by Dan Walsh
Rick walked the carafe back to the sink, holding it out like a stinky diaper. As he fixed the next pot, he heard voices over his shoulder. Elderly ladies. Must have come in while the water was running. He turned to see them. They were by the greeting cards two aisles over. All he could see were the tops of their hairdos, both curly, one silver, the other darker.
He sighed when he recognized their voices. Molly and Fran, if he remembered right. They reminded him of Lucy and Ethel from I Love Lucy, if the show had gone on another twenty years. He probably should acknowledge them in some way. He pushed the start button and walked over but stopped one aisle back and listened to their conversation.
“Molly, how come none of these cards say ‘Good Luck’ or ‘Best Wishes’?”
“What?”
“Can’t find a single card that says ‘Good Luck on Your Birthday.’ Birthday cards always say that . . . or ‘Best Wishes.’”
“We don’t believe in luck or sending wishes.”
“We don’t?”
“Not anymore. We’re Christians, Fran. Christians don’t believe in such things.”
“We don’t? I’ve been sending cards all my life wishing people good luck. What’s the harm?”
“No harm, it’s just . . . well, it’s just stupid.”
“Good luck is stupid?”
“Think about it, dear. You think there’s some big luck dispenser in the sky? What . . . some luck angel or luck elf fills up a glass and sprinkles it over people they like?”
“I suppose it is rather silly,” Fran said. “But I’ve had bad luck all my life. You know that. You always say, ‘You’re the unluckiest person I know.’”
“Well, I don’t say it anymore.”
“No, I suppose you don’t. So what do you figure happened to all my bad luck then?”
“Nothing happened. Your bad luck never happened. You want me to say it? Okay, I was wrong. You’re not the unluckiest person I know.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Now, please, can we just pick out a card?”
“Okay, but most of these are red and green. They look more like Christmas cards.”
“That’s because they are, dear. Come over to this rack.”
“Oh,” said Fran. They quietly worked their way through the cards. Then Fran said, “The thing is . . . I’ve always believed I was unlucky. It kinda made sense. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think now.”
“Are you still harping on that?” said Molly. “Now, see, whatever it was you had, it wasn’t bad luck. And it’s all in the past now, washed by the blood.”
“Amen, sister,” said Fran. She paused a moment, then got the biggest smile.
Rick, standing one aisle back, just shook his head.
Who are these people?
18
Rick thought better of interrupting the two sisters with some pretentious greeting, so he walked down the aisle, got behind the counter. Made just enough noise so they’d know he was there. He looked through a small stack of LPs, the records Andrea had used to make up the ninety-minute cassettes playing through the store. She’d said folks would often come up and ask who was singing this or that song. Then they’d go right over and buy the album.
Except for a few big names from the real world—like Johnny Cash or BJ Thomas—Rick hadn’t heard of a single one. He was reading the back of an album cover when Molly came up to greet him.
She set a birthday card on the counter. “It’s Rick, right?”
“Yes. Will that be all for you today?” He hoped a courteous, professional demeanor might forestall any chitchat.
“This’ll be it for me, but Fran back there . . . she’s feeling guilty about just buying Madeline a card. Me? I don’t think Madeline will mind. Now, I will buy her a Christmas present in a couple of weeks.” She leaned across the counter as if to whisper, but it still came out pretty loud. “Truth is, Fran’ll feel guilty with just one of us giving Madeline a birthday present. She’ll write on the gift tag that it’s from both of us, so I come out ahead either way.”
Rick forced a smile. “Want me to ring this up, or do you want to wait for her and pay together?”
“Heavens no, ring it up. She’s got her money, I’ve got mine.”
He rang it up, told her the price. She handed him a five, and he gave her change. Rick put the card in a bag and handed it to Molly. She was staring at him.
“Trying to see whether you look more like Leanne or Art,” she said.
“It would have to be Leanne. Art’s not my father.”
