The Happy Hour Choir

by Sally Kilpatrick

  He took another step and stood nose to nose with me. “Government can’t keep me from what’s mine.”

  I nodded to Ginger, who had already fished through my purse for my cell phone, but her hands were shaking too badly to actually hit the numbers. Mac calmly took the phone from her and stealthily dialed as he shifted to face the piano and edged carefully behind Carl.

  Carl didn’t turn to look at him. “Take another step toward that door, MacGregor, and I’ll kill you.”

  His bloodshot eyes were entirely too close to mine. My eyes itched and watered, but I refused to look away. Not even the sour beer stench of his breath could sway me from our staring match.

  Finally, he looked at Mac, and I blinked furiously to put my eyes back to rights.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” The voice was faint because my phone hung limp at Mac’s side. Carl had a knife.

  “Carl Davis has lost his mind and has a knife on Beulah. Over at Bill’s place on County Line Road,” Ginger yelled. “Come quick.”

  Carl turned on Ginger with a snarl, but her beady eyes bored through him. Her hands clenched the walker in front of her until the swollen knuckles turned white. “Go on, Carl. I’ve lived a long life. You gonna stab an old lady?”

  His nostrils flared. Twice he leaned toward her. Twice I leaned toward him. He held the hunting knife extended in front of him, and the blade caught the light.

  “This isn’t the last you’ll hear of me,” he snarled at the first hint of a siren. He stumbled out the door and disappeared. No one dared move until they heard him rev his truck.

  “I woulda never thought Carl was that crazy,” Mac muttered.

  “My cousin Mike said he’s started using meth,” Greg said. Pete jabbed his brother as if he’d said too much.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, and Mike said not to talk to anyone about that,” Pete added with a pointed stare.

  So much for the good influence of the Happy Hour Choir.

  I sat down beside Ginger and tried not to think of the Gates brothers covering for their cousin, Mike the meth cooker. Even Mac looked dejected, emasculated, since he hadn’t had the courage to do what Ginger did. Of course, Ginger didn’t have much to lose—not that he knew that.

  At the sound of a muffled sob, I looked to see Tiffany had buried her face in Sam’s chest. They swayed in their own world, and he rubbed a hand protectively over her back. The thin set of his mouth suggested he would have preferred to have been a bigger hero, but I don’t know how he could have convinced Tiffany to let him loose long enough to face Carl.

  “Well, Bill. I believe we could all use a round before Len gets here, party pooper that he is.” Ginger drained her glass and held it up. Somehow her hand held the glass steady, and her steadiness set the room in motion.

  “Lotta good that restraining order did,” Pete Gates muttered to Greg. “Maybe we oughta amble over to Crook Avenue from time to time. See if shotguns work a little better than paper.”

  Ginger either didn’t hear them or was pretending not to. I didn’t see the need to contradict them. Best I could tell, Carl Davis had gone from bad to worse, and the Gates brothers had always been better friends than enemies.

  “Want me to take you home?” Sam’s eyes crinkled with concern.

  Tiffany vigorously shook her head no. “I don’t want to go home to be by myself.”

  “We’ll all go as soon as we can,” I said. “You know Len’s going to be here soon, and he’s not about to let anyone go anywhere until he’s done questioning everyone about everything.”

  As if summoned by my thoughts, Len Rogers walked through the door. He spread his arms wide, looking like a gangly Alfred E. Newman scarecrow with Don Knotts’s bulging eyes. “Bill, we’re gonna have to shut you down until we can resolve this.”

  “Len, it’s Wednesday. I am shut down,” Bill said as he ran nervous fingers up and down his suspenders.

  “Then what in heaven’s name is going on here?” Len had his notepad open and had already licked his finger to turn a page.

  “Bible study,” said Ginger.

  “And choir practice,” added Mac.

  Len surveyed the crowd for a moment then he laughed. “No, really, what are y’all up to? Don’t pull my leg. Y’all have to be here for some reason.”

