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In the morning, Brody showered and shaved, the latter of which still felt odd and awkward. He then dressed in yet another pair of khakis and a plaid shirt. Before his arrival in Pleasant Valley, Ted Onderdonk had purchased him seven pairs of tan pants and a different plaid button-up for each day of the week. At least the man had bought him different colored underwear. Not wearing black t-shirts, jeans, and boots felt weird. It had been his uniform for the last twenty years except for those times while he was in prison.
After leaving his apartment, he walked through the nearby neighborhood, checking out the houses that shared the alley with his bookstore.
On both sides of A Street, the houses were beautiful and well kept. Manicured lawns, each with a white picket fence, abutted the sidewalks. Many of the homes appeared to be recently painted. Brody slowed his gait, his eyes glancing to each side of the road, while he appreciated how nicely coordinated the colors of the houses seemed to be.
He did not grow up in a neighborhood like this. He’d never even seen a nice home until he’d burglarized one as a teenager. For a while, his mother dated a man who ran an automobile recycling yard, and they lived with him on-site in a rusting, single-wide trailer. That was his favorite home growing up, partly because he got to operate the car crusher as an eleven-year-old boy, and partially because he could disappear into the labyrinth of decaying cars waiting for their ultimate death.
In several of the yards he passed, silver-haired men tended to their small flower beds. They smiled and waved at Brody. He nodded and raised a hand in acknowledgment. He still couldn’t get over how friendly people were to him due to the simple change in his appearance.
When he finished reconnoitering the neighborhood, Brody returned to Main Street. He was ready for some breakfast.
A Pleasant Meal, the small restaurant at the west end of Main Street, was packed. Cars filled the lot, and others were on the street. Brody pulled the door open and was met with not only the smell of frying bacon and eggs but a cacophony of voices.
Several people sat on chairs just inside the door. They looked up at him with both kindness and desperate hunger, silently begging him not to make them wait any longer than necessary.
A woman with a brown apron approached him. “About a twenty-minute wait, hon, unless you wanna sit at the bar.”
“The bar is fine.”
The stools at the counter were caramel-colored vinyl high-backs that were bolted to the floor. Brody sat in one and spun forward. From his position, he could see two men in the kitchen hurrying behind a large grill. Several waitresses moved quickly about the restaurant attending to the customers.
The waitress with the brown apron stepped behind the counter, slid a menu in front of Brody, and asked, “Like some coffee?”
“Black,” he said, “and I’m ready to order.”
She glanced at the unopened menu then pulled out her order book. “What’s your choice?”
“Three scrambled eggs. Hash browns. Sausage links. You’ve got the links, right? Not the patties.”
“No patties,” she mumbled.
“Good. And no toast.”
“Stayin’ away from the carbs?”
“Carbs?”
The waitress looked up from her order book to quickly appraise the big man. “Never mind.”
“And if you’ve got a banana, bring one of those, but don’t peel it. I’ll take it with me.”
“Banana for the road,” the waitress muttered. She then tapped her notepad once with her pen before stepping over to the men at the grill. She clipped Brody’s order to a ticket wheel and wandered off.
He glanced at the elderly gentlemen who sat on either side of him. Each nodded politely and smiled. He did so in kind. For a moment, he allowed himself to get lost in thought.
I’m in Mayberry, he mused.
He remembered watching reruns of The Andy Griffith Show as a child while visiting his grandmother. Being with her was a magical place, and he wished she was his real mother. Instead, he had a train wreck of a mom who invited drama into her life as if it was an old friend. The turmoil started long before his father showed up and swept her off her feet. It would continue long after she named her first and only child after the handsome stranger who vanished in the night after stealing not only her heart but her car.
While he stayed with his grandmother, though, she encouraged him to watch wholesome programs like The Andy Griffith Show. Andy, Opie, and Aunt Bee painted a black and white picture of what a perfect American town was supposed to be. A wry smile pushed at his lips when he thought of Barney Fife and realized that Constable Emery Farnsworth could fill that role quite nicely.
When he was a kid, he wanted to visit a place like Mayberry, and now he lived in the real deal. Maybe the U.S. Marshal’s supercomputer did get it right, and no one messed with the system. Was this where Brody was truly meant to be?
A group of women suddenly laughed, and he turned in his chair to look at them. Seated at a table near the windows were seven silver-haired women. Each appeared to be in their seventies, and all of them were either knitting or crocheting. They were smiling and clearly enjoying themselves.
Brody stood and walked over to their table.
“Excuse me,” he said.
The ladies all looked up. Not one of them stopped their hands from working while they watched him.
“Is there a craft store in town?”
Most murmured in affirmation, and one of the ladies nodded toward the woman with a short haircut. “Martha has a store.”
The woman smiled while she continued to work her knitting needles.
“Martha Cole?” Brody asked.
Her hands stopped. “Why, yes. How did you know that?”
“I heard your name yesterday. From Officer, I mean Constable Farnsworth.”
The women muttered their appreciation of the constable.
“Oh, Emery,” Martha said. “Isn’t he delightful?”
“Yes,” Brody agreed. “Delightful.”
The rest of the women purred in support of Emery’s delightfulness.
“Martha, where is your store located?” Brody asked. “My grandmother taught me how to knit when I was young. Believe it or not, it’s helped me whenever I’ve had to deal with,” he paused for the right word, “downtime.”
“Like when you were in the Navy?” one of the ladies inquired.
“Excuse me?” Brody asked.
“The Navy,” she said, pointing to the flame tattoo on the back of his hand.
“Yes, ma’am,” he lied. “I knitted while on the ship.”
“Thank you for your service,” several of the ladies said in unison. Several other tables looked his way then added their thanks for his service while in the military.
Brody rubbed his newly short hair. He’d never once been mistaken for a military man.
“My shop,” Martha said, “is on Blue and Fourth.”
“You know how to get around town?” another woman asked. “It can be very confusing.”
Main Street divided the town. South of Main, the streets were labeled by letters. The city made it to E Street. To the north of Main, the streets were named after colors. There were only three: Blue, Yellow, and Red. The roads that ran east and west were called ‘avenues’ and started at the beach with First. The town made it to Seventh Avenue before petering out.
“It is confusing,” Brody agreed, “but I think I have it almost figured out.”
That seemed to please the women.
He turned to Martha. “I’ll stop by later today. I find myself with a lot of free time right now. Getting back to knitting would probably be good for my soul.”
“It most certainly would be,” she said brightly.
Brody waved goodbye to the group and went back to the counter where his breakfast now waited.
The elderly man to his right said, “I almost ate your breakfast while you were ovah there flirtin’ with the ladies, but I didn’t wanna do that to no naval officah.”
Brody resisted smiling and patted the older man on the back.
He had only just joined, yet he’d already been promoted in his pretend naval career.