Dearest Dorothy, Help! I've Lost Myself!

by Charlene Baumbich

  This wasn’t the first time in the last few weeks she’d stood in the doorway staring at the mess, then closed the door and decided to tackle something else, something less daunting, something more urgent, like trying to get all of her mail forwarded from the brownstone in Chicago, which she no longer owned, to this farm house in Partonville, in which she now lived—although she certainly didn’t feel it was her home yet. In fact, at the moment, she felt held captive not only by this house, but by her entire life. What on earth was I thinking when I made this decision!

  Since heat rises and the insulation in the farmhouse wasn’t what it should be, the upstairs was always warm, but today it was stifling. Although there were window air conditioners in the other two rooms, the Chaos Room, previously used by Dorothy as a guest room, had only one window and one heating vent—and Katie was beginning to realize the temperature in this room would probably be chaotic too. Neither Katie nor Josh had turned on their bedroom air conditioners that day since it was, for goodness sake, October ! In Chicago, one usually didn’t need air conditioning in October. Down in the northern part of southern Illinois, apparently things were different—as different as her life had become since the move.

  Beads of perspiration that had lingered on her upper lip all day now broke out on her forehead. She wondered, since it was so warm and she was forty-seven, which of these factors had created the sweat: the unseasonably muggy day or the fact that she was suddenly—and who could account for the swiftness of passing years?—a midlifer readying for the onset of menopause. Not that she really believed she was old enough for that, but she’d certainly been feeling and apparently acting like it lately, what with her impulsive decision to buy this place and move out of her citified comfort zone, which some people who knew her might have chalked up to rocky hormones, she supposed.

  Katie stood up and shouted, “AIR! I need air.” She wrestled with the old wooden frame window, grunting, first trying to pull it up, then squatting lower to the floor, alternately pushing up and banging on it with the heels of her hands. One more thing I didn’t think about! One more blasted thing to replace! Finally it let loose and opened at the same time a drip of sweat dropped from the end of her nose. She decided to open the rest of the windows upstairs in the hopes of catching a cross breeze. By the time she returned to the Chaos Room, a surprising and powerful gust of cold air was blasting through the room with enough force to lift and re-lift half of the folded-down lid on the box on which she’d been sitting. The flap appeared to be waving at her when she entered.

  “AUNT TESS’S PAPES,” the side of the box said in black Magic Marker. It was then she remembered why she could never seem to stay in this room for long: her crazy Aunt Tessa Martha Walker, her mother’s only sibling whom she’d hardly known, had died and started this whole chain of moving events that played like a game of musical dwellings. Aunt Tess had now moved from Vine Street to heaven, her ashes currently residing in a box; Dorothy was off the farm and in Aunt Tess’s old house; Katie and Josh, lifelong “city slickers,” called Crooked Creek Farm home. Dorothy had needed to sell, and Katie had recognized a prime real estate opportunity, and also sensed how disconnected she was from her son and her own soul. So she had, in an unimaginable moment, bought the farm (a metaphorical phrase that, on occasion, felt too close for comfort) and decided to move in. The only saving grace, at least at this hapless moment, was that she knew she could sell the farm in an instant and make a financial killing. Shored up by her newly remembered ability to escape if she so chose, she decided to dig in where she was—at least for now. “For Pete’s sakes,” she said aloud to herself, “just get through these two boxes and be done with it.”

  When she, being the last living heir, and Josh had had the horrible task of cleaning out Aunt Tess’s house after her death—an entire house of chaos far beyond anything in this room—they had simply tossed all papers, letters and documents in boxes to be sorted at a later date in order to keep moving along. Luckily, she’d found the original trust documents, the documents that allowed her to handle Aunt Tess’s estate, such that it was, inside of a JC Penney catalog envelope in the bottom of the first box she’d sifted. Having plenty else to do and no pressing immediate need to further explore these remaining boxes, she’d first hauled them from Partonville back to her Chicago home, then back again during the move. Yes, these two boxes now appeared to be the root of all chaos.

  Again, a gust of wind lifted the box’s top, this time blowing a couple letters across the floor where they landed at her feet. Might as well start here.

