Last Dance at Jitterbug Lounge (That Business Between Us Book 4)

by Pamela Morsi

  Jack nodded. “I guess I can see that,” he said. “But shouldn’t you have a goal? Doesn’t every worthwhile endeavor require that?”

  “My goal is to change the world,” McKiever answered quickly and then laughed aloud with the humility of self-derision. “Of course, I don’t actually get to change it myself. And I’m not even wise enough to say how it should be changed. But it’s my job to make the opportunity for change within reach.”

  Claire liked his outlook. “That’s kind of what we do raising children,” she told him. “We can’t make them become kind, hardworking and motivated adults. But what we can do is give them a chance to fulfill the potential that’s already within them.”

  She glanced at Jack. He was smiling. “And for our kids, so stuffed with potential, giving them that chance is no job for the lazy or squeamish.”

  Claire laughed. “Hey, maybe if I’d finished college, I’d be qualified to manage a hedge fund,” she joked.

  “What you do is a lot more important than that,” Jack said. “It’s more important than being a heart surgeon. It is, for sure, more important than building swimming pools.”

  “Building swimming pools is what keeps our children fed and clothed and housed,” Claire replied to Jack. “I don’t want anyone bad-mouthing what my husband does.”

  Jack acknowledged her appreciation with a nod. But it was McKiever who spoke.

  “The bible says that God ‘established the work of our hands,’” he said. “I’ve always taken that to mean that whatever we’re given to do, whether it’s curing cancer or sweeping up French fries, it’s equally important in God’s plan.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s an interesting idea,” he said to the preacher.

  Claire continued to listen as the discussion so casually took on the broad scope of philosophy, theology and small-town horse sense.

  Her thoughts drifted to San Antonio and the business and all the chaos that was now going on there. She found it remarkable that Jack, usually so focused on what was happening there, could seem so relaxed and thoughtful as he sat here.

  She’d accused him of not having his priorities right. But clearly, he did know the value of family, and he was willing to let everything else go on hold for someone who really mattered. She realized that she’d misjudged him. All the while thinking that he’d been judging her. She had been the one to insist on being a stay-at-home mom. It had been her choice, and yet, she resented watching him go off every day. He thought she’d been jealous of Dana. Maybe she’d thought the same, but in fact it wasn’t another woman that she envied—Claire was jealous of Jack’s work.

  That thought caught her up short and she pondered it in disbelief. It was so obvious, it was difficult to imagine that she hadn’t realized it before.

  So now that I know about it, what should I do? she wondered.

  The answer was easy. She could stop being dissatisfied and start helping her husband. She thought about the problems at the office. Jack was going to be short on help and she already knew so much about the business. Naturally, she was furious at Dana about stealing the clients, but this catastrophe could be turned into an opportunity. She and Jack just needed to talk it out. The two of them, together, had overcome so much. They could do that again.

  And despite all the uncertainty ahead, Claire couldn’t help but feel grateful, as if she’d dodged a bullet. If Jack had been more wealthy, Dana might have decided to simply steal him. And not many days ago, Claire had thought her husband would have fallen in easily with her plans. Looking at him now, Claire was not so sure. But Dana would have been relentless.

  Poor Mrs. Butterman, she thought to herself. Of course, the woman was mad enough to sue them. She was probably mad enough to breathe fire. It was just too bad that she didn’t know she was aiming in the wrong direction. But then, how could she know?

  The answer came to her in a flash of insight. Claire rose to her feet.

  “Excuse me for a minute,” she told Jack and McKiever and headed down the hallway. She took the elevator to the second-floor bridge, avoiding the rest of the family. She stopped at a shaded bench and pulled her phone out of her purse.

  Toni answered on the first ring.

  “Is it Bud?” she asked immediately.

  “No, no,” Claire answered and quickly gave the current update. “He’s still the same. It’s something else I wanted to ask you about.”

  “Oh good,” Toni said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, how about more of what you’re doing now,” Claire answered.

  “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “Dana has quit the business,” Claire said. “So, by the time we get back to town, Jack’s really going to be loaded down. I was thinking that when the kids start school in the fall, I would go back to work for him part-time. If you could help us get through this summer...I’m not asking for regular hours or big allotments of time, but if I could count on you for some backup, I could work from home.”

  “I can do better than that,” Toni said. “Eloise’s daughter is home from college. She’s an early childhood education major. She doesn’t have a summer job yet and I’ve had her here helping out. She’s great with the kids and they’re crazy about her. Why don’t I snap her up for the summer?”

  “Oh, that would be great, Toni,” Claire said.

  “Good. What else can I do?” her mother-in-law asked. Claire didn’t even hesitate. “Do you know Big Bob Butterman’s wife?”

  “Natalie?” Toni responded. “Well, we’re not close friends. We’re both in Assistance League and have worked on a couple of committees together. Why?”

  Claire smiled. “Would you like to do a nice favor for your son?”

