The Renewal

by Terri Kraus

  “You have fun, sweetie?”

  Ava shrugged, not turning her attention from the cartoon on the screen. “I dunno. I guess.”

  Leslie promised herself, over and over, that she would remain calm and settled. “What did you do? Your father said something about shopping.”

  Ava turned to her mother, a quizzical look on her face. “We didn’t shop. He drove around a lot. He talked to that new lady.”

  “Lisa?”

  “I guess. He doesn’t like Butler. He said it stinks.”

  Leslie waited.

  “Does it stink, Mommy?”

  “No, sweetie, it doesn’t. It’s a perfectly nice town. Did you and Lisa talk?”

  Ava didn’t appear upset or troubled. Leslie was happy she had that kind of child who accepted things as they were and never became agitated over the way things should be.

  “Maybe. A little. She asked if I was hungry.”

  “Were you?”

  “No. But we ate at the funny restaurant. The one at the top of the hill.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one with the funny name.”

  “Dingbats?” They had eaten there once. Leslie thought the food was good but the environment frantic.

  “Yeah. That one. I had chicken fingers.”

  “Did you go for ice cream?”

  “Daddy said it was too cold for ice cream. He said you only eat ice cream in the summer.”

  Leslie waited.

  “Can I still eat ice cream when it’s cold, Mommy? I like ice cream a lot.”

  “Of course you can, sweetie.”

  Leslie waited. “Anything else? You do anything else?”

  Ava shrugged again. “I don’t think so. We drove around. It was okay.”

  Leslie waited. “Your daddy said he might come back to see you in a little while. Would that be okay with you?”

  “I guess. Sure. Maybe.”

  Leslie stood up and walked into the kitchen, away from Ava’s sight. She lifted her hand to reach for a coffee cup and could barely garner the strength to pick it up.

  Leslie couldn’t tell if it was from relief or anxiety, or maybe both.

  Amelia Westland

  Lyndora

  Butler County, Pennsylvania

  July 4, 1884

  I have ceased marking each entry with my age. It seems a childish affectation, yet I am loath to cease it, since it has marked every entry in this diary to date. But when one becomes an adult, one must put away childish things.

  I find the greatest pleasure in having a dwelling place of my own, my own private quarters in the teacherage. No one enters it, save me. Yet I am not lonely, for the children fill my days until dusk, and the peaceful nights are most welcome. The bed is fine, and most comfortable. The mothers of the children are exceedingly appreciative of my attentions to their offspring. Many have given me bread, or eggs, or quilts they no longer have use for. The space that was once sparse is now flush with many beautiful objects. I have gotten a few new skirts and blouses made up, of a simple and serviceable style and of durable fabric, such as are appropriate for a woman in my position. I have enjoyed frequent visits here from Catherine.

  I find myself in such a wonderful mood. I have met with my Julian again. He could not come here, not by himself, for if he were observed visiting a single female schoolteacher alone … why, there might be serious repercussions for us both. No, we met at a picnic sponsored by his church, a well-respected Lutheran church, to which I was invited by Julian. Since there were crowds of people in attendance, there was no need to worry about neither chaperones nor gossip. He managed to procure a seat at my table, where we partook of refreshment together.

  The weather was perfect: not overly warm, with some clouds and sun. He inquired as to my days and how I have gotten on in Butler. We chatted as comfortable as any couple might—conversing, laughing, posing questions, positing opinions on some town matters and diverse other topics.

  Oh … but evening was drawing our time together to a close. I dearly wished to linger, however, I stood and thought to excuse myself, for I had a walk of thirty minutes to my home. The pastor of this Lutheran church, a most agreeable man, bid me farewell, but refused to let me, a single woman, walk all that way alone. Since no mode of conveyance nor chaperone could be offered, he assigned a young man to provide me escort, one in whom his implicit trust resides—a certain Mr. Julian Beck. I was in heaven.

  Once out of sight of the crowds, in the growing darkness, Julian took my hand and I near swooned. What else might have been discussed between us from that point on, I have no recollection. I am assuming that Mr. Beck will call on me again, owing to his most forward nature.

  I will praise thee, O LORD, with my whole heart;

  I will shew forth all thy marvellous works.

  I will be glad and rejoice in thee:

  I will sing praise to thy name, O thou most High.

  —Psalm 9:1–2

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IN THE PAST, JACK USED to enjoy watching college football games on television. He would get a six-pack of beer, a big bag of chips, maybe some dip, and while away a pleasant Saturday afternoon. But he could no longer do that. He could no longer drink a six-pack of beer or any amount of beer. And he found that, without the beer, the games did not interest him as much as he thought. The beer had been the real attraction.

  He had stopped at Alice and Frank’s—not to work, but to ask if they had any blueprints yet from their architect.

  “If I have to draw up a firm quote, I have to see what sort of materials he is specifying,” Jack had said.

  Frank had all but waved him off. “What about just doing time and materials?” Frank suggested. “Isn’t that what you contractor folks are always asking for? So you never have to worry about underbidding a job?”

  Jack had to agree. This job was made for time and materials. He imagined that Alice might be inclined to change her mind when the actual work was being performed.

