The Happy Hour Choir

by Sally Kilpatrick

“Does a fat baby fart?”

  Definitely a good day. Just as long as I got the coffee brewing quickly.

  “Those are some nice duds you have there.” Ginger sat up a little to read my sweats, winced, and sat back down gently.

  “It’s not what you think.” I already had the coffee brewing and butter sizzling in the skillet. I started cracking eggs.

  “Well, that’s a shame,” Ginger said. “I had such high hopes.”

  “I’ll have to keep your gift for much later.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek and put a cup of coffee, black with two sugars, in front of her.

  “Well, well,” Tiffany said with a yawn as she waddled into the kitchen scratching her belly. “Look who’s sneaking in early this morning. In a conspicuously large sweatsuit.”

  “It’s not what you think,” I repeated as I flipped the eggs.

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it over breakfast,” I said as I opened the loaf of bread and started putting slices in the toaster.

  “Bow-chicka-bow-bow,” sang Tiffany as she took her seat.

  “That’s enough.”

  “Give the girl some details,” Ginger said. “She only got a chaste kiss at the door.”

  My eyes cut to Tiffany, but she looked away. A chaste kiss was all she needed for now, and, despite what I’d said the night before, Luke had given me no more than I needed. Tiffany and I both had a lot to figure out.

  “Yeah, Beulah, spill,” Tiffany murmured.

  “What has gotten into you two?” I slid eggs and toast on plates and placed them in front of my so-called friends. I rustled up butter, jelly, and calcium-fortified orange juice for the pregnant lady.

  “We’re sitting over breakfast. Now tell me all about your date.” Tiffany couldn’t even wait for me to sit down. She waggled her eyebrows for effect, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  I told them about the flat tire, the Trivial Pursuit, even the long conversations. I didn’t get into all of the details since there were parts that Tiffany knew that Ginger didn’t and vice versa, but they got the idea. They expressed the proper amount of incredulous indignation at the idea of a celibacy vow, but then Tiffany started mooning about how it was so romantic.

  “Uh-oh, they’ve both got the glow, and it’s not because they got some.” Ginger shook her head.

  Tiffany went to the coffeemaker to hide her blush.

  “Hey, momma to be, you’re not supposed to have that,” I said.

  Tiffany leveled me with a glare that told me she would eat and drink whatever she damn well pleased. I backed down. It was only half a cup; if she wanted to have that big ol’ baby tap dancing on her bladder because he’d been fed caffeine, then so be it.

  “What about your date?”

  “It was great,” she said with a dreamy look before yanking herself back down to earth. “It’s a shame.”

  “What’s a shame?” Ginger and I asked in unison before turning to look at each other.

  “It’s a shame I had to meet him now. Maybe if I’d met him before . . .”

  Before would’ve been a lot easier. I had to give her that.

  “I mean, he probably only asked me out as a favor to Luke,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to date a pregnant woman if I were him.”

  “But you’re not him,” I said.

  “And he doesn’t know the real me, now, does he? How could he, when I’m not even sure who I am?”

  I couldn’t say anything to that.

  “Give him a little time,” Ginger said. “You never know what a man’s going to do.”

  Chapter 29

  Despite Ginger’s warning, both Sam and Luke were very predictable. Sam called Tiffany later that afternoon, and Luke called me that evening. We finally did have a real double date, a trip to the fair, where I learned the good reverend wasn’t fond of Ferris wheels—at least not until I gave him a peck on the cheek while we were sitting up top.

  October came and went. We did our recording for John the Baptist not long afterward and had to redo an entire song when we realized Sam had been singing while wearing Dracula teeth. I was in love, so dangerously in love I didn’t notice what was happening around me. Sure, Tiffany’s belly got bigger and Sam got even more protective. Luke brought me flowers and even made me a mix CD that was heavy on the Beatles. But there were other things. Things I should have noticed. The Fountain wasn’t as crowded as it used to be, and Ginger stooped a little lower and walked a little slower each day. Sometimes she would wake up from a nap, and it would take her a minute to remember who I was. Then she would make a smart-aleck comment, and I would forget my apprehension.

