school when she’d come to football games — and now she had grey hair and her pretty face was creased. She still looked strong but was skinnier than she used to be and her shoulders were bigger than her hips. She seemed a little startled to see Will, too.

“Will,” she said.

“Hi, Mrs. Kitchen. I was wondering if Pudgie could give me any work. Is he around?”

Mrs. Kitchen looked over the yard. “I don’t see the truck. No, he’s probably not here, Will. I’ll tell him you came by.”

“Okay. Thanks Mrs. K,” Will said, but he didn’t turn to go.

“You want a cup of coffee?” she asked. 

“Sure,” said Will.  

Mrs. Kitchen looked at him for a second, and said, “Sit down here. I’ll bring it out.”

“Ok,” Will said, and limped toward the reed-bottom chair at the side of the porch.

“What happened to your foot?” asked Mrs. Kitchen before turning for the door.

“Oh. Ha, yea,” Will said, looking at it as if he hadn’t ever seen his foot before. “Fell off some staging. It’s getting better.” It was swollen up and his shoe was untied.

“Well,” Mrs. Kitchen said.

She brought him out a mug of black coffee and a cinnamon roll on a paper napkin and sat down on the wicker rocker. Will took one in each hand and said, “Thanks.” He then alternated bites and gulps until they were both gone. Mrs. Kitchen took the mug from him. 

“Pudgie’s on a mason job,” she said. “The Basilles. A car knocked down their stone wall. I don’t think you’re in any shape to carry rocks,” she said.

Will looked at his foot again. It felt good to be sitting, and he thought about the relief from the pain after a couple of beers. “Maybe I can mix the cement for him,” he said. 

“Wall’s a one-man job anyway,” she said. “There hasn’t been much work, Will.” She looked at the orange truck. “That yours or you borrowed it?” she asked.

“My Uncle Ernie gave it to me,” Will said.

“If you got gas to get to Milton, you could go see my friend Clara. I was talking to her on the phone yesterday. She was thinking about how to get more business — she has a flower shop.  Business isn’t great, so she was thinking about selling in other places, but she can’t leave the shop.

“Her husband died not too long ago. She can’t leave the shop, see? She could make bouquets and you could sell them from your truck,” Mrs. Kitchen said.

Will looked at the truck. “I don’t know anything about selling flowers,” he said.

Mrs. Kitchen stood up. “It was just an idea,” she said.

“Where in Milton?” Will asked.

She turned back to him. “It’s just an idea. I don’t know what she’ll say. It’s right on Main Street. I’ll call her and tell her you’re coming if you want.”

Will stood up. “Sure,” he said.

“You better get an inspection sticker,” she said.

“First thing,” said Will. “Thanks, Mrs. K.”

He got back in his truck and cranked it a couple of times before it turned over. Mrs. Kitchen had one hand on the door jamb and she watched the truck bump down the driveway, then she went into the house to call her friend Clara Dempsey.

***

Will found the flower shop in a building in the middle of the block, next to Woolworth’s and across from the post office. There were rental rooms above the shop and a drug store at the corner. He liked this town.

The spring bell jingled when he limped in the front door, and a little lady with wiry hair and a big smile said, “Will? Mrs. Kitchen told us you would be coming along. Come in! What have we done to that foot?” 

Will realized by “us” she meant her, and by “we” she meant him. He caught on to this way of talking and found it kind of nice. “It’s getting better. But we’d sure like some work that lets us stay off it for a while.”

Later that day he had three boxes of flowers in the back of the truck with three bouquets in each box. He headed out back toward Riverton and didn’t pass a soul. Then he realized that most cars were getting on and off the highway ramp.

He parked on the pull-off just before the ramp and sat for a few minutes. He didn’t know quite how to go about this. He found a piece of cardboard behind the seat and folded it in half and wrote “flowers” on each side, then stood it up on the roof.

It was warm, about four o’clock in the afternoon. The days were getting longer so it would be light until six. He thought about St. Jean’s getting busy about that time, about sitting at the bar and guys coming in, some saying hello to him, or clapping him on the shoulder and saying, “Hey, Will.”

His ankle was throbbing. He got out of the truck, put the tailgate down, and opened one of the boxes. He leaned over it and caught a bit of the fragrance, then he picked up a bouquet and put his nose in it and inhaled.

He picked each bouquet up carefully and arranged them so you could see what was in each one: a rose, three pink carnations, and baby’s breath, all wrapped in green paper. Nine bouquets. Mrs. Dempsey said to get what he could for them and bring her ten dollars next time he came in. He got back in the truck and wished he had a cigarette.

Fifteen minutes went by, and Will wondered what he was doing there. Horsearound paid by the job, and he could make twenty for working all day with Pudgie. Pudgie’s mother had been nice to him.

He didn’t want to make a problem between her and her friend Mrs. Dempsey, like if he took off with the three boxes of flowers and gave bouquets to women coming in St. Jean’s, young and old; it would make a lot of people smile. He sat for another five minutes and shut his eyes.

The sound of tires on gravel startled him and in the rear-view mirror he saw a Dodge Corona pull in behind him. His first thought was to fire up the truck and get the hell out of there, but then he saw a plain looking man get out of the car, maybe forty, a little heavy, in a grey suit and a yellow tie. Will got out of the truck and the man was looking at the flowers.

“How much for one?” the man asked.

“Two dollars.”

The man put his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth heel to toe. Then he took his wallet out. “This oughta smooth things over with the wife,” he said, and handed Will the two dollars. “Stayed out late last night,” he said and winked at Will. Will grinned at the man as he handed him one of the bouquets.

A Ford Fairlane pulled behind the Dodge and a younger man in slacks and a short sleeve shirt got out and took off his sunglasses as he came around to the back of the truck. “How much?” he said.

