A HOLLAND KISS
By Dawn Michelle
Copyright 2011 Dawn Michelle
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Chapter 1
“Blasted bees!” Puffing, Dutch tried to blow at them with his nonexistent breath. “I’m sick and tired of their buzzing
Dutch couldn’t help being grumpy. It was early March and, like always, the bees would hound him relentlessly again this year. And the birds. Dutch cringed thinking about the poop bombs they left as gifts for him.
“Oh sweetheart, calm down.” Tulip smiled brightly, with a twinkle in her beautiful blue eyes. “It’s your flowers. They smell them and the pretty colors attract the birds and bees.” Tulip loved the sweet fragrance she now associated with her beloved Dutch boy.
Dutch was shocked. “What? What are you talking about? What flowers? I don’t have any flowers.” Dutch tried to play innocent, but knew she’d figured him out. Darn.
For the last 50 years, he’d been waiting for just the right moment to give Tulip her bouquet, with the hope a kiss would follow. But since they were concrete and plaster, there wasn’t much chance of that happening.
But Dutch vowed one day he’d give his Dutch girl her flowers and get that kiss.
“Don’t play coy with me, young man. I know you have a bouquet hidden behind your back,” Tulip said knowingly. She, too, wanted that kiss—almost as bad as she wanted her flowers.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about woman. I think your braids are too tight!”
“Oh hush. Our day will come. Until then, let’s enjoy the sunset,” Tulip said just as tears began to fall down her perfect plaster face.
“Tulip? What is it, flower? What’s wrong?” The concern in Dutch’s voice warmed Tulip’s concrete heart.
The town’s storm siren began its awful wailing, hurting Tulip’s delicate ears. The tears she shed were that of the rain that had begun to fall. Lightning streaked through the darkening sky and the thunder grew so loud that Tulip wanted to tremble.
“Please don’t cry, Tulip. Let’s talk about something, something nice.” He would divert her attention until the storm passed. That always worked. Tulip loved to talk.
“Just think, in a few weeks it will be Easter. The flowers will be blooming. Your flower will be blooming,” He said with emphasis. “I know how you love tulips.” Of course, Dutch was smiling; that’s all he ever did.
No matter the situation.
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So this was how I was going to die.
Dressed as Tulip, the world’s largest Dutch girl.
Just minutes ago – or what is hours? – I’d been sitting on my couch making a list of all the pros and cons of my life when the TV weatherman demanded I seek shelter. From the sounds of the storm now raging, the “con” side of my list was taking the lead.
Gale force winds were blowing and stuff – I have no idea what – was being blown around. My windows were rattling and there was an eerie sound to the raging wind. As if it were alive, heralding my impending death.
Born and raised in southern Indiana, one would think I’d be better prepared for severe weather, but nope. Not me. Even though the news had predicted storms for this evening, I figured they were just crying wolf. Every spring, we go through this. From March to June, it’s an atmospheric free-for-all. Holland has never been touched by a tornado, so maybe I wasn’t taking the warnings as seriously as I should have.
Now I was paying the ultimate price.
My obituary would read like this: Lillian Kay Mein, pronounced mine, lived a short, but happy life.
That’s it. That’s all it would say.
That, and I was dressed like Tulip when I died.
Why was I dressed as one-half of the famed kissing couple, you might wonder? Well…I don’t really have a good answer for that one. I made the costume for Halloween last year, but something possessed me to put in on when I’d seen it hanging in my closest earlier in the evening.
Dutch and Tulip never fail to bring a smile to my face. And recently my face hadn’t been doing a whole lot of smiling. After leaving school, where everyone was talking about their Spring Break plans, I was feeling pretty pathetic about my life.
My Spring Break plans are simple. I don’t have any.
At 24, my life is far from what you see on TV or read in those chick lit books. I don’t own a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes. Heck, I don’t even know where to buy a pair. I don’t go clubbing or meet friends for cocktails.
So yeah, my life is not a rerun of Sex in the City.
