Jake's 8

by Howard McEwen

  I said something about doing our best and was happy when we finally pulled up to the Nottle house—a enormous modern number right on the ocean. Mr. Nottle put the pick ‘em up truck in park then said the darnest thing. He said it as if he’d not given it a bit of thought.

  "We leave for church about nine thirty."

  Church? I thought. After this flight? Church? I like the idea of a loving heavenly Being keeping an eye out for me as much as the next guy. I don’t even mind an itchy Old Testament God keeping mankind on the straight and narrow with the occasional smiting. But I’d never gotten the church bug. My thinking is that if a church is the house of God, then who am I to come barging into God’s house on a Sunday morning singing and praying and asking for favors. I sure wouldn’t like it. It was his day of rest too, no? My family was Christmas and Easter Christians. We went twice a year to some big downtown church, followed by a hop over to Grandma’s house for lunch. But when I was twelve, Grandma joined the choir invisible and that was the end of church for us.

  Church, I thought again. Between my forced sobriety and the late hour, my creative excuse juices had dried. I couldn’t contrive of the least reason to avoid it and always in the back of my head was the one hundred and twenty thousand dollars that Mr. Carmichael was sending my way each year to provide ‘client service.’ Not six months ago I was pulling in forty a year with sixty K in student loans hanging over my head. I decided I’d keep this client happy and do a bit of kneeling with him.

  "Wonderful," I finally said with a bit too much enthusiasm.

  Mr. Nottle showed me a pleasant guest bedroom without an ocean view but with its own bath. When I cracked the window I could hear waves breaking. This ain’t all bad, I thought. I unpacked my bag, set my alarm and jumped into bed to lap up whatever sleep I could before the Lord called.

  As I quieted down, however, I heard a mousy sniffling. A whimper, perchance? A woman crying, I guessed. I’m a hard-boiled guy, but a weepy woman is a rough thing for even a hard-boiled guy to fall asleep to. I opened up the window some more. The sound of the ocean roared through louder. I stood still a moment. That did the trick. I couldn’t hear a murmur over the crashing waves. I climbed into bed and drifted off to the land of nod.

  My alarm nudged me out of sleep and the smell of bacon nudged me out of bed. I did a quick shower, dressed in what I’d call island semi-formal of khaki dockers, a pink Oxford and a light blue jacket, and I trundled down to breakfast. Mr. and Mrs. Nottle were sitting at a breakfast table in the kitchen. Opposite them were Mr. and Mrs. Fink. I gave them the look like my old dog gave me when I tried to feed it carrots.

  "Don’t look so confused," said Mr. Nottle. "We always breakfast together." The Finks, he explained, had a vacation house next door. I looked out a window in the direction he nodded his head. Through some trees I saw another over-sized modern number facing the Atlantic. Mr. Fink had the same egg shape as Mr. Nottle. The missus were creepily, eerily similar also. About five and half feet tall, better-than-average figure for women their age and the same, short, suburban mom haircut.

  Fink the younger, the potential bridegroom, was nowhere to be seen, but Miss Nottle soon followed me down the stairs. The way the stairs led into the kitchen blocks the descender from complete view until hitting the final step. As Miss Nottle made her way down the steps, she gave a slow reveal starting with her feet on the eighth step. If young Miss Nottle had stopped on the third step I would have married her myself. She was, as The Commodores put it, a brick house. She had a body that’d give Frank Frazetta palpitations. But as she hit the second then final step, she unveiled what looked to be a major flaw. Her face. It was as if Degas had painted her when the light was bad and he really had his misogyny ginned up. It didn’t help that she had puffy, red eyes. Here was last night’s bawler, I thought.

  She smiled politely to me.

  "Where’s Uncle Prescott?" she asked.

  I explained how Mr. Carmichael would be driving down. She then dismissed me like I was the help and sat down to eat. I looked around for a pitcher of Bloody Marys. No dice.

  After breakfast, we piled into the Nottle’s Escalade and headed to church. We arrived. We parked. We sat in a pew. And I soon deduced that this wasn’t the Anglicized, anodyne, perfunctory services of my boyhood. These were Evangelical Christians. Holy rollers. Bible thumpers. Then this thought struck me: a cocktail is going to be hard to come by around this crowd.

