Dearest Dorothy, If Not Now, When?

by Charlene Baumbich

  And go and go and go.

  “I’ll tell you, May Belle, I can hardly stand it! Only ten more days,” Dorothy said to both May Belle and Sheba, her mutt who trotted up for a head-scratch. Dorothy felt like a kid who’d been waiting for Santa to arrive for two straight months. Her firstborn son was moving back to Partonville! She never, ever, thought she’d see the day either of her boys would come home to roost. When Jacob left for Penn State so many decades ago, she knew in her heart he was leaving for good. He was a focused and ambitious young man with a do-gooder heart. Even as a little tyke he loved helping people. Vincent, Jacob’s brother two years his junior, loved the country life, but he’d followed his ex to Colorado in order to stay near his teen sons, Dorothy’s only grandchildren. She knew Vinnie wouldn’t come back as long as his children were there, but she wouldn’t want it any other way. The boys were blessed to have such a loving, involved dad living within miles of them. Oh, the prayers that flew for her faraway family. But now . . . now her Jacob Henry was coming home!

  “Has Herb found Jacob a house yet?” May Belle asked the beaming Dorothy. Herb Morgan owned Morgan Realty, one of the few remaining independent Realtors in the area.

  “Not last I heard, although I know Jacob’s in pretty close touch with him. Anything is possible, but that son of mine doesn’t tell me everything, thank goodness,” she added with a chuckle. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m in no hurry for that to happen and in fact would be perfectly content if it never did. I told Jacob he could stay in my spare bedroom as long as he liked.”

  “To which he responded?”

  “He didn’t.” Dorothy laughed and reached for another of the snickerdoodle cookies May Belle had baked. It was Dorothy’s turn to host smorgasbord night, which meant both ladies gathered their leftovers, laid them out on the counter and, along with Earl, May Belle’s forty-five-year-old mentally challenged son, helped themselves to the “splendor of choice,” as Dorothy put it. Although either woman could suggest a smorgasbord night, it was usually Dorothy who made the announcement. In an unspoken rule, May Belle baked something for dessert, which was just fine with all of them since when didn’t May Belle bake? Dorothy, sitting erect in a pink (her trademark color) sweat suit and white tennis shoes with pink curlicue shoe laces, dunked her cookie in her warm teacup of milk and took a bite. “Mmmmmm.” She slid the bitten edge of the cookie back into the cup and let it soak a moment longer than the last bite before smacking it down. “The perfect dunk is a wonderful thing, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I reckon you’re right,” May Belle said, taking note that Earl was copying Dorothy’s every move, although he held his snickerdoodle in his milk a little too long so that when he tried to bring it to his mouth the soggy mass broke off and plunked back into his cup.

  “No problem,” Dorothy said, launching herself out of her chair to retrieve him a spoon. “Here ya go. Fish away, Earl! Then again, it might make it easier if you drank the rest of your milk first, then there the cookie would be, ready for the pickins!” Earl gave his cup a thoughtful study before gulping down the milk, leaving only the doughy mass stuck to the bottom. He smiled at Dorothy before using the spoon she’d handed him to dig out the wet wad of cookie. Ever since he’d been a little guy, he trusted that his Dearest Dorothy had the right answers to just about everything.

  “You know, May Belle,” Dorothy said, a mischievous lilt in her voice, “maybe the reason Jacob didn’t answer me when I offered him a home is because he might not find our cookie-dunking nightlife quite the excitement he’s used to in the big city.”

  May Belle giggled, but not before covering her mouth with her hand, a habit she’d taken to when someone in first grade made fun of what they’d called her “carved pumpkin smile.” She’d lost more baby teeth than anyone else in her class at that point and sported quite the look for a spell. Of course other children picked up on the teasing, each creating his or her own spin-off version, like “pumpkin face” or “pumpkin head,” “May Belle, Schmae Belle” or “May-baleenie Hal-loweenie.”

