“Yeah, Sam, say you and me needed us a new pair of shoes ta go with our new yeller outfits,” he said, placing his hands on his hips and cocking his shoulders, as though striking his new yeller outfit pose.
Again, Gladys chose to ignore the old goat. “Rather than going where there’s just one shoe store, my odds of finding the right shade of yellow would be considerably higher at the mall since the mall has several shoe stores. It’ll be the same with antiques, Sam. People will come to Partonville to shop in our new mini mall and they’ll have to drive right by your store to get there! I bet the mini mall improves your business since more people will learn about it who otherwise might not have. More shoppers at the mall, more shoppers at Swappin’ Sam’s. More shoppers at Swappin’ Sam’s, more shoppers for the mall. See?”
“What I see, Gladys,” Sam said, his volume rising, “is an acting mayor who as much as said she’d rather go to the mall in Hethrow than give her business to our very own Hornsby’s Shoe Emporium right here on our very own square!” Gladys’s eyes bugged. She had unwittingly made a huge faux pas. “What I see sitting right here in front of me, Gladys, is a traitor to her own office!” Gladys gasped. Sam threw down his napkin. “Lester! How much do I owe you?”
“If the bill were a snake, Sam,” Lester said over his shoulder since he was pouring pancakes, “you’d have fang marks on your left wrist.” Although Lester was always happy to see new business, he was perturbed Sam had chosen his establishment to stir up dissention, especially on the heels of Rick’s death, and was anxious for him to blow back out the door.
Sam mumbled something under his breath, snatched up his bill and stormed to the cash register. “I need some change,” he barked.
“Just hold your horses until these pancakes are done, Sam,” Lester said. “My griddle’s acting up this morning and I gotta stay right with things.”
“Besides, Sammie boy, don’t let our fine mayor here run ya off!” Arthur said, seizing the opportunity to get in one last jab. Gladys had yet to find her voice. Although she’d sputtered a few times, she’d simply been talked over (no small accomplishment) when she did try to speak.
“The only thing I’d really like to see running,” Sam said as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, “is somebody, anybody, running against our Mayor come the election next spring. Otherwise we’re all liable to find ourselves out of business—including you, Lester K. Biggs! You do know there’s plans for a tea room in that mini mall, don’t you? Last I looked, you had tea and sandwiches on your menu. Or does Gladys here think people will also drive to Partonville just to run around from one place to the next drinking gallons of tea?”
“Sam Vitner, I did not mean to suggest that . . .”
“Save it, Gladys,” Sam said cutting her off. “I have witnesses.”
Gladys cast her eyes around the patrons gathered at the U. Surely they knew she was just using an example. Surely they knew she wasn’t trying to take business away from their very own Hornsby’s! Try as she might to collect the words to explain herself, they simply would not string themselves together in her head. She took in such a large gasp that the buttons of her blazer pulled so taut across her ample bosom, it looked like it might be ready to blow. Her flummoxed appearance struck Harold as funny and he tickled himself imagining the next day’s headlines he would never print: “Sam Vitner Tongue-Ties Acting Mayor McKern Who Blows Her Blazer.” He started to laugh, which really made Gladys angry. Her face began to turn eggplant, her bosom heaved even higher and the buttons gaped all the more, drawing a perpendicular line of ovals between the buttons exposing her “yeller blouse.”
Lester lifted the edge of one pancake with his spatula to check its doneness, then scooped up all eight of them and flipped them onto two of the plates he had warming on the corner of the grill. He started to reach for his butter knife but decided to dig in his utensil drawer to retrieve an implement he hadn’t tried since the day he’d impulsively bought it.
“You think I can’t compete with a lousy tea room?” he asked, incensed Sam would think he could feel threatened by such a silly thing. His voice was full volume in order to be heard over Harold’s guffawing, the rigors of which had now caused Doc to start laughing as well as Arthur. The more people laughed, the more Gladys puffed up, the more dangerous her bosom appeared. Harold had to hold in the urge to shout “STAND BACK!” “Just look at this,” Lester said, brandishing the metal contraption in his hand as if it were a sword. “I’ve got me a melon baller!” he said, dipping it into his rectangular stainless steel container filled with butter and dropping a perfectly round dollop on top of each stack.