  The service itself wasn’t bad at all. Compared to the Elizabethan blandness of the church I remember as a kid, it was nice to see somebody excited by the prospect of an everlasting life amidst Fatherly love, and not just punching the theological time clock. I just wasn’t sure why you couldn’t have that and cocktails, too.

  Back at the Nottle’s house we lunched on deli sandwiches and potato chips. I poked around for some booze but couldn’t find so much as a domestic beer. As we sat around the table, I heard a little gasp from Daisey Nottle. Her eyes were looking over her father’s shoulder toward the beach. Her mother turned and looked and put a consoling hand on her daughter’s shoulder. I followed her gaze and saw a distant figure of a pudgy man doing a bit of aimless ambling along the beach.

  "I told my boy to stay out of sight," said Mr. Fink. "But there he goes walking right in front of Daisey. Idiot."

  His wife shushed him.

  I’d finished my bologna sandwich and munched a few chips and washed it down with a diet soda. I noticed all the elder Fink and Nottle eyes were dialed in on me. I guess it was time to earn my keep.

  "Daisey," I said. "How about you show me around the neighborhood? Away from the beach." I could tell she had no interest in showing me around the neighborhood by the way she slumped her shoulders, sighed loudly and said "I have no interested in showing you around the neighborhood", but her mother was one of those women that can shoo people into doing things against their wills.

  "Yes, that’s a good idea," Mrs. Nottle said. "Now shoo along and go show him around the plantation. Shoo! A walk will do you good. Shoo! You’ve been cooped up too long, Daisey. Shoo!"

  She shooed us right out the front door.

  After a few minutes of walking along a palmetto bordered road, I decided that with less than a week to work this out, I’d use the baptism-by-fire approach.

  "I’m sorry to hear the wedding’s been called off. What’s up with that?" I asked.

  "We’re just incompatible," she stated.

  "You’ve dated a long time."

  "Yes, we did, but as children really. Now we’re adults. We have adult opinions and

  concerns and desires."

  She stumbled a bit at the end of that sentence. Maybe it was just my X-chromosome, but I keyed in on the word ‘desire.’ I didn’t probe, though. I kept my eyes down cast. This gave me a thoughtful demeanor, but also kept me from having to look at that regrettable face.

  "What could derail your wedding? You must know everything about each other?"

  "Are you a Christian, Jake?" she asked me.

  I stammered.

  "I don’t stammer when asked that question," she said. "I answer right away with a proud ‘yes.’ The seventh chapter of Corinthians tells us that people should not have sex before marriage. That’s what I’ve done. That’s what I will do."

  "How old are you?"

  "Twenty-four."

  "You’re… pure?"

  "Isn’t that what I just said?"

  "It’s nothing to be ashamed about."

  "Of course it’s nothing to be ashamed about," she shot back.

  "Of course not," I said. "If that’s what you’re afraid of—the physical side—maybe you should talk to your mother about it."

  "I’m not afraid of my wedding night," she said.

  "I’m afraid I don’t follow."

  "I have morals, Jake. Don’t you?"

  'I like to keep my morality flexible. A flexible morality doesn’t chafe so much."

  "That’s no morality at all."

  "Maybe so," I sa
id. "I guess I try to do as much good as I can and as little bad as I have to. Strict morals can make you do funny things. I once knew a girl who took her morality very seriously. She wouldn’t sleep with a man unless they were engaged. She was twenty-seven at the time I knew her and had been engaged eleven times already. I know of one Saturday where she met a guy for coffee. They got acquainted over the first cup, fell in love over the second cup, became engaged on the third. They went back to his place to consummate their pending nuptials, but in the afterglow of love, all that coffee got to work on the poor guy’s gut. He let forth with an unexpectedly obnoxious noise which greatly offended her romantic notions. She broke off the engagement. He drove her home and she was asleep by midnight and was plenty rested for church the next day with a clear conscience."

  She gave me another of those dog-and-carrot looks.

  "I’ve no idea why you’re telling me this," she said.

