The Happy Hour Choir

by Sally Kilpatrick

  “Look, I really appreciate all of the work you’ve done, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave the choir.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he sucked down about a third of his cigarette. “Seems to me that ain’t very Christian-like.”

  “C’mon, Carl. Neither is beating up on people.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Oh, so my little slut daughter has been bending your ear with her sob stories. Little shit had it coming.” He took another long drag on the cigarette. He didn’t plan to have both hands occupied for long.

  “Tiffany’s pregnant.” I paused there because it was ridiculous to state the obvious. Fortunately, Ginger’s words had lodged themselves somewhere deep in the back of my mind, ready for a moment such as this. “It may not be the best of circumstances, but that little baby deserves a chance to come into this world healthy.”

  “What about what I deserve? Don’t I deserve a daughter who’s loyal to me?” He sucked down the rest of his cigarette and flicked it at the ground. He stomped out the embers.

  “I bet she won’t even tell you who the daddy is.” He stepped forward to challenge me. If he thought I cared who the father was, he was sadly mistaken. “I bet she doesn’t even know.”

  Yeah, that wasn’t going to bother me, either.

  He took another step forward, and I took another step back. My instincts told me Tiffany did know who the father was. If not, then why not say she didn’t know instead of hedging the question as Ginger and I pleaded? Unease tunneled its way into my belly. The screen door to the parsonage behind me slammed shut. Luke was going to make it just in time.

  “Well, Carl. Let me help you separate yourself from your daughter. I’ll be looking for someone else to sing bass.” I turned to go, but he took me by the shoulder and threw me against the cinder-block wall in the shadows. His nose was less than an inch from mine, and the tobacco-beer scent of his breath turned my stomach.

  His eyes glowed yellow. “You can’t take her away from me.”

  I swallowed hard. Were those his hands on my waist? My mind snapped back to another night, another set of hands, and overgrown crepe myrtle branches scratching against wood. My breaths came too shallow and too fast. Panic seeped in from the edges. “I’m not taking Tiffany away from you, but I will call the police if you so much as lay a finger on her. Or me.”

  He laughed. “Don’t look to me like you’re in much of a position to be making threats.”

  “Hey!” Luke yelled from behind Carl. He had to have been running to get there so quickly.

  Carl’s eyes turned dark. Just when I thought he was going to let me go, he slammed my head into the wall behind me instead. My head smashed against the bricks, and I tasted blood, my blood.

  And then he was gone.

  I flailed as I fell, finally knowing how Wile E. Coyote felt when all those stars circled his head after one of his Acme misadventures. Above me I heard a punch and a groan, and I tried to stand up to help Luke.

  Halfway to upright, the world tilted dangerously and I felt myself crumple, but strong hands caught me. I sighed in relief, then realized it could be Carl and fought to stand alone.

  “Beulah, it’s me.”

  I desperately tried to focus. I’d been hearing that voice of velvet gravel every Sunday for almost a month now. And Luke hadn’t needed my help. It had to have been one of his punches that had knocked Carl Davis to the ground. My eyes closed in relief. I leaned into Luke, but then the nausea hit me. I turned and puked.

  All over Carl Davis.

  He hopped to his feet. “Look here, you little—”

  “Mr. Davis, it’s time for you to go home.”

  “Dammit, I will see both of you in hell. Bitch threw up on me.” I could see two Carls, and both of them wiped blood from the corners of their mouths with the backs of their hands then clenched those hands into fists. Luke drew me closer, seemingly oblivious to any vomit I might still have on me.

  “Well, if you hadn’t given her a concussion, then she wouldn’t have thrown up on you. Seems like poetic justice to me, and the least of your worries once Beulah calls the police.”

  “I’m not calling the police.” My words sounded slurred to me, but Luke understood them even if he didn’t get the reasoning behind them. He drew me out to arm’s length, and that made the world spin all over again.

  “But, Beulah . . .”

  “No police.” I shook my head, which was another mistake.