  “When’s Mr. Jacob coming again?” Earl wanted to know. Jacob had worked hard during his visits to continue gaining Earl’s trust and friendship. Since he’d been away so long and only came for occasional visits, and especially since Earl was such a great help to his mother, Jacob hoped a sincere friendship with Earl could develop after he moved back. Not only that, but Earl was one of his mother’s favorite friends, too, and not just because he was challenged or her best friend’s son. Earl was kind, strong, considerate and child-like in so many wonderful ways. Of course he was also shy, slow to warm to people and opposed to loud noises. But everyone in town loved Earl (never referred to as retarded, but rather slow and particular), especially his Dearest Dorothy, as he always called her.

  Jacob had scored big points with Earl by giving him a box of Cubs baseball cards for Christmas. Jacob knew Earl loved watching the Cubs on television and Earl had once, in a rare show of confidence and intimacy, taken Jacob to his bedroom to show him his collection of baseball cards his dad had given him as a child. The faces were nearly worn off those cards from all the arranging and rearranging. Although Earl’s reading ability was limited, he knew enough to put names with faces and recognize team logos. He recited the first names—putting a Mr. in front of them, in keeping with the way he addressed anyone other than Dorothy—one by one as he flipped through the cards, turning each over as he went. “Time to add to your collection,” Jacob said when he’d handed him the gift package. Earl opened it and without a word, disappeared to his bedroom to store them carefully with the crimped cards in his old cigar box. It was three days before he looked at them again, just to make sure they were still there. He’d get them out when the first season’s game aired on television, see which players he could recognize. Now the baseball season was fast approaching and the box was right next to his chair in the living room where he’d sit to watch the games.

  “Jacob Henry will be here tomorrow, Earl!” Dorothy said. “He’ll be here for two days, then he’ll fly back to Pennsylvania. Then next week he’ll come here and never go back, unless he just wants to take a vacation. Your mom is so lucky to have had you right here under her roof all these years, and now I’ll get to have one of my boys right near me again too. Won’t that be grand?” Earl nodded and smiled. He loved it when Dorothy was happy.

  May Belle stood to clear the dessert dishes but not before Dorothy snatched one more cookie off the plate. “Oh! I’m sorry,” May Belle said, setting the plate back down in front of Dorothy. “I thought you were through.”

  Dorothy held the cookie in the air. “This is my last one,” she said. “Do you hear that, stomach?” She set the cookie on her napkin and patted her rounded tummy. “Since I moved so close to you, dearie, I think my south forty has spread another three acres,” she said, moving her hands to her rump and giving it a pat. “When spring officially gets here in another couple weeks, Earl, you and I should start taking a daily walk together, maybe go around the block a couple-three times. What do you say?”

  “Good,” he said, then gave her a nod. Since the cookies were right there and since Dorothy’d helped herself to one more, Earl grabbed another too. In a whisk, May Belle moved the remaining cache to the counter. “I think you two have had quite enough for one evening. You’ll both be awake all night from the sugar high.” May Belle, donning the festive spring apron with a colorful tulip pattern Dorothy’d given her for Christmas, opened Dorothy’s drawer and retrieved a plastic bag to pack the cookies which she would, as always, leave with her sweet-toothed friend.

  “Who do you think you are, bossing us around like that,” Dorothy asked May Belle while winking at Earl. “Gladys?”

  “Speaking of our mayor,” May Belle said, “I ran into her at Your Store this morning. You’d think the election was next week rather than nearly, what, five weeks away?”

  “I noticed the election falls on April Fool’s Day
this year. How perfect is that?”

  “Really?” May Belle asked. Dorothy nodded, taking her last swig of milk. “She was telling me about the posters she’s having made up.”

  “Posters?” Dorothy asked, glancing over at May Belle. “May Belle Justice, don’t you dare start washing those dishes! I’ve got nothing to do tomorrow but those dishes. Don’t you make my services obsolete! Sit yourself back down here and finish your milk.”

