Two Easters
Page 2
of driving an overloaded car, Tom stopped for the night at a motel in Georgia near I-75. He offered his charge card to the desk clerk and began to register: Mr. & Mrs. T. Allison. It wasn't until the clerk handed him the room key and commented, "You and Mrs. Allison have a nice evening," that Tom realized what he had done. "Oh well." He reasoned to himself, "Out of sight, out of mind. Once I get settled all the Betty stuff will go away."
The following morning, just after Tom passed the WELCOME TO FLORIDA sign, he stopped at a welcome station, where he sipped on cup after cup of free orange juice. "Wait ‘til Betty hears about this," he thought, never realizing his mistake.
Bryan, one of the other boat salesmen with whom Tom worked, helped him find an efficiency in Oakland Park, and he attempted to settle in. Hardly a day went by that Tom did have another orange juice incident, recalling something that he just had to share with Betty, and then being jolted back to the reality that Betty would not be there when he went home that evening.
Tom's boat sales were few and far between. Being the newest salesman, he had been assigned to work evenings. The boat lot had plenty of visitors each night, but few customers. Most people just stopped to look at the huge lot of new boats sitting on trailers. Tom worked ten days before he actually sold a boat. Nevertheless his letters to both his former co-workers in Cincinnati and to the guys in the band in Newport read as though people were standing in line to buy yachts from him.
One evening, on his way home, Tom noticed a Skyline Chili restaurant on Federal Highway. Skyline in Cincinnati had been Tom's second home all through college. Many of his dates with Betty included a stop there. He and Betty had visited Skyline almost weekly throughout their marriage.
"Skyline?" Tom said to himself, " No way, it couldn't be the same. I've got to find out." Verbalizing his thoughts aloud had become a way of life for Tom. Little quips that he once would have shared with Betty he now said to himself, since he was alone most of the time.
Tom wheeled his car into the narrow lot and went inside. "I'll put them to the test and see if this is a real Skyline," Tom said to Tom as he shut his car door. "Hi, welcome to Skyline," the waitress greeted, "What can I get for you."
"How about a four way bean and two coneys," he replied, sure the waitress would have to ask what he meant.
"Coming right up," came the waitress's cheerful reply, as she called out the order to the cook.
For the next half hour Tom imagined that he was back in Cincy. He looked at the poster of the city's skyline and recalled the names of prominent buildings. While waiting for his food, Tom took a few of the small round oyster crackers from his dish and lined them up on his napkin, just he had always teased Betty about doing. When he took the first bite of chili, Tom closed his eyes and pretended that he was back in Cincinnati, grabbing a bite to eat, on the way home to his beloved wife.
Tom's closed eyes quickly filled with tears as he thought about home. "What am I doing here?" he thought. Tom thought about how he had moved to a community where two million people lived, yet he knew only about six of them by name. For just a second, Tom contemplated how long it would take him to reach Cincinnati, if he were to head north right then. "No, she doesn't want me, he concluded in his confused mind."
"Everything all right?" the counter waitress inquired.
"Yeah, guess I got my chili too hot and it choked me up and made my eyes water," Tom lied back.
That wasn't the first sleepless night, nor would it be the last for Tom Allison. Most nights he watched television until he fell asleep. His phone seldom rang, and the people who came to his door were always looking for someone else.
Tom's mail was almost as silent as was his phone. Each night after work, as he opened that mailbox, something deep inside him, longed to see Betty's handwriting on an envelope.
Looking for a way to ease his hurt, Tom had attended Fellowship Church for the past two weeks. He had heard an advertisement for that church on the oldies radio station that he listened to. It sounded like the kind of place where he could find people much like himself.
Tom liked that church from the time that he had first walked in the door. The sermons seemed too "holy roller", he had reported to Bryan, his co-worker, but they had scores of singles and a band that was outstanding.
Although Tom said that he wasn't "looking," he made careful note of the attractive females at Fellowship. One, in particular, much younger than him, reminded him of Betty and how she looked several years before.
