“You ever go through this, Dad?” he asked, looking up toward the heavens. Carl’s father had been gone six years now. At fifty-nine, Carl still talked to his father whenever he especially missed him or was confused about something. Tonight he was both. Thoughts of the dairy farm on which he was raised, now a subdivision, sprang into his mind during his conversation with Colton this afternoon and simply would not rest. Although he hadn’t been to Partonville for a few weeks, his recent enthusiastic phone call from Kathryn Durbin telling him how glad she was she’d followed his recommendations for the lower-level mall design still satisfied him. She wasn’t one to gush, but she was so pleased with the marriage of his vision and the chocolate shop. Yes, his architecturally splendid buildings were a feather in his cap, but it was always the little things that made him feel the proudest, the most satisfied. To know he’d helped one woman striving to make a difference in a small farming town was comforting.
Then there was Colton.
Well, maybe he had only witnessed one side of the Development Diva. Could it be true she was only investing in order to further the appeal of a town she was preparing to sell out for the financial kill? A town the Craig brothers wanted to destroy for the Next Big Thing too?
“What do you think, Dad? My natural curiosity is killing me,” he said with a chuckle. “Do you think I should poke around a little or just keep my nose out of it?”
Carl looked through the oak branches above him and thought of the giant treehouse his dad helped him build when he was only seven. They’d worked on the plans for a week, an exercise that ultimately cemented Carl’s unyielding desire to build and build and build, which led him straight to his career as an architect. Carl loved building as much as his dad loved the open spaces. “Does it grieve you, Dad, to look down here and see all the subdivisions where the calves used to roam, or does watching the young families filling those houses give you satisfaction?” Carl imagined his dad would say both. He’d always been good at trying to walk in that other guy’s shoes, at least for two miles since one mile didn’t always give you enough perspective, he’d say. “I guess progress is ultimately going to have its way whether people are ready or not. But is the demise of our farmlands and the loss of knowing our neighbors really progress? Or might it be our ultimate undoing?”
He looked up to the man in the moon his father often pointed out to him when he was a child. He seemed to be smiling extra wide tonight. “Yes, it is rather funny that a guy who makes his living designing new buildings suddenly questions others’ integrity on the topic of progress.”
Integrity. Bingo! It was as if he’d heard the familiar lilt of his father’s voice utter those words straight into his heart. Even though he was shivering, he smiled and whispered, “Thanks, Dad. And you too,” he said to the man in the moon. He closed his eyes and offered up prayers of thanksgiving to the God who gifted him with both of those wonderful faces.
Finally the combination of cold, damp night air and the cement bench chilled him to the bone. It was dumb to be out here without a jacket. Glenda would have his hide if she saw him. He hustled back to the house, turned off the exterior lights, grabbed the throw from the back of his wife’s chair and sat in the dark another hour before retiring.
Glenda finally dozed off. She’d been standing at their bedroom window from the time she heard the patio door slide open until her husband was safely back inside. Since the trees were still bare, the underbrush scant and the moon full, she could make out his familiar form as he sat by the pond. Whatever was on his mind—had been on his mind all evening—she prayed God would handle it.
Back in Partonville, a sleeping Dorothy Jean Wetstra had no idea how God had used the man in the moon this evening to move hearts clear in Winnetka. God had all but made that moon wink in response to His daughter’s earlier prayer to let Katie Mabel Carol Durbin know that there are people who were for her. For her projects. “Help those voices rise up and be heard,” she’d prayed while she and Katie sat at her kitchen table.
Jacob looked at the numbers on his night-glow clock. 3 A.M. What am I doing awake? I’m here, tired, in my own comfortable bed after a productive day at the office. Well, mostly productive, he thought. He’d spent a good portion of his time in his office fielding questions about the transition, his new clients, his housing situation—or lack thereof, which caused a bit of ribbing regarding living with his mother—and inquiries about her health, which most believed had caused this surprising change in his life. Try as he might to assure them his mother was fine, well, as fine as an eighty-eight-year-old could be, he could see in their faces they didn’t really believe him. But that was okay. He accepted and honored their concerns for him. What other choice did he have?
