Blue Like Elvis

by Diane Moody

  I smiled, trying to envision a younger version of J. Thomas Love courting a young debutante. “What happened?”

  His gaze was far off. “I proposed to her the night before I left for England. I was stationed there during the war. A chaplain with our boys in the Eighth Air Force. We made plans to marry when I was home on my next leave. The last letter I had from her, she was busy with wedding plans and dress fittings and what not.”

  I waited, anxious to hear more.

  “Then the letters stopped coming. Not one more . . .” He stared somewhere over my shoulder, lost in his thoughts. “And I was preoccupied with the troops under my care. We’d sustained heavy losses. My heart was so heavy for the young men I served. So many of them not even 20 years old yet, either killed in action or missing. It was a terrible time.

  “When I was finally able to come home on leave, I was desperate to see Maggie. That’s when I found out why the letters had stopped.” He looked at me, his eyes misting over.

  “Why?” I whispered.

  He clenched his jaw, looked down, then continued. “My brother. You see, in my absence, she’d fallen in love with my brother.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, they didn’t mean for it to happen. He was 4-F. Had a bad leg from an old football injury. So he stayed home during the war, helping in the family business. He’d promised to keep an eye on her for me while I was away.” He looked straight at me with a sad smile. “Apparently he did a pretty good job of it.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “How horrible.”

  “Yes, well, it’s made for some awkward moments through the years. But they eventually moved to Alaska. I haven’t seen them in 20 years, to be honest. Probably just as well.”

  “How did you get over it? Not just her, but your brother. How could you even be in the same room with them? How could you ever trust anyone again?”

  “Shelby, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. God’s ways are not always our ways. I eventually learned that the good Lord allowed that whole mess to happen for a lot of reasons. Not the least of which was because He had someone else picked out for me.”

  “Elsie?”

  He smiled again. “My Elsie has brought the greatest joy to my life. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and I mean that with all my heart. She’s a wonderful mother, she loves being a part of my ministry, and she makes me laugh. Oh, my goodness, how she makes me laugh! And there isn’t a day goes by that I don’t thank God for breaking my heart with Maggie and instead bringing Elsie into my life.”

  “How do you know you wouldn’t have been just as happy with Maggie? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Because in the end, that pretty little debutante struggled with all the attention her beauty brought to her. She’s remained married to my brother, but she’s broken his heart over and over, finding it all too tempting to ignore the attention men have always given her. She’s had at least three affairs over the years. And those are only the ones he knows about.”

  I felt like crying. Why did life have to be so messy? Why did people have to be so unfaithful? So heartless to those who love them?

  “I would never have wished such a life for my brother,” he continued. “And yet he’s never seen a need for God in his life—even in the midst of all the drama he’s experienced in his marriage. He always thought of me as quite the fool for going into ministry. I’m not saying God’s punished him through Maggie’s infidelities, but he’s clearly been out from under God’s hedge of protection. Whereas I, on the other hand, have been blessed beyond measure with the sweetest, most faithful woman I’ve ever known. Like I said, God moves in mysterious ways.”

  Later, as I drove home, I kept thinking of Dr. Love’s story. How God saved him from what surely would have been a marriage from hell. For anyone, of course, but especially for a pastor. What a nightmare that would have been.

  And then I wondered why I’d never thought to thank God for saving me from the same kind of nightmare. I wondered why I’d been so focused on never being able to trust again . . . instead of thanking God for interceding before I walked down the aisle.

  Chapter 17

  “What is that SMELL?!”

  I’d just walked into the apartment after work on Friday. I’d dropped Sandra off at the sidewalk in front of our townhouse, then drove around to pick up our mail near the clubhouse. When I returned and walked into our apartment, the stench nearly decked me. Something was dead. I just hoped it wasn’t in the oven.

  “Sandra! Where are you?”

  She came flying into the living room. “I can’t find it! Do you smell that? It STINKS! It smells AWFUL!”