  Then I got two pieces of news on the first of November: one good and the other bad.

  My cell phone rang with an unfamiliar number as I was headed out the door for The Fountain. “Hey, Beulah, this is Derek.”

  “Who?”

  “Derek, from Nashville.”

  Oops. I should’ve known that.

  “Listen, I have a guy who’s looking to do something with a real honky-tonk feel, and he needs a pianist. I immediately thought of you. Think you could come in the first weekend of December?”

  “I-I think I can,” I said, glad Derek wasn’t holding it against me that I’d turned him down.

  “We’re talking about thirty dollars an hour.”

  “What?”

  “You can start charging more once you have some experience under your belt.”

  I could make more than that?

  I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation because I had dollar signs dancing in my head. Derek yammered on about sending me some music to look at. Strictly hush-hush. Then he tacked on a sentence that grabbed my attention. “But I’m sorry about the Happy Hour Choir.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I tried my best to pitch it, but no one was going for it. If you could show everyone had honestly reformed, you’d probably have the story of the year, but I saw that crew. They’re still cussing and drinking. None of the gospel labels want to touch them.” He paused for a minute. “You know, you could probably make a fortune, though, if you did your own recording. Make some CDs and sell ’em out of the trunk of your car. That’s what you have to do sometimes. To get started, you know.”

  “Well, thanks for the advice,” I said.

  “No problem. You’ve got some things you need to muddle through before you can make a career of it, but I want to be able to say I knew you when.”

  Muddle through. You have no idea.

  And with a distracted good-bye he was gone.

  I pulled into The Fountain’s parking lot about to bust a seam. How was I supposed to keep such good news to myself?

  “Hey, Beulah, can I have a word with you?”

  Bill didn’t look like himself at all. His face was drawn into a deep frown that accentuated his Droopy Dog jowls. I resisted the urge to manually pull the corners of his mouth up into a smile to match my mood. “What’s up?”

  He gestured to a stool along the wall. I took one in the corner, and he carefully lowered himself onto the next closest one. “You know I care about you, don’t you?”

  I stopped fidgeting with the stack of cocktail napkins I was straightening. “Uh-oh. Are you trying to dump me, Bill?”

  He picked up his hat, scratched his balding head, and slammed the cap back down. “Dang it! It’s not your fault, it’s—”

  “I know, I know, the old ‘it’s not you; it’s me’ speech. Very clever.”

  “This ain’t a joke,” Bill bellowed, and I leaned back. I had never heard him lose his temper once.

  “Remember a while back when I needed to talk to you? I’m going to have to let you go or close the place down. You and Reverend Daniels have driven all my best customers away.”

  “What?”

  “Well, half the folks in here don’t drink like they used to because they go to church, sing in the choir, even go to Bible study, for God’s sake. The other half won’t come in here because t
hey see your crowd as goody two-shoes.”

  My happiness faded. I looked out over the bar. Sure, Monday nights were usually slow, but there couldn’t be more than five people. Mac couldn’t even get a decent poker game going.

  “I’m sorry. I never saw this coming, and I doubt Luke set out to run you out of business, either.”

  “Aw, hell, Beulah, I was getting too old for the honky-tonk business anyway. Marsha tells me she’s sick and tired of my long hours. Says she wants to move to Florida.”

  I shook away the mental image of Bill in Bermuda shorts and sandals with black socks. “What do you think about that?”

  He took off his cap again and flattened what was left of his hair before he shoved it back down on his head. “I was born here in Yessum County, and I reckon I’m going to die here. When I die she can find her a new geezer and make him move to Florida.”

  I smiled. “You’re a good egg, Bill.”

  He slugged me lightly on the shoulder. “You’re something special, Beulah.”

  “So this is it?” I stood and played with a loose thread at the bottom of my shirt so I would have something to do with my hands.