When he’d turned off his office lights late this evening, he realized it was going to be easier than he thought to say good-bye to most of his clients and the years of hectic court schedules. Although most of his longer-standing corporate clients said they would miss him, he knew it wouldn’t be long—if any time at all—before he was out of their minds. To be honest, they were more concerned about their legal issues and needing assurances that Brenda Stewart, his law partner who’d bought him out, and the new attorney she was bringing into the firm were apprised of all their legal matters, both the pending and the possible. There were those few clients, however, who felt more like friends to Jacob, including one whose wife suffered with Alzheimer’s. During the course of safeguarding legal things surrounding her illness, the grieving husband had shared many intimate stories with Jacob, things he said his priest didn’t even know. That was one of the things Jacob had learned about the law over the years: secrets. Secrets that needed to be legally safeguarded in order to protect the innocent, and sometimes the guilty.
The reality of how much Jacob would miss that same client, however, shored up his reasons for looking forward to doing business with Partonville residents. To give peace of mind to someone—to look out for the well-being of the underdog and underprivileged, for a change—felt like going back to the root of why he got into this profession to begin with.
He sighed and laced his fingers behind his head. He’d have his secretary send his favorite clients his mom’s address, just in case they . . . well, just in case. One day Alzheimer’s would claim that wife, although probably not until after a few more torturous years, and Jacob wanted to know about it. How could he not?
He turned on his side, banging and flipping his pillow to fluff it and collect a fresh coolness. One thing he wouldn’t enjoy was Partonville’s hotter, more humid summers. Even now his mom kept her house warmer than he liked, but he hadn’t complained. After all, he was the guest, no matter how much she said no son of hers was a guest. He also hoped it wouldn’t be long before he’d find his own place to live.
But he wasn’t gone yet. Rita and Randy had invited him for dinner this Saturday night, his last weekend in Philadelphia. Randy, who was never any good at deception, had a funny look on his face when he told him not to come early or to be late. Jacob said he hoped they weren’t planning a surprise going-away party or anything. “Nope, no surprise,” Randy said, looking somewhat sheepish. “You know about it now.” Jacob sighed again just thinking about it. He wasn’t one for parties, but then it would give him a chance to loosen up a little, to “feel” the move in a festive way.
He rolled over and thumped the pillow again. Since it was after midnight when he’d slid into bed, he’d forgotten to close his light-blocking shades. The full moon seemed to be pouring its brightness all over his face. It reminded him of the night from his youth when he, Vinnie and Caroline Ann, his sister who died at thirty-nine, begged their parents to let them sleep down by the creek.
“What will you do if you wake up in the night and you’re afraid?” his mom asked.
“Now, don’t put that notion in their heads, Dorothy,” his dad said. “We’ve raised us three brave children, right?” They stood in a line, urgently nodding
their heads. Whatever assurance it might take to keep their mom from vetoing the idea, they were ready. “Besides, look at that full moon,” he said, pointing to the bright ball of beauty. “It’s bright enough tonight that it’s almost like they’ll be out there in the daylight.” First he winked at his wife, then at each of them.
Dorothy smacked her lips and said, “Four—make that five,” she said, looking toward the moon, “against one. I don’t stand a chance keeping you tucked in your beds tonight, do I?” Heads nodded wildly. “Okay then, first let’s go in and gather up everything you’ll need. Dad, you go out to the barn and grab Wagon”—the well-worn Radio Flyer was never referred to by anything other than its official given name—“and one of your tarps and we’ll all meet out by the silo.”
It was just like his dad promised. The moon was bright enough to light their paths without a single flashlight. He lay in bed now barely breathing as he recalled the sound of Wagon’s squeaky wheels chugging down the path behind them, he, the oldest, leading the way. Their dad wanted to oil those wheels before they set off, but they were too anxious to get going. “I’ll oil them when we get back in the morning,” Jacob said, knowing his dad would be proud of the way he stepped up to the plate to handle a chore.
“NOW YOU BOYS TAKE CARE OF YOUR SISTER!” Dorothy hollered after them when they were almost out of sight.
