“Caleb! What is it, honey?”
“Mom is in a state of . . . I don’t know what you’d call it, but. . . . She needs your help. I need your help. Could you please come over? I’ll come get you, if you’d rather not walk or Jacob isn’t up or able to bring you. I just don’t know what else to do, short of phoning a psychiatrist, and we don’t have one of them here in Partonville!”
“When did you want me to come by?”
“Now, if you can.”
“I’m so glad you called, Caleb,” she said, thinking what an unsuspecting hotline God ran through the cosmos in light of her morning’s prayers. “I’ll get myself there. Sounds like you better stay with your mom. Is your wife there with you, honey?”
“No. She was, but Mom wouldn’t talk to her either. Thanks, Dorothy. Good-bye.”
“WAIT! Caleb, are you still there?
“Yes.”
“Do you think she needs a doctor or maybe Pastor Delbert instead of me?”
“Let’s start with you, okay? We’ll take it from there.”
“Gladys,” Dorothy said in a quiet voice as she gently knocked on Gladys’s bedroom door. Caleb, who’d let Dorothy in, told her he was heading back to his home to give them some privacy. “Maybe Mom will talk to a woman—an unrelated woman. I need to take a shower and go to work for an hour or so, then I’ll be back—unless you need me before then.” He’d handed her a piece of paper with his work number scribbled on it and took off. “Gladys, it’s me, Dorothy.” Silence. “Gladys, is it okay if I come in?” she asked in a stronger voice followed by a louder rap on the door. Silence. “Gladys,” she said firmly, putting her hand to the doorknob. Lord, help me know what to do, what to say and when to do and say it! “Gladys, I’m coming in, dear.” I’m counting on You, God. Here goes! She took a deep breath and inched the door open. Since the shades were drawn tightly shut, she could barely see the made-up, yet rumpled and empty bed. At first she wondered if Gladys had somehow snuck out. But after Dorothy’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she noticed Gladys sitting in the corner on a small straight-back chair next to her dresser. Aside from her shoes, which were neatly placed together on the floor in front of her, Gladys was a fully clothed, wrinkled and motley mess.
“I’ll be right back, Gladys. I’m going to put us on a nice pot of coffee.” Dorothy whirled on her heels, made her way to Gladys’s kitchen and rifled around until she found what she needed to brew a pot of strong rich coffee since Caleb had drained whatever was left in the coffee pot on the counter. She noticed a small bag of familiar doughnuts and figured Caleb must have snagged himself a batch last night. She cut one chocolate and one powdered-sugar in half and set them on a plate, then stood watching and waiting for the drip coffee to produce enough for two cups. Gladys kept an old metal Coca-Cola serving tray on her kitchen counter, so Dorothy used it to arrange a couple of napkins, the mugs and doughnuts, then carried the tray to Gladys’s room where she placed it on top of the dresser, taking note of Gladys’s bronze mayoral name tag. No wonder Caleb phoned me! Gladys is certainly not herself!
She placed one of the mugs on a napkin and held it in front of Gladys. “Here. Have a sip.” Gladys stared at the coffee as though she’d never seen it before. “Gladys? Gladys.” Dorothy picked up Gladys’s right hand and placed the mug in it, which Gladys thankfully then secured for herself. She stared at it for a moment, then turned her eyes up to Dorothy wearing the most sorrowful, defeated look on her face.
“I’m through.”
“Through with what, Gladys?”
“Through with my mayoral duties,” she said, casting her eyes to the empty spot on her blazer where her name tag used to reside, covering the sacred spot with her left hand. “I conceded my loss last night to Sergeant McKenzie.”
“You can’t concede, Gladys. The election doesn’t even take place for more than two weeks.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t win anyway. Even if I thought I could. After last night, I don’t deserve to win.”
“Take a sip or two of coffee, Gladys.” Gladys mindlessly did what she was told, then made a sour face. “That’s terrible coffee.”
Dorothy startled Gladys by smiling and giving her hands a solid clap. “GOOD!” she yipped. Oh, THANK YOU, Jesus! Gladys’s complaint gave Dorothy the hope, direction and ammunition she needed to help Gladys find her way back to herself, she was sure of it. If Gladys could still complain under these circumstances, then she was certainly still Gladys!
