“I’m just here to take your breakfast order,” Lester said with disgust as he folded his pad closed and stuck it back in the folds of his makeshift apron. “Let me know when you’re ready. I got people to feed.” He spun on his heels and was back behind the U before either of them could open their mouths.
“Still a sore loser, is he?” Herm said to Arthur with a chuckle.
Arthur gave Jessie a sideways glance and sucked air through his teeth. “Some days, Hermie,” Arthur said way too loudly, “I ain’t sure if I won or lost!” Arthur slapped Herm on the back and the two of them guffawed. Vera’s face turned red with embarrassment for Jessie (the line was thin between teasing and torture, she thought) and Jessie’s face turned red with anger—although by some miracle of the moment she didn’t knock Arthur to the floor with the windup and uppercut she was envisioning.
Herm and Arthur were talking about Buicks by the time Lester was back to take their orders, which took place without further conversation or incident. Even if somebody had tried to chat with Lester about anything other than food, he wouldn’t have stayed long enough to hear it. He was busy cooking up a giant batch of green beans with bacon and onions to accompany the evening’s liver special and they needed lots of stirring. Besides, those old “remember when” conversations were fine—unless they involved the era when he and Jessie were sparking. Then he hated them and always did his best to nip them in the bud. There was nothing funny about it, he thought, and everyone, especially in that Landers clan, should know better by now.
Truth be told, Lester spent a few hours each year—no, not days, weeks or months but nonetheless concentrated hours—allowing his mind to imagine what his life might have been like had he proposed first to the woman for whom his young heart so strongly yearned nearly six decades ago. More often than not, the what-ifs rolled around at the holidays; since he’d never married he’d had to train himself to live with a brief, dull, lonely ache when it snuck up on him. Even though Partonville was small, he didn’t see Jessie that often since Arthur usually came to Harry’s solo. But when he did see her, every now and again—just for a moment—his heart still skipped a beat. No matter that her once long and thick black hair was now neckline short, thinned and snow white, her eyes still held that mischievous fire that had first captured his attention clear back when they were in sixth grade. He noticed it most during baseball season when Jessie took to the mound and strutted her stuff. Her hazel eyes with prominent orange flecks still flashed a captivating hue when her adrenaline was pumping. This past summer when, thanks to her pitching, the Musketeers had beat the Palmer Pirates for the championship (of course, an opponent’s arthritis and somebody’s recent cataract surgery hadn’t hurt either), he’d suffered a brief bout of what-ifs just recalling the spark in her eyes and the ancient longing in the pit of his belly as she’d bared down to clinch the win, especially when he’d seen Arthur kiss her right on the lips afterwards—an episode that had stunned everyone who’d witnessed it, including Jessie.
It wasn’t that Lester was jealous of Arthur; Lester had neither a jealous nature nor a bent toward severing longstanding friendships. And it wasn’t that Lester still pined for Jessie. No, he had long ago determined that woman would have plumb worn him out and that Arthur had saved him a heap of trouble learning that—the hard way! And Jessie, well, she’d never given Lester so much as a flirty glance once she’d said yes to Arthur’s surprise proposal and their runaway marriage, but then she’d never been the flirty type to begin with. No, she’d faithfully stuck with her crabby old coot of a husband through thick and thin. But in spite of it all, when that old feeling did visit him for a spell, said visiting time was most often spent replaying the moment he learned the love of his life had turned to another.