  May Belle, her hand wrapped around the container of dishwashing solution, sighed, put the bottle back under the kitchen sink and did as she was told. There was never any use arguing with Dorothy. “Election posters, I guess. At least that’s what I think she was talking about. She said she’d come up with a brilliant, and that is the exact word she used, slogan for this year’s election, which, she reminded me, would be the first time she would be officially voted in.” Jake McKern, Gladys’s husband, had died in office. Since everyone knew she ran him anyway, the townsfolk just decided to let her officially take over the office after his death and ride out the rest of his term. “She didn’t want to spoil the surprise so she didn’t tell me what the slogan was, but she said to be on the lookout. I don’t know why she’s spending all that money on posters. No one’s going to run against her anyway.”

  “Of this you can be sure,” Dorothy said with conviction, “nothing is for sure but God.”

  2

  Josh jumped off the school bus and waved toward the bus’s back window as it pulled away. The same group of girls always sat in the back row of seats. He didn’t know them other than by name, but they always launched into a sing-songy “Hiiiiiiiiii, Joooooosh,” when he got on the bus and waved to him when he got off. Kind of annoying but good for the ego. He’d be disappointed if they stopped, he decided.

  He checked the mailbox. Empty. His mom must have picked up the mail already since she received tons of letters and big envelopes on a daily basis. He didn’t know why he always checked the box anyway; there was never anything for him, aside from ten days ago, Valentine’s Day. That day he’d opened the flap and lo and behold, there was a pink, square envelope addressed to Joshua Matthew Kinney, right on top of the stack. He recognized Shelby’s handwriting immediately. Even though she lived in the same town and he’d seen her earlier in school, and they were getting together for a Valentine’s date that evening, she’d still mailed him a card. It made him feel cheap for handing her one before second period. And embarrassed because he’d wondered why she hadn’t thought to bring him a card. Man, sometimes I’m just lame. He held the envelope to his nose, gave it a sniff. Although it smelled pretty much like paper, he imagined he caught a whiff of the scent of her hair. Mm. He quickly tucked the card inside his backpack so his mother wouldn’t see it, scooped up the rest of the pile of mail—bills, advertisements, a big envelope from the architect in charge of his mom’s mini-mall project—and all but skipped up the lane, anxious to get to his bedroom to open what turned out to be a funny card (Shelby was not the mushy type) but nonetheless, she’d signed it, “Love, Your Shelby.” AND she’d drawn three hearts and a long series of Xs and Os. “I’ll collect on a few of those tonight!” he’d said to the card.

  But today, like the rest of the days, there was nothing in the mailbox for him. He pulled his coat collar around his neck and trudged up the gravel lane, which was covered with a light dusting of snow. He was anxious to change clothes, fire up his truck and drive to town to his part-time job at the Lamp Post Motel. Yesterday, Jessica, pregnant and with a daughter nearing eight months old, told his mom she’d had a couple of check-outs and that she’d need some help to clean the rooms if Josh could make it by today. He worked “on call as needed” which, even though sporadic, at least earned him a little money every week.

  Cleaning motel rooms wasn’t at the top of his favorite things to do, but his mom had made it clear when she’d purchased him the used truck from Challie Carter, the guy who leased their farmland, that he’d have to earn money to help pay for gas and insurance. She’d even gone so far as to find him the job, and it didn’t take him long to realize why: the V-8 engine guzzled so much gasoline he couldn’t afford to drive to Hethrow to school every day, which didn’t seem to disappoint his mother. Still, owning a truck with a V-8 was worth it. That thing could fly! Aside from the money, there were also a few other perks to his job, not the least being around Jessica Joy, the beautiful woman who owned the Lamp Post. And her husband, Paul, who also worked full-time in the Number Nine coal mine, treated him like a man rather than a kid. Jessica was extremely grateful for the much-needed help and lavishly praised him for every little thing he did, which caused him to work all the harder. Even though she was his mom’s best friend, Jessica was about twenty years younger than his mom, and he couldn’t help but take note of her soft hazel eyes, couldn’t avoid sneaking a peek at her trim figure, feeling almost embarrassed by the ever-growing bump revealing her four-months-along pregnancy. Sixteen-year-old Shelby unquestionably owned his heart, but Jessica . . . even though she was already a mom, to a healthy sixteen-year-old male, she was a woman impossible to ignore.