  “This is it,” Bill said. I could have sworn I saw tears in his eyes, but I’m sure he would deny it.

  I made it halfway to the piano before I remembered to ask one last question. “How are you going to convince your wife to stay here?”

  Bill grinned so wide I could see his silver-capped molars. “Oh, I told her we didn’t have enough money. Told her we’d have to open one of them nudey bars right off the Interstate just to make a living.”

  I grinned back at him but rubbed one pointer finger over the other in the traditional “shame, shame” gesture. He laughed.

  When it came time to play “Dwelling in Beulah Land,” I stopped to address the crowd. Only a few more folks had shown up. I noticed Bill was running beers from the counter to the patrons, which meant he’d let go of the waitress before me. I hadn’t noticed because I’d been so busy being in love.

  About twelve or so faces stared at me blankly, and it was the quietest I had ever seen The Fountain on a regular business day. “Folks, this is my last night at The Fountain.”

  A few people booed.

  “Now, now. It’s time for me to move on, I suppose.” I took a deep breath. “But before I do, I’m going to sing this song one last time. And I’m going to sing it right. And I would appreciate it if you would help me out.”

  A couple of people actually cleared their throats as I poised my hands over the keys and steeled myself to play my song.

  No beer bottles clinked together that night.

  The minute Bill decided to close up I gave him a big hug before running across the parking lot to tell Luke my news.

  I rapped lightly at first, but he didn’t answer the door. I rapped a little harder and heard some stirring. The oddest sense of déjà vu pricked me as Luke came to the door, shirtless once again.

  “Beulah, it’s three in the morning.”

  I kissed him and pushed my way in. “I’m sorry, but I had to tell you my good news.” I frowned. “And my bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “Bad news?” Luke yawned.

  “Well, the bad news is that Bill fired me from The Fountain.”

  “That’s great,” Luke said. My eyes narrowed, and he took a step back. “I mean, that must be very disappointing for you.”

  I folded my arms over my chest. “We’ll come back to that. The good news is that Derek, the talent scout, has found a gig for me in Nashville on the first of December.”

  “Oh, Beulah, that’s awesome.” He picked me up in a bear hug and spun me around.

  “It’s only a studio musician job,” I told him, laughing. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  He stopped spinning me and held on tight to both shoulders. “No, it’s a huge deal. When God closes a door—”

  “Enough with the preacher mode for now.” I kissed him to shut him up. I grinned at him then kissed him then grinned at him some more. Everything with him was the beginning of something great. I couldn’t believe I had been lucky enough to finally find a man like Luke.

  Then emotions deep within shifted from happiness to need. Luke’s hand knotted the hair at the nape of my neck, and suddenly there was no place on earth that was close enough to him.

  “Beulah,” he murmured.

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  His hand hesitated just below my bra, and his breath was ragged. “Is it time?”

  Was it? Was I ready? Was it a sin? Did I care?

  My love for him washed through me, a tsunami to match the tornado of emotions under my rib cage. “Yes, I think so. No. Wait.”

  I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed him to arm’s length. “No. I’m going to walk out that door.”

  He pulled me close and kissed me again.

  “In a minute, I’m going to walk out that door,” I murmured as he traced kisses down my neck. My fingers trailed down his muscular arms and wrapped around his waist. And to think, I still had a handful of condoms burning a hole through my purse, too.

  “I’m going to leave before we do something you regret.” I slapped his behind. “But I thought I’d leave you with something to think about.”

  I slipped out the door with a grin on my face, and I could’ve sworn I saw the ghost of his smile in the dim kitchen light.

  Chapter 30

  I still had a grin on my face when I walked through the front door. Light from the TV flashed on the wall behind me, and I tiptoed into the living room to see what Ginger was pretending to watch while she slept. Rick was telling Ilsa maybe not that day, maybe not tomorrow, but someday she would regret not going with Lazlo if she stayed with him.

  Fat chance, I thought with all the self-assurance of a woman who had found a noble, self-sacrificing man.

