Chapter Twelve
“Oh, hello, Freddy!” Imogene Kaufmann cried with delight as she stepped into the Merc, a shopping basket dangling on her arm.
“Though I suppose I really should call you Fred, shouldn’t I, seeing as you’re all grown up and in charge now!
You look just like your father, standing there behind the counter.
The spitting image, I’d say. You know, I still can’t believe he’s gone.
If I’ve said it to Mother once, I’ve said it a hundred times! ”
Fred gritted his teeth. If he had to hear “you look just like your father” one more time, he might actually murder someone.
“Thank you, Imogene. Can I get you something?” Fred normally hid in the office, but since he happened to be at the front counter at the moment, he figured he might as well wait on Imogene.
Perhaps he could hurry her along faster than Harriet would, who was so docile and accommodating that Imogene was likely to stay all afternoon.
“I remember when you were just so high.” Imogene lowered a hand to her knee.
“You and Melody and Elizabeth running all around the Merc. It was an utter delight to watch you. I used to tell Mother all about your antics. And she did enjoy hearing them, stuck upstairs as she was. She did so look forward to my tales. You were her favorite, you know, Fred. And now, here you are, running the shop. Can you believe it? First Melody, and now you. I can’t imagine Elizabeth taking a turn, though, can you?
Goodness me, no. She’s much too delicate.
Though she is terribly beautiful. Didn’t have much time for me and Mother, though, did she, when we were staying with you?
But that’s probably on account of her being shy.
At least that was Mother’s opinion. She said that—”
“Can I get something for you, Imogene? Or did you just stop in to say hello?” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the counter.
“Oh, hello, Imogene,” Harriet said, coming up from the back with a box.
“Hello, Harriet! Aren’t you a pretty sight for sore eyes! I stopped by and saw your mother the other day, since we live so close now.”
“Yes, she mentioned it. How are you settling in?”
“Oh, good enough. Good enough. Change is so hard on Mother, but she’ll come round, I’m sure.
Oh, but let me find that list! Fred looks about to murder me!
” She gave a little laugh. “Wouldn’t blame you one bit, Freddy.
Taking up your time like I am. Now, I have a list somewhere .
. .” She shifted her basket and fumbled through her scuffed black handbag.
“Here it is!” She pulled out a crumpled piece of newspaper and squinted at the handwriting scrawled along the edge.
Fred sighed at Imogene’s frugality—she would never use a fresh piece of paper for something as lowly as a grocery list. During the Kaufmanns’ stay at the Willows after their apartment above the Merc caught fire, Imogene had made a habit of collecting bits of paper from the trash that she declared were “perfectly good.” It had nearly driven his mother crazy.
“It’s all mostly for Mr. Churchill,” Imogene said.
“Let me see. A dozen candles, a pound of flour, a tin of sardines—that’s for me and Mother—a pound of sugar, a package of lard, some salt, two tins of tomato soup, and .
. .” She turned the paper forty-five degrees, following the scrawl that went right round the edge, her eyes narrowing. “Two bottles of cider.”
She looked up triumphantly, as if proud to have read it all.
“I’ll get it, Fred.” Harriet paused in her refilling of the candy sticks, setting the ones in her hand back into the box.
She moved toward the shelf of canned goods and began selecting tins of soup, not bothering to ask which brand, knowing that Imogene wanted the cheapest ones.
“How’s the old Murphy cottage coming along? ” she asked.
“Oh, Mother and I like it very much indeed. Frank—and Julius, too, mind you, but he’s so quiet and shy!
—are very kind. And we’ve plenty to eat!
I’ve often suggested to Mr. Churchill that Mother and I could get by on half the food he buys, but he only laughs and says, ‘Nonsense!’ They’re very generous, almost to a fault.
I’ve said as much to Mother, and she quite agrees. ”
“How are the repairs coming?” Fred asked, as he began ringing up the items Harriet had thus far set on the counter.
It always baffled him whenever Imogene reported her mother’s responses, as he had never once in his life heard the ancient crone utter even one word.
If he didn’t know better, he would think her a mute.
Maybe she was, and all of her supposed responses were just figments of Imogene’s imagination?
