The Happy Hour Choir

by Sally Kilpatrick

  I cleared my throat. “It’s good that you don’t think honoring final wishes is a bad thing, because I have one for you.”

  “Oh?”

  I took a deep breath, letting him wonder what the wish was. “Ginger thinks that Sam and Tiffany should lighten up and go on a date instead of”—here I paused for air quotes—“making ‘goo-goo eyes’ at each other.”

  “Me too!” Luke’s eyes lit up. “Well, let me back up. I’m not in the business of telling couples who should date and/or get married, but they seem to really like each other.”

  I decided to test his ministerial super-mind-reading powers by simply looking through him calmly.

  “What?”

  I kept looking at him.

  “Uh-uh,” he said with his mouth still full. It was cute the way he forgot his manners in that moment of epiphany. “I’m not going to set them up on a date.”

  Close, but no cigar. “No, Ginger wants us to go on a double date with them.”

  Luke leaned back as the waiter slid a bean burrito in front of him, then it was my turn to lean back for my chimichanga. “A double date?”

  “I know, I know.” That damn blush only he was able to cause crept up my neck and into my cheeks. “I’ll tell her you refused. I promised her I’d ask, but I didn’t promise anything else—”

  “I’ll do it.” His expression couldn’t be read.

  I couldn’t look away. “You’ll what?”

  “I’ll do it,” he said as his fork sawed into the burrito. “It is a final wish, after all.”

  “Luke, I hate to tell you, but she’s already made about two hundred final requests, so I’m not feeling bad about blowing this one off.” I shifted uncomfortably, but that brought my knees against his, reminding me of our very first lunch together.

  “Still, how are you going to feel if there is one thing left you didn’t do for her?” The sun from the window caught a hint of stubble on his stubbornly set jaw. “We’ll go, and they can take it from there. Easy as that.”

  “Easy as that?” I echoed. “No, not easy as that. The minute we go out, a lot of things are going to happen. Folks are going to start talking again and—”

  “I don’t care what people say. I never did.” He was already a third of the way through his meal, and I hadn’t started. “Besides, we’re here having lunch. Alone. Right now.”

  “But you didn’t . . . you wouldn’t—”

  He leaned forward to whisper, “Take advantage of you while you were drunk?”

  I blushed. “When you put it that way.”

  “I thought,” he started, then gauged how much of himself he wanted to give away. Finally, his eyes met mine with an unexpected vulnerability. “I thought you only wanted that one night. And that’s not good enough for me.”

  My heart got stuck in my throat, and tears stung my eyes. “That’s not what I meant. Even drunk that’s not what I meant.”

  “Then maybe we do need to try this again. From the beginning.”

  My heart kept time with the Tejano music.

  “From the beginning.” I swallowed hard and willed those tears back. Somehow we were going to try this all from the beginning. “But what are people going to say? You’re lucky no one saw me on your porch that night. Or my car in the parking lot.”

  “Oh, they did.” He took another bite, completely nonchalant. My stomach was too knotted to even consider my lunch. “Miss Lottie finally called Tom up.”

  “Are you still frocked or whatever?”

  Luke chuckled, “Still a man of the frock, yes. Tom told her to mind her own business and to think and pray on the possibility that she might need to find a home in another congregation.”

  I sucked in a deep breath. That would explain why I seemed to feel additional invisible daggers of Christian love and fellowship each Sunday morning. “But still.”

  He gave me a full smile, the one with the dimples. “Beulah. I. Don’t. Care.”

  My heart squeezed in on itself, and my fork stopped in midair. All of the color and warmth drained from my face then rushed back all at once.

  “Beulah Land, are you blushing?” He smiled enough for me to see both dimples again.

  “Shut up.”

  “Oh, that was a classy comeback,” Luke said. “I don’t know if I can go out on a date with such a quick-witted woman.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  Neither of us looked up at the waiter, but we both said, “No, thank you” at the same time.

