When they were finished eating Lester wiped his mouth and lay back on the blanket, shadows from the leaves dancing across his face. “Feels good,” he said with contentment. “Doesn’t it? Feels good to just be here.” Jessie agreed that it did; she was bone tired and road weary. She, too, reclined. She placed her right hand behind her head, her left across her abdomen. “The only thing that will make this feel better one day,” he said boldy, a warm tone in his voice, “is the sounds of a couple youngins playing right over there on the swing set.” Although her eyes were closed, she could imagine him pointing. What she could not imagine under the hand on her abdomen was being pregnant. As soon as anyone in the traveling league even suspected you were pregnant, you were off the team. Marriage itself was frowned upon for just that reason, although if you were a good enough player, they’d squawk but put up with you. Competition was stiff and some of the gals on the bench were just waiting for their opportunity. The very idea of anything getting in the way of her ball career gave her chills and she’d instantly changed the topic as though she hadn’t heard what he’d said. After all, he’d never even spoken of marriage. Now he was talking about children, a new tone in his voice. She was shocked; the man had barely kissed her!
But more importantly, at that moment she knew for certain that she did not love Lester in that way, nor had she ever. He was a good friend, yes . . . But Arthur had started calling and hanging around lately. Arthur. Impulsive, fun, animated, spontaneous, unpredictable Arthur. At the thought of him, she’d splayed her fingers wider over her abdomen. If she was ever to have children—which wouldn’t be until after she’d retired from the circuit—that is whose child she could picture within her.
After she and Arthur had married and after she’d finally aged out of the traveling league, having been replaced by the latest kid wonder, she began to long for Arthur’s child to be growing in her womb, nestling in her arms. Now here she was a childless old lady. Wonder if Lester and I . . .
“My, isn’t that a pretty quilt!” Vera exclaimed when she appeared in the doorway.
“This old thing?” Jessie asked, staring down at the gift, wondering how their marriage had ever endured all these years. Held together one miserable stitch at a time, she thought when she noticed Arthur had carried the remote control to bed with him last night and left it on the nightstand. Again.
The ring of the phone startled her. It wasn’t even 8 A.M. “Hello.”
“It’s Lester.”
“Lester! I can’t believe you’re calling. I was just thinking about you.”
“I bet you were.” Silence. Silence.
“Did you want something?” Short silence.
“I’m sorry I sniped at you yesterday at the grill. There was no call for that.”
“No, Lester,” Dorothy said. “I’m the one who’s sorry for bothering you at the height of the lunch hour. It was inconsiderate.”
“Dorothy?” Silence. Silence.
“Yes, Lester?” Silence.
“If you’re needing folks to cook up any food for the Thanksgiving dinner, just let me know. Turkey, dressing, green beans . . . anything.” Throughout the years, Lester had learned that the wonderful grace of doing for others always helped take his mind off himself and that to pull back on a collection jar or a kindness just made him all the more miserable.
“I’ll do that, Lester. Thank you for your offer. To tell you the truth, I was ahead of myself anyway; it’s not even one hundred percent sure this event is going to happen yet. If it does, it’ll be a joint venture with UMC and the St. Auggie folks. I’m waiting to hear back from them right now. I’ll keep you posted. They’ll be making the decision before noon today so I’ll give you the word soon. But Lester, I won’t be telling you during the height of the lunch hour.” Dorothy chuckled. Lester smiled. It felt good to get that call off his chest; he’d felt guilty since he’d seen Dorothy walk out the grill’s door yesterday, not to mention Doc Streator had pointed out to him that although he was sure he hadn’t meant to, he’d spoken rather crossly with “that wonderful lady.”
Nonetheless, Lester did not want anybody thinking about him as a charity case just because he was single. After a goodly long bout of rational thinking about it last night, he knew he was a blessed man. He had a fine home above the grill, his own business, and good friends—including Arthur. But honest-to-gosh, sometimes that man needed a good boot in the butt. Truth be known, he couldn’t think of anyone more qualified to give him one than Jessie! Match made in heaven!