  22

  Bud

  I was floating, bobbing on the water, in and out of consciousness. Time had ceased to exist for me. That’s the good thing about death. There is no beginning or middle or end. Death had stopped looking like an enemy and looked now like a best friend. Maybe it was the saltwater. Drinking saltwater can make your brain go crazy. Awake, I had enough sense to keep it out of my mouth. But when I’d startle from my bouts of stupor, my throat would be raw and my belly ached.

  The zero had blown my little raft to bits, but had left me without a scratch. That was unlikely, I decided. It was very unlikely. With all the bullets that had rained into the water, I must have been shot. Not feeling pain undoubtedly meant that instead of getting off scot-free, I was dead in the water.

  And the truth was, I wasn’t that sorry. I’d seen lots of dead men since coming to the South Pacific. I watched whole shiploads of dead men being ferried up to beaches by landing craft. They’d run forward, dodging, firing, not aware that they were dead already. With all of them dying, why should I be special so high above them? Did I think I was an angel or something that I could just watch them from the sky? No, I was no angel. Just another dead man, never to make it home.

  I saw the sun just up from the horizon. This would be my last sunset and I wanted to watch. When that big orb disappeared below the water, the sharks would come. I’d already seen enough fins out here to know my fate. It just wasn’t yet suppertime for sharks.

  Is there a brave way to die? Or a good way to die? There’s only dying and for me there was no cause to rail against it. Some lives are long and uneventful. Some lives are short and full of importance. My life was going to be mercifully short and pretty much meaningless. It was my fate and I couldn’t resent it. Better men than me had already gone that way.

  With my strength fading, I decided to take off my life vest and slip below the water. The sharks would still get me, but at least I wouldn’t have to see them coming. I would free myself, watch the last sunset and go straight to hell. It was waiting for me just beneath the surface.

  I began pulling at the straps on the vest. Wet and salty, they were rusted closed and I no longer had my knife to pry them open. My fingers were clumsy and swelled, what was left of my fingernails were as flexible as rubb
er. I tried to cuss, but my throat was too raw to speak. I thought maybe I could just pull it off over my head, but I didn’t have the strength. The vest was stuck to me like a body part and like poor Lt. Randel, I’d just have to accept it as my shroud.

  But I didn’t want to miss my sunset. I turned my gaze in that direction and found more frustration. A great big fish had come up out of the water and was blocking my line of sight.

  I waited impatiently. Whales only stay on the surface for half a minute, but this one lingered. It was huge and it lingered. And the most annoying thing about it was the music playing. That really made me angry. There was no music out on the ocean. It didn’t make sense. I was tired of a world that didn’t make sense. I was dead. I was a dead man in the water. But who could embrace death to the beat of “Little Brown Jug”?

  It was irreverent. It was undignified. It made me suddenly furious. I was to be denied the final view of my last sunset as well as an appropriate funeral dirge. So be it! My throat was too raw to curse. I raised my arm out of the water and shot the giant fish an obscene gesture.

  Then I lay back as far as I could and turned my eyes toward the dimming sky. I wouldn’t shut my eyes. I was already dead, and the dead have nothing to fear.

  Surprisingly I found death to be easier than living. It was free from the confinement of the body and the pain of

  human frailty. I felt grateful for death. It was such a gift. Without it, living would just go on and on forever like an endless choppy sea. Only by being finite did life have any meaning at all. Like the sunset at the end of the day, it was what defined the day itself.

  With a sigh of relief, I gave into it, ready for transformation.

  “Hey! Hey, buddy!

  I heard the voices. I assumed it was the other guys, the other G.I.s, the ones gone on before me, welcoming me home.

  Something splashed in the water next to me. I looked over at it puzzled. It was a life preserver. Where on earth had that come from?

  “Hey, buddy!” I heard again and this time looked in that direction. The giant fish was still on the surface, bigger and closer than ever and there was a crowd of men standing on its back. The music that had traveled across the water to me was there with them.

  One man dove into the water and began to swim toward me. I simply watched him as he closed the gap.

  “Grab the float and we’ll pull you in,” he said.

  I ignored the suggestion. How could he expect a dead man to grab anything?

  “Come on, bud, there are sharks out here,” he said.

  When I didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, he began swimming closer. And then there he was right in front of me. I was stunned to see him. More stunned to find that I could speak.

  “J.D., what are you doing out here?” I asked him.

  But, of course, he wasn’t J.D. J.D. wasn’t even born yet.

  I remember when J.D. was born. I relaxed into the memory of standing in the nursery, dressed in blue scrubs looking down at him with Geri at my side.

  No, this wasn’t J.D. I was getting confused. When J.D. was born, I’d been relegated to the waiting room. That baby was Jack. Our little Jack, the child who healed the wounds of my heart.

  Jack. I tried to speak the word.

  “He’s perfect,” Geri said. “Big and healthy and perfect. He looks like you, I think.”

  “He’s a baby—they all look alike,” I told her. “How is Toni?”

  “Exhausted,” Geri answered. “But she did just fine.”

  Of course, she wasn’t “just fine.” Two days after the baby was born, we all went home together. Physically she was perfectly healthy, but it was clear that emotionally Toni was not doing so well. We’d all agreed that holding in her grief for the sake of the baby was a good thing. But now the grief was pouring out of her. She cried a lot. But worse than the crying was the silence. She just stared, listless, out the window, deaf to all around her.