  It was a terrible cacophony of sound, a sound that made Raymond Ringwald want to slam his hands over his ears. Of course he could not, having slipped the mouthpiece of his trumpet to his own lips shortly after giving Nellie Ruth the downbeat, then counting out her first few solo notes with his hand before the rest of the community band, including him, had joined in.

  “Whoa! WHOA!” he yelped. “I think we can do better than that, don’t you?”

  “Lord have mercy on all who listen if we don’t,” Dorothy murmured, her fingers continuing to tap dance on the keys of her clarinet, adding, “And Lord have mercy on us after the Pumpkin Festival if we’ve forced them to listen to such a mess!” The entire group, sans T.J. Winslow, laughed. Unfortunately, T.J. had been the brunt of a few “bellowing cow” and “crying calf” comments due to his many sour clarinet notes this evening. “Sometimes my lips just don’t seem to fit the mouthpiece,” he’d said in defense, “and this is just one of those nights.” Although T.J., the longtime pharmacist at Richardson’s Rexall Drugs on the Partonville square, had taken many years of clarinet lessons as a youth, played in the high school band and then the community band for nearly all of his adult life, his playing had never improved. Nonetheless, no matter how many knocks he took, he just kept playing. Dorothy, who had conducted school bands all of her working life, could never speak against his efforts—not when she conducted him and not now when she simply played beside him—since she understood the kindred heart of one who loves the music too much to ever stop letting it flow through his veins and out into the world. “Our idea of a joyful noise is not necessarily the same as God’s,” she’d once said as she defended him against an onslaught of complainers. “I reckon any time we’re playing or singing,”—and she had paused here to look directly at a couple folks who were also United Methodist choir members—“especially when we’re making music from our hearts, it sounds good to the Big Guy whether we’re on key or not.” She’d had to remember her own words of wisdom when just last week she’d wanted to suggest to T.J., who sat directly to her left during practice, “Could you please play slightly to your left, like all the way out the back door to your left?”

  “Okay,” Raymond said, thumping his finger on the bell of his trumpet to rally their attention, “let’s begin again with Nellie Ruth’s solo lead-in,” a prospect that in itself caused uneasiness to zing through the group. Truth be told, Nellie Ruth’s last lead-in solo explained some of their inability to jump in together now. Some.

  Sixty-two-year-old Nellie Ruth, known around town for being sweet, conservative and a constant prayer warrior, had, with her last public solo intro at the Fourth of July band concert, stunned everyone. She was to play the first ten notes of “Summertime,” the well-known song from Porgy & Bess. It was the very song that had knit its way deep into her sixteen-year-old heart when her mother, just before her death, had introduced Nellie Ruth to the Heyward and Gershwin masterpiece.

  When, at rehearsal for the Fourth of July concert, Raymond had first announced the Porgy & Bess piece to the band as part of the repertoire and given Nellie Ruth the honored slot, she had been thrilled beyond measure. The melody and words had always brought on a mix of emotions: memories as soft as satin of her sweet mother; horrid things she would rather not remember about her violating, alcoholic father who had died two years after her mom. When her mother had introduced the music to her, she’d told Nellie Ruth through her tears that
the lyrics “And the livin’ is easy” had always been her wish for Nellie Ruth’s life, rather than the sad life she’d been forced to lead. Even though Nellie Ruth had now heard the song in dozens of recordings, none sounded better to her than that of a from-the-heart saxophone player. Yes, she loved the measured and melodic “Summertime”—that is until Raymond, much to Nellie Ruth’s mortification, set a tempo not unlike that of clomping horses trotting their way to a feed trough.

  “It’s just not right,” she whined to Raymond, who paid her no heed. “‘Summertime’ was not written to sound like an oom-pa song!”

  “We’re going to present strong songs set to strong beats,” he told her. “After all, it is the Fourth of July!”

  “It’s just not right,” she then whined to Dorothy on the way home from practice. “I tell you, it is just not right.”