  I covered my nose and mouth with my hand. “It’s horrible! What is it?”

  She rattled off a long diatribe in extremely animated Spanish.

  “English!” I demanded.

  “Dead mice! It has to be dead mice. Our neighbor told me she’d been having problems for several weeks. Now they’re here! This is disgusting!”

  “Where?” I said, cringing at the thought.

  “In the walls. She said they get into the walls then can’t get out and they just die in there. I think I’m going to puke!”

  I held my nose and took the stairs up to my room. The odor wasn’t quite as bad up there, but it was still pretty ripe. I dreaded the thought of inhaling this all weekend. We had to open the windows and get some fresh air coming in.

  “AAAHHH!”

  Sandra’s scream reached all the way up the stairs, through my bedroom, and into my bathroom. I ran to the landing. “What is it? Why did you scream?”

  “I SAW A MOUSE!”

  “What? I thought you said they were in the walls?”

  “NO! IT JUST RAN INTO THE KITCHEN!”

  “It’s alive?!” I ran down the stairs and found my roommate standing on one of the dining room chairs.

  “SHELBY, GET IT OUT OF HERE!” She shrieked more in Spanish, but I had no doubt what she was saying. I dashed into the hall closet to grab the broom. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it, but at least I was armed. Just as I turned to go back to the dining room, something scampered by my foot.

  “AAHHH!” I jumped up into the chair beside Sandra. “It almost ran over my FOOT! But it came from the bathroom, not the kitchen!”

  “THERE’S MORE THAN ONE?!” she screamed, clinging on to me for dear life.

  Just then doorbell rang.

  “COME IN!” we both yelled in unison.

  The door opened and there stood Tucker. He looked at us then narrowed his eyes. “Have I come at a bad time?”

  Sandra and I both screamed, talking at once, simultaneously telling our situation in two different languages.

  He raised his hands. “Whoa! Wait a minute—one at a time. Shelby, what’s the matter? And what is that awful smell?” he asked, covering his nose.

  “MICE! Dead ones in walls and LIVE ONES IN THE HOUSE!”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, stepping carefully as he came closer.

  Our neighbor Bonita walked in the open door behind him. “Sandra, what’s wrong? I heard the scream―” Her hand covered her nose. “Uh oh, you’ve got the mice in your walls. Oh, that’s horrible. That’s even worse than mine!”

  By now Sandra had started whimpering. “I HATE this! Get them out of here, Tucker!”

  He turned back toward us. “Me? What do you want me to do?”

  I handed him the broom. “Chase them out the door or something. Just hurry! There are at least two that we know of. DO SOMETHING!”

  “I’ll get Harry. Be right back.” Bonita rushed back out the door.

  “Who’s Harry?” Tucker poked the broom here and there.

  “Her cat.”

  Tucker looked back at us. “You know, I’ve seen this in cartoons before, but I’ve never really experienced it. The whole screaming-women-standing-on-chairs thing. I wish I had a camera.”

  “SHUT UP!” Sandra yelled, though I could hea
r the break of frustrated laughter in her voice.

  Bonita walked back in with a large tabby in tow. “Here, let Harry get to work. He’s the best mouser I’ve ever owned.” She put him down and he took off down the hall.

  Tucker introduced himself to our middle-aged neighbor. She wore her usual housecoat with a red cardigan wrapped around her. There was a pink curler dangling in the back of her once-blonde hair.

  “I spoke to the landlord last week,” she said. “He promised to have someone come and see what the problem is with all these mice. I think we’ve got a major infestation, but he wouldn’t admit to such. I’m just glad to have Harry. He’s kept them out of my place for weeks. Course, he can’t do anything about the ones in the walls. Isn’t that the worst smell ever?”

  I had to admit I felt kind of queasy myself. I wondered how long it would take that smell to dissipate since we couldn’t get inside the walls to get rid of their wretched little corpses.

  “OH MY GOSH, OH MY GOSH! HE GOT ONE!” Sandra shrieked again.

