The Pecan Man(3)

"Blanche!" I hollered over my shoulder, throwing my voice in the general direction of the door.

Blanche's wide body appeared in the doorway a moment later. I always got a kick out of watching her materialize at that screen door as if by magic. Of course, there wasn't any magic to it. It was just that you couldn't see her until she got right up to the screen and the outside light hit her white uniform.

"Blanche, we have a visitor here. Could you bring this gentleman a glass of tea?"

She answered by stepping out of the door and reaching for my glass.

"I'll get you some more while I'm at it." And she disappeared the same way she came.

"I'm Ora Lee Beckworth," I said with a far less intimidating tone.

"Pleased to meet you, Ma'am," was his shaky reply.

"You got a name?"

"I reckon I do, but mos' folks jus' call me the Pecan Man."

"I knew that much," I said, "but, I'd rather call you your given name, if you have one."

“Eldred, Ma'am.”

I realize now that he must have said “Eldred Mims” and not “Eldred, Ma'am” like I thought, but that's the way I heard it at the time.

“What’d your mama call you?” I asked.

He grinned then, displaying an engaging smile despite the missing teeth. “She call’t me Eddie.”

“Eddie it is, then,” I said and returned his smile.

Blanche reappeared with the tea just as I persuaded him to park his bike and sit on the edge of the stoop. He mumbled a thanks and took the glass from her, holding it tightly in his lap like he was afraid he might break it.

"So, you mow lawns for a living?" I asked.

"Yes'm, I do."

"Interested in doing mine?"

"Yes'm, I reckon I am."

"Okay, good. This is what I need. Every Wednesday morning, I need my front and back lawn mowed. Every Saturday, I need my flowerbeds weeded and hedges trimmed as necessary. Can you handle that for me, and how much do you charge?"

"I can do that for ya, Miz Beckworth. Won't cost ya' but five dollars a week, I figure."

"Five dollars a week!" I let my indignation set in before I continued. "Why, that's highway robbery! And I'll have you know, I am not a thief!"

He looked at me, confused and slightly horrified, but his eyes lit up when he realized what I meant.

"I'll pay you ten dollars and not a penny less."

He grinned again. "Yes'm, that'll be fine. It sho' will be fine."

"A day," I added, pleased with his reaction and even more pleased with myself for causing it.

His face fell.

"No'm," he said, "that'd be too much. I can't take ten dollars a day jus' for mowin' this here little bitty lawn and pullin' some puny weeds out da' garden."

I realized I'd pushed it too far and, though I thought the job well worth my offer, I backed down without taking offense at his unintentional disparagement of my garden.

"Fine," I said, "but lunch and all the tea you can drink come with the job both days. And, if I were you, I wouldn't turn down one of Blanche's sandwiches or she'll be downright offended."

"I'll 'member that. I sho' will.”

After he left that day, Blanche appeared at the screen door with a pot of beans in one hand and two colanders in the other. We sat in companionable silence listening to the low whirring of the fan and the rhythmic creaking of our rockers keeping time for the soft percussive pops of the beans we snapped. When we'd finished all she'd brought out, she set her colander in the crook of her arm and sat gently rocking as if she held a sleeping baby and not a pot of beans. Finally, she stood up and gathered all she'd brought out. She didn't look at me when she spoke. She looked out across the front lawn.

"That man is old and homeless, but he ain't stupid, Miz Beckworth. Don't be hurtin' his pride more than he can take, you hear me?"

I didn't answer, but she knew I heard.



Eddie showed up on time every single day he worked for me. I never saw him with a watch, but he always seemed to know what time it was. He would start mowing promptly at 10:00 a.m. and finish just before noon. He would never join me on the porch, but ate on the same side of the stoop without fail.

We didn't talk much, although Lord knows I tried to get information from that raggedy old man. I think it was the not knowing that made people nervous. Several of my neighbors made their disappointment in my choice of employees readily apparent, but I ignored most of their complaints. That is, until Dovey Kincaid dropped by with a lemon chess pie and a bucketful of advice.

I've known Dovey since she was a newlywed and moved into the house across the street. I'm only fifteen years her elder, but by then she was treating me like I was old and feebleminded.

"Hey, Miss Beckworth!"

Southerners always call their elders Mr. or Miss Whatever. Doesn't matter if you're married or not; the only thing that changes with familiarity is whether they call you by your first or your last name.

Anyway, Dovey never called me Miss Ora Lee. I never liked her enough to let her get familiar. Truth be known, callin' me Miss Beckworth was her way of saying she didn't want to be familiar in the first place, but that was fine with me. Southerners are mostly happy to give tit for tat.