  “I quite agree,” Dorothy said after a sigh. “If I were directing, I’d do it differently. But something I learned after directing all those years is that the director is always right, and it’s not my turn anymore.”

  When it came time for their performance and Raymond gave Nellie Ruth the nod for her solo lead-in, Nellie Ruth closed her eyes, took two deliberate and slow breaths and began to belt out such an unhurried, soulful and earthy rendition that instruments otherwise readied to join in froze in suspended, silent positions. No, this was not what they had practiced. Stunned faces looked on, and yet, one by one, hearts couldn’t help but be softened by the intensity of Nellie Ruth’s emotional outpouring. Nellie Ruth didn’t open her eyes until the last note of the entire song had been held to the end of its blues-laden cry. Tears streaming down her face, she appeared to be awakening from a trance of some kind, which didn’t seem very United Methodist, especially not for Nellie Ruth McGregor who was, after all, on the altar guild!

  “Clearly,” Acting Mayor Gladys McKern said a little too loudly during the silence that followed, before the thunderous applause rang out, “there is more to Nellie Ruth McGregor than she lets on!” (Gladys went on to keep a scrutinizing eye on Nellie Ruth for the next several weeks.) Nellie Ruth’s face turned as red as her hair during the standing ovation, for which everyone stood but Gladys, who wasn’t about to encourage such an obvious display of self-indulgence.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” Nellie Ruth apologetically said to Dorothy as they packed up their instruments.

  “God-breath,” Dorothy responded with a tear in her eye as she turned and hugged Nellie Ruth. “No doubt about it, it was unmistakable God-breath.”

  But that was then and this was now. Raymond, who had himself been moved to the core at Nellie Ruth’s “Summertime” rendering, did, however, have the rest of the band to consider, and he wasn’t going to allow room for another runaway surprise. He nodded at Nellie Ruth, then gave the downbeat and counted it out with a wave of his trumpet while Nellie Ruth played the first few notes to “Camptown Races,” which, according to T.J. who saw an opportunity to finally get his own lick in about a song he detested, “can’t possibly be played too slowly, what with all that doo-dah-DAYing that’s got to go on!” When Raymond lifted the trumpet to his lips, the rest of the ten-strong Partonville Community Band (plus occasional guest musicians, including Moon Dog Miligan on guitar and Plunkin’ Pete on bass) joined in, for better or for worse—and only vaguely at the same time.

  “PEOPLE!” Raymond hollered. He set his trumpet down on the table next to him, reached into his back pocket and wiped his brow with his hanky, even though it wasn’t at all damp. Then he wiped his eyes and his mouth and behind one ear. “People,” he said in a normal tone, “we are a one-town band, not a three-ring catastrophe.” With deliberation, he tucked his hanky back into his pocket. “Focus, please,” he said in a tight and constrained voice as his eyes cast from one member to the next until he had looked directly at each of them.

  They were an eclectic group of musicians. Wind instruments consisted of Dorothy on the clarinet and one beautiful flute handled like a pro by Partonville Press reporter Sharon Teller, the twenty-five-year-old “baby” in the group of members otherwise over sixty. Raymond and Rick Lawson, “attorney at law,” rounded out the section, Rick playing an alto saxophone.

  Drums were deftly handled by Loretta Forester, auctioneer Swifty Forester’s wife, who occasionally dragged her decades-old bongos out of her closet for what Arthur Landers, the band’s most cantankerous member, referred to as those “head-bangin’ songs not fit for a raggedy swarm of hieena.” Loretta stored her full set of drums right there in the park district building where practices were held, not only because it was much more convenient than transporting them, but mostly since Swifty had threatened for years to sneak them into an auction. He felt their booming beat more of an intrusion into his television viewing than any kind of desirable talent.

  Rounding out the rest of the percussion section—tambourine, triangle and maracas—was Wilbur, the manager of Your Store, Partonville’s local grocery store, which still hand delivered phone-in orders to your door. Although Your Store delivered groceries, Wilbur often delivered a mistimed ding when a ca-chuk-a-chuk of the maracas was expected, or worse yet, vice versa.