With that, Harold laughed so hard he had to hang on to the counter to keep from falling off his stool.
The Del Vechias had made their Lamp Post reservations through Sunday night in order to give themselves a chance to physically and emotionally recuperate for a day between the funeral and heading back to Atlanta. After the funeral dinner they went back to their room to nap, the weight of the travel and events catching up with them. Then they spent late Saturday afternoon on into the evening driving in and around Partonville, amazed by the changes that had taken place. On their last trip decades ago Hethrow was a long drive from Partonville with all fields and open spaces in between. This time they couldn’t believe how one housing development and shopping center after another now linked their way right to the outskirts of Rick’s little town. Through different conversations that weekend they’d learned Crooked Creek Farm had almost been gobbled up, which would have been the beginning of the end of life in Partonville as everyone knew it. But thanks to Dorothy and Katie Durbin, “the hungry machine was stopped,” as Cora Davis had told them.
Whenever given the chance, Cora stuck like flypaper to the Del Vechias, who were a captive audience for all her information, as Cora would put it. Of course, the Del Vechias were already familiar with Dorothy Wetstra, having met her their first visit. And they’d often read one thing or another about her in the Press. Thankfully the Del Vechias had had a chance at the funeral dinner to spend some time chatting with Dorothy again, the exchange making Bob lonesome for his mother, who had Dorothy’s same spunk but who had sadly passed away several years previously.
Katie was only vaguely familiar to Bob and Louise, having once been written up in a “Meet Your Neighbor” column by Sharon Teller. The weekly feature was short, stating only a few facts and the interviewee’s opinion about a question Sharon dreamed up. The feature ran with a photo to help people recognize one another—although the Del Vechias found that funny since everyone seemed to already know everyone and their business. They’d been introduced to Katie by a few people over the weekend in many different ways. She was once referred to as the City Slicker, a couple times as the mini-mall lady, and jokingly identified as “my fancy neighbor” by Arthur Landers, who remarkably had taken a liking to her—in spite of the fact she drove “one of them foreign ve-hicles.” Of course, Jessica had referred to her as “my best friend.”
When the Del Vechias checked out and turned in their room key (when was the last time they’d traveled and received an actual key, they wondered), they thanked Jessica for a lovely stay and assured her if they ever came back, there was no doubt as to where they’d make their reservations. They picked up a handful of business cards, saying they’d pass them around to their retired friends who liked to travel.
“Don’t thank us,” Jessica said. “It’s we who need to thank you again for coming all this way to pay your respects to Mr. Lawson and for sharing your stories about him. I know everyone in town is as grateful to you as Paul and I are.”
“Thank you,” Bob said. “We wouldn’t have missed it. We’re just sorry we didn’t make it here more often over the years, before Rick. . . . Well, anyway, you take care of yourself, you hear?”
“At the dinner Katie told us you were pregnant, and here you’ve already got your arms full,” Louise said, genuine affection lacing her voice. Jessica turned crimson. Sarah Sue
, who was perched on her hip, grinned at Louise, long strings of drool spilling over her bottom lip. “Pregnancy is nothing to be embarrassed about,” Louise said, taking note of Jessica’s red face. “Why I myself had five children, nearly one right after another!” Jessica looked like she might faint at the very idea of it. “All you need is a little help and you’ll find your way,” Louise said with assurance. “We all do.”
Great! Jessica thought. Everyone keeps telling me I need to get help, but how can I afford it?
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking . . .” Bob tuned him out. This was the second time the pilot had blared over the intercom to inform the passengers as to what river was down to the right, what state border was off to the left. He pulled his newspaper back far enough to speak out of the side of his mouth to Louise, who was sitting to his left in the window seat. “What’s the point? We’re above the cloud cover,” he griped. Without opening her eyes she shrugged and uttered a quiet “Hm.” Bob looked at her, thought for a moment he might have awakened her with his question, although perhaps the captain had beat him to it. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you,” he said, burying his head in his paper again.
