Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?!

by Charlene Baumbich

  “This is decaf, I’m assuming?” Gladys asked Jessie.

  Jessie stared at Gladys for a moment, then waited until Gladys had gulped in a mouthful. “What’s the point of drinking coffee if it is?” she said with perfect timing. Gladys realized it was too late to do anything but swallow. Jessie held back a grin. It occurred to her she was behaving like a brat, but her ire was up enough to decide all the bullies should get their due. Gladys opened her lips to enter into her oft-repeated “can’t sleep” diatribe. “Just kidding,” Jessie said flatly. “Bought a half-pound bag of decaf just for tonight, just for you bunch of lightweights. Anybody who wants can take the rest of the bag home. Nobody’ll drink it here.” Since the coffee-and-cream situation had reminded her about Arthur again, she looked at the clock—again. It was 8:47. She wondered how long it would be before Arthur and Herm came home. Surely it wouldn’t be much later; Arthur was usually heading for bed about now. “And speaking of going home,” she said, feigning a yawn, “I’ve had a long day.” Vera’s mouth fell open. The tone in Jessie’s voice nearly demanded they hurry up, eat and leave. Although Vera was going to breathe easier once the Hookers were gone, she would have never had it in her to be so . . . obvious.

  “Well, for goodness’ sakes, Jessie! It’s not even nine yet!” Gladys, who was reaching for a second doughnut when Jessie snatched the plate away, sounded completely put out. “I was going to have a short discussion about the Thanksgiving dinner plans before we left.” With that, everyone seemed to leap to their feet to head down the hall to collect their coats. “I guess I’ll phone you volunteer workers tomorrow since we don’t have time for it tonight.” Gladys was definitely puffed up, but much to Jessie’s relief, moving down the hall.

  “That’ll be fine with me, Gladys,” Nellie Ruth said. “Thursday is my day off. . . . OH! NO! Wait! I traded with someone. I will be working tomorrow. It’s a good thing we are breaking up early. I almost forgot! I’ll be around tomorrow evening, though, Gladys. Just let me know anything I need to know. Or stop by the store, if you want. Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.”

  “I’d say absolutely nothing,” Dorothy said, nipping anyone else’s snide comments about Edward Showalter in the bud. Nellie Ruth gave Dorothy a hug and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered into Dorothy’s ear. “Thank you for always being in my corner since the day I arrived in this town.”

  “The real crunch is going to start after we tally up the reservations on Friday. Try to get yourself together by then,” Gladys said, “since you’re doing the shopping. That is no small task, one that I hope you haven’t underestimated. If nothing gets purchased and delivered, nothing can get cooked. We sure don’t want United Methodist to look like it’s dropped its end of the ball. I hope you’ve cleared all of that delivering with Edward Showalter.”

  “Yes, Gladys. Yes, I have. He’s happy to be helping us. He just wishes he could come work Thanksgiving Day, too, but he’s having dinner with Johnny Mathis and his family. Kind of a tradition with them.”

  “Johnny Mathis?” Vera asked. “The well-known . . .”

  “Not that Johnny Mathis. This Johnny is a dear friend of . . . Edward Showalter’s.” She almost said ES but had promised herself to keep that endearment just for him. “He owns The Piece.”

  “The Piece?” Vera looked more confused than ever.

  “Oh, it’s really called A Little Piece of New Yorkville Cuisine. It’s just shorter to call it The Piece. Kinda cute, don’t you think?”

  “I thought it was A Little Piece of New York City,” Maggie said.

  “No,” Nellie Ruth corrected softly. “It says A LITTLE PIECE OF NYC on the exterior sign. We all just assumed that meant New York City. Inside, on the menus where the whole clever name is spelled out, you can see it. A LITTLE PIECE OF NEW YORKVILLE CUISINE. You’ll have to stop by and check it out. Edward Showalter helped Johnny rehab the entire building.”

  “This is all just dandy,” Jessie said, “but really, it’s time to go.” She spread her arms and worked like a border collie with a bunch of sheep to corral them out the door and into their cars, Vera right on her heels.