  Gertrude Hands, organist at United Methodist Church, played the electronic keyboard, often bouncing her head to the beat and swaying back and forth, something she never had a chance to do behind the organ at UMC since contemporary hymns had thus far been held at bay from her church’s repertoire. Of course, that made the majority of the older folks happy, and left the rest of the parishioners—who had, via Christian radio, vacations and other church visits, been introduced to the beauty of here-and-now lyrics and melodies—eagerly waiting for progress to arrive. Those waiting would include Gertrude, although she would never mention such a thing to Pastor Delbert Carol, Jr.

  Sam Vitner, owner of Swappin’ Sam’s salvage and antique store, played the only stringed instrument in the band, an ancient (or so he says) violin that, before he bought it, had been handed down through the decades by a royal family in France (so he says, and says, unfolding all the dramatic details and stories as he says, to anyone who inquires . . . or doesn’t). Most members of the band regretted that musical talent hadn’t been handed down by Sam’s family, but nonetheless, he played his heart out, which was the only requirement to stay in the band. That and showing up for practice, recitals and special appearances, barring any unforeseen circumstances like “my arthritis just seemed to lock up my shoulders and fingers for a spell so I figured I might as well stay home.”

  To enhance the sound, or at the very least to make it an unusual one, Arthur Landers played his Honer harmonica, which he always, band practice day or not, kept in the upper center little pocket of his coveralls, ever-ready to quick-draw and shoot out a tune. Although this certainly wasn’t a traditional band instrument, when Raymond had advertised in the Partonville Press thirty years ago that a community band was being formed and all were welcome, Arthur had arrived and said, “I reckoned ya meant all when ya said all, so I’m here with my all.” Raymond had blankly stared at Arthur, who was holding no instrument. Then Arthur flipped out his Honer and began playing “You Are My Sunshine” with such gusto that Raymond could do nothing but bust out in a smile, begin to slap his knee to keep time and welcome him into the community band.

  Now here at rehearsal, Raymond looked up to the ceiling, drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, exhaled slowly through his mouth, pasted on a smile, then calmly lowered his gaze, eyeing Nellie Ruth. He repeated, “Focus, please. Let’s pick it up from the top again.” He raised his trumpet, paused for effect and gave the downbeat. Although all in all they didn’t sound perfect on this attempt either, they did sound slightly better, which was likely to be as good as they would ever get.

  “Saved by the ringer,” Katie sighed to Jessica. Having spent most of her adult life wheeling and dealing in the fast-and-furious world of commercial real estate development, Katie had a long-honed habit of never being away from a phone. Even though not
currently active in the market, she’d carried the cordless up the stairs with her, never minding she and Josh both had phones in their bedrooms. “I was just about to begin sorting through Aunt Tess’s final two boxes of papers. What excellent timing you have.” She tossed the two letters that had blown to her feet back into the top of the box, closed the window and then the door to the Chaos Room behind her. She headed downstairs to get herself a diet cola with a fresh lemon slice. When she and Jessica got on the phone, welcome, lively and leisurely conversations usually lasted so long that she sometimes even needed a refill.

  “That sounds yucky,” Jessica said. “I guess having a three-month-old is what makes the word yucky come to my mind.” Jessica looked down at her T-shirt, which had wads of spit up, slimy drools and tiny morsels of still-damp clumps of baby cereal down the front of it. “Oh, Katie, you have no idea how yucky I look right now, either.”

  “There’s no amount of anything that could make you look yucky, Jessica.” Yucky was not a word Katie had ever heard roll out of her own mouth and it flicked through her mind how silly it made her feel. It also occurred to her that aside from her friendships with Jessica and Dorothy, and her sporadically growing relationship with her own son Josh, her entire life could be summed up as yucky right now—although she decided to withhold admitting it.

  “You remind me of a young, light-haired Katharine Hepburn, Jessica. Yes, you are our Katharine Hepburn running the Lamp Post motel right here in Partonville!”

  Jessica blushed. Compared to Tycoon Katie, as Jessica had once teasingly called her, she often felt nothing short of Podunk and putrid, not to mention currently puked on, uneducated and worn out.