Louise had not been sleeping. She was simply resting her head on her fluffy neck cozy, eyes closed, thinking about how intriguing one particular flower arrangement at the funeral had been. She had fantasized no less than a dozen possibilities since reading it. Yours until the eight ball sinks for good. Your Little Red. Her breath had caught in her throat when she’d fingered the card to read it, her curiosity getting the best of her. She’d discretely elbowed Bob for a look-see and his eyebrows had snapped straight up. They knew who it had to be from, especially after they’d learned nobody in Partonville had ever known Rick to play pool.
“Come on!” Louise said to Bob the minute they got in the car after the wake. “Little Red? It just has to be! Imagine. After all these years.”
“Just the same,” Bob responded, taking her hand, “I’m glad you didn’t say anything when people asked if we knew who it might be from.” He chuckled. “Those Pardon-Me-Villers will probably be trying to solve that mystery for decades!”
“At least we finally got our answer: he obviously did call that little redhead. Do you think they dated secretly? But why didn’t he tell us? Such a mystery, but so romantic.”
Ninety minutes into the plane ride home, however, Louise had to fight off a sudden sorrow that threatened to engulf her. Had Rick spent all of these years unable to be with the Little Red who had captured his heart? Pining for her? Was she married? Did he feel he couldn’t leave his mother? She wished she’d thought to pay attention to the florist who had delivered them. Would there have been a way to try to track down the sender?
In the end she decided that if Rick had wanted them to know who she was, and what they’d been up to (or not) he would have told them. A person had a right to their own secrets. Whatever Rick and Little Red had shared, it was obviously special and long-lasting. And whatever the circumstances, she was glad that they’d been able to stay in touch.
She rolled her head to the left and looked out the window. There was a sudden break in the clouds through which she viewed the first slice of planet earth since their initial ascent. If there was a pool hall in heaven, she concluded, writing her own ending to their story, Little Red and Rick would watch that eight ball for eternity.
In the next week’s Press, the last edition the Del Vechias would receive, Harold wrote in his editorial, “The Del Vechias’ willingness to travel this long distance to say good-bye to their good friend is a powerful testimony to the power and pull of Rick’s spirit.” He tucked a personal longhand note in with the paper before he mailed it. “Thank you for being a subscriber all of these years and for helping us to celebrate Rick’s life. Stay well. Harold.”
18
Edward Showalter kept his eyes peeled as he drove down County Y. It was dusk, barely enough light to spot a FREE DOG TO GOOD HOME sign, especially when he didn’t know exactly where to look. He wished he could have made this trek in better light, but his meeting with Katie and Carl Jimson had run later than expected.
They’d worked hard all day reviewing and modifying the new sketches Jimson had put together over the weekend. They talked about support beams, licensing (and yes, much to Katie’s obvious relief, Edward Showalter had assured her that he was a licensed electrician), permits, whether or not to open the atrium from the basement, which smelled plenty musty, or just keep it to the main and second floors, plus several other aspects of the overall rehab. Edward Showalter was plumb tuckered out when they finally called it quits, but the leisurely drive in the country served as a relaxing transition.
“If somebody’s already taken the dog, I could be driving back and forth till the cows roost looking for something that isn’t here,” he said to no one. (Edward Showalter was known for his discombobulated expressions.) When he got to the state highway he figured the dog already had a home so he turned around and headed back. But just before County Y intersected with County EE, his headlights flashed on a white sign leaning against a big boulder. FREE DOG TO GOOD HOME!
