The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

“Be with you in a minute, Mrs. Appleton,” he said. Beyond him, a tall, moon-faced man with a furrowed brow and rumpled, straw-colored hair leaned against the barber chair. I recognized him as Sheriff Mayberry.

“You’re sure you don’t need any extra help around here after the…incident last week?” the Sheriff asked.

Wendell waved a hand. “Why Ronald, I reckon you’re just hoping I say no so you don’t have to bother with any serious breaking of the law. That’s the way you like it in this town, ain’t it?”

The Sheriff shook his head. “I like a neat, tidy collection of hard-working frontier folk. Is that a problem? If one of ’em happens to step out of line…”

“You hope he steps right back in without you having to go for your handcuffs,” Wendell finished. “I’ll bet you don’t even know where your pistol is right now, do you?”

Sheriff Mayberry reached for his hip, then froze. “I sure do. I just didn’t see the need to strap my gun on for this little trip across town. That’s all.”

Wendell slapped the Sheriff on the shoulder. “I’m just kidding you. We all feel right safe, if that’s what you’re wondering about. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve kept Ruth Appleton and her son waiting long enough.”

The Sheriff turned, tipped his hat to us both, and sidled out the door. He patted his hip again as he left.

“Now,” Wendell said to Ma. “You’re a bit late, but I’m glad you’re here.”

Ma shook Wendell’s hand, then turned and waved me over. “Mr. Jenkins, this is my son Eugene. You remember we spoke about him working for you a few days a week?”

“I sure do,” he said. We shook hands, and I got a good look at him for the first time. It was hard to rightly tell how old he was. From his bent posture and the stiffened way he had turned to greet us, he had seemed elderly. But now, as I looked him in the eye, I could see he was younger than I had expected. His hair was streaked with silver, but there was still enough black in it to suggest a man my father’s age, maybe a bit older. It was pulled back into a short ponytail cinched with a black strip of cloth. He was broad-shouldered and strong-armed, despite his limp.

Wendell pointed to a row of chairs near the front of the shop. A broom and dustpan were propped against the wall, and buckets and cloths were piled beside the chairs. “I reckon I can find plenty for you to do, son.”

“We were so sorry to hear about the incident,” Ma said. “But I am glad to see you’ve managed to set things right since then.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Wendell said. “Things are mostly back to normal.” He paused. “’Cept for the mice, that is.”

“Mice?” Ma shifted nervously, eying the floor.

“Oh, nothing to worry about, really. It’s just—look out!” Wendell raised the broom. Ma shrieked and leaped nearly a foot off the ground. She returned to earth just in time to scamper on top of one of the chairs. From her perch, she continued to rock back and forth, glancing around nervously.

Wendell grinned. “Well, Ruth Appleton, don’t you look like you got the Holy Ghost in you now, all on account of one little old mouse.” Wendell leaned toward me, voice lowered. “When you get the chance, son, tell your ma there ain’t no mice in here. I keep a clean shop. So she can get down off her perch.”

“Why Wendell Jenkins, that teasing isn’t funny in the least,” Ma said, releasing her grip on her skirts and preparing to dismount the chair. But I saw a smile flit across her lips, too.

“Now, if you don’t mind,” he continued, “I’ve got some more work to take care of before I take my lunch break.”

Ma turned toward the front window. “I see no customers waiting outside. What’s your hurry?”

“If you must know,” Wendell said, “I got Marjorie Springfield coming by in a few minutes.”

“Marjorie Springfield?” she asked. “For a haircut?”

Wendell picked up the broom. “We got some business to take care of, that’s all. She inquired about…some chickens I’m keeping, price of eggs.”

“Oh, I see,” Ma said. “Then I won’t keep you any longer. Make sure my Eugene here provides you all the assistance you need in your…well, your…”

“My condition?” Wendell asked.

“No, that’s not…I mean—” Ma’s eyes flicked across Wendell’s right leg. His limp had become more noticeable as he made his way across the room to sweep.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Appleton, I ain’t sensitive about it no more. Seems of all the things I’ve lost, the use of my right leg ain’t much of a bother.”

A silence fell over the shop, broken only by the swish of Wendell’s broom. Ma paused in the doorway. “When Mr. Jenkins here is done with you, you come home straightaway. No chin-wagging, lolly-gagging—”

“I got it, Ma,” I said. She left, and I walked to the front window. Behind me, I could hear Wendell sweeping. “You were…in the war?” I asked, turning. But Wendell had moved across the room to wipe down a long table. I moved closer and tried again.

“Ma said you fought for the Union in the war. What was that like?” I asked.