Even when the She-Bats were out of town, word always got back to Partonville if the traveling league’s most renowned catcher with the fiercest pickoff arm (1942 Golden Glover, she was) had changed the momentum and the She-Bats had come away the victors. Harold reported every detail in the Partonville Press. While farmers tended their crops and critters, coal miners picked and shoveled away, kids played and the womenfolk pickled beets and did the laundry (and Lester K. Biggs opened the grill at precisely 6 A.M. and closed at precisely 6 P.M. six days a week, flipping burgers and cooking up meatloaves while pining for his heartthrob to return), Jessie played her heart out. Everyone would drop whatever they were doing and cheer when news came down the pike about Mugsy McGee (later to become Mugsy Landers), their hometown hero. Partonvillers followed her career as though she played for the big leagues, which in their eyes she certainly did since she was a reason for pride, a constant source of hope. (“Yup, corn is down, but did you hear who Mugsy’s playin’ this weekend?) Although Jessie had hinted a time or two—and on occasion just flat out barked—that she’d sure like it if Lester, her steady beau (although Jessie didn’t think in terms of such flowery words or romantic notions) for the last two years, could shut the grill just once and come root for her, alas, he couldn’t. “Won’t,” she would say. “Can’t,” he would respond. And then she would shake her head and pack her bags for the upcoming road trip while Lester prepared the next day’s menu.
One sweltering mid-summer day Jessie returned to town after the She-Bats had finished playing back-to-back, out-of-town tournaments. Word had already spread she’d batted .400 in the first one! Lester had watched the clock all afternoon. At the click of the closing lock he scurried to get dishes and counters washed up, prepare a few things for the morrow, take a quick shower, splash a few drops of Old Spice (an extravagant but worth-it expense, he’d decided, especially if Jessie noticed) into his hand and smear them on his cheeks and neck and head out the door. He all but jogged to Jessie’s house, arriving by 6:54 P.M. (he’d checked his watch just before turning the corner) only to find her sitting on her front porch stoop, Arthur right beside her. They were both laughing so hard their heads were thrown back as though they were looking at the sky. Lester slowed his gait, stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked up the sidewalk. He worked to steady his labored breath—from both the hustle and a sight he did not like, not one bit. This wasn’t the first time he’d found Arthur at Jessie’s house but it was the first time Arthur hadn’t offered an excuse as to why he was there, like “I had to return a bat I borrowed last time she was in town,” or “I was just passin’ by when I saw her pull up,” or “Just keepin’ her company till you got here.” Lester also didn’t remember Arthur sitting this close to Jessie before either.
Even though Lester and Jessie had been dating for a long spell and they were, after all, in their mid-twenties, which was pretty old for single folks in those days, they’d never talked about a future together—although most in Partonville, especially Lester, assumed they had one. Lester was waiting until he felt more financially secure, having recently purchased Harry’s Grill from Harry Schwartz after Harry’s painful rheumatoid arthritis finally locked him up more often than it let him go. Lester had visions of his name over the coffee cup sign above the door. LESTER’S GRILL. He didn’t have the finances to change the sign right away, but when he could put his name above the door then he figured he’d finally have enough to offer Jessie before he popped the question. Something that would cause her to want to settle down, give up all that traveling, stay home and start a family. Maybe as a wedding gift he’d even rename the grill “Lester and Jessie’s.” When he really allowed himself to dream, he envisioned their children running the grill long after their parents were gone.
But there was Arthur, sitting so close to her. I should have popped the question right then, he’d said to himself on more than one occasion. Instead he stood awkwardly waiting for Arthur to get up and leave so he could sit down beside Jessie. But Arthur didn’t get up. Lester waited for Jessie to scoot farther away from Arthur and pat the cement between them, signaling Lester to take his place by her side, but she did not. The two of them sat side by side and he stood before them until dusk turned to dark a
nd both men went home. He’d never once gotten close enough to her for her to even get a whiff of his new cologne.
Jessie was a passionate woman; he shouldn’t have been so decent, waiting so long to kiss her, then being so polite about it when he had given her that initial peck on the lips. He should have swept her up into his arms, pulled her close and held her there, whispering his earnest love into her ear then out into the world.
He should have seen it coming.