“Good?” Gladys asked, clearly annoyed at Dorothy’s ridiculous statement. “I said your coffee was terrible. There is nothing good about terrible coffee.”
“Gladys Rose Standish McKern,” Dorothy said, standing up in front of her and placing her hands on her hips, “I have known you for your entire life and you are not a quitter. No ma’am, Gladys McKern does not concede. The Gladys McKern I know is a woman with strong opinions about everything—whether it’s about good or bad coffee, or what’s right or wrong for a town—and you have never been afraid to speak those opinions.” Even though the mug was halfway to Gladys’s lips again, Dorothy removed it from her hands and set it on the tray. “Now you march yourself into the shower and change into fresh clothes. You are through with this pity party and I mean right this minute. The people of Partonville need you!”
“But . . . .”
“No buts about it, Gladys. Now! Get yourself up off that chair and into the shower. You have an election to win and like it or not, you’ve just acquired yourself a campaign manager.”
“I don’t need a . . .”
“MARCH!” Gladys stood up and yanked her blazer down, which had, as always, ridden up on her ample bosom. Dorothy had to stifle herself from yelling Hallelujah ! The well-known blazer yank-down maneuver had always been Gladys’s signal that she was preparing to do business or battle, or just give someone a good what’s-for. “THAT’S the ticket!” Dorothy said, breaking out in a big smile. “You get in the shower and I’m going to phone Maggie to let her know we need us an emergency visit. After you’re cleaned up, you put that name tag back on your blazer where it belongs, you hear me? This town needs you, Gladys. They need the likes of somebody who understands that progress is good. They need somebody to let them know that Sam Vitner is just a misguided windbaggin’ bunch of sour old grapes. He does not care about the people of this town the way you do, Gladys, and it’s time you make that clear. Now move it!”
Gladys only knew one thing—which played right into Dorothy’s scheme: nobody was going to stand there and tell her what to do! So she made up her own mind it was time for a shower, and she made up her own mind to eat a half of a powdered-sugar doughnut. She ordered Dorothy to phone Maggie to make her an emergency hairdo appointment. “And when you’re done with that,” she added as she slipped off her blazer and reached for the side zipper on her wool skirt, “phone the Hethrow Button Business and tell them I want five hundred three-inch buttons made—no, make that four-inch buttons—and N-O-W. And quit being so bossy!”
“That’s the spirit, Gladys! What should the buttons say? Should we go with MOVING FORWARD IN TIME like your last year’s clever Centennial Plus Thirty slogan?”
“No, Dorothy. No, no, NO! They should not say that.”
“Are you sticking with your MAYOR+MCKERN=MOMENTUM then?” Even though the jokes have been endless?
“Absolutely not, Dorothy. I’m going with something new. Something bold. Something powerful!”
“Well, what then?”
Gladys looked up toward the ceiling, as though she could picture her plan. “I want white buttons with gold print in the biggest font they can use to allow my new slogan to fit on it.” She stopped talking to give Dorothy a serious eyeball, the familiar look she burned into anyone to express her dissatisfaction with whatever.
“What is that, Gladys? Not even a campaign manager is a mind reader.”
“When you get a pencil and paper so you can write it down, Dorothy Jean Wetstra, I’ll tell you. I don’t want you to order me five hundred incorrect six-inch buttons.”
“I thought you said to order them four inches,” Dorothy said, turning toward the kitchen where she’d previously noticed a writing tablet and a few pens near Gladys’s phone.
“I DID,” Gladys hollered down the hall. “BUT THE BIGGER THE BETTER. AND WHILE YOU’RE ORDERING, TELL THEM I WANT ONE HUNDRED BUMPER STICKERS AND . . . TWO HUNDRED BALLPOINT PENS MADE UP WITH THE SAME THING ON THEM. AND ASK THEM,” she bellowed now since Dorothy was in the other room writing as fast as she could to keep up with Gladys’s rapid-fire instructions, “IF THEY PRINT BALLOONS TOO.”
Dorothy appeared back in the bedroom, tablet in hand. “Are you sure they print anything other than bu . . . .”
