Cadillac, Oklahoma

by Louise Farmer Smith

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Oh god, here it is. I struggle not to cry with her.

  “Listen, Jenny.” I hold her back from me and look her in the eye. “I’m the one who made the mistake. When you wanted me to go out with Mr. Richter, I knew he wouldn’t ask me out, and that made me feel so bad for you that I forgot to tell you that I didn’t even want to go out with him.”

  She looks at me, incredulous, still shaking. “Why not?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, honey, my guess is that Mr. Richter has always been a popular guy—in college and high school and maybe even when he was your age.” I stop and swallow. She’s waiting. “Well, sometimes when a person is that popular and good-looking and has people falling all over them from the beginning, he just never learns how to deserve friends—how to be a really good friend. And, sometimes, he just winds up hurting people, like Patty’s mom.”

  “You’re saying he’s a jerk?” Her gaze is direct through her watery eyes.

  “Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

  Her face twists, but she presses her lips together and gives a couple of quick nods. She will try to see this.

  Morgan picks us up in his truck on a Saturday morning. I told Jenny that I wanted to go see his house, and that he had a cat she could play with if she wanted to come along. She’s been very quiet all week. She and I have agreed that she is doing very well in school, that she has a good teacher. She struggles to reconcile love and hate for Todd Richter and for her father. I wish she were a baby again, so I could rock her to soothe the pain.

  Morgan’s house, a small ranch like the others on its street, has two spindly oaks in front, each circled by a heavy wreath of fine mulch. A garden hose is coiled on a shiny, wheeled rack beside the driveway. The place looks like a Farley’s ad in the Sunday magazine section.

  A gray and white cat is waiting on the porch and, like a good hostess, she trots up to meet Jenny. “Come around in the back,” Morgan says to the two of them. On the cement back steps a bag of kibble has been placed. Morgan stoops down, takes a bit of kibble between his thumb and middle finger and holds it above the cat’s nose. The cat sits back on her hind legs and raises her front paws with the pads together as though she is praying. “That’s right,” he says, “say the blessing.” Then he tosses the kibble in the air, and like a show dog the cat leaps and seizes it.

  “My goodness,” I say, “that’s evidence of a very smart cat.”

  He hands the bag of kibble to Jenny, and he and I start in the back door. “That’s evidence,” he says quietly to me, “of a man with too much time on his hands.”

  Inside the house looks bare, unlived-in. The flecked beige kitchen wallpaper looks like something chosen by a computer. He ushers me down the basement steps and flips on a large, overhead fluorescent light. As the bulbs flicker and light up, I see that before us, sitting on a heavy white drop cloth, is a beautiful little cherry choir pew. I gasp. The old finish has been rubbed to a soft, rosy glow. In the corner is another, its surface still dark, its base broken so badly that one end of the seat rests on the floor.

  “Numbers one and two,” I say softly. I had meant to ask where they were.

  “They got wrecked in the removal. The fools just started rocking them. That’s when they called me. The auctioneer wouldn’t take these, so I gave the church a hundred dollars for each and put all the pieces in the truck. This one is almost finished.” He runs his long fingers down the curved arm. I see now that there are still pipe clamps attached to the bases.

  “Can the other one be restored?”

  “Oh sure, it’s not so bad off as this one was. Only one end is splintered. I’ll have them finished up by next week if you’re interested.”

  “Yes, yes!” I press fingers against the carving—bread and wine.

  “The other one’s got the fish,” he says.

  “Why didn’t you just bring me here first, before the auction?”

  “I wasn’t sure I was going to let you have them.” He smiles. “And I wanted to get to know you better, mostly have you get to know me. I knew Robert in school, but didn’t know you were divorced until that day in the store—when you got going about salesmen playing golf.” He grins.

  “So, at the auction, what did you think?”

  “Well,” he says slowly, “Hillary, even if I hadn’t liked what I found—” He stops, glances at the floor, then looks up, “you were such a feast to look at.”

  I’m stunned. It is the first extravagant thing he’s said. My cheeks burn.