Within two days Jessie was back on the road again, Lester was making what would become his famous signature smashed taters and Arthur was driving his first Buick (used as it may have been) down the hard road as fast as it would go straight toward Jessie. When the game was over, Arthur waited for her outside the ballpark gates, told her she’d played a wing-ding of a game, gave her a big smooch and just like that he’d said, “Woman, let’s get hitched.” Just like that she’d said, “Why not?” Rather than Jessie going back to her motel room with the rest of the team, she’d hopped in the front seat next to Arthur and they’d driven fifteen miles to a justice of the peace and just like that they were married. Arthur stayed to cheer her on during the rest of that road trip and for many more to come.
Two days after their marriage, while Arthur and Jessie honeymooned around the tournament schedule, Lester was chopping and peeling for the day’s beef stew special. Harold Crab came into the grill, sat down at his usual spot at the U and began pretending to read a magazine while tapping the fingers of his left hand on the tall metal napkin holder and his right fingers on the countertop. Lester and Harold were the only ones in the grill.
“You got the jitters today?” Lester asked Harold as he poured him a cup of coffee.
“You heard from Jessie the last couple days, Lester?”
“Nope. But I’m expecting her home on Thursday.” He beamed at the thought.
Harold moved his magazine aside and began to rearrange the salt and pepper shakers in front of him, then he moved them to the other side of the metal napkin holder. He blew on his coffee but didn’t take a sip. He set the cup back down in the saucer, moved the saucer slightly to the left, cupped his hands around it, then sat perfectly still staring at the counter for a minute. “Lester,” he said to Lester’s back while he dumped the onions into the pot, “I’ve got something to tell you. As much as I don’t want to be the one to tell you, I reckon somebody’s got to, and I’d rather it was me than . . .”
“For crying out loud, Harold! You’re acting like a girlie-girl!” Lester grinned as he picked up the cutting board and scraped the carrots into the pot with his big butcher knife. He turned to face Harold, knife still in hand, and leaned on the counter in front of him. “Go ahead and spill your beans but make it quick. I’ve got stew to stew.”
Harold looked straight into Lester’s eyes. “Arthur and Jessie got married two days ago, Lester.” Lester stared at him unblinking. Harold pulled in his lips. Having married the love of his life the year before he couldn’t imagine receiving this type of news himself. It must have sliced right through Lester’s heart as though the giant knife he held had driven through him, although Lester’s expression never changed.
Lester suddenly and silently turned back toward the grill, his back to Harold again, and dumped the potatoes into the pot. There was no need to question this information; Harold was a newspaper man who always got the story straight. Harold stayed for two coffee refills waiting to see if Lester might want to ask anything, say . . . anything, but he didn’t. It was the same nothing everyone said to Lester about the situation from that day forward, for what was there to say?
But now, Herm had said it in black and white. Again.
“. . . aren’t you the guy ol’ Arthur stole Jessie from?” In a repeat performance of his last visit, unbeknownst to Herm, the loaded words had flown out of his mouth straight into Lester’s vulnerabilities—and right before the holidays.
For a month after Herm had last asked Lester that question, Lester hadn’t thought to put a collection jar out on his counter for this cause or that, his charitable spirit having temporarily been knocked out of him. (Even Gladys, who could be as hard as nails, thought she knew what must have instigated that lapse since she’d been within earshot of the episode, and the only other time Lester hadn’t put out the jar for a long spell was after Jessie had married. Both of those Landers men are as dumb as rocks! she’d thought.) Since that fateful wedding day Lester had swallowed his private wounds (and time, the great healer, had done its job) and he and Arthur (who assumed Lester hadn’t really cared that much about Jessie to begin with or he’d have made his move long before Arthur did) had continued to engage in their usual friendly bantering. When the passing dark cloud arrived during Herm’s last visit, their bantering took an ugly turn that quickly mutated into out-and-out caustic barbs, causing discomfort to many who sat at the U. The barbs were never direct hits at temporarily opened wounds, but nonetheless, they were ugly barbs. “Settle down, you two,” Harold had said on more than one occasion. “You’re giving me heartburn!” Eventually the whole hullabaloo passed and things got back to normal. Arthur never had been entirely positive what had gotten Lester so riled, but surely, Arthur thought, Lester had gotten over that. And if he hadn’t, well, there twern’t much to be done about it now, was there? All’s fair in love and war. Marriage was marriage. Water under the bridge. End of story.
