A Matter of Timing

I was setting up a spring seed display in my store the other day when Mrs. Viola Hassendoodle stormed in and knocked the whole display down in her haste to scold me. This is not unusual, as Viola Hassendoodle is something of a bull in a china shop at her best. It is no secret that she and I have been at odds since I moved to Greater Metropolitan Roopville and she certainly was open about it this time.

“Truman Fable, I have just about had it with you! You have done a lot of foolish things in your life but I swear on my grandmother’s china, you have outdone yourself.”

“Not your grandmother’s china!” I replied dryly. “Just what have I supposedly done this time, Viola?”

“You have tampered with my mother’s good name, that is what!”

Now as much as I try to avoid Viola Hassendoodle, I do not mind chatting with her mother Irene Hassendoodle. Irene Hassendoodle is one of those genuine Southern ladies and the way her drawl naturally rolls off her tongue is an aural delight. She does have quite a temper, but I have never felt it; we enjoy a pleasant acquaintanceship or so I thought. I tried to imagine what I might have said or done to threaten her reputation and came up with nothing.

“I would not dream of doing that to your mother, Viola. If I did something unintentionally then I will apologize to her, so please tell me what you think I did.”

“You told Elizabeth Vollinger that Mama bought her winning entry in the Garden Club Flower Show, and that is so untrue! You are a hound!”

I pondered this for a moment, trying to recall what I might have said to Mrs. Vollinger lately. I could not come up with anything. One does not get in the middle of the legendary Hassendoodle/Vollinger Mutual Disdain Society on purpose.

“You just try denying that Truman. You just try,” Viola growled.

“All right, I will deny that because in the first place, I have not spoken to Mrs. Vollinger in months. In the second place, I know your mother and Mrs. Vollinger are – are – they do not get along, so why would I say anything to upset either of them? And,” I added quickly before she could put voice to a belligerent expression – “of course your mother bought her winning entry; she bought that rose bush here at Fable Feed and Seed like any other gardener would.”

“But you made it sound like she cheated somehow!” Viola stomped her foot at me. Viola favored contour-hugging clothing and sensible orthopedic shoes, shoes that could damage the arch of a foot with the right impact. I pulled my foot back from harm’s way but stayed on point.

“What, did you hear me ever say she cheated at anything? She bought a Firebud Rose bush and her landscaper planted it, it’s not like she bought a judge. I never said – wait a minute! Mrs. Talley came into the shop the other day and she asked what the name of the winning rose was. She was just out shopping, I didn’t think anything about it because I sell rose bushes, Viola, that is what I do. If someone wants to buy one, I will gladly sell one.”

“But that is Mama’s rose! You can’t just sell her winning rose.”

“Oh my God, Viola – “

“Don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain –“

“And don’t you tell me what I can and cannot do in my own shop!” I roared, and my voice echoed off the walls.

Let me pause here for a moment.

My philosophy as a feed store merchant is “The customer might not always be right but should always be respected” and I still hold to that unless the customer is being a complete butthead. Normally I try to avoid a confrontation with Mrs. Viola Hassendoodle. She is a healthy woman with a firm jaw and a wide generous mouth that could probably bite me in half if she put her mind to it. But by this time, I was so wound up I threw caution to the wind. Customers craned their necks over aisle shelving at our rising voices, and the doorway was filled with passers-by peering in at the free entertainment.

After a shocked pause, Viola came back vehemently. “I don’t think it’s fair for you to sell Mama her winning rose bush and then go and sell the same thing to other people, it’s dishonest!” Viola was not the most astute resident of Greater Metropolitan Roopville and was never one to back down in the face of mere facts.

“Viola, I sell the bushes, but it is up to the buyers to water them and fertilize them and prune them and that is what makes it a contest! Not everyone has the same kind of soil, not everyone has to be a Master Gardener to enter a garden show! How hard is it to understand that?”

Viola gave me a thousand-degrees-Fahrenheit glare and retorted, “Well, just the same, you shouldn’t have said anything to that terrible Mrs. Vollinger!”

“And why not?” came an absolutely chilly voice from the doorway. The people who had been peeking in suddenly darted back to give Elizabeth Vollinger plenty of room. Viola’s eyes went wide, and her countenance grew ashen. She was not expecting her family’s Big Bad and neither was I. I have no idea what I looked like, but I imagine I looked like a deer in headlights.

Elizabeth Vollinger stepped into the Fable Feed and Seed like royalty inspecting the troops. From the top of her upswept salt-and-pepper hairdo to the bottom of her Jimmy Choo pumps, Mrs. Vollinger fairly dripped with dignity and propriety. Tastefully lacquered fingernails drummed on the clutch purse in her hands, and she spoke in measured dulcet tones laced with disdain.

“Viola Hassendoodle, you shame your mother. Truman Fable never said a word to me, he answered Iris Talley’s questions and I happened to be standing nearby. It is not your place to defend your mother because she needs no defense; her roses were the highlight of the Garden Show and everyone knows that. Now I do not know what cur spread such awful untruths to you but if I ever find out, I will disabuse them of future notions.” She nodded to me. “Mr. Fable, you are normally a sweet-natured man so the fact that rudeness was on display by you proves that you were vexed beyond measure. I would not encourage you to make a habit of it, however. It is most unbecoming.”

Well damn. It was the most backhanded compliment I have ever received. I kept my mouth shut and simply bobbed my head in agreement.

Elizabeth Vollinger turned on one heel and swept from the room, dismissing all this unpleasant hoopla with a toss of her head. Viola Hassendoodle’s eyes met mine. She did not speak. She did not so much as lift an eyebrow.

“Whoever told you that lie had better never let Mrs. Vollinger find out,” I said quietly.

Viola had been holding her breath. She now released it out her nostrils in a heaving sigh and then left the store without a reply. My customers finished up their shopping, and calm order returned to Fable Feed and Seed.

Twenty minutes after she swept from the store, Mrs. Vollinger returned. “I declare! I intended to replace my damaged pruning shears when I came here earlier and forgot all about it in the heat of the moment. I’ll take those right there if you please.” As I rang up the sale, she added nonchalantly, “Never forget, Mr. Fable: no matter how badly you need something, one must never waste a good exit.”

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