  “For choir practice and Bible study,” Tiffany said with a mighty sniffle. She held up her Bible as proof. Slowly, each and every member of the Happy Hour Choir held up a hymnal in one hand and a Bible in the other.

  “Man, y’all are freaking me out. I thought this was all some crazy rumor the ladies had cooked up,” Len said as he tried to turn the page of his notepad only to realize his saliva had long ago dried. “Beulah, you’ll always tell me straight. What’s this all about?”

  So I told him the whole story. I told him about Luke’s Bible study and about the choir. I told him how Carl Davis had originally been in the choir and about how he’d thrown me against the wall when I kicked him out. Len shook his head as he took notes at a furious pace. I left out the part about how Carl was Tiffany’s baby daddy, and she slumped into Sam with relief as I said, “And that’s pretty much the whole story, Len.”

  Len took off his hat and scratched at his reddish-brown hair. “That’s about the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Ginger raised her glass to him. “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

  She hiccuped, and Len looked from her to me. I shrugged.

  “I reckon I’m gonna have to interview all y’all,” he said.

  I retrieved my glass from the top of the piano and plopped down on the risers while Len moved around the room.

  That’s when I saw Luke at the door motioning for me.

  Chapter 26

  I followed him across the parking lot to his house. The lone deputy outside admonished us not to go far, so we sat on the porch in an ancient swing. Luke’s feet easily reached the floor, and he pushed off for both of us, but the swing swayed a little too fast on his side and lagged behind on mine because my feet didn’t touch the floor.

  I clasped my hands in my lap to keep from reaching for him. When I looked over, he had his hands clasped, too.

  “So,” he said.

  “So.”

  I wondered if he remembered the last time I had been on his porch. At the memory of flinging myself at him, I felt a blush start at my hairline and move across my face.

  “What happened? I’ve been worried since the cars pulled in, but they wouldn’t let me go in to make sure you were all right.”

  I looked at his face, but he gazed at the blue lights flashing in the parking lot. “Oh, Carl stopped by. With a hunting knife and a bad attitude.”

  The swing jerked to a halt. He turned to face me, his eyes wide as he searched for wounds. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “And Tiffany?”

  “Everyone’s fine. I don’t imagine Carl got too far, and there were several witnesses who saw him threaten Mac and Ginger. Well, all of us really.”

  Luke shook his head. “I don’t like it. They’d better catch him this time. He needs to be locked up somewhere before he hurts someone.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him about the Gates brothers and Carl’s latest habit, but I quickly closed it. No need to worry him with information that might or might not be true. “He got a decent head start. I don’t know if they’ll get him or not.”

  “Is he going to have to hurt someone before they do anything about it?”

  The preacher man was riled up. I tried for a little levity. “Shouldn’t you be advocating a little ‘turn the other cheek’ about now?”

  He cupped my face so quickly I flinched, but his touch was gentle. “Beulah Land, if he hurts you again, I—well, I don’t know what I’ll do. So, be careful. And don’t get hurt.”

  My eyes widened. “I won’t. I promise.”

  He closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. When his eyes found mine, Luke the man was gone. Luke, the r
ather resigned preacher, was in his place. “You don’t have to promise to not get hurt. I know you too well for that. Just promise you’ll be careful.”

  “I’ll be careful, Luke.” I swallowed hard. For the first time I let myself see a future with the two of us together. Up until this point, I hadn’t let myself think past a couple of dates, but Luke wasn’t a man who played the field. He was opening himself to me totally, and that thought both exhilarated and chilled me to the bone. And when he cupped my face like this, he looked for all the world like he wanted to kiss me just as much as I wanted to kiss him.

  “Beulah!” Tiffany’s voice cracked, and I broke away from Luke.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said.

  “I know.”

  Was he disappointed, relieved, or a mixture of both?

  “Right here!” I yelled across the parking lot. I stopped on the front step and turned to face the enigmatic preacher man. “Still on for Sunday?”

  “Still on,” he said, his eyes meeting mine with an emotion I couldn’t read.

  “Good,” I exhaled unexpectedly. “I’ll see you then.”

