Cedar Post in March is very much like Cedar Post in early September. Windy, arid, and bedecked in three hues of brown from less red to more gray. Although the best kept secret among high school students in Cedar Post is the annual Color Codes Contest – Last Spring, the class of 1951 chose aptly-renamed Beave of the class of 1953 as the winner; he recoded the medium grayish brown with cool undertone hue as Grandma’s Shrubbery – their art teacher, Miss Juels of Juels’ Crown Clothiers fortune, rejoices that her students seem to thrive on the class plein air project for learning brown color codes. Miss Juels came to Cedar Post straight from a Texas State Normal School in 1949, aspiring marriage and artistic muse. She is the newest resident. Few of the deep-rooted folks understand her zeal.
Deep-rooted dwellers of Cedar Post and the greater tri county area understand hope, unlike zeal which time and again dashes hope. Brown is the color of the sky when wind tosses tilled earth and the color of Llano Estacado wind-withered grasses. Hope is how desert and high plains dwellers greet March…hope for soaking rains, early spring planting, and lots of babies. Hope equally welcomes late summer and early fall…hope for lower temperatures and good harvests. But hope is wistful. Knowing that March is often a storm of fruit bud-killing snow blizzards and unstoppable southwesterly winds that dry morning dew and crack human resolve explains the inflexibility of Cedar Post folks. Knowing that September is likewise a storm of extremes and surprises explains their dogmatism. Survival is not about luck or love. Survival is about conceit. If one is unwilling to weaponize greed for a place, one is likely to lose the place.
From her front garden where she tends to wild roses and early peach buds, Miss Llana watches the exit of First Baptist Church Sunday morning worshippers. Some gather around the preacher and his wife while others hurry away. A few with canes step carefully along gravel walks. Children chase each other until adults urge them to hurry home for Sunday dinner. Miss Llana glances occasionally at the crowd and toward stragglers while fully committed to the garden chores. On this March morning, she relishes the few hours of warmth and calm.
“Good morning, Miss Llana. How are you feeling? Heard that you were put down last week with fever and flu. We lifted you in prayer during our ladies’ Bible class. You must save your strength and hire my boy to do these outdoor chores.” The Mmes. Schwartz, one the wife of a living Mr. Schwartz and the other, a widowed sister-in-law, speak as one person.
Miss Llana approaches the picket fence without hurrying while they empty thoughts upon her. “Good morning to you. I come out here for vitamin D and warmth before I’m chased indoors by the Lion.” She faces the Mmes. Schwartz. They squint, adjust their Sunday hats and raise gloved hands to shade their eyes from sunlight. “Although I was ill for a few days, I was not put down. I rested. And I thank you for praying for my good health. I feel much better after resting and consuming plenty of hot liquids.”
“Our prayers were answered. Have you heard that Mrs. Gallegos is back in town? We saw her step off the Tuesday Greyhound bus. Which means that she arrived here from the Albuquerque direction. But Louis, her poor, poor husband, said that she went to Texas before Christmas. Miss Juels was not in church this morning. It’s no wonder that she wants to hide. You know of course that her engagement to Mr. Pritchard is over. Saw her at the grocer’s Friday afternoon without the ring on her finger. I hope she kept it. Certainly not! It belongs to the Pritchard ranch. Well. Promises made; promises broken. We’ll walk by her house. The extra two blocks will whet your appetite, Jeanine. As if. And the preacher’s wife regularly receives parcels from Chicago. Why should she when her family lives down Roswell way? No need to ask. We’ll hear more about it from the gossipers at tomorrow’s quilting bee. Won’t you join us tomorrow, Miss Llana?” The sisters-in-law carry this conversation with each other, seldom looking at Miss Llana. Therefore, they do not notice her noticing people’s movements across the park. “Onward, Lucy. If we don’t get home soon, Mr. Schwartz will pour himself a second bourbon and let the help steal some of our Sunday dinner.” Miss Llana hears them talking even as they approach the next city block.
Across the tree-lined park two men sit on a bench nearest the pavilion. They sit with a valise between them and gesticulate as if talking about the trees and Cedar Post’s downtown. One man who wears a dress shirt and tie holds his suit jacket over the shoulder with one hand and the valise with his other hand. The other man has not removed his jacket or his hat; he raises one leg across his knee to wipe his shoe with a handkerchief. Dressed in matching suits, they might have attended one of three local church services or met for business. Except for the town’s silence, a typical Sunday tranquility before local teenagers leave the dinner table and borrow their fathers’ cars to drag the two main streets in town, their conversation is drowned in the birdsongs of hopeful nesters. A siege of whooping cranes captivates the men as it does Miss Llana, their rowdy migration toward northern nesting grounds unconvincing to the smaller birds who come to the Llano for summer.
When Miss Llana lowers her gaze from sky to city park bench, she sees that both men are gone. A quick search and the soft sound of footsteps on brick road finds one man approaching a car that is parked facing west in front of the post office. Before entering the car, he opens the trunk and rummages inside it, produces a large manilla envelope, and closes it. Then he opens the rear passenger door, seats himself, and the car pulls away from the curb, leaving town as if driven by a ghost. “Well. Most curious. He wore light-colored socks; now they are dark. Both valise and the second man have quickly disappeared. There it is. Our faithful March wind...but too fucking early today.” Miss Llana steps inside. “Is tea ready, Amelia? I’ll have it in the sitting room.”
Sunday tranquility ends as gusts whip dirt in city park where Bermuda grass waits to emerge with April rains and in winter pastures from which cattle need rotation. Teenagers rev the cars’ engines and cruise Cedar Post streets until friends beckon loudly for them to pull over. Insider her home studio, Miss Juels addresses her model, “You should hurry now. Don’t be silly. Posing for art is an art form, and you’ve done well. I can finish this painting without you now. My sketches are good. The money is on the table…there by the door. Goodbye.” And six-year-old Alice who lives with her grandmother on the sunrise edge of town returns home after searching all morning for stones with vivid color. Her apron pocket is heavy with stones; her gait is slowed as she heaves a valise behind her, her jump rope tied to its handle.