  “What’s going on?” It is Jenny standing at the top of the stairs. The cat appears, curving around the leg of her jeans.

  “Hi, hon, come on down,” I say.

  She looks soberly from one of us to the other and begins to step slowly down the stairs.

  “Jenny,” Morgan says, “your mother and I are about to strike a bargain.” He says this gravely. Jenny’s eyes widen. She steps heavily off the last step and comes to stand beside me. The cat follows, and she picks her up. “I’m making her an offer,” he says.

  I fumble to open my purse. “Three hundred,” I say.

  “Two hundred,” he says.

  “Three hundred,” I say, opening my checkbook, “delivered and installed.” He frowns. “Take it or leave it,” I say. Jenny frowns at us as she struggles to hold the weight of the large, purring cat.

  “I don’t know, lady,” Morgan draws his chin down and gives me a business-like look, “whether you’re aware of what you’re getting into. This kind of furniture,” he says turning now to Jenny, “can’t be rearranged all the time, you know.”

  I watch his face. “These pews—” he says looking dead level back at me, “we’ll have to bolt them down—right through your floor joists.”

  “Oh?” I say, giving him the arch of my eyebrow.

  “Represents a major commitment.” He’s still trying to deadpan it, but his nostrils flare with the effort.

  “That’s all right,” Jenny says, “we trust you.” She shifts the load of the cat up onto her shoulder and starts back up the stairs. She seems to have decided it’s all right to leave us alone.

  §

  Hillary O’Brian’s

  Cadillac Voices

  Here’s a piece about a smart man in the right place at the right time, who knew how to take advantage of what fortune brought him. Sounds like the Donald Trump of his day.

  A MAN OF VISION

  So many of the folks are new here in Cadillac, so they probably don’t know about the kind of men that built up this great state—men like my granddaddy, J.J. McAlester. They don’t make ’em like granddaddy anymore. Vision! Let me tell you.

  He came to Oklahoma a young man, and first thing found himself a pretty little Arapaho maiden to marry. The Arapahos had their own nation, see? And were, of course, thrilled to have a fine young white man like Granddaddy become a citizen of their nation. And being a citizen, Granddaddy had the advantage of one of their laws that said a man could own as much land as he could fence. See? He got all his new Indian “brothers” to help him fence in two thousand acres of tribal lands, and here’s the vision part, it was land around the route he’d heard the railroad was going to take.

  Now my granddaddy wasn’t one to be idle, so while he waited for the tracks to make their way in his direction, he hosted hunting parties for gentry in the woods on his property. While guiding a bunch of wealthy Minnesotans on a wild turkey shoot, Granddaddy discovered what looked like coal land. Everyone kept mum while they waited for a geologist and lined up investors back East.

  And while he’s waiting on all that, Granddaddy built a dry goods store, a grocery, a livery stable, a hotel, a funeral parlor, and, for the convenience of his customers, a wagon lot. And seeing what a good job he was doing of building up the town, the Federal government set up one of its Tribal Lands Offices there and the State made it the home of its largest prison. Payroll was insured. So when the railroad did come through, Old J.J. was sitting pretty. And after statehood in 19
07, they named the town after him.

  And you ask, what about the coal? Well, shoot, those mines, to this very day are producing much of Oklahoma’s electricity and will be way into the 21st Century. Vision!

  Luther McAlester

  Cadillac resident since 1960

  FAITHFUL ELDERS

  2013

  Last Saturday night, the 27th, the four of us went to the movie as usual. Afterwards, no more than an hour after we dropped off Toots and Ray at home, our phone rang and Toots said, “Get over here!” Her voice sounded like the strangled whisper of a woman hiding in a closet. I said, “Where’s Ray?” “He’s here,” she answered.

  I was speechless.

  First and foremost, you know that Ray Ketcham is my best friend. He and his wife, Toots, and me and my Carol have been pals the better part of this century. So Carol and I rushed over to their place expecting something horrible, but by the time we got there, Ray was just sitting there beneath this big dent in his wall checking the scores on their big old tube television. He said it was all a false alarm, and Toots had gone to bed. We’ve known Toots all her life, so we could almost believe she was nutty enough to have made a frantic call for help, then decided to go to bed before we could get there.