“Bingo!” he said aloud as he hit his brakes and flicked on his blinker. No wonder neither he nor Johnny had noticed it when heading south—the sign only faced the south, the back of it hidden by the giant boulder. He slowly rolled up the long drive, stopping just outside the rundown farmhouse’s back door and parked his van between an old Chevy pickup and an older Chevy sedan. As soon as he finished swinging his legs around he found himself nose to nose with a tall, long dog who seemed to appear out of nowhere. The dog’s entire body was wagging back and forth so hard it reminded Edward Showalter of the agitation cycle in his mother’s old ringer washing machine. The red dog—he could vaguely make out the dog’s color now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark—set one foot up in his lap as though to pin him in his seat. He used both hands to scratch behind the dog’s long silky ears, perhaps the softest ears he’d ever felt, and the dog moaned with pleasure. “Good boy,” Edward Showalter said, wondering if this could possibly be The Dog. If it was, this hound dog was going straight to his or her new home. It was love at first sight.
Joshmeister (at least that’s what Mom said to call you when she gave me your e-mail address),
I’m sorry I didn’t get to say good-bye but you were already in school by the time I got the conference call from my partner and secretary this morning. For a minute it looked like I might get to stay, but after circling a particular case from several angles we realized it would be best if I came back and presented in court myself this Friday. I have my work cut out for me, but work always feels good to me so that’s okay.
But now to the important topic: get a car yet? I pictured you coming straight home from school and putting on the full-court press, maybe wearing your mom down enough that you’d go check out some of those ads. It would have been fun to car shop with you and your mom, but I know you’re in good hands with Arthur. If my mom trusted him with The Tank, that says it all.
I hope to see you for the Christmas party. A short trip back will be better than no trip.
Best,
Jacob, aka legal10245
PS I phoned my mom when I got home, just like she instructed me. No, you never get done having to obey your parents.
Jacob (Sorry, legal10245 doesn’t do it for me. Too stiff.),
Thanks for the e-mail. Nice surprise at the end of another day when I DID NOT GET A CAR.
What else is there to say besides thanks for being in my corner, even after Mom gave you her evil eye. She said if Arthur is available one evening this week, we’ll go “browse.” What’s the point in that? I’d rather hear we’ll go “buy,” but I’ll take what I can get.
Hope to see you Christmas. Will keep you posted on the wheels.
Joshmeister, aka Josh, aka He Who Needs a CAR!
PS Mom’s e-mail addy is Katie.Durbin (Soooo original) with the same @ as your mom and me.<
br />
Dorothy sat in her prayer chair, Bible closed in her lap, fingers laced on top of it, and stared out the window at the muted streetlight, trying to pretend it was the moon. She was wearing the new pink pajamas she’d picked up at Wal-Mart when she and Jacob had stopped there this morning. She’d already washed them with a small load of laundry after he left to give her something to do besides feel sad.
After Jacob learned he did have to be on the plane today, he’d asked her if there was anywhere she’d like to go before he took off with the transportation. She’d told him Wal-Mart, since she needed a new pair of PJs, then Long John Silver’s for lunch, if he had time. “I already had May Belle replace the elastic waistband in my old PJs once. Now the fabric is worn so thin my bony old knees are popping through. And I haven’t been able to get out to Long John Silver’s for way too long a time. I’m just craving those crunchies.” Jacob had waited in the car for her at Wal-Mart in order to make a few phone calls. And although he ran out of time for them to go in Long John Silver’s and eat, they’d ordered carry-out for Dorothy. He assured her he’d get a bite at the airport. He looked at his wristwatch nearly the whole time they waited for their order to come up. Although it only took a minute or two, she knew he was cutting it closer than usual, especially since he had to return his rental car. And now here she sat staring at a streetlight feeling bluer than blue.
Lord, the house feels so empty now. And yet I have so much to be thankful for. Why, my whole family was here for Thanksgiving and Jacob got to stay a whole extra week. My Christmas decorations are up and I even like my little tree. And yet . . . I feel all alone and whiny this evening, like another good dose of Poor Me is brewing. But then You already know that.
Sheba jumped up into her lap and startled her. Her Bible thunked to the floor. “Right on cue,” Dorothy said to Sheba when Sheba laid down, stretching her body along Dorothy’s leg and resting her head on Dorothy’s knee. “Jacob Henry told you to take care of me when he left, didn’t he? And here you are.”
Dearest Dorothy, Merry Everything! Page 16