  Geri and I were still fragile as glass, but the baby gave us hope. He gave us a reason to keep getting up every day and every night. Geri, of course, in the days and me in the nights.

  Toni obviously loved the baby and always kissed him and caressed him tenderly. But she did seem distant and we worried.

  “What could anyone expect,” our ancient old Dr. Mayes said. “When you combine widowhood and baby blues, you’re going to get some sad wistfulness.”

  But as the days turned into weeks and then into months, and Toni continued to stare out the window, showing less and less interest in Jackie, we worried.

  Geri thought fresh air and exercise would help, so they took long walks together in the morning.

  The weather was fair enough for me to be back at my sleeping camp in the middle of the garden, but I dolled up the place as nice as I could and offered it to her.

  “Sometimes you’ll just need to get away from us,” I told her. “You can always come here. I find this garden very safe and comforting.”

  She thanked me and she did sit out there from time to time. I don’t know if she found any serenity there, but hopefully a few moments of peace.

  Geri’s sister, Opal, came up with the best answer. “Call the medical people down at the Air Force. They’re going to know more about this. They probably see it all the time.” So we called the Air Force and within a week all three of us, and the baby in his little car seat, drove down to Oklahoma City for a consultation.

  Toni and Geri went upstairs and I was left in the waiting room with Jackie who slept peacefully in his little plastic carrier.

  I was never one to sit idle. I glanced through the magazines, most were about fashion or had recipes, nothing much of interest to me. I did look at the one on golf, but having never played the game, I got through it rather quickly.

  Across the room was a wall of brochures; I walked over there and looked through the titles. There were a couple on infant care that I pulled out. Most were about diseases I never heard of: Coping with Schizophrenia or problems I didn’t have: Overcoming Addiction. But then I saw one that caught me up short: The Facts about Combat Fatigue.

  Immediately I stepped back and retreated to my chair, glancing around, afraid that someone might have seen me with the pamphlet. There was, of course, nobody else in the room but Jackie and he was still sleeping. Sleeping like a baby. I could no longer remember when I had lain as peacefully as my grandson. It had gotten tolerable over the years. I didn’t require as much sleep as other men, I’d decided, and a couple of naps during the daylight was plenty of rest. But when J.D. announced he was headed for Vietnam, the frequency of the dreams had gotten worse. At least now that the baby was here, I had a reason to walk the floors on the nights I was home.

  I wasn’t unfamiliar with the term combat fatigue. You couldn’t be in the service long without seeing a share of it. Fellows with the shakes or guys who cried were the most difficult to watch. But the ones with the thousand-mile-long stare were everywhere. And we’d all heard about Patton over in Italy. How he’d slapped the guys in the hospital and called them cowards. I knew I was no coward. As long as we were fit to fly, I kept flying. And my restless nights might have kept my bunkmates awake, but they knew I wouldn’t get them killed.

  Ultimately, my bad dreams had drummed me out of the service. They’d kept my whole life off-kilter.

  I’d managed to hide them from J.D. It was the secret I never shared. But as I looked down in that precious baby’s face, the last remnant of my boy, I was wondering if I’d only succeeded in keeping the truth secret from myself.

  I got up and walked over to the brochures once more. I took the combat fatigue one out of its place, and then I grabbed one on the problems with the aging prostate and put that on top. If someone caught me reading, I’d rather they assumed I was impotent or incontinent.

  I carefully opened up the pamphlet. Under the heading What is combat fatigue? was written, "Exposure to wartime trauma can sometimes produce lingering effects that follow a veteran back home.”

  Well, tha
t was certainly true of me. I continued to read the page, making mental check marks to myself. Anxiety— check. Lack of concentration—check. Emotionally disconnected—check. Nightmares—check. Fortunately, there were some things that I was grateful not to recognize. Violent outbursts, estrangement from friends and family, and abuse of drugs or alcohol were not on my list and I was very glad of that. I continued to read, nodding to myself in agreement until I got to the statement “Symptoms may persist for days or weeks, most often spontaneously disappearing within six months.”

  “Six months!” I repeated aloud.

  I glanced down at little Jackie, who was now wide-awake and staring up at me with those big dark eyes, so much like my own.

  “Six months, my ass,” I told him.

  He was startled by my tone and his face screwed up as if he were going to cry.

  “It’s okay, Jackie,” I cooed to him, more softly as I detached him from his carrier and took him into my arms. “Grandpa’s just an old, crusty, bad-talking man, but he’s not mad at you, he’s never mad at you. You are the little light of my life.”

  I held him close to my chest and bounced him a bit as I walked the floor. He decided not to cry after all.

  A few minutes later, Jackie’s mom and grandma returned for us. Immediately, I could see things were better. Toni looked more like herself than she had since the baby was born.

  “It’s just such a relief to get to talk about it,” she admitted on the way home.

  “But you know you can always talk to us,” Geri told her.

  “Yes, but you’re sad, too,” she said. “I don’t want to make it harder for you. It’s good to talk about it with someone who can’t be hurt by anything I say.”