  “Then we’ll do time and materials,” Frank had stated again. “You work fast. We’ll be here all the time, so I doubt you’ll be sleeping on the job too often.”

  So instead of having preliminary plans to start working on a quote, he had nothing to do. None of the three games that he could get on his tiny television had any personal interest for him—no alma maters, no schools he wished he could have gone to—just big Midwestern schools that had teams that rivaled the professionalism of professional football teams.

  He thought about going for a drive, but he didn’t want to be stuck in his truck for an afternoon—especially since he wasn’t in an exploring mood.

  Maybe I’ll just go for a walk. Maybe get lunch.

  He grabbed his coat and headed out, straight for The Palm. He debated, on the several-block walk, if this was a wise choice.

  What if Earl is not there? What if I don’t recognize the bartender? What happens if I ask for a beer?

  He told himself that this trip would be fine, that he would simply get lunch, then walk back to his apartment. Maybe he would drive out to the truck dealership and finally get a replacement mirror for the one that had been torn off.

  It would just be lunch. A burger. Nothing else. A Coke. That’s it.

  He slowed as he approached the tavern, knowing that this sort of brinksmanship could prove dangerous. He had come too close to the edge before … and fallen.

  This time is different. This time I mean it.

  He had told himself those same words before, maybe those exact words.

  He walked in, took his seat at the bar, and waited, tapping his fingers on the polished surface of the wooden bar.

  I will only order a burger. I have a meeting to go to tonight, and I’m not going in drunk.

  He waited, and the bartend
er with the heavy plastic glasses and a tight white shirt buttoned to the neck, sidled up.

  “Yes?”

  Jack looked up. “Where’s Earl?”

  “Earl?”

  “The other bartender. The one that’s usually here.”

  “Earl?”

  “Yes, Earl. He’s a friend of mine. Where is he today?”

  “Oh … Earl. He’s not here.”

  Jack spread his hands on the bar, palms down. “And do you know where he is?”

  “In the hospital.”

  To say Jack was surprised would be an understatement. “Hospital? What hospital? Why?”

  The other bartender shrugged. “Don’t know why. The owner called me this morning to work for him. Said he was in Butler Memorial—the one on Brady Street.”

  Jack jumped off the stool.

  It would be as quick to walk there—or jog—as it would be to run back and get my truck.

  Jack didn’t jog, but he walked as fast as he could. If he had tried to run, he would have arrived sweating and out of breath, looking more like a patient than a visitor.

  Earl was in room 407. Jack stood in the doorway, trying to get a look inside without being noticed.

  A nurse slipped up beside him. “You can go in. He’s by himself. And he was awake five minutes ago.”

  The television bolted to the wall played softly, as if background music. There was some monitoring device on a stand that beeped every so often. Jack shuffled in, making sure he wouldn’t cause any undue noise.

  “Hey, Earl,” he called out softly.

  Earl, lying flat and faceup, rolled to his left slightly and raised his head off the pillow. “Mr. Kenyon. Nice to see you. How are you doing?”

  Jack moved more quickly to the chair by the side of the bed. He sat down. “I’m okay, Earl. How are you?”

  Earl pursed his lips, as if he were considering his answer. “Well, Mr. Kenyon, nice of you to ask. I’m dying. I don’t know the fancy doctor term for it, but ‘dying’ works okay for me.”

  Jack looked around, as if someone might come out from behind the curtain and yell, “Surprise!” But there was no shout. It was simply Earl, lying in a stark hospital bed, with white sheets, a television with bad reception, a curtain dividing the room, the scent of alcohol and disinfectant, and blurred, garbled announcements, repeated again and again out in the hall, over the hospital’s public address system.

  “What do you mean, dying? Doctors can fix things, Earl.”

  Earl blinked at him, as if trying to focus.

  I don’t know why I’m so … worried about this. I’ve only known this man for a couple of months.

  “Doctors can’t fix everything. Cirrhosis is something that they can’t fix. Slow it down some, I guess. But fix it? Nope. Can’t do that.”

  Jack wanted to reach out and take him by the hand or hug him or something but did not. “But you looked healthy. You were working last week. You looked fine.”

  Earl coughed a little and maneuvered himself to almost a sitting position. He was wearing faded green hospital pajamas, with a laundry number written on the hem of the collar. The skin below his neck was white, almost garish yellowish-white, lined deeply, mottled.

  “‘It is better to look good than to feel good,’” Earl said, smiling. “Wasn’t that a line from a TV show?”

  “It was, Earl. From Saturday Night Live. Billy Crystal.”

  “Yeah. Little things went bad. Then big things went bad. Like an old car that nickel-and-dimes you to death, until the engine block cracks and then there ain’t anything anyone can do to fix it.”

  “Are they sure? I mean … what about other doctors, or better hospitals?” Jack asked in a whisper, as if the doctors would take offense at his suggestion.

  “Yeah. Everybody is sure. Second and third opinions. And this is a pretty good place, as hospitals go.”

  Jack rubbed his hands over his face.

  “A couple of months.”

  “What?” Jack replied, not having asked any question.