  “I’m glad to hear someone in the area has sprouted a trendy little restaurant,” Katie said as she pushed the button to unlock her SUV’s door. “Do you know if they serve any vegetarian dishes?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, Katie,” Nellie Ruth said. “I do know the restaurant smelled delicious when we were there. Very cutting edge.”

  “Well, goodnight!” Katie said, slamming her door. Soon all were in their cars and headed down the lane. And it was perfect timing since Arthur and Herm were just making their way along the fence with a flashlight. Thankfully, Arthur had had enough sense to grab it out of the garage before they’d hiked down to the creek. Both men were relieved to see the stream of taillights, although Herm wished there had been just enough lag time between the ladies leaving and them returning to have allowed the womenfolk to have gone to bed. But on they tromped. They were too tuckered out to do anything else.

  21

  Lester lay in bed on his back in the pitch black, eyes wide open. How he had managed to get through the rest of his day after the Landers clan left the grill was a mystery, if not an out-and-out miracle. Arthur had appeared, spoken his astounding accusation and left so swiftly that Lester had barely had time to react, other than to seek shelter in the storage room to pull himself together before the early dinner crowd started arriving, which was only a ten-minute lapse. His mind had been a complete mess ever since. It was all he could do to keep flipping the burgers, dish up the special for the day (he’d set three orders down in front of the wrong people, something he never did), then lock the door at 6 P.M.—and he’d been watching the clock, its hands seemingly stopped—wash the dishes, clean the grill and climb up the stairs to his home. Once he’d locked the door behind him, he’d leaned back against it for a couple of minutes, his body finally releasing the tensions his mind hadn’t had time to digest. He plopped on the couch where he remained until he’d undressed and crawled into bed at nine.

  Vera and Jessie were folding up the card tables when they heard the kitchen door open. Since it was right on the heels of the ladies leaving, the last car probably not having got to the end of the drive yet, they assumed someone had forgotten something. Jessie walked back into the kitchen fully expecting to see a Hooker, but there stood the cousins. All three froze in place, Arthur’s arm midair over the counter, flashlight dangling from his fingertips; Herm halfway through the door, cold air blasting in from behind him. Jessie and Arthur stared at each other, a thick blanket of wariness cloaking them. Much to Arthur’s surprise, what struck him was the intensity in Jessie’s eyes, the same intensity in every single photo on the wall at The Tap. What struck Jessie was that Arthur’s eyes looked sad. Not since The Tank was dying had she seen Arthur with sad eyes. She dared a glance at Herm, who looked utterly terrified. He was shivering. He needed to close the door.

  Vera walked into the kitchen and made the first sound. It was a loud gasp. And yet, nobody moved. After what felt like a silent testing period to see if anyone was going to throw out a fiery word (or if Jessie might reach for something and wing it), in silence, they each set into action, Herm being the last to move and thankfully close the door, sending a sign he’d decided it was okay to stay—although his eyes weren’t sure. Vera put the dice and scorecards away; Arthur brushed his teeth. Herm scrounged in the suitcase for the tube of Ben Gay; Jessie rinsed out the coffee pot. While she was setting it in the drainer she peaked out the kitchen window. Arthur’s truck was still nowhere to be seen. And there was that flashlight on the counter. Had they been hiding? Listening? When on earth—and how—had they arrived home?

  Herm and Vera finally closed the door to their bedroom. They embraced for a long while. Her arms wrapped around him, she stroked his back; he kissed the top of her head. They were very happy to see each other. Even though they had much to share, they we
re simply too tired to speak. They crawled into bed, snuggled even tighter than usual and were soon both fast asleep.

  While Jessie was still in the kitchen, Arthur stepped out of his coveralls and walked over to the photo on his bedroom wall, a photo he hadn’t taken note of for years. It had hung in the exact same spot since Jessie’d quit playing ball, her team’s manager having presented it to her upon her retirement. It occurred to him that maybe the familiarity of things caused a blind spot, the spot in which this picture—just like the ones in The Tap—had disappeared for so long. Although Jessie never liked pictures of herself (she hated every last one of them in The Tap), this one had always been special. She was in her late twenties. She wore a ball cap, a catcher’s mitt and a stiff-looking uniform. It was her official semi-pro photo that had appeared in one program or another. She was smiling. She had been married for two days.