  "Come to think of it, me either," I said.

  "I also don’t know why anyone thinks it’s any of your business." She stomped her feet as she turned, gave a brief cri de coeur and made for Chateau Nottle. I thought it only respectful to give her a few minutes head start. I’d be going back the same way and didn’t want to cramp her indignation by following too closely.

  So to waste some time, I did a couple curvets over some pinecones laying in the road until interrupted by a hissing sound like someone slowly unscrewing the cap off a seltzer bottle. I looked to my left and spied a sandy haired man hunched in the bushes.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  "Me?"

  "You."

  "I’m Jake Gibb. I’m staying with the Nottles down the street."

  "No, you’re not."

  "I am too Jake Gibb."

  "You’re not staying with the Nottles down the street."

  "I am too staying with the Nottles down the street."

  "Mr. Carmichael is staying with them."

  "I work for Mr. Carmichael. He’s on his way. I flew in last night. Who are you?"

  "I’m Augustus Nottle."

  The bridegroom, I thought.

  "What were you talking to Daisey about?" he asked.

  "I wish I could tell you. I thought we were talking about the wedding. She wanted none of it, though."

  Gus Nottle stepped out from the bushes glancing down the road to make sure Daisey was out of sight.

  "You want to go get some donuts?"

  He looked to have had his fair share of donuts. While not a bad looking guy, he was doing a good job of chasing down his father and Mr. Nottle in the Great American Girth race.

  "Donuts? Sure," I said. I didn’t want a donut. My girlfriend senior year of high school worked in a donut shop. It was an erotically sweet smell at first, but after six months of her playing pretty good defense, donuts had become the smell of sexual frustration.

  We hiked it across a couple of yards and got into a nice little Pontiac two-seater.

  "This is one of our wedding presents from Mom and Dad," he said. "Daisey wanted babies right away. Mom and Dad and Uncle Jack and Aunt Diane think that’s a bad idea. This is one of their little games. You can’t fit a baby seat in this thing."

  I grabbed shotgun and thought, by the looks of it, he wasn’t going to be able to fit into it soon enough.

  We took a seat at Flamingo’s House of Donuts and he ordered two banana cream pie donuts. I ordered a single plain. He let me pay for all three. I didn’t expect a good donut on Hilton Head, but this was the best I ever had. It still conjured up the ennui of teenage passion denied but tasted nice just the same. Young Mr. Fink began to inhale his two in about four breaths.

  "So what did Daisey say to you?" he finally asked when he needed some air.

  "Not much. She’s the one that called the whole thing off, right? Did she tell you why?"

  He dodged the question with some half sentences. I did some nodding.

  "She didn’t tell you why she was calling it off?" I finally asked.

  "She’s just so... she can’t… I don’t know why she’s...."

  "If I’m to help, you’ll have to use predicates," I chided him. He must really hate predicates because that threw him into a tizzy. He gobbled the last quarter of his last donut, licked his fingers clean of cream and stormed off. I saw the tail lights of that little two seater and began to wonder if he’d forgotten he was my ride. Ten minutes later, I decided he had. I dialed up Mr. Carmichael.

  "I’m just curious about your schedule," I said.

  "I should be there sometime tomorrow night."

  "Tomorrow night? It’s only a twelve hour drive," I said.

  "Yes, but I only drive six hours a day. Anything more and fatigue makes driving dangerous. I also wait until the morning traffic has cleared. Rush hour is the most common time for accidents."

  "My issue is that the Finks and Nottles don’t know me," I said.

  "They don’t trust you," he corrected. "Mr. Gibb, you have good judgment. I trust you and when we solve this they’ll trust both of us more. Then they’ll be sure to tell their friends. This is a good opportunity for some client service."

  I said goodbye and called the elder Nottle. He said he’d be on his way. Before he got there, I saw a store on the other side of the shopping plaza with three red dots on the front and a sign that read ‘Package Store.’ That sounded like booze to me. With two small bottles and some citrus I could make some discreet cocktails back in my room at the Nottle manse. I sauntered over to the store. Closed. Sunday. Damn. I looked heavenward and asked, "Why?" I didn’t get an answer.