  You know what a funny thing Toots is—all that energy jumping around in her skinny little body. When she was a girl, she put me in mind of a Fourth of July sparkler, shooting out in all directions, lighting up any group she was in. Weightless and flighty, she looked inexhaustible to us boys who were crazy with hope she’d drop a few sparks on us. Now she’s older, the sparkle is gone, but she’s still energetic, fidgety really. And her voice, of course, has tightened up a turn or two, so the ripple is gone.

  Carol and I had never in our lives faced anything like this strange call from her, but knowing both of them so well and so long, we just said to Ray, okay, take care, good night. Besides, we knew the next morning we’d be in the Faithful Elders Sunday School class together, everybody playing a part—Toots making the coffee, Carol doing the treasurer’s report, Ray giving the benediction. Then we’d go to the nicest place in Cadillac, O’Mealy’s Cafeteria, and things might be a little stiff at the start but about the time we got to our lemon meringue pies, one of them would set things right with some off-hand explanation and nobody’d give it another thought.

  On the way back home Carol and I didn’t say anything. We’d both seen the big curved dent in the wall and seen Ray sitting there in his Barcalounger, rocking, even though that chair doesn’t really rock, but seen him there, his head banging forward and back the way a baby will in the high chair when it’s putting itself to sleep. Carol had stayed by the door, gripping the knob like she was afraid of sliding into the room. But I’d gone in and faced Ray and saw his eyes were absolutely locked on the television screen. I’ve never known him not to look me in the eye.

  That dent in the wall was about seven feet up from the floor, just a smile there in the plasterboard like someone raised something curved and heavy above his head and swung accidentally into the wall behind himself. Also I had the impression there was something missing from the room. I looked around but couldn’t figure what it was in the few minutes we were there.

  Ray is a big man, as you know. We played football together at Cadillac High, and he was a good tackle, no head for strategy, not a big picture guy, but you tell Ray where to be, who to hit, and he’d do it. Many were the opponents who didn’t get up any too fast after old Ray took them out. But he’d never hurt anybody off the field.

  Anyway, we got home and turned in, still not talking, but just before Carol slipped out her partial, she said, “Well, are you going to say what you think of that dent in the wall?”

  “Beats me,” I said. I watched while she creamed her face and hands, but those were the only words spoken, and the question of the dent stood like a stranger in the room. It was the same as when you’re lying there trying to hear a thief in your house. You hear a thump and picture him standing behind the living room drapes, muddy boots sticking out at the bottom. You hear a creak and think he’s opening the silver drawer in the hutch. Or maybe in the silence he’s sneaking down the hall to put a bullet in your heart. Bam. One red hole in the pocket of your pajamas. Bam. One red hole between the pink flowers on your wife’s nightgown. You wait. You strain to listen. A pipe knocks, the furnace kicks in. You wait, maybe holding hands, maybe too scared to reach for the icy fingers you need to grip. You wait until she or you falls asleep and the other takes that as a sign and drops off too.

  That’s how Carol and I lay there—not moving—the same stuff in both our heads, so there was no use in saying:

  But we didn’t see Toots.

  But she always goes to bed before the news.

  But she was the one who called and yelled for us to come.

  But Ray would never lay a finger on her.

  We lay there saying all this in our heads, knowing what the other would answer no matter which one of us asked the question.

  How could friends go off and leave a scene like that?

  But it seemed all over by the time we got there.

  But we didn’t see her, and she’d sounded frantic.

  She was probably embarrassed.

  Or dead.

  I was thinking it. Carol was thinking it. We should get up and put on our clothes and drive the six blocks back to check on Toots. On the other hand, in the morning everything was bound to get sorted out at Sunday School.

  Everyone agrees Toots is a case. You saw her at the picnic last year, so you know she doesn’t mind setting up a fuss anytime things don’t suit her. Carol and I are always glad to change seats or tables or restaurants, do anything, so Toots gets what she wants and lays off telling Ray how poorly he’s managed everything. A typical example happened Saturday night.