  “I got a couple of months. I know you didn’t ask, but people want to know. If you have a couple of years, then people go back to being normal and treating you like they’ve always treated you. A couple of years is a long time to be real nice to someone. But a couple of months … people treat you real good, ’cause they know it won’t be long.”

  “Earl, that isn’t true. People are nicer than that. You have to give them credit.”

  Earl turned his head and squinted at Jack, as if trying to draw the truth out of him.

  Jack finally said, “Well … maybe you’re right. Or partly right.”

  A nurse bustled into the room, went to the far side of the bed, grabbed Earl’s arm, slapped a blood pressure cuff on his upper arm, pumped almost furiously for a moment, then grabbed his wrist and watched the large clock on the wall of the room. She dropped his arm, clicked a pen from her coat, made a notation on the chart, and then marched out of the room, all without uttering a single word.

  “And she’s the nice one,” Earl said when he was sure she was out of earshot.

  Jack had to laugh at that but held his laughter quiet—out of respect, he guessed, or guilt. “Earl, do you have any family? I could call them. Or has someone done that for you?”

  Earl slipped down a bit against his pillow. “No. No family. Nobody to call.”

  Jack didn’t believe him. “Everybody has some family. Aunts? Uncles? Cousins? Somebody.”

  Earl closed his eyes. “Nope.”

  Jack waited. He knew what lies were. He had been the master of deception for so long that he was able to spot a falsehood as soon as it was uttered. He knew Earl wasn’t telling the truth. His words, his tone, reminded Jack of … of Jack, a few years ago, when if he said that the sun rose in the east, you would wake up and check it out for yourself.

  He waited. He knew that lies had a short shelf life.

  “Do you want coffee? Something from downstairs? I saw a snack bar or cafeteria there. Can I get you anything?”

  He waited.

  “A coffee. The stuff I get here is weak and cold and decaf. So try for hot and strong and regular.”

  Before getting the coffee, Jack sat for a moment by himself and wondered how he would feel if the situation had been reversed and he were lying in the hospital bed with a few months left to live. Who would be there for him?

  My parents … but I’m not sure they would care. My brother. But it’s been a long time since we’ve talked. Aunts and uncles—but my parents—somebody would let them know. They’d want to know … even after all that’s happened.

  He didn’t find it curious that he thought of his wife and daughter. It was never curious. It was something else all together—but not curious.

  Maybe I’m as alone as Earl is.

  He purchased three cups of coffee and tossed in a handful of plastic creamers and a dozen packets of sugar—one cup for himself, and the other two for Earl. One cup was often not enough, so the second cup was insurance.

  He came back into the room. Earl had gotten himself into a sitting position and was staring intently at the television.

  “I brought cream and sugar.”

  “Black is fine for me.”

  Jack took off the plastic lid and placed the cup on the small nightstand. They both watched five minutes of national headlines.

  “Are you sure there is no one to call?” Jack asked.

  Earl set the half-full coffee cup back on the nightstand. “Listen. Mr. Kenyon. You’re prying now, you know that? You think I’m lying to you. You think because you’re a good liar, or used to be a good liar, that you know how to spot a lie. Well, maybe you do. I was right where you’re sitting, so I know how you feel.”

  Earl spoke more harshly than Jack
expected. He was almost angry. “I was married once. Who wasn’t? I drank a lot. Got arrested a few times. Got into fights. My wife—my ex-wife—gave as good as she got … maybe better. But that’s all water under the bridge. She left, said she never wanted to have anything to do with me—ever.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I’ve heard the same story a hundred times in a hundred AA meetings.

  “I had a son. Have a son.”

  The disclosure wasn’t a shocking revelation to Jack.

  “I wrote to him a lot. Maybe his mother threw the letters away. I never heard from him. I don’t even know if either of them is alive or dead. Being sober for all these years didn’t amount to much, you know what I mean, Jack? Sober, drunk—they are all gone, the years. Maybe I should have stayed a drunk for all the good being sober did for me.”

  “Earl, you know that’s not true.”

  “Bull. I could’ve stayed drunk, died early, avoided a whole lot of heartache in the process. I don’t know. Maybe it was worth it. But maybe it wasn’t.”

  Jack sat quietly. He would have protested loudly, and heartily, but he knew what Earl meant. He knew what Earl was feeling.

  You stop feeling bad when you stop drinking. But your problems don’t go away. All the crap you did in your past doesn’t get erased. It’s still crap. Sometimes I wonder if it might not be easier to just let go. Who’s going to care, anyhow?

  Jack sipped at his coffee and did not say another word for a long time. Earl had slipped down in his bed and the drone of the TV went on. The announcements in the hall continued, and the nurses and the trays and the carts clattered by in a river of muted noise. Afternoon sun filled the room and Earl slipped into a sleep. Jack watched his new friend’s chest rise and fall and stared at the dips and beeps on the screen on the monitor by the bed. He wondered what it was monitoring.

  Jack had a pen and a small notepad in his pocket. Since starting his business, he always had a pen and pad in his pocket; there were always notes to be taken, reminders to be written, lists to be compiled.

  He flipped a few pages to an empty sheet.