“Oh, fine. Very fine, indeed. He’s got a builder—a arkie . . . arkick . . . oh! I can’t think of the word.”
“Architect?”
“That’s it! One of those. Name is Mr. Crawford.
Up from Chicago. He spends all day drawin’ the cottage, telling Frank and the rest of the crew, which is mainly Ralph Borman and Del Werner and, let me see .
. . who else? Well, sometimes Jack Rhomberg’s been out.
Not old Mr. Rhomberg, his son. But speaking of the Werners, did you hear their youngest won the spelling bee?
Gets to go on to the state finals all the way up in Madison!
Can you believe it? One of our own Merriweather students representing that way?
It’s enough to make you want to . . . oh, I don’t know, sing a little song, I suppose.
Me and Mother looked for a mention of it in the Herald, but we haven’t seen anything yet.
Maybe they’re waiting to report until the final debate, though that ain’t rightly fair, is it?
Little George Werner should be celebrated just for making it to the state finals.
Doesn’t matter who wins, does it? Now, as I was saying to Mother—”
“That’ll be $8.16,” Fred interrupted. “Here’s everything.” He pushed the brown paper bag toward her. “Except the cider.”
Imogene raised her eyebrows. “No cider? You sold out?”
“In a way.” He shifted. “We’ve decided to discontinue it.”
“Discontinue it? But why? Does Melody know?”
Fred gritted his teeth and wondered, for the hundredth time, how this had become his life.
He had initially disagreed with Mrs. Haufbrau when she strongly suggested they discontinue the cider.
It was making a profit—barely, but a profit was a profit.
It had been one of Melody’s better ideas, he had had to admit.
But Mrs. H. had very cleverly backed him into a proverbial corner (though it might as well have been a real one given how he was secretly a little bit afraid of Mrs. H.), saying that his father would never have allowed such a thing and that they were sure to get in trouble with the law.
Personally, Fred wasn’t so sure his father would have disapproved since he himself had made a fortune during Prohibition by selling moonshine.
Likewise, he wasn’t sure Chief Meyers would care all that much either, seeing as he himself was known to frequent the Miner most days of the week.
“But it’s not him you have to worry about,” Mrs. Haufbrau countered when Fred had made that point. “It’s Sheriff Norris. He’s cracking down! Just last week, my cousin over in New Glarus told me that the local newspaper shop was shut down for selling liquor illegally.”
Fred was inclined to think Mrs. H.’s fears a bit reactionary, but he did share her opinion that the Merc, under Melody’s direction, had become too fractured.
Why were they selling ladies’ wear and hats and fancy baskets?
They were, after all, primarily a grocers with other basic household items for sale, like brooms or mousetraps.
After some consideration, he agreed that the Merc had lost its way.
If this was to be his fate, he meant to bring the Merc back to its former glory by focusing on the “tried and true,” as Mrs. H. put it.”
“Anything else?” he asked Imogene, who had carefully fit the bag of supplies into her basket but was still lingering in front of the counter.
“Oh, no! I suppose I should get on, shouldn’t I? I almost thought for a moment that I would be heading upstairs, but then I remembered, didn’t I, that we don’t live upstairs anymore. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it. Not that I mind the cottage! Oh, no, it’s just that—”
“You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Imogene?” Fred interrupted. “I’ve some paperwork to do.” He inched out from behind the counter.
“Goodness, no! Aren’t you your father all over! I was just saying that—”
Fred did not stay to hear the end, which he knew was rude, but he also knew there would never be an end if it was left to Imogene to determine. Once inside his office, he shut the door and leaned against it.
He hated being compared to his popular, jubilant, larger-than-life father.
It was one of the reasons he had left. After Marquette, he could have stayed in Milwaukee for law school, but instead he had set his sights on any school that took him away from Wisconsin.
It was one of his Marquette professors, Dr. Knightly, who had encouraged him to apply to Harvard, and, with several letters of recommendation, Fred Merriweather had gotten in!
Though it meant that his son would be away for most of the year, Louis Merriweather had been over the moon at his son’s success, so much so that he spent the entire summer before Fred left telling every customer that entered the Merc that his son had gotten into Harvard!