  Both Carls slumped forward and let their hands relax. They pushed past me in a weird double vision and headed to the old Chevy pickup that one of the Carls drove. He left the parking lot with a spray of gravel and the squeal of tires.

  “Beulah, you need to call for an ambulance, and the police are going to come when they find out what happened.”

  “No ambulance then.” I couldn’t call the police. All Bill needed was for the police to come, and the community would mobilize against The Fountain. On the other side of the county a waitress at the Five-Gallon Bucket had called the police; that tavern had been shut down over a bogus health violation within the week. Not that they’d pressed charges against the man who hit the waitress—they’d told her she’d got what she had coming, which is what they’d probably tell me, too. No, Bill ran a tight ship, and he deserved better than that. Besides, where would I work without The Fountain?

  “Beulah?”

  “I said no, Luke!” He was the last person in the world I should have snapped at, but by that point my head throbbed and felt entirely too big for my shoulders.

  He studied me carefully. “Pupils are the same size, speech isn’t slurred. Feel like you’re going to throw up again?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Neck pain? Body pain?”

  “Just my damn head. What are you, a Grey’s Anatomy reject?”

  He ignored me. “Come on, Beulah, let me get you a new shirt, then I’m going to take you to the doctor.” He took my arm gently and led me in the direction of the parsonage.

  “I don’t need to go to the doctor. I need to go to sleep.”

  “No.” He gently patted my cheeks. “No, you really don’t need to go to sleep right now.”

  “Just a little nap?”

  “Absolutely not.” He supported me as we walked across the parking lot. He led me through the house and to his bedroom. He took off my stained shirt and tossed it on the tile floor in the master bathroom. I fell over and burrowed into his pillow. It was like drowning in a soft sea that smelled of him.

  “Don’t you dare go to sleep!” He pulled me to sitting position a little too quickly, which caused me to say, “Ow.”

  “Sorry, but you have to stay awake.” He cupped my face with his thumbs resting on my cheekbones. His eyes studied mine—no doubt looking at the pupils of my eyes—but then they strayed lower.

  “Why, Reverend Daniels, were you looking at my cleavage?”

  “No comment,” he said brusquely as he pulled a T-shirt over my head and helped me get my arms through it. The T-shirt smelled of detergent, but it also smelled like sandalwood and . . . him.

  Forget the headache; I wanted to burrow back under his sheets and sleep in the arms of someone who would take care of things for me. I didn’t want to look after Tiffany. I didn’t want to scrutinize Ginger, wondering if the cancer eating her innards was ready to wreak the ultimate havoc. I didn’t even want to take care of myself. I was so, so tired.

  “I’ll have to wear red lace more often.”

  He grunted something and lifted me to my feet.

  “With a matching thong,” I added as he guided me down the hall.

  “Beulah Land, you are a very frustrating woman,” he said as he let go of me long enough to open the door. He was saying something else to me when I started falling backward again.

  Chapter 11

  I only lost a second before I came to in Luke’s BMW Roadster. He was muttering under his breath about how he should’ve called 911 whether I liked it or not.


  “Tell me, how does a small-town preacher afford a car like this?”

  “It was a gift from my father before we had our falling-out,” he said through gritted teeth.

  When I almost nodded off, he patted my cheeks. “Hey, keep talking to me.”

  “Some would say your sports car is a classic example of penis compensation,” I slurred.

  He laughed out loud.

  “What, no comment on that either?”

  “None needed.”

  He turned right and I saw he had the good sense not to bother with the doctor’s office in Ellery—it would certainly be closed—but he did get lost in the side streets of Jefferson. When he drove the wrong way down a one-way street, he muttered something under his breath that almost sounded like the tiniest of curse words.

  I giggled. “Preacher Man, I am shocked. Shocked, I say.”

  “Hush, Beulah. I’m only human.”

  That sobered me up. Until then I hadn’t really thought of him as mortal; he somehow seemed above so much of what went on around him. And that detachment had to explain why he was so lonely.

  He found the emergency room and rushed around to help me out the door.