  “Okay, then, here’s your bill.” He laid the bill on the table. My hand hit the bill first, but that left Luke’s hand on top of mine. He let it rest there for an inordinate amount of time, his thumb stroking the top of my hand. Finally, he slid the bill out from under my fingers, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “Lunch is on me,” he declared.

  “Then thank you.” I took another bite in my bid to catch up with him. “I was only trying to be an independent woman.”

  “No man—or woman—is an island,” he said as he put the check out of reach and returned to his burrito.

  “So, we’re really going to go out on a date. Do you think that will work?”

  “Of course,” Luke said. “You can tell Tiffany that you’re nervous and would feel better if she came along just in case—”

  “Why do I have to be the nervous one?”

  “Because Sam’s not going to come along with a nervous man. That’s not what men do. My approach has to be that I really like you—obviously—but you’ll only double date since we’ve had some ups and downs.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “And you really think this junior high plan is going to work?”

  He studied me as I took a couple bites more. “Yeah, I think it will because they want to go out. We’re merely lending them an excuse.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be against devious machinations since you’re a minister?”

  “Still human,” he said with a shrug as he slid to the edge of the booth. “Besides, it’s for a good cause.”

  Too true, I thought as he took the bill to the cashier. The thought of going out on a date with him—even a fake date—did make me nervous. And taking Tiffany along would make me feel better about the whole thing. Of course, her presence would make me feel better because I would know I was doing something good for Ginger, not because I needed her to help me overcome a case of nerves.

  “Don’t rush,” Luke said as he slipped back into the booth. He slid two Andes mints across the table. “I don’t have anywhere to be this afternoon.”

  I stared at the mints. He’d noticed I always bought one on the way out the door. And he’d remembered. I was about to shed a few tears over Andes-mint thoughtfulness. I cleared my throat. “I think I’m full.”

  I handed one of the mints back to him, and we ate them slowly as we left the restaurant. We took a seat on the bench where Ginger had lectured us on how we were going to have to learn to work together.

  “So, when are we going on this first date?” Luke asked.

  I frowned. I worked every night but Wednesday when I had choir practice, and Sam and Tiffany were both going to Bible study. That only left Sunday, the other night The Fountain closed.

  “Next Sunday night?”

  Luke nodded. “Any preference for where we go?”

  “I thought all first dates took place at the movies,” I said.

  “True, but I usually go for something a little different.”

  Usually? The thought of Luke with another woman made me want to take up cat fighting. But then curiosity got the better of me. “Such as?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said with a cryptic smile. “Since Tiffany’s pregnant, I think a movie would be best.”

  I thought of how her bladder had to have shrunk to the size of an acorn. “A short movie would be even better.”

  Luke shrugged. “I came up with the backstory. You pick out the movie.” He extended his hand. “Deal?”

  “Deal,” I
said as we shook hands.

  It would be hard to say who held whose hand a little too long.

  “I guess I should be going,” he said as he slowly withdrew his hand.

  “Yeah, I need to check on Ginger and to quietly tell her the good news,” I said.

  He walked along the side of the building a couple of steps. “I’ll see you on Wednesday to talk about the hymns for the bulletin?”

  “I’ll drop by around noon.”

  He squinted against the sun to study me. “Sounds good,” he said, looking like he really didn’t want to go.

  Funny, I didn’t want him to go, either.

  He turned for the parking lot, and I gathered my purse in front of me. My emotions swirled around, excitement mingling with apprehension. I knew my way around men, or at least I’d always thought I did. Truth be told, though, I’d been on precisely two “dates” in the past ten years. I didn’t know how to act or what to wear.

  I didn’t even know if he would still want to date me if I told him the whole truth, but, if we were going to start at the beginning, I would have to tell him everything eventually.

  Chapter 24

  In my mind, I would tell Tiffany about the double date and she would squeal with delight and clap her hands together. In reality, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “No.”

