3
Sharon Teller loved her job at the Partonville Press. Harold, who’d hired her straight out of journalism school, telling her he was thrilled to have one of Partonville’s very own coming aboard, respected and trusted her as a journalist, and yet treated her like a daughter when circumstances called for it. At twenty-six, Sharon’s enthusiasm and curiosity rivaled that of any five-year-old, which made her a great reporter. These unwavering attributes—and several cups of highly caffeinated coffee—kept them both geared up for the onslaught of people stuffing fistfuls of entries into the shoebox outside the Press’s door.
“Sharon! For goodness sakes, stop looking out the window with that grin on your face,” Harold pleaded many times, starting the moment she set the box out at 5 P.M., reentered the building, locked the door behind her and scurried to the window. “People will think we’re enjoying watching their tardiness!”
“Oh, but Mr. Crab, I am! I mean I’m enjoying the fact that so many people have such creative thoughts and that they’re willing to share them. Isn’t this whole thing just so exciting? I mean the contest, and the mall itself! Partonville has needed this kind of boost for years and now here it is.” She was talking a mile-a-minute. “I just feel so blessed to be able to play a part in actually naming a mini mall!”
“Wonderful. At your age, you can probably stay awake after ten P.M., too, which is just what we’re going to have to do this evening if people don’t stop cramming their ideas into that box. It’s likely we’ll have to pull an all-nighter if we expect to narrow it down to the top twenty-five before tomorrow morning. We need to turn this over to the rest of the crew for a day and get back to the business of running a newspaper. That is what we do here, remember?”
“Oh, but I am thinking about the newspaper, Mr. Crab. Think about all of the stories we can write! I mean about entries and the contest winner, the grand opening, features on the new shopkeepers. . . . I was thinking just the other day about adding a new column alongside my ‘Meet Your Neighbor’ column. It could be a ‘Meet Your New Mall Neighbor!’, but of course the column name wouldn’t say ‘mall,’ it would have the new name of the mall and, OH! I can stop people in front of different stores and ask them where they’ve come from and what they liked best and. . . .”
“Sharon. SHARON! Slow down.”
Sharon sprouted one of the reddest blushes Harold had set eyes on. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Crab. I was rambling, wasn’t I? The new column idea wasn’t really thought through. I should . . .”
“Sharon, please. Stop talking a minute.” Sharon not only sucked in her lips but she clamped her hand over her mouth just in case words were still trying to escape. “I didn’t say your column and feature ideas aren’t good ones, and of course you’re right in that the whole thing gives us plenty of new news. I’m just saying we need to focus here. We’re going to pull that box in exactly . . .” he studied the clock on the wall . . . “two minutes, and I don’t care how many people might be running down the street with papers in their hands. Then we’re going to quickly rifle through them, pick out the best ones and line them up over there on the layout table alongside the others we’ve selected thus far, which, I believe at last count, was twenty-two, right?” She nodded her head. “Then we’ll see how many we’ve added with this batch. Best-case scenario, it will only be three and we’ll be done. Worst-case scenario—although I don’t hold much hope for this, considering the pathetic masses we’ve already seen—there’ll be several worth a second thought. In that remote case, we’ll line them all up and start pushing strongest possibilities up and weaker ones down until we settle on twenty-five.” (Sharon kept her hand clamped over her mouth since she still wanted to scream, “IT’S ALL SO EXCITING!”) “Then you still have to type up the list, minus the entrants’ names, remember, and make copies for Katie, Nellie Ruth and May Belle. We’ll see what time it is when we’re done and decide whether to drop those off tonight or tomorrow morning.”
“Mr. Crab,” Sharon said, lowering her hand only a few inches from her mouth, “I think May Belle goes to bed early. I’m thinking we should just put it in our plans to deliver the lists tomorrow.”
“Good call. You’re right about May Belle. And by the time we drive out to the farm tonight, Katie might be sleeping as well. I know that woman’s been putting in some long hours. Plus, even if they don’t get them until tomorrow, they’ll still have forty-eight hours to pick their top five.”