“You don’t say. Well, that was going to be my guess anyways. Could have come from either one, though, and you’d have turned out fine. Best folks I ever met, Art and Leanne. Changed our lives for good a year back.” She leaned forward and loud-whispered, “Especially for Fran there.”
Molly was about to unload on him. He could feel it. He was trapped.
“See, we’d come in here off and on, like today, and get a gift for someone. Most of our friends are churchgoers. But we’d been going to a church all our lives that never explained anything. Very traditional. Guess they figured they taught us all we needed as kids. Anyway, we believed in God, even believed in Jesus, but poor Fran here was so unhappy. All the time. Never smiled. Lived all alone till my poor Bill died a few years ago, then she moved in with me.”
Please . . . someone come through that door. Someone call on the phone.
“I knew what it was made her so unhappy. But she’d never talk to me.” Molly leaned forward again. “Happened during World War II. She was in love with a guy named Hank. She wanted them to get married. He wanted to wait till he got back from the war. But a few nights before he shipped out, they got a little too close, if you get my meaning.”
Why was she telling him this? No wonder Fran didn’t talk to her.
“Poor ol’ Hank got himself killed at Iwo Jima, and Fran was sure God was punishing her for what they’d done. And because of it, she never married, though she had plenty of takers. She lived under the guilt of that thing right up until one of our visits here to the Book Nook a year back.”
Rick looked over at Fran. How long can a woman take to pick out the right knickknack?
“We’d come in here, and each time your folks treated us so nice. Your mom especially took an interest in Fran. Like she could see the hurt in her eyes. She took it real slow, asked Fran some questions, never too personal. Served us that delicious coffee. Sometimes with muffins. And there was always this beautiful music playing. After a few visits, I could see Fran warming up to her.”
Rick had a thought. “Speaking of coffee, I just made a fresh pot. Care for a cup?”
“Maybe when Fran gets up here. Anyway, one of those visits—I’ll remember this day as long as I live—we had just sat down for coffee. Art was up front here watching the counter. Nobody in the store but us. Next thing I know, Fran is telling Leanne all these deep things she’s lived with all these years, crying up a storm. Then I start crying. Leanne just sits there calmly, holding Fran’s hand, helping her get it all out till Fran had nothing left to say.”
Molly’s eyes were tearing up as she spoke. Rick saw a box of tissues next to the register and slid it over.
“Then Leanne opened up a Bible on the coffee table, read a few verses to Fran, and explained what they meant. She said, ‘Fran, you see what this is saying? God doesn’t want you living your whole life carrying all that guilt over your sin. That’s why he sent Jesus. He punished Jesus for what we’ve done. That’s what the gospel’s all about. Us putting faith in what he did for us on the cross. God doesn’t hate you, Fran. He loves you . . . right this very minute and for the rest of your life.’”
Molly picked up a tissue and dabbed her eyes. Just about then, Fran came walking up full of smiles. She noticed Molly with the tissues. “Now, what in the world?”
“I’m just telling Rick here about that day his mama changed our lives.”
“Figured it had to be something to get you in such a state
.” She set her card and two Precious Moments figurines on the counter. “Both your mom and your dad are—”
“Art’s not his daddy,” Molly said. “He’s your stepdad, right?”
Rick nodded.
“Well, as I was saying, Art and Leanne are the dearest couple we’ve ever known. Molly and I were just saying that yesterday over morning coffee.”
“And we meant it,” Molly added. “Then we said a prayer for Art. A long one.”
Fran looked Rick straight in the eye and said, “It’s wonderful meeting you, Rick. But I gotta tell you, it’s hard not to think of Art standing there behind that counter.” She reached for a tissue.
“Oh, stop now, Fran. I just got cleaned up. Now you got me going again.” Molly reached for a tissue.
Rick felt nothing, except a strong hope that this visit was about to wrap up. Felt if he said a single warm or friendly thing, it would never stop. “So will this be all for you?”