The following Sunday was Easter, and Tom invited Bryan to go to church with him, "to check out the chicks." Bryan agreed, and on Easter morning, despite the huge crowds and multiple worship services, Tom found seats for he and his friend directly next to the woman that he had been observing.
"Hi, I'm Sandy," she volunteered as soon as they sat down. "Happy Easter." After introducing himself and returning the greeting Tom nudged Bryan, sitting next to him. "Man, this is easier than the bars," he whispered.
As the service ended, the pastor asked the congregation to join hands while singing the closing song. Tom took Sandy's hand. Something about its warmth made Tom feel good. As the song ended, Tom gave Sandy's hand a small squeeze, which she promptly returned. On the way out, Tom and Sandy exchanged phone numbers and stories. She was a nurse at Broward General Medical Center, he learned, and in the process of a divorce from a Pompano Beach attorney. Since she had no children, Tom suddenly forgot about his own sons, and he, likewise, reported having no children.
Back in Cincinnati, after the separation Betty had returned to work at Blooming Flowers, where she had worked years before. She was an excellent manager and floral designer, and Bud, the owner, welcomed her return, since he was up in years and had health problems.
Betty was thrilled to see that she had not lost her touch for designing floral arrangements. Something about going back to where she had worked more than 25 years before made her feel young again. She enjoyed calling call out of town shops with orders and talking with people she had known back then. Many asked about Tom, and Betty always hated to hear the response after she said they were divorcing. One afternoon, she had just concluded another of those calls, and had received some more advice on what she should do. Bud's wife, Norma, was designing a basket as Betty hung the new order on their board.
"It's strange," she told Norma, "Everyone always has some advice or weird comment to give as soon as they hear the word, divorce. I just can't understand. Our divorce is a private thing in our family, but everyone wants to tell me what to do. You would not believe what I hear."
Norma paused, choosing her words carefully, and snapped the end off a gladiola as she began to speak. "Honey, divorce really isn't a private thing at all. Your divorce affects your family most of all, but it also breaks down a bit of our society."
"What do you mean?"
"We are living in an age when people changes spouses just about as often as they change cars. Look at all the children who are hurting, growing up without a natural mom and dad there for them. I don't know the answer, but there must be a better way than divorce."
Norma's last words reminded Betty of something that she was forever hearing on the car radio. A lady's voice would declare, "There is a better way than divorce. Your marriage need not end that way. . ."
Each time Betty heard that radio spot, she answered aloud, "Sure," and changed the station. She did not want to hear anything about divorce.
"I just thought of something," Norma added. "There was a lady years ago, Julie, I believe, at Chicagoland Flowers who did something to get back with her husband. Why don't you call her?"
"The last thing I want is my lying, cheating, husband back."
"Then why did you just call him my husband."
"Habit I guess. It doesn't mean a thing."
Betty had forgotten that conversation until a week later. Their divorce was final and Tom was moving to Florida. She continued to hurt very deeply. Betty was on the phone with Chicagoland Flowers, gi
ving them an order.
For some reason she asked the lady taking the order, "Do you have a Julie who works there?"
"No, she hasn't been here for years, but I've heard all about her. The girl only worked here for a short while, but she is a legend."
"How so?"
"It seems that Julie's husband was a big shot at some company downtown and left her for his secretary. They were divorced, but she did something to get him back home. They were remarried and now he is the pastor of a church in Indiana. So many people still call here looking for her that we keep her number on the board. Sure hope they remember me that well years after I quit."
"What's the number?" Betty asked.
No, Betty did not call Julie Grant that afternoon. That phone number was tossed into a stack of other papers on the counter of Blooming Flowers. It did, however have a strange way of working its way to the top of the stack, time and time again.
One day when Betty was hurting deeply, that number had once again worked its way to the top of that stack of papers. Bud and Norma had gone to a doctor's appointment, and Betty was alone