  Arthur sighed, then heard a sound behind him. He turned swiftly enough to catch Jessie watching him study her picture, her eyes now holding questions rather than fire. They stared at each other for a moment, the wariness having followed them into the bedroom. Her eyes glanced to the floor, to his coveralls. He followed her gaze but didn’t make a move to pick them up. She sighed, folded back the fancy wedding-gift bedspread and turned out the light, leaving Arthur standing in the dark in his skivvies. She sat on the edge of the bed, removed her clothing, put on her cotton pajamas she kept under her pillow and slid under the covers. In the dark, she heard rustling sounds and the distinct click of the metal clasps on Arthur’s coveralls. She felt Arthur knock into the bed, trying to feel his way in the dark. She heard the clinking sound of the clasps again, then the light weight of Arthur’s coveralls across her feet as he laid them on the end of the bed. She felt the familiar bounce of the mattress as he slid in beside her. Anticipated the toss and tug of the covers as he rolled to his side, his back toward her. He always slept on the right side of the bed, she on the left. He took a huge breath and released it and she felt the slight rise and fall of the sheet against her right arm. Aside from the weight and position of the coveralls, it was all so familiar . . . Nearly six decades of familiar. Surely that had to be worth something.

  Maybe, she thought, it was everything.

  Dear Joshmeister,

  The Happy Hookers ended early tonight so thought I’d boot up before bed. (I just told you something you probably already know since your mom left at the same time as I did and she had a shorter drive.) I didn’t win any prizes. (Maybe you know that, too.) This was one of the more boring meetings we’ve ever had (not just because I didn’t win), but then I guess sometimes boring is relaxing. It was good to see Arthur’s cousin’s wife Vera, though. (Have you met his cousins yet?) I hadn’t seen her since their last visit years ago. Maybe being from out of town makes you lucky; she won the booby prize. Then again, you only win that because you lose the most, so . . . Then again, I lost and didn’t win *anything*. (enough pouting)

  Best thing that happened in my evening was to see an e-mail from you! And such an informative one. I’ve read it twice now. Thanks for taking the time to catch me up! The first thing that caught my imagination was to picture the three of us (you, me, Sheba) tearing down the highway toward Chicago in that big SUV. If it’s as chilly as it is tonight, though, Sheba would have to keep her head in the car so we didn’t catch our death of colds.

  I imagine we could get in all kinds of trouble together on a road trip. Probably a good thing we can’t go. ;>) But I can’t WAIT to hear about your trip when you return. I’m already wondering about Alex (tell him I said Hi) and Jennifer.

  Yes, I have seen the windows at Marshall Field’s. Henry and I took the children there twice when they were old enough to appreciate it. Mid-fifties or so, I’d say. We stayed overnight both times with my friend Selina who lived out west of the city a ways. All three of my kids would sleep on a feather bed mattress she’d yank off her bed and toss on the floor in the living room. We’d make the drive in one day, visit, have dinner and go to bed. Bright and early the next morning, downtown we’d go! Oh, the kids would get so excited when they’d start seeing those forty-two giant golden trumpets hanging on the outside of the building! First we’d creep along in the big line of people waiting to see the windows. (I’d be praying nobody had to go to the bathroom! ;>))

  I remember the kids always wanted to stand and look longer at each window but the smash of people behind us kept us moving along. Then we would wait in line for hours to eat lunch under the tree in Field’s. I think the restaurant was called the Walnut Room, although I don’t remember any walnuts. Then we’d drive home, the kids sound asleep in the backseat. We’d have to save our pennies for months to afford that trip, but it sure was exciting, for *all* of us.