“WE WILL!” the brothers shouted over their shoulders in unison.
They set up camp right where they told their folks they would: near the fire pit, which wasn’t far from the bend in the creek where the swimming hole lurked in the darkness. Their camp consisted of a tarp on the ground, three bedrolls made up of one blanket and sheet and a pillow, each bundle held together by a piece of twine, one brown paper bag stuffed with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper and a marshmallow each. They’d tried to talk their parents into letting them start a fire to roast the marshmallows, but that’s when their dad drew the line. “Maybe in a couple years,” he told them.
After they had everything in place and finished off their sandwiches, Jacob suggested they take a walk in the woods to go look for ghosts. Caroline Ann’s wide eyes immediately let him know that was a dumb suggestion. Maybe, he thought, he and Vinnie should have left her home tonight so they could scare the pee-waden, as their Grandma Jane used to call it, out of each other. But the thought didn’t last long after she grabbed his hand, pulled him toward her bedroll and asked him to tuck her in. She’d been the family’s surprise child, not coming along until six years after Vinnie. She was sweet, stubborn, and as loved, beloved and protected by her brothers as she could be. If only we could have protected her from breast cancer, Jacob thought now, his eyes welling. But then he smiled remembering how she pointed to the sky and asked him to show her where the big dipper was again.
“The big dipper,” he told her, holding her pudgy pointer finger in his hand and aiming it nearly straight up, “looks like it’s pouring right on us tonight, Sis, see it?” She giggled, imagining water from the sky splashing onto them while they slept.
Jacob remembered how bright the stars were on the farm, which was far away from any city lights, and how many layers of them there seemed to be that night, how much laughing they did before they decided within ten minutes of getting under their covers that they needed to go back up to the house for more sandwiches and how they might as well pack things up in Wagon for the trip. Then how once they got inside they decided how much better it felt than out there with all the bugs—aside from the lightning bugs, which they’d spent ten minutes chasing before eating their sandwiches and crawling into their bedrolls. Yes, once they were back in the kitchen, that was that for that campout, although there would be plenty more in the future, the three of them enjoying nights by the creek and the campfire until Jacob went off to college.
Jacob stared at the moon now, which seemed to be streaming vivid memories his way. He recalled his mom walking in the kitchen shortly after they’d arrived back at the house from their abandoned adventure. She was yawning, acting like she’d been asleep until she heard them rummaging in the cabinets. Truth was, she told him many years later that she’d secretly followed them down to the creek and stayed until they returned.
“Where were you going to sleep if we’d stayed?” he inquired.
“On the soft bed of earth the Lord prepared for me at the base of Woodsy. I already had my quilt wrapped up under my chin!” Woodsy was one of the three trees by the swimming hole she’d named as a child. Jacob knew that having Woodsy, Weeping Willow and Willoway safeguarded in the Crooked Creek Park land grant had made the farm’s sale bearable to his mom, who was very glad to know they’d be enjoyed for at least a few more generations to come.
Not too many more weeks and the weather will be nice enough to sleep down by the creek this year , he mused. One of the last times he’d ventured down to the creek was when they’d all talked—well, dared was more like it—the over-dressed Katie Durbin into taking off her shoes and joining them for a wade.
I’m glad Josh enjoys crawdad hunting as much as Vinnie and I did , he thought as sleep began to overcome him, the light of the full moon beginning to glaze over. I’ll have to remember to ask Josh if he’s camped down there yet. Maybe we should all give it a go.
“Timing is everything, isn’t it?” God said to the man in the moon, who smiled back at Him with glorious satisfaction.
14
Arthur Landers, who was firm about his stand on things, nonetheless felt less firm Saturday morning when he stopped by By George’s filling station to buy gas. George Gustafson, who was washing Arthur’s truck window while the tank filled with gasoline (FULL SERVICE ONLY at By George’s), had been bending Arthur’s ear the entire time about how obvious it was everyone should vote for Sam come the election. “Gladys makes people plumb nuts!” George declared. WHAP! As if to accentuate his point, George released the windshield wiper he’d been holding up, allowing it to smack onto the windshield with such force that it caused Arthur, still sitting behind the wheel with the window down, to lurch. “And that Durbinville woman has never once bought gasoline at my station, Arthur. Now what do you think about that?” he asked, hustling—well, as fast as George ever hustled, which wasn’t very fast—back toward the hose to top off the tank.
