“Well, bones aren’t by nature musical,” I told her. “Unless they’re used as drumsticks.”
I was worried about this Reed guy—Darva, who taught French, had led a group of students on a tour through “Les Artistes’ Francais” exhibit at the Institute of Arts, and Reed, visiting the museum himself, followed the group from the Matisses to the Monets, even though he didn’t understand a word Darva was saying.
“I didn’t even know if she understood English,” he told me, “but I asked her out for coffee anyway.”
My reason for worry wasn’t that he was a jerk who treated Darva badly; it was the opposite. Darva seemed to like him a lot, and I could imagine them eventually marrying, which of course would mean she and Flora would move out. At the ripe old age of thirty-one, the most important relationships in my life were a platonic love with a high school pal and an avuncular one with a little girl who, in fact, called me not Oncle Joe but mon Joe—my Joe. I hadn’t been swept up into a great inferno of passion, but that was okay; these little campfires of love were keeping me plenty warm. And then Jenny Baldacci, in the middle of baking a lemon meringue pie, happened to run out of eggs.
Ever since I had given Shannon, Darva, and those three housewives an opportunity to run amok in the store for their two-minute Supermarket Sweep, I had held other surprise contests. One Wednesday evening, I couldn’t help noticing that none of the kids seemed happy to be there; the aisles were filled with so many whines and cries you would have thought the shopping carts they rode or clung to or ran ahead of were an element of torture. There were a few fathers braving SWC (shopping with children), but by and large the beleaguered parents making threats, pleas, or bribes were mothers.
I went up into my office and rang the bell.
“Good evening, shoppers,” I said into the microphone. “Have you checked out the sale in aisle seven? All Good Home canned goods, four for a dollar. But here’s a special that isn’t advertised, and it’s just for kids, so boys and girls, listen up.” I rang the bell again, for dramatic effect. Many of the shoppers had stopped, as if the act of pushing their cart distracted them from listening. Most of the kids were looking up at the office window. I waved, and they waved back.
“Yes, kids, this is the Haugland Foods Quiet as a Mouse contest. Whoever can stay”—I lowered my voice to a whisper—“quiet as a mouse for ten minutes will get to choose any prize they like from the toy department.”
My office wasn’t soundproofed; noise came up through the vents and the thin glass window, and I could hear the whines and cries evaporate, replaced by an excited chatter.
“All right, kids,” I said in my smooth announcer voice, “we’ll start when I ring the bell, and you’ll know we’re done when I ring the bell again.”
A strange quiet filled the store as soon as I struck the bell, and its effect was a thing to behold. Kyle, a toddler who loved to terrorize his baby sister, was now sitting quietly in the back of the cart, holding Tiffany in his lap. Anna and Evan, six-year-old twins who held the store breakage record for a single shopping trip (two jars of pickles and a bottle of chocolate milk) tiptoed solemnly, hand in hand, next to their father. The unruly Grinas, who liked to play tag in the aisles, reached for the groceries their mother pointed at. The looks on the parents’ faces were beatific, as if they were spectators to a miracle.
After keeping careful track on my watch, I rang the bell.
“Congratulations, kids,” I said. “Every single one of you is a winner. Now as quietly as you can, tiptoe to the toy aisle—it’s across from the magazines—and pick out your toy.”
The kids didn’t seem to care that they weren’t shopping at FAO Schwarz; they seemed happy to select a cheap plastic water pistol, a coloring book, a deck of Old Maid cards. Mrs. Ghizoni told me later that her son said it’d been just like Halloween, “instead of tricks, we had to be quiet, and instead of treats, we got toys.”
One slow morning, I noticed Marlys Pitt pushing her cart as if it were filled with rocks instead of the boxes of macaroni and cheese she seemed to subsist on since her husband ran off with her sister. She looked terrible, swollen-eyed and stringy-haired, and so thin she kept having to hoist up her slacks to prevent them from sliding down her butt.
I rang my bell.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said to the half dozen or so shoppers, “a prize will be awarded to anyone who right now has a box of Good Home macaroni and cheese in their shopping cart.”