  Of course there weren’t computer games and e-mail then, or cable TV, or super highways. You kids see so much so early now that I imagine looking at windows might seem boring. If you have to go, though, try to make the best of it. Maybe the Daily Kids will enjoy it and you can enjoy watching your half of them. hahahahaha (Hey, halves of relatives are better than NO relatives!)

  Shelby’s Grannie M (what a corker!) was decked out in her usual splendor tonight. I (my pink scalp and not much hair, but thanks for noticing what I *do* have) always look forward to seeing her, too.

  I’m fading to tired now. Must sleep. Must sleep. . . .

  Good night and don’t let the bedbugs bite!

  Your friend, Dorothy

  In the wee dark hours of the morning without a moment of sleep padding his restless mind, it became stark clear to Lester that this was one of the main differences between him and Arthur: Arthur acted on impulse and emotion, and he, well, he had to take time to think about things after they happened. Figure out what he even thought, and what course of action, if any, should be taken in response. He’d always needed to take time to lay a plan. It’s just like football. Arthur leads a spontaneous offensive life charging headlong into whatever. And me, well, I lead a defensive life, reacting to things. Takes both sides to play a game, though.

  But now, Lester didn’t even know what kind of game Arthur was playing. Arthur had rallied his ridiculous charge on . . . what? Nothing, absolutely nothing. You old fool! He certainly wasn’t about to duke it out with Arthur since that might falsely indicate he was taking a stand for another man’s wife. And if he said or did nothing, it might look like he’d admitted to something since he wasn’t willing to counteract the accusations.

  And what would Jessie think about him should he do something . . . or nothing? Did she need him to step in to defend her, set the record straight? Or more likely, he thought (Lord help them all), did Arthur need help against Jessie, who might be throwing sharp objects at him by now? The recent image of Arthur’s demonstration of Jessie’s cleaning rampage actually set him to laughing out loud at the thought of her giving that old geezer a good what’s for. Who better to do it than Jessie!

  Laughing helped give him some perspective. After he’d finally settled himself down, he knew it was time for him to take the bull by the horns, strategize, assume the offensive for a change. And truth be told, after this fiasco, he was glad he didn’t have any woman in his life since love just seemed to make some folks plumb nuts.

  22

  Dorothy was relaxing at Maggie’s shampoo station, head back in the sink as Maggie worked over her, elbows extended out to the sides, fingertips gently running up and back along the curves in Dorothy’s cranium, thumbs massaging in little circular motions just above her ears. Then the rinse. Of course, the entire process only took a minute due to Dorothy’s lack of hair, but it was always a heavenly dose of contact. Maggie worked her magic when it came to fulfilling a need for touch. Dorothy and May Belle had often talked about the multiple gifts Maggie dispensed, and touch was at the top of their lists, along with good company, a boost to their femininity and the unending string of surprises concerning Maggie’s latest cosmetic and fashion adventures. Maggie’s exuberance alone was worth the stop s
ince it was catching. It was amazing how relaxed and yet energized clients felt when they left La Feminique Hair Salon & Day Spa.

  “What a boring Hookers’ meeting Wednesday,” Maggie said as she coaxed Dorothy to sit up. Maggie wrapped a towel around Dorothy’s head. The towel was still slightly warm since the dryer had turned off just before Dorothy had arrived; the warmth was comforting. “I can’t remember when we’ve had a more boring night of bunco.” Although it was Friday, this was the first time Maggie had seen Dorothy since the Hookers had gathered.

  “That’s exactly the same word I used when I e-mailed Josh with my recap. Boring. Not that Jessie didn’t put out a nice spread.”

  “Her usual spread of doughnuts, black coffee, no cream and bridge mix, you meant to say.”

  “Didn’t have to. You said it. Still, who of us really needs more than that?” Dorothy patted her stomach through the plastic drape.

  “There wasn’t even any juicy gossip. We might have been able to enjoy more of it if Nellie Ruth hadn’t showed up,” Maggie said laughing. “She and Edward Showalter are sure one of the talks of the town right now. Isn’t it just . . . Isn’t it ro-man-tic,” Maggie said, breaking into the vintage song and twirling herself around a couple of times.