“Yes, but I need to explain something.” Fran held up one of the figurines. “This one, I’ll take with me. But this one . . .” She held up another, looked like a little Indian or an angel. “I’d like you to give this to your mom from me. Well, say it’s from Molly and me.”
Rick looked at Molly, who winked at him behind Fran’s back.
Fran turned it over. “Make sure she sees what it says on the bottom. See? ‘His Burden Is Light.’”
Rick rang everything up and said, “Have a nice day. I’ll make sure my mom gets this. I’m sure she’ll love it.” They both patted Rick on the hand as they turned to leave. He felt sure they wanted to exchange hugs. But he stood still and they started for the door.
Molly led the way. As she turned the doorknob, she stopped and said, “Good heavens, Fran. I almost forgot, while you were shopping Rick asked if we’d like to stay for coffee.”
19
Thankfully, Rick’s coffee break with Molly and Fran had been cut short by a rush of lunchtime customers. Thinking on it now, he had to admit the ladies were as sweet as they were odd, and he was grateful they didn’t require any help from him to keep the conversation flowing. He had sat through one almost-childish spat, after Fran insisted Molly had a crush on Ronald Reagan, the new president. Molly flatly denied it.
Most of the time had been spent talking about who shot JR, which had been revealed on Dallas last week. They couldn’t fathom how anyone in the civilized world could have missed such an historic moment. Fran said that episode had the highest ratings of any television show in history. It said so in TV Guide.
Wasn’t that something.
Rick looked around. The store was empty again. A Christmas cassette played through the store. Mr. Coffee was slowly brewing a fresh pot of coffee in the back. Rick ate a second slice of banana nut bread one of the customers had left. She’d asked him to bring it to his mother at the hospital. But it was after 1:00 p.m. and he’d forgotten his lunch. He knew his mom believed in sharing.
Rick stared at the telephone. Before he lost the nerve, he picked it up, dialed the number, and gave a brief summary to his boss’s secretary. She quickly put him through.
“Rick, how’s it going, my man? How’d your skiing trip go? Was it Aspen this time?”
His boss was in a good mood; his lunch appointment must have gone his way. “I’m doing fine, Mr. Rainey, but . . . well, things didn’t turn out the way I planned. Hope you had a nice Thanksgiving.”
“Food was good, company was tolerable. This year it was my wife’s family’s turn, so we were down in Mobile. So . . . what happened to you?”
Rick filled him in about Art and how that had abruptly changed Rick’s holiday plans. “The thing is now . . . the doctors are saying he needs surgery, but his brain is still too swollen to operate.”
“So you’re going to have to stay down there another, what, two or three days?”
“Actually, I’m going to need to stay at least the rest of the week.”
“Really?”
Rick didn’t like the tone in that reply. “I’m sorry to spring this on you, sir. But I don’t see any other way. It’s a small store, but it’s their whole livelihood, and she doesn’t have anyone else who can fill in. You know how retail is the weeks just after Thanksgiving. It’s their highest sales volume.”
“But . . . it is just a retail job, right? Can’t they call a temp service?”
“I checked. Town’s too small. They don’t even have one.”
“Well, it’s your vacation time, Rick. You know our policy. It’s yours to use as you please, long as our clients’ needs come first. I’m assuming you had a pretty full schedule set for this week. We’re heading into year’s end, things heat up pretty—”
“I know, Mr. Rainey.” Rick sighed. “It’s a terrible time for this to happen.”
“Just thinking of you, Rick. I’ll take a look at your appointments this week, see who can fill in.”
“Actually, sir, I’ve already figured something out. I was going to call my secretary next and see how many appointments I can bump till next week. For those who can’t, I’ll call other associates to support them, see if they can keep the plates spinning till I get back.” If Rick had to get anyone else involved with his clients, he wanted to pick them.
“That’s good, Rick. You already thought it through then. Well, do what you have to do down there. We’ll see you back here next week.”
“Thanks, Mr. Rainey.”
“Don’t come back with too much of a tan,” he said. “Folks might doubt your cover story.”