“Okay,” Sharon said, trusting her mouth long enough to allow her to deliver a question, “but I keep forgetting to ask you something important. Do you know what time we’re all meeting on Saturday to select the winner? The community band has band practice this Saturday out at the Park District building. You know, it’s still so odd and sad not to see Mr. Lawson sitting there with his saxophone. . . .”
“You tell me what time practice is,” Harold said, cutting her off before she got herself all off track again, “and we’ll work around it, Sharon. But for now, let’s get moving on those entries. I’ll bring in the box. Better me than you, just in case people try to storm the place.”
Jessica Joy was in the middle of changing Sarah Sue’s poopy diaper when she was struck with her best mall-name idea ever. No matter she’d turned in seven other ideas, this one was brilliant! She checked her wristwatch. It was exactly 7:49. “PAUL!” she yelled from the baby’s room to the front check-in office where Paul was finishing paperwork. “I HAVE A GREAT IDEA FOR THE MINI-MALL NAME! THINK IT’S TOO LATE TO JOT IT DOWN AND GET IT TO THE PRESS?”
“WHAT TIME IS IT, HONEY?”
“SEVEN-FIFTY!” she screeched.
Paul tapped her on the shoulder and said, “No need to yell. I’m right here.” Since he’d startled her, she yelped anyway. “Sorry, honey. Sorry,” he said, in a soothing voice as he leaned over her, wrapped his arms around her waist, settled his hands on her bulging belly and kissed the base of her neck.
“What do you think, Paul? Think there’s time to make it to the drop box? The newspaper said they weren’t going to stay open one extra minute, and I’m telling you, I’ve got the winning idea. We could sure use that hundred-dollar gift certificate. Katie said she’s negotiating with someone right now who wants to put in a baby store!”
“Here, let me finish our gal up,” he said, giving Jessica a gentle hip-check to move her out of the way. “You write and then I’ll run.”
Through the darkness, Paul was already crossing the highway, blazing toward his target which, if he cut through a few back yards, was only about seven blocks away. He, too, was sure he had the winner in his hand. Now all he had to do was deliver it in time.
He was absolutely flying. It brought back memories from high school when he used to run track. He still kept his letter jacket hanging in the back of his closet. For a family as poor as his to have managed to buy that jacket proved what a shining star his track letter was to all of them. With every stride, he remembered Jessica running toward him at the end of every meet, her arms outstretched, her face beaming with pride. They’d been high school sweet-hearts, their love never dimming. Zoom-zoom, adrenaline pumping, crowds cheering.
Only three blocks to go. He made a snap decision that this wide side yard looked like the best opportunity to cut through, especially since it was somewhat lit by a porch light. He hurdled a low fence and leaped a patch of newly turned black earth. Back onto the sidewalk he blazed. Even though it was cold, he was glad he hadn’t put on a jacket, which would have only hindered his pumping arms. His work in the coal mines often left him craving fresh air and he was greedily gulping it down now! It felt so good to run!
One block to go. Was that Harold he saw in the distance? NO! Faster, faster . . . almost there. . . .
BANG! Down he slammed onto the cement. He hit his head about the same time he registered the snap. He recognized the terrible sound from when he’d broken his leg nearly a decade ago.
Ma
ggie blinked a couple of times before she recognized the heap. “PAUL! Are you okay?” He’d gone down right at her feet, just as Harold reached for the box to tell her she was the last entry. Harold had been in such a hurry to nab the box and get back inside, and Maggie was so intent on delivering her entry, that neither of them had noticed Paul racing toward them through the night.
“Harold! PLEASE!” Paul cried out. “I’ve broken my leg!”
Harold was stunned. How had this happened? It’s like Paul had dropped from the sky and crash landed in front of the building. Paul rolled up in a fetal position and was grabbing at his leg. “Maggie,” Harold said, trying to maintain a calm voice when he saw the blood on Paul’s forehead, “you see to him while I call 911.” He whirled on his heels.
“NO! HAROLD! Please take just one more entry,” Paul said, groaning between the words. “I have no doubt this is your winner,” he mumbled, sounding on the edge of passing out as he stretched his hand holding the crumpled entry toward Harold.