This is what I had been focusing on before an apparent tornado made me take a hard look at how good my life really is. I’m young, healthy and have a career I love. I should be happy, except for the about-to-die part, yet something was missing from my life.
Now huddled in the northwest corner of my basement, wrapped in a quilt, cell phone in hand, I realized what that something was.
The man I love doesn’t love me.
For this very reason, I was considering moving from the only town I’d ever lived in.
When the man you love doesn’t love you, what choice do you have but to move on?
So here I sit.
Alone.
Waiting to die.
Alone. Not wrapped in the arms of a loved one.
I’ve no clue what other people do when riding out a storm, but this was how I was spending the last few moments of my life. Thinking of what could have been. Things I could have done. Places I could have gone. My parents and friends knew I loved them. I tell them often enough, but I’d never have children or grandchildren. I’d never grow old and have pearls of wisdom and a lifetime of memories to share and reflect on in my old age.
All I had was a just the hint of a life. One more item for the “con” side of the list.
The storm outside was worsening. I hadn’t thought that possible. It sounded as if it were barreling through my living room. I just knew that, at any second, the windows in my basement were going to shatter and kill me. Getting blood all over my Tulip costume.
By the way, if it’s not too badly stained, go ahead and bury me in it. Something else I could add to my “pro” list, or you can, since I won’t be around to do it.
The town’s siren was blaring, or had been when I’d raced downstairs, but it was hard to tell with all the roaring going on outside. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here in the dark, contemplating my life, but then almost as quickly as it started, it stopped.
Was it over? Or was this just a break in the action before the big finale?
After several more minutes of relative quiet, I decided it must be over. The storm was subsiding, but it was still raining. Thunder was growing fainter and the siren was definitely silent now.
I think that was the scariest sound of all. Silence. Somehow the sounds of destruction let me know my place in the world, but now that it was over, what would I find when I went outside?
“Lily! Lily? Where are you? Lily!” Nearly jumping out of my skin, I left the safety of my corner to find my neighbors Bill and Tootsie entering the basement.
I love Bill and Tootsie and sent up a quick thanks for their safety. They’re like grandparents to me, since I don’t have any of my own. They take care of me and I do the same for them.
Hugging each, I assured them I was fine. “You guys okay?” I asked.
Holding my hand, Tootsie answered, “We’re fine.” She was smiling and gave me a once-over before asking why I was dressed as Tul
ip. I lied and said I’d just finished sewing it and was trying it on. She didn’t look convinced, but didn’t press for more.
“Power’s out,” Bill informed me. He was smart enough to have a flashlight when all I had was my generation’s version: my cell phone.
Bill is what you’d call barrel-chested. Large and in charge, Bill is completely bald, except for his handlebar mustache, which he keeps in place with Elmer’s glue. He’d come over one afternoon asking to borrow some.
Straightening my apron, I ventured outside with them to check on the rest of the neighborhood. Taco, Bill and Tootsie’s dog, was marking the now-unfamiliar domain of fallen trees. I guess her territorial instincts had kicked into overdrive, because every few seconds she squatted.
It was only sprinkling now and pitch black. The occasional streak of lightening gave us little light and a cloudy sky covered the moon. With the power out, the street lights were dark, so Bill was shining his flashlight around our yards. The three of us took in the aftermath of the tornado speechless. Other neighbors were coming out now, a sea of flashlights illuminating the night.
We soon determined that everyone was accounted for and fine, well, physically fine at least. Kids were crying and parents were trying in vain to calm them down. Ruth, my backyard neighbor, looked shaken, but not hurt.
If Bill and Tootsie are like grandparents, then Ruth is like my great-grandma. At 82, Ruth lives alone, but she belongs to the whole neighborhood. The matriarch of our block, she was currently standing with her hands on her hips, muttering to herself in German and looking lost.
“Bill!” I yelled over the sounds of children crying. “Keep an eye on Ruth. I need to get a flashlight.” Pretty sure I have one under the kitchen sink.