“Right, sir.” Rick hung up.
He hadn’t solved his problem, just bought himself a little time. Rick knew Art wouldn’t be up and about by next week. Not with open-cranial surgery. He’d be down at least this week and the next.
If he survived at all.
After the lunchtime rush, things quieted down again. He looked at his watch. Andrea should be coming in an hour or two from now. Seemed like a safe time to head back to Art’s office and do some paperwork. Maybe telephone the vendors on Andrea’s reorder list.
He looked up at the front door and made a mental note to buy some kind of bell, something to let him know when people came in. He stopped at the cassette player, turned the volume down, then walked to the office, stood in the doorway.
Really, this wasn’t an office.
It was barely bigger than a broom closet. The desktop was an interior door, cut in half and wedged in a corner. The other end rested on a rusty two-drawer file cabinet. In the middle sat a swivel chair that didn’t swivel, the back wrapped in duct tape to keep a rip from getting worse. Paint was chipping off one wall. The paneling on the other was warped and pulling away. Nothing matched. Rick sat down and slid the reorder sheet from the inbox.
For the next thirty minutes, he called each of the vendors on the list. It was a humiliating experience. Half the vendors turned him down. All for the same reason. “I’m sorry. We can’t send you any new inventory until we receive payment for orders already received.”
“How much do you need before you can process the order?” he’d asked. He wrote the various amounts down on a separate sheet of paper, then totaled it up.
Just over eight hundred dollars.
Didn’t seem like much at first. Pocket change back in Charlotte. Rick searched around and found the store’s checkbook. He flipped to the last check stub to see how much money they had in the bank. He couldn’t believe it; there was no balance. He turned back through pages of stubs to find the last time a balance had been recorded. Over three weeks ago. And there were all kinds of handwritten notes scribbled in the margin, arrows drawn here and there, referencing one check number or another. Several times, balances had been crossed out and new figures written in above them.
He reached for Art’s bookkeeping journal and opened it, hoping it might shed some light. It was even worse. Looking at it more closely, he knew one thing for sure: Art routinely operated with a negative balance. There was almost as much red ink as black, and the l
ast eight balance entries were red.
The whole thing was a mess.
He looked up from the desk. This office was a dump. The store was a dump. Art’s books were trash. This was no way to run a business. Rick hated to add to his mom’s stress, but he needed to call her and make her aware of this, get her permission to sort this all out.
It was that bad.
20
Leanne was almost getting used to the new routine. Wake up stiff and sore, both back and hips. Glance at Art, then his numbers. Fold up the sheets and blanket, put the chair-bed back together. Glance at Art, then his numbers. Brush down the parts of her hair that stuck out the worst, try not to look at her face in the mirror while doing so. Look back at Art through the mirror. Brush her teeth. Walk over and kiss Art on the forehead. Carry her bag, robe, and towel to the room they provided nearby for a shower. And as quickly as possible, try to make herself presentable in case Art woke up.
After the morning routine, she’d come back to sit, pray, and read for most of the day. Every so often, look up at Art and pray some more. Oh yes, eat hospital food three times a day. Breakfast this morning had been a poached egg, dry toast, and a banana. For lunch: macaroni and cheese, vanilla pudding. It wasn’t so bad, not like everyone says. More than anything, she missed her coffee. They had coffee here, but it was awful. Art always said hers was the best.
She looked up at Art, checked his numbers again. His vital signs had remained stable today, and that was a good thing. Dr. Halper seemed pleased. He’d been in just after lunch and said the swelling in Art’s brain was decreasing some. Another day or two and he felt Art might be strong enough to move to Shands.
This was the only upside in Leanne’s life at the moment.
She felt so lonely. Mostly for Art. The desire to talk with him gnawed inside her like hunger pangs. She also missed Andrea and little Amy, especially now; Amy was so delightful to be with at Christmastime. And Leanne missed all the customers who filled her days with so much conversation and adventure.