“Two dollars.”

“Got change for a five?”

Will looked at the money in his hand. “Only got two,” he said.

“Ok, I’ll take ‘em,” said the man, and gave Will the five. “Catch up with you next time.” He took his flowers and got back in the car.

Will was a little stunned. The TV repair store where he worked so long ago was the closest he ever got to selling things and he didn’t remember any actual money changing hands there. Usually, when someone put money in his hand now, his mouth would start watering, knowing his first sip wasn’t far off.

He straightened up the bouquets so they could be seen from the road. Within a few minutes a dump truck pulled in and a man hopped out, face, hands, and clothes dirty with grime. “Whatcha got there?” he said, coming around to Will’s tailgate and picking up a bouquet. “These keep for a few hours?”

“Sure,” said Will. “They’ll keep overnight,” he said, thinking of Mrs. Dempsey’s glassed-in display room.

“Got a date tonight,” the man said, digging into his pocket. “How much?”

“Two fifty,” said Will and took the six quarters and dollar bill.

Will wasn’t there an hour before all the bouquets were gone and he had a pocket full of dollars and quarters. He headed for the social club and paid his tab, then had a beer. He kept the ten for Mrs. Dempsey in his left-hand pocket and didn’t touch it.

The next day, two more boxes sold out, then he got more. The following week, his first customer on Monday was the guy in the suit and tie. He held the two dollars out to Will and took a bouquet. “Worked like a charm last time,” he said, and winked at Will again.  

Will had his two-dollar customers, his two fifty customers, and a couple of three-dollar customers who pulled up in Caddies or Lincolns. He had to remember which customer was which. Each day he’d leave with a pocket full of money and an empty truck bed.

His ankle was getting better and better.

He’d be in St. Jean’s before most of the tradesmen and he’d come to expect them kidding him as they arrived.

“How’s the flower business, Will?” Some guy would always ask in a sing-song voice.

“Will a dozen roses gonna get me laid?” 

“Gonna call you Pansey.”

Will took it all with a good-natured smile but he did miss the real work. This wasn’t work. He wanted to be building things, or fixing things, or tearing things down. And he missed pulling a chair up to a table and being one of the guys that did those things.

Now he was on the barstool the whole night, only getting up to limp to the men’s, and they’d start again. “Those posies a heavy lift, Will? What, you drop one on your toes?”

But he liked the feel of the dollars and quarters in his pocket.  

One night when Ray was kidding him, Frank L’Heureux said, “Knock it off, Ray. Will worked hard for Horsearound and Horsearound didn’t give him a dime for the doctor. He’s a dirty rat, that Horsearound Brown. Leave Will alone. He’s doing the best he can.”

The good-natured kidding changed after that. There was more generous and friendly banter.  And at least once a night someone would send a beer over.  

One late afternoon Pudgie Kitchen came in and sat down beside Will.

“Hey Pudgie,” he said. “Have a beer. Nick, two beers.” They drank for a while. The place was filling up.

“Will,” Pudgie said, “Can you front me a few dollars? Five? I gotta kick in for rent at Ma’s.”

“Sure,” said Will and handed Pudgie five singles. Pudgie was the first to put the touch on Will, but he wasn’t the last. A lot of guys ran out of money before the end of the week.  

One night, Will was sitting by himself and Rick Riley was at the other end of the bar, staring at his boilermaker. Rick downed the shot then slid the beer over toward Will as he changed seats to sit beside him. “How’s it goin, man?” Rick Riley asked. “No hard feelings?”

“Ok, Ricky,” Will said and looked down at his beer. “How’d the job come out?”

Rick shrugged. “Y’know,” he said. Will nodded and went back to his beer.  

“Will,” Rick said, “Can you let me have a tenner?”

Will looked at him. He rubbed his leg.

“I’m good for it,” Rick said.

“Sure, Ricky,” Will said, and got out the ten that one of his three-dollar customers had given him.

“Thanks, man,” Rick Riley said, then slid back to his stool. Rickey didn’t sit with Frank L’Hereaux and the other guys, Ray and Stanley, who were at a far table getting loud and laughing.

Will worked for Mrs. Dempsey up until November, when she said there wouldn’t be much call for bouquets anymore. Through the holidays it was table centerpieces, then it was slow until Valentine’s day and it got so busy she wouldn’t need the extra help.

“Come back in the spring if you can, Will. Around March? The roadside bouquets worked well, don’t you think? We’ll do it again next year.”

Will said goodbye to her. It felt funny leaving the flower store without his boxes of bouquets. He still had a limp but not as bad as it was. He climbed in the truck and picked up the sign he’d made that said “FLOWERS” – the one he used whenever he set up at the highway pull-off. He put the sign behind the seat.

He felt pretty good, the promise of steady work in the spring. The foot didn’t give him much trouble anymore. And he figured he could do trash hauling or something with the truck, which had been good to him overall. 

Will’s walk never was the same, but it didn’t matter. He could still work.

---

Need more stories? Check out other Will & May stories, along with other great fiction at the MockingOwl Roost.

• Emma’s Place – Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 – Mystery Fiction
• Before They’re Gone – a Will & May Story
• The Wilderness Between Us Part 1 & Part 2 – Wholesome Romance Fiction
• At the Red Door – a Will & May Story
• The Nature of Work, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, & Part 5 – Historical Fiction
• For Thine is the Power – a Will & May Story
• Anatomy of a Memory – Part 1 & Part 2 – Emotive Fiction
• Bobbing On the Ocean – a Will & May Story
• The Dance of the Peacock, Part 1 & Part 2 – Mythological Fiction
• Friends – A Will & May Story