What did Arthur think about that? He thought a lot of things, but one of them was how grateful Arthur had always been for George Gustafson. “By George,” George, who handled only the simplest of car maintenance and repairs, would tell his customers, “I think it’s time you take it on out to Arthur Landers for a look-see at what’s going on here. I’m stumped-ti-dee-dumped and Arthur knows just how to figure these things out.” Arthur felt indebted to George, who had, in actuality, helped feed them all of his working years. But the other thing he thought was that Sam Vitner was nothing short of a loose cannon, and that no matter how much Queen Lady fancy-pranced around acting like she owned the world, in the end, she got things done. And as for Katie Durbin, he’d put his money on her—he’d trust her—far before he’d trust Sammy Boy Vitner, who seemed to have a vendetta against her for no good reason.
“You listening, Arthur?”
“Yup.” Nope.
“Well don’t tell me you even have to THINK about what I’m saying!”
“Thinkin’, George, is somethin’ that makes my brain hurt.”
George gave Arthur a double take, then wrote up his sales ticket and collected his money. When he handed Arthur his receipt he also handed him one of Sam’s election buttons. “Here ya go. Don’t know how you missed getting one at Harry’s the day Sam announced his candidacy since I’m sure you were in the thick of the action, what with it being breakfast time and all. I sure wish I could have been there!”
Arthur just nodded his head. “It was somethin’, alrighty. I done thought the fur was gonna take to flyin’ before it was over. Still might, I reckon.” But that’s
all he said. He took the button and stuffed it into one of the side pockets of his bib overalls.
“Put that thing on, Arthur, before you lose it or pull it out and try to play it, mistaking it for your Hohner.” George chuckled at the mere image, but Arthur grimaced at the thought of accidentally running the pin through his lip.
Arthur patted his middle bib pocket where everyone knew he kept his Hohner harmonica, ready for a quick draw and a quick tune. “Not ta worry. I know jist where everything is.”
What I ain’t sure about is what, exactly, I’m gonna do ’bout it so as not ta git my breakfast ruint every mornin’!
Sharon Teller reviewed her list of stories: the ones she’d already filed, those in progress, a few to start and file before the day was over, and a sprinkling of possible sidebars in various states of composition. She was beginning to doubt she’d make today’s band practice since she’d probably have a complete meltdown by the 2 P.M. start time anyway. That would really be disappointing since every first band practice of the new month—and it was March first, to be sure—band members with birthdays during that month brought snacks like cupcakes, brownies or cookies and sometimes even pie. She’d taken two bags of Her- shey’s Kisses in red wrappers last month, not only because it was her birthday February 16 but in honor of Valentine’s Day too, since she had no sweetheart to give them to.
Sharon never worked on Saturday, but today both she and Harold came in at 7 A.M. to put in at least a few hours on tomorrow’s Sunday edition, which was usually put to bed by now, as they say in the newspaper biz. But not only was the meeting to select the mall-naming winner scheduled in their office for 10 A.M.—all of that exciting information (winners, runner-ups) needing to be typed up and laid out for print—but the election had them going nonstop. They’d been knee deep in deciphering pages of interview notes; chasing down Gladys numerous times in hopes she’d finally completed her platform before they went to press (since Sam handed his in and they wanted to be fair), which Gladys hadn’t thought about building until Sam stepped forward with his and therefore put her behind the eight ball; and keeping their own biases at bay while they listened and composed. They’d also been casually polling people the last couple of days to get a feel for how serious the competition might actually be or become. Maybe, they thought when they decided to engage in the polling, they’d find out there were so few people for one or the other candidate that there wouldn’t be any real contest after all. But alas, that wasn’t the case. They were surprised at how much doubt a few blindly devoted people could cast toward other basically nice and decent residents of their small town.
Dearest Dorothy, If Not Now, When? Page 12