  I stared at her where she sat on the edge of my bed playing with the fringe on my Raggedy Ann, one of the few things I’d salvaged years ago when I sneaked back into my parents’ house to get some of my things.

  I closed my eyes at the memory of holding on to that doll after I lost Hunter. When I couldn’t drift off to sleep, the weight of the doll helped me, but I had to stare into the darkness until the doll warmed from being near my body because Raggedy Ann was cold where Hunter had been warm. She was limp and lifeless where he had been plump and wiggly.

  “Gosh, I guess I can go if it means that much to you,” Tiffany said.

  “Why wouldn’t you want to go?” I asked as I sniffed and hastily wiped away a rogue tear. She didn’t have to know I’d been crying for Hunter instead of myself.

  Now who’s being devious, Beulah?

  Tiffany looked down at her belly. I noticed for the first time her shirt was held together with a safety pin. The pants probably were, too. Tiffany had bought nothing maternity other than underwear; everything else she wore had been mine. And it had been secondhand when I wore it.

  “He’s not going to think I’m pretty while I’m so fat!” Tiffany bellowed before going into a sob-fest that made my lone tear amateurish.

  I sat down beside her, started to put my arm around her, but hesitated. When I realized I had paused because I was afraid I would jinx her baby, I forced my arms around her.

  “Know what? I think it’s time we went to the mall and got you a pretty new outfit, something you could wear on your date and to work at the florist.”

  She wanted to quit crying but kept making that hiccuping sound that you do when you can’t stop. “Do-do-do you think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “Oh, the baby!” Before I could stop her, she put my hand on her hard, rounded stomach, and I felt the baby kick. For a moment, I felt that same despair, the feeling that my insides were hollow and rotten, but then, like the Grinch, my heart expanded. The baby kept kicking my hand as if to say, “Lady, you’re cramping my style down here.”

  Tiffany giggled then sighed. “Isn’t it amazing?”

  “Yes, yes it is,” I murmured. Hollow and rotten? Lord, I hope not.

  “Do you want to get married again?”

  I frowned at the thought that Tiffany might be reading my mind.

  “I never married the first time,” I said slowly.

  “Why not?”

  “I wouldn’t have married him even if I could,” I said with a shiver.

  “But I thought it was the Vandiver boy. That’s what I heard.” Tiffany sat up straight, her hands splayed protectively over her belly.

  “That’s what Roy Vandiver’s daddy wanted everyone to think,” I said softly.

  “But? How did you? I don’t understand.”

  I didn’t understand, either. And I didn’t want to tell her my sordid story because I hadn’t even told Ginger what had happened. She had never once asked. I clamped my mouth shut, but a nagging voice in the back of my mind said, Tell her.

  I shrugged. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Tiffany cocked her head to one side, obviously not pleased with the explanation.

  Tell her.

  “But, Beulah, how did you end up with Roy’s daddy?” Her brown eyes pleaded. She was no stranger to sex with a much older man. She was no stranger to sex with a man who was, at least on paper, a father.

  Tell her, Beulah. She’ll understand.

  I exhaled, knowing I had lost the battle. “Remember those purity pledges at First Baptist?”

  Tiffany snorted. “A purity pledge? What’s that?”

  “They drew up this sheet of paper, said it was a covenant with God that you would save yourself for marriage.” I hesitated. “When we were all thirteen, everyone signed it. Even Amanda Powell, and everyone knew she already wasn’t a virgin.”

  “And what does this have to do with how you ended up with Roy’s daddy?” Tiffany put both hands on her stomach as though she could somehow rearrange it into a more comfortable position.

  “Roy Vandiver asked me out on a date a couple of years after I signed the purity pledge,” I said. “Then he decided he didn’t want to go for dinner and a movie. Instead he took me to some Civil War cemetery to show me some general’s grave.”

  “But that’s not why he really took you there.” Tiffany’s eyes narrowed.