Harold bent down and took the paper. Paul moaned again. Seventy-two-year-old Maggie Malone, owner and sole stylist at Le Feminique Hair Salon & Day Spa, was now sitting on the sidewalk next to Paul, gently rubbing his back, her chartreuse parka fluffing up around her, its bottom edge and the backside of her green slacks in the small puddle of water gathered in the open area of the cracked and heaving sidewalk that caused Paul to go down. “Harold, have Sharon call Jessica and let her know he’s going to the hospital,” Maggie said in a calming voice.
“No!” Paul begged. “Don’t call her. It’ll scare her, and you know she’s pregnant and . . . . She’ll find out soon enough when I get home. And I don’t need an ambulance. Can you two just let me catch my breath a minute, then help me get up? Please?” He studied Maggie for a moment, considering her age. “Or why don’t you have Sharon come out and help you, Harold. No offense or nothing personal, Mrs. Malone, but I’m heavier than I look and I’m afraid I’ll likely be dead weight when you try to bring me up.”
Maggie stood up, gave him one of her well-known head tosses, brushed off her hands and put them on her hips, which she cocked to one side. “Well, for an older woman, I’m stronger than I look, Mr. Joy,” she said, grinning. She’d obviously read his mind. “You take as long as you want, honey, then let us know when you’re ready to give it a go.”
Paul smiled through his pain. “Yes, ma’am.”
By now, Sharon was off the phone and running up behind Harold who handed her the shoebox full of entries. “I’m taking Paul here to the hospital, Sharon. You go ahead and start taking a look at these. I’ll be back when I can.”
Paul awkwardly brought himself to a sitting position, leaving his left broken leg extended in front of him. The pain was overwhelming. He felt on the verge of passing out. “Did you get Jessica’s entry in the box, Harold?”
Harold grabbed Sharon’s arm and stuffed the paper through the box slot. “Yup. Now, let’s see what we can do about getting you up off that cold sidewalk.”
Hornsby’s Shoe Emporium on the square had been closed for business for several hours, but a light was still burning behind the shoe storage area in a small back room that Tom and Frieda Hornsby had, shortly after they married and opened for business forty years ago, dedicated as their lunch and lounge area. Back in the day when Partonville was booming and Hornsby’s Shoe Emporium was the only place within miles and miles to buy footwear, they barely had time to enter that room, other than to take turns sneaking back to wolf down a sandwich. But a lot had changed. Hethrow had spread into a metropolis, sprouting one mall after another filled with chain shoe stores. Partonville’s schools had closed and kids went to consolidated schools. Now the Horsnbys had more time to spend relaxing in their lounge than they cared to. They mostly rested their aging feet, went through catalogues to order more miscellaneous items with a better turnover than shoes (shoelaces, shoe polish, socks—things Wal-Mart then started carrying when they moved into town) and fretted over how long they could stay in business.
But tonight the little room was filled with snacks, a punch bowl and people making merry under a hand-painted banner that said GOOD LUCK TO OUR NEW MAYOR! At the center stood none other than Sam Vitner, owner of Swappin’ Sam’s, a salvage store at the edge of town. His campaign committee, secretly meeting since right before Christmas, consisted of Tom and Frieda Hornsby, George Gustafson who owned By George’s filling station and Cora Davis, the town crier who dragged her husband along whether he felt like getting involved or not. Beulah Gustafson, George’s wife, was not present, but she’d been sworn to secrecy about the meetings, none of which she’d attended since she’d told George in no uncertain terms that she’d be quiet alright, but that she was voting for Gladys! The only thing that worried Beulah, who had no doubt from the beginning of all this nonsense that Gladys would win, was that a miracle seemed to be taking place: for the first time in her life, Cora Davis had kept a secret.
4
Another long exhausting day, Katie thought as she attempted to tame her latest hot flash with a file folder, first fanning slowly, then quickly, then slowly again. She threw the folder down after deciding the act of fanning was making her even hotter.
