Little Town, Great Big Life. Curtiss Matlock Ann
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Winston well understood the boy. Willie Lee was mentally handicapped but not a baby, and not deaf, either—as so many tended to treat him in his old age.
Corrine and her aunt Marilee continued to stand and watch as the men and boy and dog got into the Bronco that Papa Tate already had warming up. Doors slammed. The Bronco went backing out, and then Aunt Marilee hollered, “Watch out!”
Although Papa Tate no doubt could not hear her with the windows rolled up, he had already slammed on his brakes, avoiding hitting Mr. Everett’s Honda Accord backing out of his driveway so fast that the rear end bounced two feet when the tires hit the street. Then the Honda roared off ahead of the Bronco.
Aunt Marilee looked at Corrine, and Corrine looked back at her. With sighs, they went back in the warm house, turning out the porch light.
At the radio station, Everett had gotten into the sound studio and sat himself in the executive chair at the microphone. He cast a wave to Tate, who bid him good-morning.
Winston took note of the situation. There were two more rolling chairs, both smaller and against the wall. Winston had never sat in either. He was a big man, and required a big chair.
He turned and went to get a cup of coffee, then returned to stand in the studio doorway, sipping it. Everett studiously kept his gaze on some papers in front of him. Tate was leaning over and having a discussion with Jim Rainwater at the controls. Willie Lee had taken one of the chairs against the wall, as he usually did, with his dog’s chin on his still-untied shoe. He grinned with some excitement at Winston, who shot him a wink.
A check of the clock. Two minutes to on-air.
“Tate…could I speak to you and Everett a moment?”
Tate turned. Everett sat there, blinking behind his glasses.
Winston said sweetly, “Just a minute before airtime, Ev.” Tate turned his gaze to the other man, causing him to reluctantly get up and come out of the room.
“I just want to say thanks for the opportunity, Tate, and thanks for joinin’ us, Everett. I know we’re gonna have us a time.” As Winston spoke, he eased himself around the men and slipped through the studio door, and headed directly for the big armchair at the microphone. In one movement, he plopped down and put the headphone to his ear with one hand, reaching for the microphone with the other.
“You dang…” Everett was beside himself.
“Thirty seconds,” said Jim Rainwater.
Everett pulled one of the smaller chairs over and took hold of the microphone. Winston did not let go. The two glared at each other. Tate threw up his hands and walked out.
Jim Rainwater counted, “Five…four…three…two…you’re…on.” His finger pointed.
Winston jerked the microphone toward him. “Goooood mornin’, Valentinites! Rise and shine. GET UP, GET UP, YOU SLEE-PY-HEAD. GET UP AND GET YOUR BOD-Y FED!”
For the last part, Everett joined in, his face jutted so close to Winston that they about rubbed whiskers. The result was the call coming out sort of like an echo: “GET-et YOUR-or BOD-od-Y-ee FED-ed!”
“You’re listenin’ to the Wake Up call with Winston…”
“And Everett!”
“And Willie Lee and Munro!” Willie Lee had squeezed in between the two old men. Munro let out a bark.
“Wa-ake UP, ev-ery-bod-y!” said Willie Lee happily, followed by another bark from Munro and Jim Rainwater’s sound track of a trumpet playing reveille.
The audience share had increased tenfold over the past two days as word had spread about the reveille and the feud. People all over town tuned in just to hear the amazing Wake Up call from one—now four—of their own. Truckers picked up the radio out on the highway, and there were even a few listeners from as far away as Kansas and West Texas, people who experienced the early-morning show out of Valentine via skips in the signal.
Many listeners had their radio volumes turned up in order to join in with the reveille. The Dallas route bus driver, Cleon Salazar, was one of these. He sang out, helping to wake himself up and jarring a number of his dozing passengers.
Deputy Lyle Midgette, a perpetually cheerful soul, also joined in, repeating the words at the top of his voice as he drove home, windows wide and cold air snatching his breath.
Woody Beauchamp, an equally cheerful soul, reached over the pan of hot biscuits just in time to turn up the volume on the radio and holler out. His new friend, Andy Smith, jumped and almost fell back out the door, while upstairs in her bathroom, Fayrene Gardner stamped on the floor.
Rosalba Garcia stood ready with a pot lid and wooden spoon. At the yell from her radio, she went calling out and banging over the beds in her all-male household. At the discovery of the empty bed of her youngest, she was alarmed, until she looked under the bed and found that, after two mornings, he had anticipated her actions and gone to sleep underneath, with pillows and quilts as insulation. Not to be thwarted—this was the son born in America and she meant him to go to college—Rosalba dragged him out by his ankle.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, there were a number of listeners who deliberately tuned out, or at least down. These people wanted to hear the pertinent information of the weather and road conditions, school lunch menu and sales at the IGA, but they did not want to be jarred out of their skins, nor did they want anyone else in their household to be awakened.
Having gotten Aunt Marilee back to bed with both tiny tots, Corrine went all over the house, making certain every radio was turned off. Then she fell gratefully back into her own bed for another half hour’s sleep before getting up for school. One needed sleep when one lived in a nuthouse.
Across the street, Doris Northrupt sighed peacefully, giving thanks that her husband was gone, and that she could sleep to midmorning, when he would return. Retired life was good.
Julia Jenkins-Tinsley used the new iPod she had purchased the previous day; however, she couldn’t get it to work, so she had to jog listening to her own breathing in the cold morning air.
Inez Cooper turned her kitchen radio off in midreveille. “Idiots,” she said, as she counted her husband’s morning pills into the little medicine cup. She stuck in one of the quit-smoking herbal pills Belinda had given her. Norman would never notice an extra pill. She had gone all over his workshop and found two packages of hidden cigarettes, which she had torn up into the trash. Now, with firm determination, she set a small pamphlet about quitting smoking next to the coffeemaker.
Out at the edge of town, John Cole Berry was filling a travel mug of coffee and remembered just in time to punch the button that silenced the radio on the coffee machine. Standing there, sipping his coffee with both relief that Emma still slept and anxiousness about the busy day ahead, he felt a tightness come across his chest. He did not have time for Emma’s worries to transfer to him, he thought, taking up his jacket and slipping from the house. He was able to catch the reveille fifteen minutes later on his truck radio and have a good laugh.
Having slept a peaceful night in her own bedroom, Paris Miller was putting on her eye makeup while listening to her boom box set to low volume. She smiled at the Wake Up call. She loved sweet Willie Lee and Munro, and Mr. Winston, too, who had always been so kind to her. Sometimes she imagined her grandfather was like Mr. Winston; he could be, if only he would stop drinking. Turning off the radio, she tiptoed to the kitchen, carefully closing the door to her grandfather’s room as she passed. She prepared the coffeemaker, and set out an orange and a packaged sausage biscuit, all in readiness for her grandfather when he got up. If she could just love him enough, he would quit drinking.
Two miles away in her king-size bed with the leather head-board, Belinda slept soundly beneath fine Egyptian 1200-count cotton sheets and down comforter, head cradled on a soft pillow, with earplugs and a violet satin eye mask. A few feet away to the right, on the night table near her head, was a small decorative plaque, which she had purposely placed there the previous night. It read: Today I will be handling all