by Dan Walsh
She was glad for one thing: the Lord did seem close to her, even closer than usual. But she could only grab a few precious moments alone here and there. The hospital staff was treating her so well, but with these big glass partitions, it felt like living in an aquarium.
Something caught her eye. She looked up; a nurse waved at her through the glass. She made a hand signal suggesting she had a phone call. Leanne looked at Art then set her book on the chair and hurried to the doorway.
“You have a phone call in the waiting room. Your son, Rick.”
“Thank you.” Rick didn’t call often. She hoped everything was okay. She walked quickly to the waiting room, glad to find it empty. “Hi, Rick. How’s it going, your first day on your own?”
“Pretty smooth. It was a little slow in the morning, but very steady during lunch. Those ladies came in again, Molly and Fran.”
Leanne smiled, imagining the scene. “They are quite a pair.”
“They brought me up to speed on Dallas.”
“Did they?”
“Did you know someone shot JR?”
Leanne laughed. “I’d heard something about that.”
“Yeah, well . . . guess I better get to why I called. I had some time before Andrea comes in, thought I’d reorder some things today, hoping they might get here by the weekend.”
“Thanks for doing that. Did you find everything you need? I know Art’s got his own system. I’ve never understood it.”
“Well, that’s the thing. I ran into some snags. One pretty big one.”
“What’s the matter?” She sighed. She knew so little about how Art handled the paperwork.
“Did Art say anything to you about how much money the store has in the bank?”
“I don’t . . . well, I know we pay everything but the book vendors on time. He has some kind of system worked out about when to pay them. Why, what’s the problem?”
Rick spent the next five minutes explaining the mess he’d found trying to make sense of Art’s “system.” Her stomach was starting to turn. She didn’t need this right now. “What can we do?”
“I’m pretty good at this, Mom. If you’ll trust me, I think I can dig out of this, then let you know where things are at.”
“Oh, Rick.” She was tearing up. “Of course, I trust you. Do whatever you have to.”
“What about when Art wakes up? He might not like me messing with his system.”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to do everything I can to keep his mind off anything like that. If you can make sense of it, and get to where you can write checks to the vendors, go right ahead and I’ll sign them.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”
Rick had been staring at the ledger, trying to decipher Art’s riddles for over an hour. A headache had started to form in his temples and behind his eyes. He heard Andrea come in. He got up, glad for the distraction. The Christmas music had shut off at some point, so he quickly hit the play button as he walked by. “Afternoon,” he said.
She set her purse on the counter and took off her heavy coat. She had her hair pulled back like the first day, with barrettes. She wore a thick white sweater over blue jeans. Rick thought he saw some makeup around her eyes, and her cheeks were a little redder. He flattered himself that this might be for his sake. “How’s your first day going?” she asked.
“Slow morning, very busy at lunch. Just a handful coming in between now and then.” He walked up to the front side of the counter. Felt a little like being at a bar. “I’ll have a White Russian,” he said.
“What?”
He shook his head. “Bad joke.” She seemed to think a moment, then nodded as if she got it. “Those two sisters came in.”
“Molly and Fran?”
Rick nodded. “So, I need to ask you . . . did you figure out who shot JR?”
Andrea laughed. “Actually . . . I couldn’t care less. Never watch the show. Comes on too late.”
“Too late?”
“Television’s in the room Amy sleeps in. What else they talk about?”
Rick spent a few minutes filling her in. “Something else came up after lunch, something pretty serious.” He explained what happened when he’d called the vendors on her reorder list, then what he’d discovered wading through Art’s bookkeeping system. It was hard to hide his frustration over the mess Art had made of things. But he did his best, knowing how Andrea felt about Art.
“I’m not shocked,” Andrea said. “Art is the sweetest, kindest man I ever met, but he’s never struck me as a shrewd businessman. For one thing, he gives too many things away.”
“What do you mean? What’s he give away?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Art’s read every book in here. People will come in, he’ll go up and talk with them. They’ll ask him for advice. I mean, they’ll just open right up and pour their hearts out. That part I get. He’s so easy to talk to. Like your mom, he just listens so well, asks questions. Then he’ll pick out a couple of books that would be perfect for what they’re going through. They won’t know which one to pick, so he’ll tell them to have a seat on the couch, and he’ll fix them a cup of coffee. He’ll say, ‘Look ’em over. Take your time. Pick out the one that’s the best fit.’” Andrea walked over to the heater and put her hands out.
“I don’t know how many times they’d put one back, come up to the counter with the other. He’d see it and ask them why they picked that one. They’d say they couldn’t afford both. You know what he’d do?”
Rick shook his head no, but he knew.
“While I rang up the book they picked, he’d go over, grab the one they put back, and put it in their bag. ‘I think the Lord wants you to have this one too,’ he’d say.” She smiled. “He’s so generous and caring.”
Rick wasn’t smiling. He had a different thought.
I think the Lord wants you to pay your bills.
21
Rick was sitting in what had now become “his” booth at HoJo’s, eating what had now become “the usual” for breakfast. He thought about the rest of yesterday afternoon at the Book Nook. Went by fast. Time always flew by when he was working on a tough accounting problem. Andrea had kept watch at the counter, freeing him to stay in the back office. The one bright spot in the day was when she came back, handing him one of the best cups of coffee he’d ever had.