Marlys was apparently too deep in her funk to participate in the contest, and it wasn’t until Estelle Brady, for whom everyone’s business was her business, noticed Marlys and banged into her cart with her own.
“You won,” she shouted, and then looking up at the window, shouted, “Joe! Joe—she’s got a whole cartful!”
“All right, we’ve got a winner!” I said, as if surprised. “And you win…” Trying to think of a good prize, I revved up my brain. Inspiration came as I looked at Marlys and her unkempt hair. “You win a gift certificate to Patty Jane’s House of Curl and…and dinner for two at the Canteen!”
Marlys gave me a rare smile, and thus began my cosponsorship with neighborhood businesses.
Once I asked if there was anyone shopping who could recite the entire Gettysburg Address. Surprisingly I had two winners—Jan Olafson, a waitress who always needing reminding that there was no smoking in the store, and Mr. Snowbeck, my Twinkies shoplifter. They each got gift certificates to a new bookstore that had opened on Cedar Avenue. Another time I asked shoppers if anyone had a picture of their grandmother in their wallet. No one did, but a little boy holding a gray-haired woman’s hand said, “But I’ve got mine right here!” He took home a gift certificate from the Abdullah Candy Store.
Usually the contests were random and I didn’t know who the winner would be (who’d have thought Irv Busch, a customer whose moods swung a short arc from bad to really bad, would know all the lyrics to “Some Enchanted Evening” and sing them, in a sweet tenor, in the middle of the feminine products aisle?). Other times I rigged the outcome, selecting the winner in advance according to the prize being offered. For instance, my mother offered six free piano lessons, and I awarded the prize to Cindy Waldron, who paid for her groceries with food stamps and whose son was a dreamy boy who always sang or whistled when he shopped with her. Another time I asked, “Who’s got disposable diapers in their cart?” knowing that Helen Hanson, whose baby was three months old, had just told Shelly Ericson she was pregnant again and not exactly thrilled about it. Helen, who waved two packages of Dry-Didies in the air, won a weekend getaway at the Thunderbird Hotel (one of my customers was its vice president).
“It’s romance that got me in trouble in the first place,” said Helen, accepting her prize, but afterward she breathlessly reported, “They had a pool, and my husband and I actually met when we were lifeguards, so we spent the whole time in the water!”
The prizes often came from other stores (I had taken a beating during that first Supermarket Sweep I’d held—Kay Nelson had cleaned me out of porterhouse and T-bone steaks), but I donated my fair share and was just about to announce a contest when I saw an attractive, vaguely familiar brunette in the dairy section.
“You’re drooling,” said Darva.
“I know that person,” I said, “I think.”
“Maman, we made faces on our cupcakes!” said Flora, who had spent the night at my mother’s after our Tuesday night dinner. This was a common occurrence; in fact, so common that she considered the guest room chez grand-mère et grand-père her second bedroom. Having slept on my mother’s couch in the den, I had taken Flora to work with me, and Darva had come to pick her up.
“And Grand-mère read me seven books—I counted! And mon Joe let me help stack up the oranges!”
“I think she’s got a career in produce,” I said.
“So who do you think it is?” asked Darva, following my gaze out the office window.
After I shrugged, Darva took the bell off my desk.
“Good morning, shoppers,” I said, scrambling to the mike. “Today’s prize will go to anyone”—I watched the brunette reach into the egg case—“who has a carton of eggs in their cart.”
The dark-haired woman froze, holding the carton in her hand.
“I’ve got eggs!” shouted Red Carlson, who owned the hardware store down the block.
“We have a winner, then,” I said. “Actually two, because even if you haven’t put the eggs in your cart, you’re still a winner.”
I heard Darva laugh. “Smooth,” she said, “real smooth.”
“And today’s prize”—my mind raced through new inventory items that might appeal to the brunette beauty—“is a free Mrs. Wilkerson’s Fruit Pie, available for pickup in the bakery section.”
“This is how you’re going to charm her?” asked Darva. “With pie?”