  When we were on the way to drop them off after the movie, Toots got wound up about something Ray said about what she was wearing. I only mention this detail so you can make your own judgment, but the upshot of what he’d said was that something about her dress reminded him of Shirley Temple, and she said he was calling her childish and started hitting him with her pocket book, and he hunkered down there in the back seat of our Fairlane like an old dog. You know the way a dog’ll do when it feels guilty. You can’t abuse it enough that it won’t take every blow and come up to lick your hand and beg forgiveness. Ray was like that with Toots. Carol and I just kept laughing, the way we always did. Toots was like an angry humming bird laying into a mangy old buffalo. They’re usually lots of fun, but this time Ray was whispering, Stop it! Stop it! kinda desperate like a junior high kid about to cry because the big guys are tossing his cap back and forth.

  The next morning Ray was there, a big jar of Nescafé in his hand, the paper bag and grocery slip from the Jiffy right on the table the Faithful Elders Class uses for coffee every Sunday morning. Toots wasn’t there. It was 9:45. Usually by that time she had the 40-cupper perking, the glass sugar bowl full and the jar of Cremora laid out with wooden stirrers. Ray was spooning coffee into the cups with his left hand and holding the big church kettle in his right. He looked up at me like I’d caught him with his hand in the collection plate.

  “Toots sick this morning?” I asked.

  “Yep,” he said, “I’m subbing.”

  I left it at that. Ray’s hand, holding the little plastic spoon, was shaking.

  Halfway through the lesson, Carol clapped her hand over her mouth, then whispered, “Toot’s Chinese Empress.” And sure enough that’s what had been missing from their living room Saturday night, a turquoise and gold ceramic lamp in the shape of a Chinese lady standing on a brass base. It always stood on top of the television.

  After Sunday School we usually skip church so as to get to the cafeteria before the Baptists let out and the line’s out the door. But Carol and I helped Ray clean up the coffee mess and then Carol asked Ray to go to church with us. By the time we got into the sanctuary, the only seats left were in the first row,
so we three filed down there.

  I felt a little odd. I don’t know why. I’ve been a member of this Methodist church since I was baptized. And if I feel the Faithful Elders Class is sufficient spiritual nourishment so I don’t have to sit through one of Reverend Thorpe’s moldy sermons, that is nobody else’s business. But there we were with nothing between us and the preacher but a couple of feet of carpet and the kneeling rail. Thorpe kept giving us strange looks. Ray was a sight—stooped and bloated like a corpse slumped in the pew. What thoughts haunted his mind, I could only guess, but it had to be a comfort to him to sit beside Carol who is so soft and so still.

  Poor Reverend Thorpe, too. He seemed completely thrown off by having us three church elders on his usually bare front pew. He stumbled along, I guess trying to give us a good show while he had the chance. But Ray’s body would jerk, as though from a nightmare, and then he’d look out the window like a ten-year-old hoping for escape. Carol held his hand, patting that big paw with her silky fingers.

  We stood to sing the last hymn, and Thorpe came down from the pulpit to give the benediction. He wasn’t more than three feet from us, and he could hardly sing for staring at Ray. Just as we began the last stanza, Thorpe reached across the railing to seize hold of Ray by the arms like to haul in a drowning man. And it did look for a moment like Ray was going to kneel at the altar. Then we were all shocked when Ray wheeled around and ran up the aisle.

  By the time Carol and I got to the parking lot, Ray’s big Electra was spitting gravel and rolling out onto Main Street. We jumped in the Fairlane and tore after him. She kept telling me to slow down. I don’t know what I’d thought. That he was going to finish her off? or bury the body? He was inside by the time I jammed on the brakes in front of his house. We tore up the steps. “Ray!” I hollered.

  “Ray?” Carol called, sweet, but no nonsense. We knocked, and then I took hold of Carol’s hand, and we waited in the glaring sun.

  Nobody came. “Ray!” we suddenly yelled together. The door opened slowly and there in the shadow stood a woman I recognized after a moment to be Toots in her old housecoat.