Then he wondered, was it the coffee or the fact that he had just been wishing for a cup when she showed up—or that she brought it on her own without asking? He liked that. Maybe it was just the dramatic contrast to the horrible excuse for coffee in his cup right now.
After they locked up, he’d dropped by the hospital to get his mom’s signature on the deposit slip. He had just over twenty-one hundred to deposit, mostly cash. Certainly seemed enough to cover the eight hundred dollars of reorders, so he’d brought the checks made out to those vendors with him also.
He forced the last sip of coffee down. He was running late this morning, as usual. Last night he’d forgotten to ask his mom where their bank was.
“Want a refill on that?”
Rick looked up. “No thanks, Sally. I’ve got to go.”
“Want to take some in a to-go cup?”
“That’s all right. I usually just drink one cup in the morning.”
“I’ll have your check up by the counter.”
He looked at his watch. Not enough time to swing by Dunkin’ Donuts. Now that would be some good coffee. But hey, he could make a decent cup now. He got up and walked to the register. “Say, Sally, know where the nearest Barnett Bank is?”
She thought a moment. “Used to be one downtown, but I think they closed that branch. There’s one close to the new mall they’re building out by the highway, on one of the main corners.”
“Thanks.” He paid the bill, went back to the table, and left her a nice tip. Wouldn’t be time to drive out to the bank and open the store on time. It could wait till after the lunch rush; he’d bring the deposit by then.
He
headed over to the store, surprised he didn’t even need a jacket. It had warmed up that much. As he pulled up, he was glad Columbo was nowhere in sight. He opened up, went through the routine Andrea had taught him. Only today he moved making the coffee to the front of the checklist.
Things went fairly smoothly for the next two hours. Just a steady stream of fairly normal customers who, thankfully, didn’t ask too many questions. Then around 11:30 a.m., two long-haired guys walked in, about college age. One carried a guitar case. Rick thought his own hair had been at least that long back in high school. These guys were both blond. Clearly surfer types, wearing baggies, surfer shirts, and flip-flops.
The one carrying the guitar looked startled when he saw Rick. Then he got this big smile. “Hey, bro,” he said to his friend, “take this and head back to the sofa I told you about. They got the best coffee in here, and it’s free.” He walked over to Rick. “Hey, dude, where’s Art and Leanne?”
“I’m Leanne’s son, Rick.”
“For real? Love your folks. They’re far out. I’m Mack. Not my first name. Last name’s McAdams. But you can call me Mack.”
Rick explained Art’s situation to Mack, using the simplest words possible. Mack’s face grew more and more concerned as he listened. “Man, that’s so sad,” he said. “I’ll get my folks prayin’ for him. Art’s like the coolest old dude I ever met.”
“Thanks,” Rick said. “Anything I can help you with?”
“No, just brought my friend James in. Our class at the junior college got cancelled, got some time to kill. Thought we’d come in and check out some tunes.”
He couldn’t mean this Christmas music.
Mack started walking back toward his friend, then stopped. “If I went to the hospital, would they let me see him?”
“Sorry. He’s in ICU, no visitors.”
“Bummer.” Mack shook his head. “It was Art who first turned me on to these tunes. I got saved at this youth rally last year. Thought I’d have to start listening to choir music for the rest of my life till I came here. Art told me all about these guys, good as anything out there, he said. I’m thinking, you’re just an old dude, what could you know. He opened up three cassettes right there on the spot: Phil Keaggy, 2nd Chapter of Acts, Randy Stonehill. I’m listening, thinking, no way this is Christian.”
Rick smiled dumbly. He had no idea who these people were.
“Well, you tell Leanne that Mack says hi. And tell her . . . keep looking up.”
“I will.”
Mack continued toward the back of the store but stopped at the record section. “Dude, no way,” he yelled. “James, come here. The Pat Terry Group’s new album is out. They’re the group I was telling you about. Remember? The ones that sound like Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young?”
“I remember,” James said, getting up from the sofa.
“C’mere, James. Check it out.”
Rick thought he heard a crackling sound, like cellophane tearing. What were they doing?
“Too bad they only have one set of headphones,” James said.
“Not a problem,” Mack said. “Nobody’s in the store. Here.”
Rick heard a click; the Christmas music stopped playing. What the heck? He came out from behind the counter. A few seconds later, a nice rhythm guitar sound started playing through the speakers. Then a fairly pleasant male voice began singing, soon joined by another voice singing in perfect harmony. Did sound a little like Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. But that wasn’t the point. Rick stood at the front of the aisle, hands on his hips, eyeing the two young men.
Both were looking at the record rack, nodding their heads to the beat of the song. Mack caught a glimpse of Rick and turned toward him. “Dude, you ever heard these guys?”
“What are you doing?”
“Pat Terry. I love these guys.” He was smiling from ear to ear.
Rick saw the cellophane wrapper lying on top of some albums. Mack had ripped open the cassette. “You plan on paying for that?”