“No, Dorothy! I am not sure. But it is your job as my campaign manager to find out! And while you’re at it, see if you can hire me a skywriter.” With that Gladys disappeared down the hall and into the bathroom, leaving a frazzled Dorothy in her back draft.
As happy as it made Dorothy to know that the Real Gladys was back, she also wondered what on earth she’d gotten herself into. Since the St. Patrick’s Day band concert was only two days away, Raymond Ringwald, the director and trumpet player, had called for an extra practice this week before Saturday’s concert and it took place this evening. Unless Gladys had a mental relapse, which Dorothy highly doubted since she heard her singing “I Will Survive” at the top of her lungs in the shower, Gladys would surely spread the word about her new campaign manager by then. At least, thank goodness, Gladys wasn’t in the band.
But Sam was.
“Oh, Lordy-Lordy!” Dorothy said as she went to the kitchen to look for the phone book. “Buttons and balloons and skywriters? Oh, my!” Then she chuckled and repeated the mouthful again, this time performing the yellow-brick-road shuffle with her fingers as they began walking through the Yellow Pages in search of the proper tools to wage a campaign to beat all campaigns.
At eighty-eight, Dorothy wondered if she’d just found herself a new career or set herself up to do herself in.
“Thank goodness the mall phones are finally up and running properly!” Katie told Josh when he had been getting ready to leave for school. But when she answered her first call of the day all she heard was a click. “Darn it!” she said as she looked at the caller I.D. to see who she’d missed. “Hornsbys Shoe E.” Hm. Tom must finally be ready to ask his question—or not. Or maybe the phones aren’t working. She highlighted the number and returned the call to check. To her surprise, Frieda answered.
“Hello, Frieda.”
“Who is this?
“Katie Durbin. Did you just call me?”
“No. Well, yes. I mean I decided not to . . . I’m sorry for the interruption. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“Frieda, you’re not bothering me.” Katie heard a door close in the shoe store. “What can I do for you?” The memory of Frieda’s surprise visit to the mall a few weeks ago popped into Katie’s mind. Acting on her instructions, Edward Showalter turned everyone away that day, but Katie now remembered her curiosity when he told her Frieda had stopped by. Until this moment she’d forgotten all about it.
“I, um, I really can’t say right now,” she said, sounding like she was putting her hand half over the mouthpiece. “We don’t carry that size. Understand?” she whispered. “I’ll check into it and call you back another time.” Click.
Katie removed the cordless phone from her ear and stared at it a moment before pressing the OFF button. Something odd was going on with Frieda Hornsby, but what?
25
Nellie Ruth was beside herself. With St. Patrick’s Day just around the corner, Your Store was busier than ever. While she struggled to keep heads of cabbage and bags of red potatoes shelved, Wilbur was forced to place an emergency (“That’s gonna cost me!”) order for more packaged corned beef since he sold out of the fresh stuff only one day into the sale. Band practice was this evening and between last night’s town meeting and heart-pounding ride home, putting in extra work hours, playing with (and cleaning up after) the kitties and spending time with ES whenever she could, Nellie Ruth had barely found time to start planning for the Hookers’ arrival next week or to put her saxophone’s mouthpiece to her lips, let alone finish memorizing the music for her “Danny Boy” solo. She was so distracted she caught herself displaying turnips where the onions were supposed to go, and then in a subconscious attempt to steal a moment of practice, she mindlessly fingered a stalk of celery as though pressing the keys on a saxophone.
“Kinda looks ta me like ya’s playin’ our song, Nellie Ruth!” Arthur loudly proclaimed when he caught her. He whipped his ever-present Hohner harmonica out of his top center coveralls pocket, leaned in toward her and began playing “Love Me Tender.”
“Arthur!” she said, quickly depositing the celery where it belonged and glancing around her. “Stop that!”
“I know ya already gottya a beau,” he teased, grinning like a goon. “I was jist gittin’ me a little practice in before tonight.” Arthur stowed his harmonica back in its handy pocket house, picked up a head of lettuce, tossed it between his hands and proceeded to laugh himself all the way to the cash register. Doesn’t that man have anything better to do? Of course his wife had asked him that very thing today when he was feet-up in his La-Z-Boy with the television blaring, which is when she sent him to the store for lettuce.