Shaking his head, Bill answered, “Here, take this one,” and handed me his FBI-grade torch. “We don’t want you to trip and get hurt. Not after surviving a tornado.” Since he was retired Army, I took my orders and marched Ruth home.
Directly behind my house is Ruth’s, an old alley separating our yards. Alley is a loosely used term in Holland. It isn’t a paved or rock driveway, just double imprints of tire tracks in the grass, but we called it an alley.
Ruth eyed me for a minute, making me wonder if she was okay, before she smiled and said, “You look so cute dressed like Tulip.”
I’d even braided my hair, completing the ensemble, although I drew the line at wooden shoes.
Stepping over and around fallen trees, Ruth and I made it safely to her home, which is identical to mine in size and layout. The only difference on the inside was the smell. Hers does. Mine doesn’t. It’s not that Ruth’s house stinks; it just has its own smell, whereas I don’t think my house smells like anything.
Our neighborhood is one of those post-WWII housing blocks, where all the homes look alike. Oh sure some people were more well off and had an upstairs, some even had brick or at least the front was, but mine and Ruth’s was just plain vinyl siding. White for me. Grey for Ruth.
“How we holding up?” I asked. I didn’t want her going into shock and was glad my cell had reception. Surely, the land lines were down. Ruth refused most technology and still had a rotary phone. I cringed, wondering how long it would take to dial 911.
Mental note: buy Ruth a new phone. One that looked rotary, but secretly had buttons. Maybe I’d trick her into this century.
Still shaken, Ruth was rallying. She felt better in the safety of her own home, now lit up by a dozen candles. “You know, I think I’m fine,” she answered. Shuffling to the cabinet above the fridge, Ruth grabbed a bottle of whiskey. “How ’bout a drink?”
Shocked, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Ruth drinking? My elderly, hair-always-in-a-bun, never-go-out-in-public-without-lipstick neighbor kept whiskey in the house.? Not that I blamed her. I felt like a drink myself.
By midnight, I was sure of two things. I’d survived a tornado and Ruth could drink me under the table.
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The sound of a chainsaw woke me bright and early. I was in bed, but it wasn’t mine. The chainsaw was growing louder, then fainter, then louder again. Turning my head on a foreign pillow that smelled like VapoRub, I knew whose bed I was in.
After our trying experience, Ruth and I had tied one on. I don’t remember going to bed with Ruth, yet here I was. Ruth’s hair was unbound now. Taking a moment to study and feel its soft texture. This was the first time I remember seeing her hair not in its usual bun. Pure white, with just a hint of grey.
Still dressed like Tulip, I was sure my braids were a mess.
I then realized the chainsaw sound was Ruth’s snoring. She was out, just like the electricity. Stretching, I felt a monster of a headache coming on and the early morning light streaming through the window hurt my eyes.
Crap! I hope that’s early morning light. What time is it? I had to get to school. Did I mention I’m a teacher? A teacher with a hangover. I don’t think my principal would appreciate my being late to school because I’d gotten toasted with my elderly neighbor. As a second grade teacher, there are certain things you can and can’t do in a small town. This was one of them.
Checking the time on my cell, I saw I had a text. School was cancelled. Thank God. Since it was the Friday before break, I knew I had ten days off school. It was a little after seven and I had to pee. I’m not much of a drinker and now I know why. Not worth the return. Or returns, if I threw up later. I was going to need those ten days to recuperate.
Maybe that makes me a lightweight. Actually, I know it does. Holland is a German-settled community and, like most of Dubois County, holds fast to its beer-loving heritage.
In the bathroom, I discovered all kinds of things about Ruth that I didn’t want or need to know. She’d had the presence of mind to remove her teeth last night and her hemorrhoid cream was lying on top of the toilet.
Leaving Ruth a note to call if she needed anything, I tried to straighten my apron and was glad to see that my costume was only dirty, not torn. I could salvage it. Walking home and surveying any damage along the way, I saw that my roof was missing some shingles on the back side. Okay, not so bad. My willow tree was leaning into the clothesline. Again. Not so bad, even though I loved that tree.