  “I don’t have my purse,” I said as he put me in a corner seat by a trash can.

  “I’ll pay for it,” he said. “This is serious.” He walked to the reception desk and pointed back at me. I eyed the trash can, willing myself not to throw up again. I’d had enough of that.

  “Been hit on the head before,” I muttered under my breath when he returned with a clipboard.

  “Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean you should have been.” He put the clipboard in the seat beside me. “I’ve got to move the car, but I’ll fill this out when I get back. Since you aren’t bleeding, I’m afraid this is going to take a while.”

  Apparently, Luke called Ginger to let her know where we were when he went to move the car. He told her not to come, but she had Tiffany drive her to the hospital anyway. The moment she arrived she hobbled over to the reception desk to see if she could spot any friendly faces to, as she put it, “hurry this process up a little bit.”

  Meanwhile Luke made a valiant effort to keep me awake, but I fell asleep against his shoulder while watching Ginger gesticulate wildly at the nurses at the desk. Either her hissy fit didn’t do any good or my nap was shorter than I thought because she was sitting in a chair across from me when my eyes flickered open.

  And Luke was holding my hand.

  I quickly closed my eyes to avoid her shrewd gaze and to let the moment linger. When was the last time a boy had held my hand? So long ago that it was definitely a boy and not a man—that much I knew. Luke’s hand was warm and not in the least clammy. His palm had a hint of calluses, which surprised me. Then again, Luke had probably tried out carpentry just to see what it’d been like for Jesus.

  “Did you have any luck?” he asked softly.

  “I might’ve asked for a certain nurse who knows me well,” Ginger said.

  Beyond me I heard canned laughter from the waiting room televisions.

  “Beulah Land?” A nurse with a wheelchair struggled with my name, pronouncing it “Be-you-la.”

  “She’s right here,” Luke said. He nudged me and gently helped me into the chair. Tiffany offered a hand to Ginger, and we all walked to the nurse.

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t have enough room for all y’all back there. One of you can come with her.”

  Luke stepped back to let Ginger have the honor. She wavered for a second then pushed him forward. “You’d better go, Luke. Neither one of us could pick her up off the floor if she fainted and fell out of the chair.”

  He nodded to her solemnly. Tiffany slipped her arm under Ginger’s and led her back to the seating area. I felt much better knowing Tiffany was there with Ginger.

  I floated down the hall, Luke beside me as long as the corridor would allow. Guilt radiated from him, and I suddenly thought of a fist hitting a jaw. “Luke, you punched Carl, didn’t you?”

  “Twice.”

  “Not so ‘turn the other cheek,’ eh?”

  “Extenuating circumstances,” he said with a grunt as he hoisted me up on the exam table in a truly tiny room.

  The nurse checked all my vitals, then the doctor came in to look at my eyeballs and feel around my head. “Well, you’re going to have quite the bruise back there, but at least it’s poking out instead of in. I still think you need an MRI.”

  “And how much is that going to cost?” I sounded drunk and felt hungover. Luke’s warm hand reached for mine and squeezed reassurance.

  “Well,” the doctor said as he continued to scribble notes, “it depends. Your insurance should pay for it.”

  I slid from the table. “No can do. I don’t have insurance.”

  “Now, Miss . . . Land.” He flipped back a page on his chart. “A concussion is serious business, and—”

  “I said I can’t pay for it.” I turned to Luke for help.

  “She’ll have the MRI,” the traitor said.

  “Luke, this is ridiculous. One of those things probably costs thousands of dollars.”

  “I said I’m paying for it. The most important thing is to make sure you’re all right.” His hand traveled to my cheek, and his thumb massaged my temple. I lost myself in the feeling of being precious to someone.

  “You need to listen to your boyfriend,” the doctor said as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’ll send a nurse to take you back for your MRI.”

  He left the room, and I looked up at my “boyfriend,” instinctively leaning my aching head farther into the hand that cupped my cheek. I suppose he did look like a boyfriend to someone who didn’t know how impossible that would be.