“I’d like to win a pie,” offered Flora.
“I guess I’ll go down and make my prize presentation,” I said, running a hand through my hair.
“You look good,” said Darva, cheering me on.
I raced down the stairs, worried that the brunette might have left without claiming her prize, but when I reached the bakery section, she was standing with Red Carlson by the Mrs. Wilkerson pie display.
“Joe!” said Red. “What do you think—the cherry or the apple?”
“I don’t think you could go wrong with either,” I said.
“Then I’ll take the cherry,” he said, loading a red box into his cart. “And Joe, I’ve got a prize to donate for you—free duplicate keys made and a gallon of paint.”
“Write up a gift certificate,” I said, “and I’ll use it.”
The hardware store owner left, whistling “We’re in the Money,” and I stood next to the woman, who was even lovelier up close.
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said, and when she smiled, a little cartilage softened in my knees. “It’s so weird—I came here to buy eggs because I was making pie, and now I win one!”
“That is weird,” I said, although I didn’t think it was weird at all, having already decided that Fate was at work in bringing us together. “By the way…I’m Joe. Joe Andreson.”
From her response, you would have thought I’d introduced myself as Mick Jagger.
“Oh my God!” she said, hugging me. Not wanting to be rude, I hugged her back, but it was all too brief.
“You’re Mrs. A.’s son!” she said, pulling away.
“I am,” I said, dipping my head in a nod. “Only now she’s Mrs. Rusk, so then she’d be Mrs. R.” I crossed and uncrossed my arms before putting my hands in my pockets. I no longer felt like the lead singer of the Rolling Stones as much as a member of the New Christy Minstrels.
“Oh yeah, I heard she had gotten married.”
“Yup,” I said and dawn rose in the horizon of my mind. “Hey, I remember you. From my mother’s first spring concert at Nokomis Junior High. You played the flute. You played the theme from Alfie.”
“Wow,” she said, blushing. “Alfie. I forgot all about that song. You’ve got some memory.”
“Well, I…” I was worried I was coming across as some weirdo who memorized his mother’s band concert playlist. “Well, that’s all I remember: how well you played. I mean, I don’t remember your name or anything.”
“Jenny,” she said, offering her hand, “Jenny Baldacci. And your mom…well, Mrs. A. was one of my all-time favorite teachers.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her.”
“Please do.”
“So what kind of pie were you making?”
“What?”
We hadn’t broken our handshake, and it was as if the more we talked the more excuse we had for holding hands.
“You said you were getting eggs for a pie.”
“Oh yeah. Lemon meringue. Meringue takes a lot of egg whites.”
“Really.”
“It’s one of the few things I make well—meringue. I use a store-bought crust, but my meringue’s delicious.”
“I’d love to try it sometime.”
Something shifted in Jenny’s lovely, lively face.
“It’s my husband’s favorite pie.”
Everything wilted: my blood pressure plummeted, my heart rate lowered, my hopeful erection deflated, and my testicles shrank to the size of marbles.
“So your husband likes meringue, does he?” I said, my voice loud and blustery enough to let her know I was the strong type, that I’d be able to survive this crushing blow.
“Yes, he’s…,” she began, her blush deepening. “We’re visiting my folks. It’s their thirtieth wedding anniversary. So I’m making them a pie…. We live in New York.”
“That’s great,” I said. “New York, that is. Although I’m not saying that with much firsthand knowledge. I mean, I was only there once. I was ten. I went with my mom and dad, and we went to the top of the Empire State Building. Oh yeah, I had a hot dog from one of those stands too.”
As I blathered on, I screamed at myself, Shut up! Can you possibly be more inane?
“Well, so nice to have met you,” said Jenny, grabbing the handle of her cart. “Please say hello to your mother for me and…and thanks for the pie.”
“It’s not lemon meringue,” I said, “but it’s free.”
As I watched her approach the cash register, I noticed her pretty legs and the nice curve of her rump, but the knowledge that she was married was a cold bucket of water thrown on my appreciation.