The candles had burned down about an inch already. It wasn’t like Paul to be late for dinner, but then Jessica thought he might have said something about stopping to run an errand on his way home. She couldn’t exactly remember; her brain was foggy about many things lately. Even though the fragrance of the baking meatloaf had turned her stomach, she’d pushed through it and made herself prepare her husband a meal fit for a man who had to endure what she was about to tell him.
It had been twenty-four hours since the truth had erupted in front of Dorothy. Ever since Dorothy had left she’d felt badly that her husband wasn’t the first to know what she by now absolutely believed to be true. After all, her breasts were growing more tender by the moment, making nursing uncomfortable. She no longer even had enough energy to keep feeling guilty for her silence, so tonight was the night. Meatloaf and baked potatoes still warm in the turned-off oven; Paul’s favorite green bean casserole in the Corning casserole bowl on the stove (she thought for sure she’d lose it when she opened the can of cream of mushroom soup); candles burning; Sarah Sue merrily entertaining herself on a blanket, her own mushy-looking dinner having long been consumed while her mommy swallowed and twice gagged at the site of the orange mess. And then, just like that, Paul was kissing Jessica hello. She hadn’t even heard him come in, she’d been so zoned trying to find the perfect words to announce her news after dessert: tapioca pudding with a cherry on top. She’d spoken many variations of her announcement aloud throughout the day, just to see how they might sound. All versions seemed to come out the same way: a giant dose of bad news, no matter how sugarcoated she’d tried to paint them.
Paul backed away from his wife’s heart-shaped mouth and looked at her face. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you heard me come in!”
“I’m pregnant.” She uttered the words as flat and as common as a board, as if she’d told him they were out of toilet paper. Something about hearing him say the word “startle” just seemed to trip her get-it-over-with trigger. There was no good way to say it.
Paul stared at her for a minute, then he broke his gaze to smile at Sarah Sue, who, much to Jessica’s surprise, he then walked over to and picked up, giving her a big hug once she was in his arms. And then he continued walking right out of the kitchen into the living room where he plunked down in his chair, Sarah Sue on his lap. Jessica’s heart started racing a mile a minute. It raced so hard she thought she might faint. Throughout the day she had played out many possible reactions to the news, but never had she imagined this. She walked into the living room hesitantly. He didn’t acknowledge her when she entered, so she perched her rear end on the arm of the couch, unable to bring herself to look casual.
“Did you hear what I said, Paul?” He leaned forward enough in his chair to deposit Sarah Sue onto the floor. Then he leaned back in the chair and folded his hands in his lap.
“Yes. I heard. It looked like dinner was ready. How about we go eat?” Without another word, they adjourned to the kitchen. Jessica sliced the meatloaf while Paul dished up a helping of the green bean casserole onto each of their plates. She got out the butter for the baked potatoes; he poured himself a glass of milk; she would have water with dinner, thank you. Then they were seated, candles burning between them.
“Mind if I pray?” he asked her, as though she would ever say anything other than “of course not,” which is what she said, her voice cracking. It occurred to her that news of her pregnancy seemed to inspire p
rayers.
“Dear God, thank you for this food we’re about to eat. Thank you for my wife and my daughter. And forgive me, God. Forgive me for not knowing what to say. You know I’m disappointed and I haven’t handled this very well. Help Jessica forgive me too, and keep her well. And the baby, too. Amen.”
When he looked up, tears were streaming down his wife’s face. “I’m so sorry, Paul. I’m so sorry!” She began to violently sob causing her to immediately have to race to the bathroom, Paul right on her heels. When she was done depositing the cracker she’d eaten before dinner in hopes it would settle her stomach, she positioned herself in her usual recovery posture sitting on the floor, back against the wall. Paul sat down right beside her and put his arm around her.
“I’m so sorry, Paul,” she whispered through her sobs as she leaned into him.