  I dashed across the gravel lot, arriving at The Fountain’s screen door just in time to hold it open for Ginger. Tiffany and I eased her into the front seat of the Corolla.

  “I believe it may be time for this car to retire,” she muttered as Tiffany slid into the backseat with a grunt. “Next time we take the Caddy.”

  “Thank God,” Tiffany breathed from the backseat where she was scrunched up like a contortionist.

  “You know the doctor said you couldn’t drive anymore with the meds, right?” I chanced a glance at the passenger seat, and Ginger looked almost skeletal under the beam of the security light.

  “I think I’ve done enough driving for a few lifetimes,” she said as she lay against the seat.

  I cranked the car and got us headed back to town. Ginger’s comment wasn’t sitting well with me. I knew she was talking about driving, but the oncologist had said that it could be tomorrow or it could be several months. He did fear the cancer had spread even though the test results didn’t back up his hypothesis.

  Be on the lookout for strange behavior, he had said. A few short months ago cursing and drinking would have been strange behaviors for Ginger. Willingly giving up driving privileges wouldn’t have happened, either. Permanently handing over the keys to the Cadillac was worse. I decided then and there that if Ginger tried to make French toast the next morning, I wouldn’t let her.

  Tiffany helped me get Ginger into the house and to the bathroom. We stumbled over each other like the Three Stooges, but we finally got Ginger situated in her favorite recliner.

  Then she dismissed us. “Go upstairs. I don’t feel like company tonight.”

  Tiffany and I looked at each other, and I’m sure she was thinking what I was thinking: Please, please don’t let Ginger die yet, even if she is acting weird.

  “Go on,” Ginger said, waving her hand in the direction of the stairs.

  I took the steps at a gallop, and Tiffany puffed behind me. I sat down on my bed and cradled Raggedy Ann. No way was I going to sleep yet—not with the image of Carl and his hunting knife alternating with the one of Luke cupping my face with his hands.

  “Beulah?” Tiffany leaned in the doorway, one hand under her belly, supporting it.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  I patted a spot on the bed beside me. “Sure.”

  She plopped down, still trying to catch her breath from climbing the stairs. “If something happens to me, will you raise my baby?”

  My lungs froze. My heart stopped beating.

  “Seriously. I’m scared Da—he’s going to do something to me one day. If that happens, would you take care of him? Or her?”

  “Yes, of course. But nothing’s going to happen to you. We won’t let anything happen to you. You know Len’s out there looking for Carl right now. He’s going to jail.”

  Her hands reached over Raggedy Ann to clasp mine. “That’s only if they catch him, but I would feel much better knowing you would raise my baby.”

  Baby. I immediately pictured a son, my son, but Tiffany refused to find out if she was having a boy or girl.

  “But are you sure you want me?”

  Tiffany smiled, the sweet, glowing smile of a pregnant woman. “You’re the only one who could ever understand me, so you’re the only one I want to raise my baby. You’re going to be such a good mother someday.”

  My womb, that part of me I had believed rotten, clenched and reminded me of what those first baby kicks had been like, and I blushed. “Then I would be honored. Just take care of yourself, though, because this is an emergency situation only.”

  “Of course,” Tiffany said as she squeezed my hand. She pushed herself up from the bed with a grunt. “I’m going to bed.”

  When she reached the doorway she froze. “Did we lock all the doors?”

  “I’ll go down and double-check in a few minutes,” I said.

  Her shoulders relaxed, and she leaned on the door frame. “Of course, you know this means you’re going to have to go into the nursery.”

  My stomach flip-flopped, but I kept the smile on my face. “No, I’m not, because you’re going to be fine. I’m only plan B. Besides, Mac agreed to do all of the painting and the heavy lifting.”

  She went to bed, and I trudged downstairs to check all the locks once more—not that I thought they could possibly keep Carl out if he had a mind to get in. Our best hope was that Len’s deputies had caught up with him and taken care of him at least for the night. Or that the Gates Brothers Militia would find him while on unofficial patrol.