  “Beulah—” He couldn’t form the words. Maybe it was because I had been bumped on the head, but I didn’t want him to break the spell. For one moment I wanted to pretend I had found a man who cared enough about me to insist on a test neither one of us could pay for, to stick with me even when I puked, and to hold my hand while I waited in the emergency room.

  “Miss Land? We’re ready for you now.”

  A wish temporarily granted.

  The nurse who both broke the spell of the moment and helped sustain it led us down a hall to an MRI machine. “Now you’re going to have to lie down perfectly still.” She helped me into the bed and stepped behind the machine.

  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step outside,” she said as she started flipping switches.

  He moved into the hallway, and I missed him. Being told I had to be still made me fidgety. My nose developed an unexpected itch; my toes started to cramp. My hand prickled with emptiness from not being held for the first time in over an hour.

  Finally, finally, she let me get up and led us back to the exam room. Luke attempted to pace in the six-by-six room made even smaller by the hospital bed, sink, and his presence. He ran his hand through his hair.

  “Hey, calm down. I feel better already.” And I did, more or less. The nausea and dizziness had subsided into an immense throbbing ache.

  He stopped and took both of my hands. “I am so sorry.”

  “Sorry for what? You’ve agreed to pay this crazy hospital bill that’s going to have me working twelve jobs just to pay you back.” If holding one hand was good, holding two was better.

  “I shouldn’t have left you alone for a minute. I should’ve been there to stop Carl from throwing your head against the wall.” His hands tightened their grip as though he could somehow squeeze the concussion from me. “It was my pride that kept me from wanting to hear your song. I thought as long as he wasn’t there yet, I’d still have time to—”

  “Luke, don’t blame yourself for that. I never should have stepped outside with the man. I knew he’d hit Tiffany; I just didn’t realize he was that bat-shit crazy.”

  “I should have been there.” His gaze locked with mine. He leaned closer, and I thought, for only a moment, he was going to kiss me. I leaned up to meet his lips, but
instead he planted a kiss on my forehead. As I exhaled with a mixture of relief and regret, he cupped my face and pressed his lips on mine gently, so gently, and yet that slight touch sent shock waves through my body. He nipped at my bottom lip—

  When the doctor knocked, Luke jerked away from me as if he’d been doing something wrong. Cool air rushed to fill the space where his warm body had been.

  “Okay, Miss Beulah Land, you do, indeed, have a concussion,” the doctor said as he consulted my chart. “Fortunately for you, it’s a mild one. A few days of rest and no strenuous activity should be enough.”

  He put the chart back and took his prescription pad from his coat pocket. “I’m going to write you a prescription for something a little stronger for the first day or so. And remember: only acetaminophen, no aspirin.”

  The doctor clapped Luke on the arm. “Keep a close eye on her, son, but I think she’s out of the woods.”

  “I’ll do that. Thank you, sir.”

  He walked out of the room before either of us could betray our secret of not being boyfriend and girlfriend—not that either of us seemed particularly inclined to do so.

  “Let’s get you home.”

  “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

  He pushed me down the hall and back to Ginger. He ran down the prognosis with her while I ran my fingers over my tingling lips. “Miss Ginger, if you and Tiffany will take her home, I’ll settle up here.”

  Ginger nodded, and Luke helped me from the chair before he walked back to the desk. Tiffany got on my other side. The past, the present, and the woman bearing the future all walked through automatic doors to the parking lot beyond.

  Chapter 12

  I slept most of the night and into the next day, but I was cranky because either Ginger or Tiffany woke me up every two hours. It was supposed to be every two to three hours. When I pointed out the discrepancy to Ginger, she informed me she wanted to be on the safe side and that I was lucky she hadn’t decided to wake me up every hour on the hour.

  “I don’t know why you two are fussing over me so much,” I said while I fidgeted. They had me sitting in the recliner. Hovering like benevolent hummingbirds, they brought magazines and Cokes instead of sipping nectar and transferring pollen.