  Mr. Nottle picked me up in his pick ‘em up truck and asked, "Any progress?"

  "Nope," I told him.

  "Do you know when Mr. Carmichael will be here? He usually fixes things."

  "He said tomorrow night."

  "That only gives us four days to get the wedding back on track. We’ll have guests coming soon."

  "Yep," I said.

  Back at the house, Mr. Fink, Mr. Nottle and I sat watching football games. Their wives made dinner. We took a dinner break then went back to watching football games. Daisey Nottle seemed to be holding up in her room. Young Mr. Fink didn’t show his face. At ten, the Nottles and Finks called it a night and turned off the TV and the lights. I guess I was calling it a night, too. At ten thirty the weeping started up again. Maybe the loneliness of the night will get her talking, I thought.

  I got up and sussed her out by the sound of the sobbing. I knocked lightly at her door. She answered. As ugly as she was this morning she was worse at night without makeup. She wore none now and if the young Mr. Fink hadn’t angered me by stranding me at the donut shop, I’d do something to save him from marrying this fright.

  "Let’s try talking again," I said. "Maybe a walk on the beach?"

  She looked timid at first but agreed. As she put on her robe, the moon shining through her window shone through her sheer grandmotherly nightgown and gave me an outline of her top-shelf body. If I did my job, at least young Fink would have that. I hope he realized sell-by dates were a lot shorter on bodies than faces.

  On the beach, I asked her to tell me all about her and young Mr. Fink and she obliged in force. She started talking all about her and young Mr. Fink. Then she wouldn’t stop talking about her and young Mr. Fink. She shared everything she could think of about her and young Mr. Fink. After an hour, I was getting lousy in the belly hearing of her and young Mr. Fink. She was obviously in love with the sandy-haired donut eater.

  "So what’s the problem?" I finally asked her.

  "I told you, Jake. Now that we’re adults I realize we’re not compatible."

  "Is this a sex thing? How can it be a sex thing since you’ve not had any… sex?"

  "Jake, you just don’t understand. My whole life was laid out before me in every detail and I loved what I saw. It was a good, clean Christian life. Then last week, Gus ruined it all. He ruined it with this business."

  "What business?"

  "This business," she yell
ed.

  "What business? Your father’s business?"

  'No," she yelled. "This business with the feather."

  She then gave another of her signature cri de coeurs and fled across the beach. I followed her with my eyes and watched her lovely silhouette disappear over a dune. I had no idea where I was. Again. The younger generation of Finks and Nottles sure did love to abandon people. But at least I had something to go on, something to work with—this business with the feather.

  It took me about forty-five minutes to find the house. I made my way upstairs and resisted the urge to kick in her door and spank her. I entered my room and heard no weeping. I called it a night.

  I woke up Monday and dressed in what I had observed over the past day to be the Hilton Head uniform. It was the same uniform I learned Ohio office worker’s have for their casual Fridays—khakis and a golf shirt.

  At breakfast I got disappointing looks from the Finks and the Nottles. The younger versions were not to be seen.

  "When is Mr. Carmichael arriving?" asked Mrs. Nottle.

  "Soon, today," I said.

  "Let us hope so, you have been useless so far."

  "I’m sorry to disappoint you, ma’am. My training is in the investment business not the art of love."

  "Obviously," said Mrs. Fink. The two mothers stood and left as I began to eat my hot cakes. Mr. Nottle was moistening about the eyes again, but he managed to give me a sympathetic look.

  "You know how women look forward to weddings, Jake. They can’t be sore at the kids so they’re sore at you. And it’s hard to fill Mr. Carmichael’s shoes."

  Mr. Fink nodded in agreement. "Mr. Carmichael. That’s a man you can trust to fix things," he said.

  "Would either of you be able to give me a ride to a car rental agency? I’d like to get a look at Hilton Head while I’m here."

  This was subterfuge on my part. My own car would allow me to procure some cocktail provisions. I had sand between my toes and it didn’t feel right without a Planter’s Punch in my tummy.

  "No," said Mr. Fink. "You’re not going to rent a car. We’re your hosts. We can take you where ever you need to go. We’d be rude not to."