Still nodding to the beat and smiling, Mack said, “Maybe.”
Rick took a few steps in their direction. “I think you are . . . dude.”
“Hey, dude, don’t get all uptight. It’s cool. Art lets us do this.”
“He what?”
“He said sometimes they send free copies of the new stuff as demos. When they don’t, he said we can open up one to check it out, see if we like it before plopping down the cash. I’d never do something like this if Art wasn’t cool with it.”
That was nice. At least Art was cool with it.
“Look,” Mack said, pointing to a small box full of cassettes. “See? All these are demos. Art said it’s good for business.”
Rick sighed.
“Usually I just use the headphones,” Mack said. “But then James couldn’t hear it. You’re cool with me turning off ‘Jingle Bells’ for a few minutes, right? I’ll put it back in when we’re done, or if anyone else comes in the store. You know, like old folks.”
What else could Rick say? “I guess if it’s okay with Art.”
“Cool.”
That Art, Rick thought, he knows what’s good for business.
22
Mack and his surfer buddy had left once the lunchtime shoppers started coming in. He’d vowed to be back later. “Once I snatch some cash from my stash back home.” He said it was to buy the Pat Terry Group cassette he’d opened up.
It was about 1:30 now. The last of the lunch hour shoppers had just left. The store was quiet again, except for the Jingle Bell music, as Mack called it.
Mack had stirred up some old memories for Rick. For starters, he remembered how much he used to envy surfers. They were the coolest bunch in high school. Got invited to the best parties, had the best-looking girlfriends. Rick wanted to be one, but after his mom married Art, they moved into Art’s house on the mainland, far away from the beach. Too far for a kid without a car.
Art had kept inviting Rick to go out fishing with him. That’s what he was into. Rick could tell it was Art’s way of trying to get them to spend time together, become more like a father and son. But that wasn’t going to happen. It went on for months. Rick remembered one Saturday morning when he finally had to tell Art to just back off on this father thing.
Rick was in bed, trying to sleep in. Art came into his room. Rick opened his eyes but didn’t move. Art was all dressed to go out fishing again, holding a tackle box and two poles. “Say, Rick,” he said, a little louder than a whisper. “Heading out this morning. A friend told me the snook are really biting out there. Wanna come? I’ll have you back in a couple of hours. You’d still have the whole day to yourself.”
Rick ignored him.
“What do you think?” Art asked again.
“Art, would you just stop this?” Rick said. “I’m not going fishing with you.” He rolled over and faced the wall. “You don’t think I get what you’re trying to do? Just give it up. You’re not my father. You’re never going to be my father. I didn’t ask you to marry my mom. Okay?”
Art didn’t say anything. Rick waited. Heard Art’s footsteps fading away. The door closing.
Art seemed to get the message after that. Rick felt bad—for two seconds. It had to be said. Art was nothing like Rick’s father. If Rick’s father had still been around, he’d have found a way to help Rick become a surfer. He probably would have been right out there in the ocean with him. His dad loved to have fun.
Even back then, Art had seemed old to him. Rick didn’t want to go out fishing with “some old dude.” Didn’t want to spend his free time taking in the quiet Florida scenery and listening to Art’s lectures about life.
That was about the time Rick pulled away from the little “family unit.” He’d drifted into the long-haired druggie group at school. The party-hardy, rock-and-roll crowd. He’d always gotten straight As before this and somehow managed to keep enough brain cells alive to land a full scholarship based on his GPA. He’d worked part-time his junior and senior year, b
ought his VW van, and headed off to college two months after graduating high school.
He never did go fishing with Art, and he never learned how to surf.
Rick was thinking about these things as he locked the front door to the Book Nook. Once again, he’d forgotten to bring anything for lunch, and he was starving. Got an idea to drive around the corner to Beach Street, get something at the diner where Andrea worked. He taped a little sign inside the door: “Back in 1 hour.”
It was a bright, sunny day, felt like about seventy degrees outside. The kind of winter day that gets so many people up north to move down here. Rick hopped in his Celica and drove off. He pushed in that Pat Terry cassette Mack had been playing. He actually wanted to hear some more. A few minutes later, he was driving slowly down Beach Street, looking for the Driftwood Diner.
It was a shame to see so many stores closed up, especially since he could remember what it had looked like when he was a kid. Sears sat at one end of Beach Street, JCPenney’s at the other, with all the smaller stores and restaurants in between. The two big stores were still there but had big signs in the windows: Moving Soon to the New Mall!
There was the diner, with a closed-down shoe repair shop on one side, a closed jewelry store on the other. Rick pulled into one of the many parking spaces available. Before turning the car off, he sat there, puzzled at the sentimental feelings going on inside him.
Why should he care what happened to these stores on Beach Street? Just a few days ago, he’d seen this same scene and thought it a good thing, evidence of economic progress.
He got out of the car and stepped over the curb. Didn’t see Andrea yet. The Driftwood Diner had a half dozen tables outside under an awning. All empty. He walked through the glass door and saw her bringing drinks to two elderly women at the end of a row of more empty tables. For a moment, he was about to turn right around and head back out the door but then realized it wasn’t Molly and Fran.