  “No, of course not. And I should have known that.” I ran a hand through my hair. It flipped into my face, an ironic reminder of how Luke’s hair always flipped back into place. I shook my head to clear it of the image of Luke. He didn’t belong in this memory. “But I was young and stupid. I did like that first kiss, at least until Roy’s hands really started wandering and tried to relieve me of my pants.”

  Tiffany grimaced and nodded her head. She had been in that situation before.

  “So, I made him take me home.”

  Tiffany’s brow furrowed, and her brown eyes widened in confusion. “But I don’t understand. How did you . . . ?”

  “I did something really stupid at that point.”

  And as I told the story, I began to relive it.

  I let Roy drop me off at my house, even flipped him the bird as I climbed the front stoop.

  But I stopped shy of the front door.

  When I walked into the living room, my mother was going to ask me how my date with the “nice Vandiver boy” went. If I told her what happened, it would immediately become my fault for leading him on or for being stupid enough to go with him somewhere deserted. And then I would have to hear her question me because she wouldn’t be able to believe Roy Vandiver had done such a thing. After all, his daddy was in charge of the purity pledge program!

  The hypocrisy pushed my blood to boiling.

  I was a teenager and thus not the brightest crayon in the box, so I got it into my head to march on over to Mr. Vandiver’s house to give him a piece of my mind. I would tell him he would have better luck keeping the girls of Ellery virginal if he had a little chat with his own son about how “no means no.”

  I walked the four blocks to the Vandiver house. It was a brick ranch just like ours, only the Vandivers had a porch shaded by overgrown crepe myrtles. I picked my way up the flagstones in the yard and hopped up the steps.

  All of the lights were out except for the flashing light of the television, which I could see faintly through the dining room window. I knocked on the door.

  Mr. Vandiver came to the door, but he didn’t look like the Mr. Vandiver I knew. He hadn’t showered, nor had he dressed in anything other than a bathrobe. Stubble covered his cheeks, and his gray-streaked hair stood up in aw
kward, oily angles. “What do you want?”

  The smart answer would have been nothing, but I was almost sixteen. I wouldn’t have known “smart” if it had hit me upside the head.

  “Sir, I wanted to tell you that your son was trying to get into my pants. And it’s a little difficult to keep my pledge to purity that way.”

  I stood there with my hands on my hips in righteous indignation.

  Roy, Sr., stepped out on the porch and closed the door behind him. “So, did you let him into your pants?”

  He towered over me, swayed over me. That’s when I realized he’d been drinking. A lot.

  “No, no sir,” I stuttered. I knew I needed to run home as fast as my little legs could carry me, but I couldn’t seem to move. I instinctively stepped backward, but that only got me deeper behind the shade of the crepe myrtles.

  “My wife hasn’t let me into her pants in two years,” Roy, Sr., growled as he reached for the belt on his robe. “I guess I haven’t been setting the proper example for my son.”

  And he threw me down on the porch. He pinned my wrists above my head and jerked at my jeans. I opened my mouth to scream but only a squeak came out. Tangled crepe myrtle branches poked at me through the porch railing and swayed in the wind, mesmerizing me and taking me away for the moment. The branches scratched against the porch posts for what seemed an eternity as Roy, Sr., drove into me, scooting my bare back against the concrete, the same concrete that ripped at my hair and scratched the backs of my hands as his palms ground them into the porch. It took only a matter of minutes for Roy, Sr., to take what he had told me to guard until marriage, but that handful of minutes would haunt me for years.

  He finished and slumped down on top of me. My insides burned like he’d used a pine cone, and I whimpered. He sat up, his eyes wide with fear, dilated from who knows what drugs he’d mixed with his alcohol.

  Then those eyes narrowed with the realization of what he’d done.

  He leaned down, intentionally crushing the breath out of me when he half slurred and half whispered into my ear, “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”

  He staggered to his feet, and I put myself back together—on the outside, at least. I trudged home like a zombie and tiptoed past both Momma and Daddy softly snoring in their chairs. Then, I went upstairs and had the first of many, many good cries.