  Once upstairs, I paused in front of the nursery. I pushed the door open and turned on the light. Gone were my airplanes. In fact, everything was gone or covered up because Mac had been in the process of painting the nursery under Tiffany’s direction. The crib, changing table, and rocker all hid underneath a plastic tarp in the middle of the room. My buttercream walls had given way to a bright yellow, a neutral color, since Tiffany insisted on being surprised. Blue painter’s tape still lined the baseboards, windows, and ceiling.

  I should have been able to step into the new room, but I couldn’t. The memories were faded around the edges, but my heart rate still spiked. I slammed the door and ran to the sanctuary of my bedroom.

  But this time I didn’t cry.

  Chapter 27

  There we were, two damaged women in our cutest outfits, ready to conquer the dating world. Ginger leaned heavily on her walker and looked us over. “Beulah, you need some mascara.”

  I scowled. “I don’t like mascara.”

  “Do you like having eyelashes?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Then run upstairs and put on some mascara.”

  I huffed, reminded myself I wasn’t sixteen or anywhere close to it, then ran upstairs to put on the least amount of mascara I could. I heard the murmur of voices. Ginger needed to tell Tiffany something.

  I ducked into the bathroom and started to put on some Dial A Lash when I realized the stuff had to be germ central because they didn’t even make it anymore. I fished through the makeup drawer until I found a sample of a different brand, a tube that hadn’t been opened. I took my time. Sure, I wanted to know what Ginger was saying to Tiffany, but I knew better than to get into Ginger’s business. Besides, a perverse part of me wondered what was going to be “wrong” with Tiffany so Ginger could then have a chat with me.

  Sure enough, my feet had hardly hit the last step when Ginger turned on the pregnant lady.

  “Tiffany, I really think you need a different pair of shoes,” Ginger said with a frown. “Why don’t you go back upstairs and get those slip-on Dr. Scholl’s. They aren’t much to look at, but you don’t want varicose veins, now, do you?”

  That was all Tiffany had to hear. She was scared to death of stretch marks, varicose veins, and any other physical deformities associated with pregnancy. I
didn’t have the heart to tell her they couldn’t be avoided no matter how much magic cream she slathered on.

  “Okay, Ginger, so what’s your super-secret message to me?”

  Her lips twisted into a smile. “Can’t get much of anything past you, now, can I?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Just that if ol’ Sam seems like a stand-up guy on this date, I think you ought to let him drive her home.”

  I frowned. “I thought us girls should stick together.”

  “Beulah,” she whispered in exasperation. “Tiffany is seven months pregnant. She’s about to get really big. Let her have a little fun while she can.”

  And then Ginger winked at me. My mouth hung open. Was she suggesting what I thought she was suggesting? I was still trying to wrap my mind around that when Ginger pressed a stack of crinkly packets into my palm. “You’re not too old to have fun, either. You have my permission to make a sinner out of that saint.”

  My eyes widened to match my mouth. “Ginger Belmont!”

  At the sound of Tiffany’s sensible shoes clunking on the stairs, Ginger pointed upward, and I stuffed my “gift” into my purse.

  The doorbell rang. Ginger hugged Tiffany then pulled me into an embrace.

  “Life is short,” she whispered. “Life is awful damn short.”

  Tiffany opened the door to find Sam standing there on the stoop. I might’ve developed a fondness for chinos, but there’s still nothing like a country boy dressed up for a trip into town. Sam Ford played the part well in his nicer denim jeans and freshly ironed button-down shirt. He wore a cowboy hat and boots, and smelled of something Western. Stetson?

  He and Tiffany made goo-goo eyes at each other with the door wide-open, letting in the last mosquitoes of the year. But there was someone missing. My heart plummeted to my stomach or somewhere below.

  “Um, where’s Luke?”

  “Luke’s coming in a minute, since neither of us has a car that will hold all of us,” Sam said sheepishly. That made sense, I supposed. Sam drove an older model pickup, and Luke drove his little two-seater.

  “Go on to town, then,” Ginger said. “You’re letting all the cold air out.”