  Sure enough, here came Harry, proud as he could be with the little critter dangling from his mouth. Mickey’s tail whipped back and forth letting us know he was still very much alive.

  “Tucker, kill it!” I yelled.

  “I’m not gonna kill it! Let’s just try to get it outside. Here Harry, here kitty kitty kitty.” Harry sat down, holding his back ramrod straight as if he’d just found the crowned jewels.

  “Get it out of his mouth, Tucker, or it’ll take off again,” I suggested.

  “And just how do you expect me to do that?”

  “I know!” Sandra yelled. “Get those pliers out of the kitchen drawer then try to grab it by the tail.”

  We both looked at her like she was crazy.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Bonita said, making her way into the kitchen. She yanked open the drawer and grabbed the pliers.

  Tucker looked at us, then shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He cautiously approached the cat who pulled back. In a flash, Tucker clamped the pliers on Mickey’s tail. Harry refused to relinquish his prize catch . . . until another one flew by him. We all screamed, startled by the blur of gray fur that dashed by Tucker’s feet. But Tucker was too busy holding the little varmint by the tail as it swung back and forth trying to free itself.

  ‘‘GET IT OUT OF HERE!” we shouted.

  He hurried to the door and ran outside. Through the dining room windows, we watched him run across the parking lot to the open field by the lake where he released it. He returned just in time to see Harry prance out of the kitchen with another one in his mouth.

  Sandra ripped forth with another string of Spanish, clearly saying what I was thinking. This was bad.

  Later, half an hour after Harry and Tucker had repeated their routine six more times—yes, SIX—we decided we were mouse-free. Except for the wall-encased corpses, that is. Sandra and I finally came down off our chairs. Bonita took Harry and returned to her apartment, promising to give our landlord a piece of her mind for us. But there was no way we could stay in our apartment. At least not tonight.

  “Just grab some stuff and come stay at my place,” Tucker said, putting the broom away.

  “Oh, we can’t do that,” I said, uncomfortable with the idea.

  “Why not? I’ve got an extra bedroom. Besides, I’m on a 48-hour shift tomorrow starting at the crack of dawn. You’ll have the place to yourselves the rest of the weekend. Maybe by then your landlord will figure something out.”

  Sandra looked back and forth between us as I pondered what to do. With a huff, she said, “You don’t have to ask me twice. I’m outta here.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I really hate to impose.”

  “Get your stuff. Besides, we were supposed to go out tonight. Remember?”

  I’d completely forgotten. I blew my hair out of my face. “You still want to go out after chasing the beasts out of our house?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m starving! Hurry up!”

  I had a feeling this would be a first date I’d never forget.

  We’d invited Sandra to join us, but she insisted she’d rather just stay in and watch a movie on TV. I knew better. She knew I was nervous about going out with Tucker, and she didn’t want to be a third wheel. Tucker showed us around his house, pointing out where everything was. Food in the refrigerator, television, stereo system, a guest bathroom . . . It was a beautiful older home in midtown, not far from Overton Square. I was shocked at how clean and tidy it was, wondering if he had maid service. He was a doctor, after all.

  Half an hour later, Tucker and I sat down at a trendy Italian restaurant called Luigi’s. The ambience was cozy and dark, with director-style chairs at sturdy wooden tables. We ordered our meals and made small talk.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m not really in the mood for a movie tonight,” he said, taking a bite of the crusty garlic bread the waiter had brought in a basket.

  “No, I think I’ve had about all the excitement I can handle for one night.”

  “That was some nasty smell back there.” Tucker shook his head. “I hope they can do something about it.”

  “Me, too. But thanks for your brave, chivalrous rescue,” I said with a smirk.

  “Darn right, it was brave!”

  “You were kinda scary with those pliers. Remind me to keep those out of sight next time you stop by.”

  “So noted.”