Paul put the knuckle of his index finger under her chin and tilted her face toward his. “Jessica, I love you. Please don’t cry, honey.” He grabbed a few sheets of toilet paper from the roll mounted on the wall next to him and wiped her eyes, then he grabbed a couple more sheets and held them to her nose. “Blow,” he said. And she did, her face as red as he’d ever seen it. When she was settled down he said, “Stay right here. Do not move—unless you have to, of course.” He smiled that endearing lopsided smile she couldn’t resist, the one that had gotten her in this predicament to start with. He disappeared from the room, then returned with a plastic bag from Wal-Mart. Miraculously, Sarah Sue hadn’t uttered a peep, which allowed the two of them to have this moment to themselves. “Open it,” he said, then kissed her on the cheek.
She separated the sides of the bag and saw the most beautiful little teddy bear looking right up at her. “Oh, Paul!” She took the bear out of the bag and clutched the softness under her chin. “Sarah Sue will love it!”
“It’s not for Sarah Sue; it’s for you. I bought it for your first Pregnant Gift.”
Jessica gasped. The day after she’d told Paul she was pregnant with Sarah Sue, he’d bought her what he’d called a Pregnant Gift. He continued to bring her a teddy bear, one more precious than the next, each month of her pregnancy—aside from the flannel nightgown with the teddy bear print on it, which he saved for her birth month. “Special for the hospital,” he’d said with pride. “Button-down top for the . . . um . . . feeding.” He’d built a shelf in their bedroom to house the bear collection so they could keep watch over her and the baby in her belly while he was at work.
“But I hadn’t told you yet this time,” she said to him as they continued to sit on the floor. “How did you know?”
“At first I didn’t. At first I thought you had the flu. Then I worried you had something worse. Then . . . I just knew. Something about the look on your face. I just knew.”
“When did you know?”
“When I left yesterday morning and told you to phone the doctor if you weren’t feeling better. I looked at your face . . . I looked at you, and I just knew. I decided, since you were obviously having a hard time telling me, that I would make it easy for you tonight at dinner and have Bunky here,” he stopped and patted the little bear on top of the head, “do the talking for me. And then you just blurted it out. I was disappointed Bunky couldn’t do his thing—I couldn’t have my big moment—and I’m afraid I didn’t handle it very well after that.”
“Is that what you were apologizing for in your dinner prayer?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Paul!” Both of them still on the floor, she awkwardly situated herself until she was sitting on his lap and wrapped an arm around his neck. “I love you so much! I just don’t know how we’re going to be able to afford this. And I don’t even know if I have the . . .” He put his finger over her mouth.
“Shush, sweet wife of mine, and just give me a kiss.”
Her eyes cast to the toilet bowl, recalling what her last action had been. “You crazy? This might be the grossest kiss you’ve ever experienced.”
“I’m willing to take the risk.” Just as he leaned his head forward, Sarah Sue began to cry and his wife bolted forward.
Ready or not, reality was setting in.
11
“Jacob, it’s Mom,” Dorothy said into the receiver. “Did I catch you at a bad time? You sound like you’re frazzled.”
“It’s been a wild day alright, but I’m really glad to hear from you, Mom. I was going to call you later in the week; sorry you beat me to it. Did you get my e-mail yesterday though? I usually hear back from you right away.”
“Yup. Got it. Thanks for the update about your car. I’m glad the recall issue didn’t apply to your model. I was gonna e-mail you back, then thought I’d call instead. I just wanted to hear your voice.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Any real news from Pennsylvania to tell me about? Famous cases? Will I see you on the ten o’clock news—although we both know I couldn’t stay awake that long. HA!” Jacob was Dorothy’s tall, dark and handsome attorney son. He was also her firstborn. Each time she thought about his age and position, she wondered where on earth the time had gone. Wasn’t she just potty training him? Although he’d never married, his life had been a busy one. He was driven. Perhaps so driven to climb the ladder that he hadn’t had time to settle down. But then, he was extra particular.
“Nothing that exciting or dramatic. Just two cases that are consuming more of my life than I barely have time for right now.”
Dorothy’s heart sank. She didn’t think his response boded well for his ability to come home for Thanksgiving, even though she’d allowed herself to believe he would. “Any end in sight?” she asked, firing up her optimism.
“I’m hoping to have them wrapped up before the holidays.”