  “Ginger.” I nudged her shoulder, noticing she’d finally taken off the cheap cardinal necklace and laid it on the end table. “Hey, you need to go to bed.”

  We had been through this scenario a million times over the years. I would walk in late. She would be asleep in the chair. I would wake her up and help her to her room.

  But that night, Ginger didn’t stir. She didn’t give me a groggy “Wha—?” and pop her dentures back into place. In fact, she wasn’t asleep at all. Instead, she stared blankly beyond the television, her eyes not focused.

  “Ginger!”

  She tried to say something, but I couldn’t understand a word. Something wasn’t right; something wasn’t right at all. Ginger tried to reach for me with both hands but only her right hand came up. And she couldn’t talk.

  “Tiffany!” I yelled. “We gotta go now!”

  She came down the steps so fast I was afraid she would trip and become my second patient for the hospital. As though reading my thoughts, she gripped the handrail and took her steps slower before helping me get Ginger into the Caddy.

  As I started the car, I racked my brain, going through the list of possible maladies that could occur to cancer patients or to old people. Only one possibility seemed likely.

  “Stroke?” I asked Ginger as I took a corner entirely too sharply. Tiffany reached around the passenger side seat to gently hold Ginger’s shoulders in place.

  My heart hammered all the way there. Was this it? Was I going to lose Ginger here? Like this? What could I say? What did I want to say? I told myself to say something to make her feel better, to make Tiffany feel better, anything. But I couldn’t think of a blessed thing.

  We rolled under the ER pavilion on two wheels. Tiffany helped me get Ginger into a wheelchair then took the keys to move the car.

  I soon discovered that Medicare and a stroke were a magic combination to get you to the head of triage—well, that and we’d been there so many times it wouldn’t surprise me if we hadn’t maxed out some kind of secret rewards program.

  I followed Ginger back as she went through a series of tests that made me dizzy just to watch. I walked with h
er from room to room. I squeezed one arm as they took blood from the other. By the time they wheeled her to her own room she had come in and out of consciousness several times. I wouldn’t leave her side, but I finally sent Tiffany out to get burgers because she was way too pregnant to pace in a hospital room and hungry enough she was starting to growl. Like a bear.

  By morning, Ginger had become more and more lucid, lucid enough to get thoroughly annoyed with her doctor when he came in to check on her. Dr. Perkins, a tall, blond man with a deep cleft in his chin, didn’t deserve her rancor but also didn’t have any problems ignoring it.

  “She appears to have had a transient ischemic attack, but—”

  “What’s that?” My heart pounded. Anything I would have difficulty pronouncing could not possibly be good.

  He winced. “I hesitate to say a small stroke because the prognosis for recovery from a TIA is much better, but that’s the general idea. The MRI didn’t show anything, but we’ll know more when we get some of the other test results back,” Dr. Perkins said in his best soap-opera-narrator voice. “Symptoms shouldn’t last much longer, but she is at increased risk for another stroke.”

  “I am sitting right here, you two,” Ginger tried to say. I winced at her garbled speech, but I didn’t have any trouble understanding her.

  “And the tests suggest the cancer may have spread to her brain, although you would need the oncologist to verify that. Has Ms. Belmont exhibited any odd behavior lately? Maybe something uncharacteristic or uninhibited?”

  You mean like handing me a wad of condoms and commanding me to sleep with a preacher? “Nothing too weird.”

  “Hey, hey . . .” Her slurred speech sounded a great deal like Harry Caray, but I knew better than to mention it. Ginger Belmont was a lifelong Cardinals fan.

  “Obviously, we’ll need to keep an eye on her. Try to get some rest for now.”

  I put a hand on his jacketed arm before he could leave. “What are her chances for recovery?”

  “Oh, she should recover fully from this episode, but she’s at greater risk for a bigger stroke or other complications from her cancer.”

  I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. This wasn’t it, but the end was near whether I liked it or not. “Thanks, doc.”