After Nellie Ruth quit blushing, she began to wonder if anyone had practiced their music. After all, Sam, the violin player, was busy campaigning for mayor. If she could believe Gladys’s mid-morning announcement in the frozen food section (and what a miraculous recovery from whatever had struck her ill last night!), Dorothy, who played first clarinet, was now a campaign manager. Sharon, who played flute and sang vocals, was running from one end of town to the other like a chicken with her head cut off in an attempt to keep up with the ever-changing news. Arthur was impossible, and who knew about the others. Poor Raymond. She feared they might sound more like a pickup band without a plan rather than a practiced group of musicians striving to infuse a little Irish spirit into the community. Then again, the whole town was so crazed and loud and yammering that maybe nobody’d notice if they sounded terrible. Perhaps that was their only hope.
Nellie Ruth heard Wilbur calling for help at the checkout. As she made her way to the front of the store, she pondered last night’s ride home with ES. Just thinking about it made her heart race a mile a nanosecond again. He’d been so excited and encouraged by the evening’s events. Yes, he expressed concern for the then-missing Gladys, but the overriding factor for him was that after Katie’s dynamic speech, he said he was sure of one thing: Partonville Pleasantries—and therefore his job—were here to stay. “Security, Nellie Ruth! That’s what I heard me tonight. A fella needs job security if he’s to amount to any kind of a family man, and by golly, job security’s what I’ve got me now!”
“Hello, Nellie Ruth,” Jessica said while Nellie Ruth flipped her lane sign from CLOSED to OPEN.
“Oh!” Nellie Ruth said.
“I’m sorry! We didn’t mean to startle you, did we, Sarah Sue?”
“Good to see you, Jessica and Ms. Cutsie tootsie-wootsie,” Nellie Ruth said, giving Sarah Sue’s cheek a gentle pinch. “Isn’t it great news about Gladys?”
After Gladys had arrived at the grill, all she said was, “Just a touch of the flu. Bad timing. But I’m up and running full speed ahead now. Keep your eyes open for my new campaign slogan!”
Family man. What did he mean by that? Was he implying . . .
“Excuse me, Nellie Ruth,” Jessica said, as she removed Sarah Sue from the grocery cart seat to prevent her from leaning over and grabbing the packages of gum so neatly lined up in the display, “but if I saw correctly,” she said, pointing to the customer
viewing screen, “my frozen peas didn’t ring up.”
Nellie Ruth realized she’d started skimming things across the scanner without even considering the position of the bar codes. She checked the printout and moaned. “You’re right, Jessica! I’m so sorry. Thank you for your honesty! Why, you could have gotten away with half a cart of free groceries while I daydreamed!”
“Must have been a good daydream. You were blushing,” Jessica said with a warm smile. “We all have our turns, don’t we, Sarah Sue?” she asked her wriggling baby whose hands were still reaching for the gum. “Some days lately I wonder if my mind is ever here with my body!”
“It’s no wonder,” Nellie Ruth said as she slid the items back across the scanner, “between chasing Sarah Sue, a new one on the way, Paul off of work, running the Lamp Post, doing crafts and helping out at the new gift basket store, which I just learned about last night—and good for you,” (scan, scan) “and didn’t I hear,” she paused and checked the register tape to make sure the items were indeed ringing up, “that you’re helping Katie with mall banners and the like too? How do you do it?”
Jessica teared up and her mouth froze open. Nellie Ruth looked up and noticed her face. “Oh, Jessica! I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to. . . .” She reached into her sweater pocket, pulled out a tissue and handed it to Jessica. “You’ve got enough on your plate without me overwhelming you. In fact,” Nellie Ruth said, her own throat beginning to tighten, “I should know better since I’m overwhelmed enough myself right now.”
Nellie Ruth noticed three people standing in line behind Jessica so she forced herself to focus her attention, finish ringing up the items and total Jessica out. Jessica plopped Sarah Sue back in the cart, fastened her seat belt and pushed her far enough forward to move her little fingers out of reaching range, then she wrote her check.
Dearest Dorothy, If Not Now, When? Page 21