“Which holidays would that be? Thanksgiving? Christmas?” The last thing she wanted to do was lay a guilt trip on a busy man, but still . . .
Jacob erupted in a hearty laugh, one that sounded like his father’s—although when Henry’d been alive, he’d laughed far more often than his serious son and namesake, Jacob Henry Wetstra. Jacob knew his mom was hoping for the earlier answer from her mid-fifties son; she was sometimes as transparent as cellophane. “Thanksgiving, Mom. I’m hoping to be there for Thanksgiving and your B-day. I hated to miss all of Partonville’s big festivities last month, especially knowing how much you put into it. From the sounds of your e-mails and phone calls, though, no doubt a good time was had by all without me. I’ll tell you, I sure have enjoyed reading the Centennial Plus Thirty booklet! Thanks for sending it. I felt a real flare of pride when I read our family’s short bio. Tell Doc and Eugene they did a great job on it.”
He’d been thinking a lot about home lately. More than he hated missing the Pumpkin Festival, though, he had hated to disappoint his mom when he found out he couldn’t make it. She was eighty-seven, almost eighty-eight now. He never knew when his last visit would be just that, and it always knotted his throat to think about such things. “Yup, it looks like if I don’t sleep between now and Thanksgiving, I’ll be able to make it home.” When he’d said “home” he’d had to snap the image of the farm out of his mind, since the visual had gone there by default. He tried to remember what his mom’s new little house even looked like. He decided referring to that as “home” was not right. What should he call it? “Your house?” All of these thoughts blindsided him as they reeled through his mind; he’d never been one to dwell on the sentimental.
It fretted Dorothy when she thought her son wasn’t getting enough sleep. “Are you taking care of yourself, Jacob? I’d hate to think you’re working night and day and not having a lick of fun. I’d rather you spend that time sleeping rather than traveling if you’re overdoing it.”
It took him a second to answer. “Nobody cares about you like your mother,” he said gently, meaning every word. “Don’t worry. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends a good deal lately, but I get caught up on sleep when I can. And I’m making sure I get to the gym at least three times a week, sometimes four. Hel
ps the stress levels.”
“You young folks and your gyms. We just used to take good long hikes down to the creek, or walk a mile or two to a neighbor’s or play kick the can, climb trees . . .”
“Mom, I’m over fifty, not twelve.”
“I’m talking about folks your age,” she said. “Katie Durbin went on and on about how she couldn’t fit her exercise equipment upstairs in the farmhouse.” She instantly wished she hadn’t mentioned Katie’s name since she wasn’t sure if Jacob had decided yet whether or not Katie could be trusted, their first meetings having gotten off on less than agreeable footing. “I’m talking about people doing things together rather than everybody getting on their own machines in their homes or at the gym and running as fast as they can and never actually going anywhere or seeing anything beautiful.”
“This is beginning to sound like a mini lecture, Mom,” he said with a chuckle—although Dorothy recognized a slight stiffening in his voice.
“Well, if it is, I’m talking to myself since I’m barely getting enough walking in. I just worry about you, honey.”
“I know, Mom, and I love you for it. Let’s change the subject, though. How are things really going for you in Pardon-Me-Ville now that you live in town? I know we’ve talked about it a few times and you always say ‘fine, just fine,’ but that’s not enough of an answer for me to really know how you’re doing.”
“Always the lawyer, huh, son? ‘That’s not enough of an answer, your honor!’” Both of them chuckled, this kind of teasing an ongoing endearment between the two of them.
“Yes, your honor. How is my mom really adjusting after a few months in her new home?” There, that’s what I’ll call it. Her new home.
“You want the truth? My little Vine Street home is not the farm,” Dorothy admitted flatly. Sigh. “But it’s home now and I’m training myself to think of it that way. I do like being so close to May Belle and Earl. But oh, how I miss my barn and the land and Woodsy and . . . But I’m trying to make myself get more exercise since I can’t take my daily constitutional down by the creek every morning. You know, replace old habits with new ones. Of course, I say that like I’m doing a good job of it.”
Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?! Page 11