  You could keep time by Harold Crab’s 2:30 appearance at the counter at Harry’s Grill every Wednesday. It was one of the two days a week the Partonville Press rolled and Harold was not only the editor, but the rank-and-filer of typos and misquotes. Harold came at 2:30 because the grill was usually empty then and he could drink coffee with tons of sugar (never stirred since he liked discovering the sweet spot in the bottom) without someone’s snide comment about having a little coffee with his sugar. Today was no different. At 2:30, there he was, paper sprawled on the counter in front of him, his red pen patrolling over each line, ready to dive-bomb and circle any error his eagle eye spied. After he read every story, editorial and advertisement from the headline to the back page, he counted the circles, turned back to the front page, folded the paper in half and gave the paper a grade. Today was a five-circle day. Pitiful. But then again, not too bad considering he and Sharon were, from reporting to printing, the only employees and currently distracted by a mammoth “other” project. The good news was that almost nobody in Partonville cared about the mistakes aside from Harold. And Gladys, of course, who thought errors in the hometown paper reflected poorly on the entire community and therefore herself.

  Harold set the paper aside and took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. “I’ll take one more topper, Lester. Anything to postpone going back to those piles of mini-mall entries.”

  Lester K. Biggs, proprietor and only employee of Harry’s Grill, grabbed a clean mug, poured what looked to be no fewer than two heaping tablespoons of sugar into the bottom and filled it with coffee. “Here ya go,” he said, setting it in front of Harold in exchange for his dirtied mug. “You deserve a fresh one. All everyone’s been talking about in here the last two weeks—present company included,” he said, shooting Harold a smirk, “is that name-the-new-mall contest. From the sounds of it, every last soul in Partonville entered at least three times.”

  “You have no earthly idea, Lester. Why, we’ve even received submissions from Oregon!”

  “The state of Oregon?” In a rare move, Lester poured himself a half cup of coffee, walked out from behind the U-shaped counter, sat on the stool next to Harold and swiveled his stool toward him. This sounded like it was going to be some story and his tired feet needed a break.

  “Yessiree, Bob. Apparently folks are even encouraging their long-distance relatives to enter. I’ll tell you, I’ve heard some of the most ridiculous ideas.”

  “For all the hard work you and Sharon have gone through, I hope you’re at least getting some good laughs out of it.”

  “How’s this for an entry—and I am not making this up, Lester—‘Mall of the Mind.’ Now what in the world is that supposed to even mean? Katie Durbin wouldn’t need to go through all the work of rehabbing the old Taninger Furniture building into a mini mall if people could just go shopping
in their minds. Honestly. . . .” His voice trailed off as he wagged his head and slurped a sip of the hot brew, then dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin. “You can’t believe how many entries we’ve received that people forgot to put their names on. Thank goodness they haven’t been any good, at least thus far.”

  “How many entries you reckon you’ve still got to go through before narrowing them down to the top twenty-five?”

  “We haven’t counted, but I’m guessing at least another hundred. And I bet we’ve already processed a good five hundred or so. Too bad we didn’t keep count. Of course when you announce first prize is a one-hundred-dollar mall gift certificate good at any of the stores, and that there’ll also be four twenty-five-dollar runner-ups, that’s big incentive around these parts, what with so many people scraping for money and the threat of the Number Nine closing down. Our Ms. Durbin’s obviously got deep pockets. Of course, another big draw, though, is that people are convinced the contest judging’s going to be fair and square.”

  “How’s it gonna work again?”

  “Well, after Sharon and I narrow it down to our top twenty-five picks, then May Belle and Nellie Ruth, who everybody trusts, and Katie—who, as you know, still raises an occasional eyebrow—are each going to get a list of our selections which we’ll type up for them without the entrant names so as to make sure nobody’s accused of biases or partialities. Sharon and I will then tally their votes to bring it down to the top five.” He stopped for a sip of coffee. “Then all five of us judges will have at it until we select the winner. Of course we’re hoping we all agree, but like we said in the original article, if all the judges don’t agree, a majority agreement of three will rule.”

  “This is some wing-ding. Sorry you got involved?”