Back in my office, Flora raised her arms, asking to be lifted. Letting someone hold her was her remedy for cheering someone up.
“Mon Joe, you look so sad!”
I exaggerated a grunt as I picked her up.
“Was that lady mean to you?” she asked seriously, pressing her palm against my cheek.
“Yeah, Joe,” said Darva. “Was she?”
“Worse. She’s married.”
Sixteen
* * *
From the Minneapolis Star Tribune, October 4, 1987:
HOMEGROWN EVANGELIST WOWS LOCAL CROWD
by Robyn MacDonald
Billy Graham chose to headquarter his Evangelistic Association in Minneapolis, and now it looks as if a Minnesota native may be another force to be reckoned with in the evangelical world. At thirty-two, Kristi Casey still has the fit and toned body of a head cheerleader, which she was (Ole Bull High, Class of ’ 72) and the pretty, open face of a homecoming queen.
“Unfortunately, I can’t put that title on my résumé,” she told this reporter, “but I think the voting was rigged.”
In interviewing one of the stars of the Shout Hallelujah! revival that took place at the Merina Auditorium this weekend, Ms. Casey exhibited the same playful sense of humor that is evident in the radio broadcasts the citizens of Minneapolis/St. Paul will be able to listen to beginning in January.
“I’m thrilled that I’ll be bringing the good news over AM radio K-LUV Tuesday nights at seven o’clock to all my friends and family in the beautiful state of Minnesota,” she said, and then, catching herself sounding like a press release, added: “I’ve got some old friends who could use some good news!”
After our short interview in Ms. Casey’s dressing room, this reporter took her seat along with a crowd estimated at more than four thousand.
There was a lot of fire and brimstone interspersed with rousing renditions of “Onward Christian Soldiers” and “God Bless America,” sung by the Shout Hallelujah! Chorus, and if the crowd was enthusiastic listening to Reverend Timmy Johns or Brother Quincy Byerly, they were positively rabid when the beat of a bass drum thundered through the auditorium.
Everyone stood up and clapped a reply to the beat as Kristi Casey marched inside a spotlight, wearing a white sparkling dress and a big bass drum. She beat out another rhythm, which was answered, and this interplay lasted, by this reporter’s watch, for three
minutes, until the crowd was clapping in one solid steady beat and shouting, “Kristi, Kristi, Kristi!”
Her message didn’t offer anything new and revelatory to these ears, but as far as delivery went, she was peerless. Ms. Casey could recite “Three Blind Mice” and her fans—or as they call themselves, the Kristi Corps—would clamor for more.
She told the audience before leaving the stage, “You don’t have to go looking for God—because He’s right here now!” and the shouts of “Amen!” rattled the rafters.
* * *
I can’t say going to a revival had ever made it onto my top 100 list of things to do, but I would have braved the legions of the lost and the saved to see Kristi. By the time the article came out, however, she was already on her way to Detroit. I know, because I drove her to the airport.
Darva had taken Flora to Detroit for her nephew’s wedding, and I had just popped a beer and settled back to watch Johnny Carson do his Art Fern bit when the telephone rang. Before answering machines became indispensable appliances, like toasters or coffeemakers, screening calls meant deciding to pick up the phone or let it ring. I let it ring—Ed McMahon was snorting with laughter, and while I didn’t quite have Ed’s apoplectic reaction, I was entertained enough to choose Johnny over the ringing phone. But this caller was persistent, and finally, thinking it was the kind of call you don’t want to answer but should, I picked up the receiver.
“Jeepers, Joe—don’t tell me you were in bed!”
I recognized the voice immediately. “Kristi?”
“The one and only. Now, if you’re in your jammies, get dressed. We’re going for a ride.”
“But…what…”
“Still a sweet-talker. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
I threw on some clothes and sat on the arm of the recliner, peeking out the window like the neighborhood busybody. A Cadillac pulled up in front of my house exactly ten minutes later and sat there, purring like a big black cat, and I scurried out toward it like a little mouse.
The View from Mount Joy Page 20