She wished she’d just named the mall herself since everyone who ran into her—including, on a daily basis, nearly every single person in her work crew—wanted to know if she’d chosen her winner. Didn’t people read? The contest wasn’t over yet, not until Sunday when it would be announced in the Press. And why, in the name of sanity, had she ever told everyone way back in December that she would hold a town meeting to receive input about the mall as well as report on her long-range plans for more outreaching development? That meeting, rescheduled twice due to construction delays which left her short on information to even report, was now only two short weeks from tonight.
Maybe she should just run for the hills—or back to the city, as it were—while she could, she thought, slouching in her chair. But her pride and determination kept her moving forward, sticking close to the project to keep an eye on things, make sure they were on track—as on track as they could be after such derailment. She wiggled her fingers and admired her manicure. Thank you, Dorothy. If there was one bright spot at the moment, it was how right Dorothy had been to encourage her to keep her spa day last week. Too bad spa days didn’t come with a month-long guarantee for continued well-being and a supply of hormone cocktails.
But Edward Showalter had not received the benefits of a spa day. He’d been relentless on the job since the day she hired him as her contractor. He was proving capable and surprisingly knowledgeable about many things, but sometimes it was clear that he, too, was in over his head, especially as it applied to people management skills—or lack thereof. Throughout his earlier working years, whether sober or drunk, whether working alone or as part of a crew pulled together for a specific job, he’d operated as an independent. He never before gathered the crews himself or served as boss. But here he was, as the official contractor, responsible for all such things. Edward Showalter was buddies (drinking buddies with some of them, back in those days before he joined AA) with most of the guys he’d corralled for this major task. But even though he’d only hired those he knew to be hard working and sober on the job, they, in turn, found it difficult to take him seriously when he pulled rank. This managerial flaw surfaced most when it was clear how glad he was to see Katie appear—no doubt drawn by the sheer volume of the voices—in the midst of yet another conflict between the workers.
The workers. Katie wondered if there’d ever been a motlier crew assembled by a more unusual character than Edward Showalter. As a hard-core businesswoman, for the first time in her life she thought she might just faint dead away when they showed up—that is once they could all finally show up following what came to be referred to around town as The Asbestos Debacle, a turn of phrase Edward Showalter, who adored turning his own phrases, transformed into The Arse-Beastos Dee
-Backle Backup. “Ain’t that the truth, Ms. Durbin?” he asked, tickling his own self when he first used the goofy phrase to her face. Her lack of a smile, the immediate upshot of her eyebrows and her short lecture about how much this was costing her let him know she did not think he was as funny as he did.
But proving that looks—and nicknames (at least she hoped they were only nicknames) like Rooney and Moon Dog (also a guitarist), Smackman (yes, there was that one jail stint, but that was a long time ago) and Sherlock— could be deceiving, Edward Showalter’s work crew turned out to be quite capable, hardworking and willing to put in whatever overtime was demanded of them. It was clear Smackman didn’t much like taking orders handed down by a woman, but Katie only had to remind him once who signed his check. And in spite of the dagger tattoo on the side of Rooney’s neck and his unruly, curly, bleached blond hair that stuck out from his ever-present red bandana, he was unquestionably a bull in terms of strength, a gentle giant when it came to respect for Katie and a wizard at reading blueprints, which is why Edward Showalter had hired him.
It was 7:45, past time for everyone, including herself, to go home. Her stomach was growling, her head was throbbing and her patience was gone. She scouted around the building until she found Edward Showalter, which was harder now that the individual store partitions were going up. More than once, she’d actually resorted to locating him with his cell phone, which she’d given him as a part of their business agreement. “Time to call it a day!” she yelled over the pounding, thinking how it might make more sense to invest in walkie-talkies, although she wasn’t the walkie-talkie type. She detested that horrid ear-piercing sound they made before people talked. Then Edward Showalter said how much time it would save if he could pass a couple out to the guys and she relented, putting him in charge of the purchase and setup. She’d stick to her cell phone, thank you very much, so he better leave it on too.
Dearest Dorothy, If Not Now, When? Page 4