And my car looked fine, besides being covered in leaves. All the siding was in place, but the entire front of my roof was gone. Well, shit! The roof had been replaced just four years ago and I have no idea what my deductible is.
Limbs, shingles and someone’s t-shirt were littering my yard. A rather large limb had fallen close to my Dutch and Tulip statues. They’d been a housewarming gift from Mom. Growing up we, like most everyone in town, had a Dutch and Tulip. When Mom moved, she’d taken her set with her, even though she didn’t live in Holland anymore.
I knew I had a long day ahead of me, but couldn’t stop myself from uncovering my kissing couple. Lugging the limb was no easy task, dressed as I was, but when I managed to get the limb away from the side of the house, I was horrified at what I found.
Dutch was lying on his side, a big chip in his shiny red hat. Suddenly, I felt like crying. Maybe it was the letdown from last night’s scare or Ruth’s whiskey, but seeing Dutch beaten up made me sad. Standing him upright, I placed Dutch so that his lips were just barely touching Tulip’s.
There. All better.
Later, I’d make a point to go to the tractor dealership and buy a new set. I only hoped they had red. Even though the real Dutch and Tulip wore red, some in town chose blue for their kissing couple. Mrs. Julian even had the audacity to have a green set. As if Dutch and Tulip would wear green.
I could live with seeing them in blue, but green? Really? What are people thinking?
Luckily, my Tulip was unharmed, looking quite fashionable in her red-skirted jumpsuit. Her white blouse was crisp and matched her starched apron and bonnet, held in place by kissers. Large gold squares that are worn at the temples, kissers originally signified a person’s religion. Tulip’s were adorned with tiny windmills and her braids
were accented with red bows.
Today I was her twin. Only my red bows had fallen out, probably in Ruth’s bed.
Dutch was dressed to match his love, only he was wearing pants. Mop-cut blonde hair, covered mostly by his red fishing cap, and of course he was holding a bouquet of yellow tulips behind his back.
The statues, bent at the waist, are about two feet tall. Their chubby little faces, with pink puckered lips, are the sweetest sight. Though my Dutch was now chipped and scuffed, he was still a handsome young man. Tulip was a very lucky lady.
Already at it with a chainsaw, Bill was now cutting my beloved willow tree into woodstove-sized pieces. Noticing me, he cut the engine and waved me over. “You get Ruth all squared away last night?” He didn’t ask, but I know Bill was curious about my costume.
“Yes. She’s fine now. I think having someone with her helped,” I lied. Ruth might have been shaken, but she was tough and would have survived quite fine without me. Now that I think about it, I needed her more than she needed me. “Let me go change and I’ll give you a hand,” I said as I headed inside.
But before I reached my door, I noticed a red truck. The red truck I love seeing. The one that speeds up my heart rate each and every time I see it. Jay Heimerschmitt was pulling into my driveway.
Great! I looked terrible. Hair a mess, sleep in my eyes, not to mention the fact that I was dressed like Tulip.
Not exactly how you want to look when the man of your dreams shows up.
Jeremiah Frederick Heimerschmitt.
Yeah, I know, the name sucks. No wonder he went by the nickname Jay.
I’d been in love with Jay since…well, since forever. That childhood crush, the one everyone has, but usually grows out of, that was Jay. In reality, I have no hopes for any kind of relationship with him. But it’s obvious by how I dress that I don’t live in reality.
But a girl can dream.
Jay’s mom and mine work together. Have my whole life. Mom unknowingly gives me updates on his life, and so, I know everything about him. Knowledge I store away like a hoarder. My mind is stacked high with Jay information.
I know he is an avid outdoorsman, loves football and is a volunteer fireman. He lives in a pole barn on seven acres, just outside of town. It’s a really nice pole barn, though. Two stories. He lives on the second level and, even though I’ve never been there, I know it has hardwood floors and his trophy kills hang on the walls. He has a lake and can often be found fishing, when he isn’t working in the downstairs shop.
A Holland Kiss Page 1