  This was just too weird. I was actually relaxed with him. Not nervous in the least. We talked non-stop for the next hour, enjoying steaming plates of pasta. He told me all about med school and what it was like interning at Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville. I was fascinated with the stories he told me about his classes, instructors, and labs. But I especially loved how his eyes lit up when he talked about his patients.

  “What field are you specializing in?” I asked. “Or does that come later?”

  He pushed his last piece of bread through the sauce still clinging to his plate. “I’m in anesthesiology. Can’t believe I’ve never told you that. Basically I pass gas.”

  “Ah, yes. Now that’s the Tucker Thompson I remember. Quick with the jokes. But why anesthesiology?”

  “Why not anesthesiology?”

  “Such a specialized field. But I would think it would be rewarding. And a little frightening at times?”

  “Sure, when things go badly. But that doesn’t happen often, thank goodness.”

  “What do you like about it?”

  “Knowing what I do is vital to what my colleagues do. Without us controlling the level of pharmaceuticals to keep their patients under, they wouldn’t be able to do what they do in surgery. That’s very gratifying.”

  “I’m impressed, Tucker. I really am. I can’t believe all that mischief you and Jimmy got into could have resulted in such a productive member of society. It’s incredible. It’s really―”

  Suddenly my eyes were at table level. Literally. Tucker looked down at me in disbelief. I was too shocked to move.

  “What happened?” He tried not to laugh as he made his way around the table toward me.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  He helped me up and we looked at the chair. . . . that stupid director’s chair with the cloth seat stretched between the wooden legs. Somehow the fabric had slipped off the bar, giving way. My backside had dropped down and plopped onto the cross-bars below, my legs folded beneath me. I’m surprised the table didn’t rip my nose off on the way down.

  “Oh, sorry about that” Our waiter laughed as he approached our table. “Sometimes that happens.”

  “You mean, it’s happened before?” Tucker’s smile disappeared.

  “Yeah. Whenever we take them off to wash them. Sometimes they don’t get put back on right. Y’know, like they don’t get locked back in place. Slippage.” He hiked his shoulders and smirked as if it was no big deal.

  “Slippage?” I asked, still feeling the heat in my face.

  “Yeah. You ok
ay?” The kid was still smiling, obviously getting a kick out of the whole situation.

  “Other than my bruised ego, I guess I’m okay.”

  “Do you realize that’s a lawsuit just waiting to happen?” Tucker pressed.

  “Uh, no. Hadn’t thought about it,” he said as he started gathering our empty plates. “You guys want dessert?”

  Tucker just stared at him. “No, we don’t want dessert. What we’d like is an apology.”

  He blinked a couple of times. “Oh. Yeah. Okay . . . sorry?”

  Tucker stared at the kid. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “That’s okay, Tuck. Let’s just go.” I pulled his arm.

  “Oh, okay,” the waiter said. “Let me grab your check.”

  Tucker put his hand on the small of my back, moving me toward the door. “No, you can take care of that check tonight. And I suggest you tell your manager to get some new chairs.”

  The kid’s mouth hung open as we walked away. It took a few minutes for Tucker to calm down.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Really. But don’t you think we should pay for our meal?”

  “Absolutely not. Do you realize how badly you could have been hurt? You could have snapped your ankle plopping down like that, or busted your nose―”

  “But I’m fine.”

  “And I’m glad,” he said, opening the passenger door for me. “But I don’t appreciate his lack of concern. That was out of line. And just telling him of our concern wouldn’t faze that kid. If he has to pay for that meal out of his own pocket, maybe he’ll actually do something about those chairs. Or at least tell his boss about them.”

  He shut my door and walked around to his side of the car and got in.

  “Hey, are you okay?” I asked. I’d never seen this side of Tucker. Annoyed. Agitated.

  “Yeah. I just don’t appreciate it when people are inconsiderate of others.” He started the car. “Let’s go home.”

  Let’s go home.

  As he put the car in drive and pulled out, I realized I liked the sound of that.