He paused, rag in hand. “That was a long time ago, I reckon.” He shuffled forward, shoulders stooped. “Now, about your duties—”

I sighed. I had thought a war veteran would have some great stories to tell. But I guessed that would have to wait.

“I can mostly use you for odd jobs—re-stocking, straightening up, cleaning, and occasionally an errand in town to the bank or the general store. In exchange, I can pay you just enough to have a little to tuck in your pockets. How’s that sound to you?”

“Fine,” I answered.

“And speaking of that,” he continued, “I’m running a mite low on talcum powder and a few other oddments. You up for a trip to the general store?”

“Sure,” I said. “You need me to deliver that parcel?”

“What’s that?” He placed a hand on a paper-wrapped parcel on the table. “Oh, no, this is—”

Just then, there was a ding, and the front door clattered open. I turned to see the small figure of Widow Springfield in the doorway. She wore the same yellow dress as the day of Ma’s sewing circle, her hair pulled back into that same gray bun, wispy strands scattered in several directions.

“Mornin’, Wendell. Eugene, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’m just working for Mr. Jenkins a few hours a week.”

“Sorry about that vandalism last week,” the widow said. “That was some bad business. If I was you, I’m not sure I’d think it was worth the fuss sticking around these parts.”

“Oh come now, Marjorie, you know I got obligations here in town.”

She cocked her head slightly. “I don’t rightly know what that means, but I do know that you’re a man of mystery, Wendell Jenkins. And I reckon you like it that way. Keeps folks from poking around your business.” She straightened her dress. “Now, you said you had something to go over with me?”

“Ah, yes,” Wendell said. He shuffled to the table and picked up the parcel. “I got this dilemma, Marjorie. I went and ordered myself a pair of shoes from the Montgomery Ward catalog. They got six styles to choose from, and they ship direct to the shop. What could be easier? But wouldn’t you know it,” he continued, peeling off the paper wrapping, “they sent me this pair of women’s shoes, size nine, not even close to what I ordered. And I’ve been sitting here looking at this box all day, thinking over what to do with them. I could send ’em back, that’s for sure, but I’m not even sure I filled out the order form correctly, now that I think about it. Maybe I just wrote down the wrong product and actually ordered these shoes. So I ain’t going to send ’em back. And it would be a shame for them to just go to waste. Could you use them?”

The widow’s eyes widened. “Oh no, Wendell, I couldn’t take them.”

“Because…they belong to you, that’s why. I couldn’t take them from you.”

“Why don’t you just take a look at ’em, see what you think?” he asked, holding out the box. She peered inside. “Well,” she said, “they are fine-looking shoes.”

“It would be a real shame for them to go to waste, on account of my lame-brained error.”

“You did say that,” she said, continuing to stare into the box. “Well, I guess if you’re dead-set on getting rid of them, I could take them from you.” She took the box. “And they are my size.”

“You’re being quite a help to me, Marjorie,” Wendell said.

“Well,” she said, “if that’s what it is, I’m glad…I could help you.”

“Indeed, that’s what it is,” he said.

“Fine, yes, well—” the widow said. “I should be on my way then, unless there’s anything else.”

“No, that’ll take care of it. And thanks again,” Wendell said.

“You’re mighty welcome,” the widow said, sweeping toward the door, her parcel tucked under her arm, and a satisfied grin on her face. As she walked across the room, I caught a glimpse of her boots beneath the hem of her dress. They were scuffed and badly worn, and the sole of one hung loose near the heel.

The widow left, and I whirled toward Wendell. He met my gaze with a firmly-set jaw. “What are you staring at? Ain’t you never seen two adults make a business transaction before?”

“It’s just—did you know about her shoes? How they were all beat-up?”

“Did I know about her shoes? No, I reckon I don’t have enough hours in my day to keep track of Marjorie Springfield’s shoes. What, you think next to barbering and taking care of my home, I keep a record of the footwear of all the folks in town?”

“Listen,” he continued, “I don’t aim to speak more about Marjorie Springfield’s shoes. What happened here today was fairly simple: I was looking to get rid of some shoes, and Marjorie Springfield happened to be the lucky recipient. I’d say it was her lucky day.”

“But you said it was about eggs.”

A faint smile crossed his lips. “Did I?” He paused, a faraway look in his eyes. “Now, get to the general store and fetch my supplies.”

I headed toward the door, head spinning at what I had just witnessed. The widow was right. Wendell was a man of mystery. But, I had a job to do, and by golly, Eugene Appleton wanted spending money more than answers. So, to the general store I went.