On the outskirts of town, Jessie fumed. Arthur’s insensitivity at implying he might have lost to Lester when he married her—probably loud enough for Lester to have overheard, and in front of Herm and Vera, the consummate lovebirds!—made her . . . furious. Furious because furious was much easier to deal with than wounded. Furious was at least active! Although she’d never once (including now) wished she’d married Lester instead of Arthur, on a day like today when Arthur acted like such a hyena, she found herself briefly speculating about a few things, like what her life might have been like if she’d have been the least bit willing to give up baseball (something Arthur had never asked her to do) to become the wife of the ever steady, ever sensible Lester K. Biggs.
7
Dorothy, Gladys and May Belle sat around May Belle’s inviting dining room table (Sheba curled up under it), complete with doilies, a silk-flower fall centerpiece (a gift from Dorothy several years ago) and May Belle’s good tea set. They were the only ones on UMC’s five-strong Social Concerns Committee who could make it for the makeshift meeting. Nellie Ruth and Jessica had phoned at the last minute, Nellie Ruth saying something personal had come up—although they suspected it was someone personal and his name was Edward Showalter (those two seemed to be quite the item lately)—and Jessica just announcing she wouldn’t be there. She didn’t offer an excuse. The committee usually held their monthly meetings at church, but since this was a special gathering and May Belle and Dorothy wanted simply to get Gladys’s approval (which would make for a committee majority), May Belle had suggested neutral ground for the meeting might be best. “Gladys isn’t used to presiding over my dining room table,” May Belle said to Dorothy with a chuckle, “although I’m sure she’d like to.” May Belle didn’t bother telling anyone her back had been aching all day since she’d climbed on and off her step stool hanging freshly washed, starched and ironed curtains in both the bedrooms, not to mention her back had still not quite recovered from all the baking for the festival. (“Ovens are not designed for the lower back,” she’d said to Earl in the midst of her baking marathon.) Although Earl had done what he could to help with the curtains, it was usually too hard for him to get the right hooks in exactly the right rod slots so she did that part herself. No, she hadn’t mentioned her troubles; she just said she’d be delighted to host and agreed with Dorothy’s comment that it would be easier for her to serve her customary refreshments right there in her own home for a change. And no matter how poorly she might have felt, it never occurred to May Belle not to bake since baking was her gift, her hobby and her passion. This morning it had been a caramel pecan coffe
e cake, one of her personal and irresistible gooey creations.
Gladys started to call the “emergency meeting” to order but Dorothy jumped in and said since it was neither an emergency nor an official meeting she could dispense with the formalities. “This is more of a bat-around gathering to see if we’re interested in supporting (Yes! Dorothy thought. We will play a supporting role!) a new community project. But we have to first determine if we’re even up to such a thing so close after the Pumpkin Festival and Centennial Plus Thirty. I know we just about wore ourselves out and the older we get the longer it takes to get our spunk back!”
“Speak for yourself, Dorothy. Even as the Acting . . .”
“Aside from you, of course,” Dorothy said, interrupting her highly esteemed and fully combustive Acting Mayor Gladys. Dorothy went right on to share the idea of a community Thanksgiving dinner and assured Gladys they already had Pastor Delbert’s approval. Like a politician ever aware of sound bites, Dorothy kept referring to the key phrases of “younger women,” “shared responsibilities” and “our supporting role.” May Belle jumped in to talk about bringing different faiths together in a cooperative role, knowing Gladys would take to that idea since her son and his family were members at St. Augustine’s. Dorothy said she’d be talking to Father O’Sullivan as soon as they had consensus. Dorothy and May Belle hoped they were talking fast enough to steamroll Gladys before she had a chance to get wound up, which, much to their surprise, worked. Almost.
Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?! Page 7
