Dearest Dorothy, If Not Now, When?

by Charlene Baumbich

  She looked up at him through her tears and nodded.

  “This was not your fault. I ran, and I loved the running. I ran because your entry was worth it and it made me happy to get it to the box. I didn’t have enough sense to slow down before I got to that bad spot in the sidewalk near the Press’s door. If I had, I would have seen—I would have remembered—that crack there in the sidewalk since it’s been there for years. I ran. I didn’t slow down. There was a crack. I fell. . . . This, Jessica,” he said, pointing to the small bandage on his head, then to the cast on his leg, “is not your fault and that is that. Do you understand?”

  She stared at him, wanting to confess the guilt that was consuming her, wanting to trade places with him. He saw it on her face. “Jessica?” he said, resting his palm on the side of her face, his fingers gently moving over her cheek. “You have nothing to feel guilty about and nothing for which you need forgiveness. I’m the luckiest man alive to have a wife who is looking at me with such beautiful, giant, saucer eyes of love. I only had two stitches and my concussion is a small one, and so, thank You, Lord, is the break. We have much to thank God for, considering I was such a lughead, so let’s spend our energy on that.” But she still looked guilty.

  He used his thumb to smooth her tears into her soft white cheeks. “Come up here and give me a kiss, honey. We’re both done feeling bad about things now, okay? We’re already concentrating on making things right, okay? Jessica?” She gave him a small grin. “That’s my girl.”

  She stood up, hovering over him for a moment, taking extra care not to bump his head or his leg before she gingerly lowered her heart-shaped mouth to his. Their lips came together in a familiar, soft, assuring and loving way. A second kiss quickly followed.

  “Jessica,” he said, cutting the second kiss short and releasing a huge sigh, “I have one more favor to ask you.”

  “Anything, Paul. What is it?”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but no more kisses like that one, at least not right now, at least not tonight, dear, okay?” His voice waffled between husky—that husky she knew all so well, which is what got her in this too-soon-again pregnant condition—and laughter. His “not tonight, dear” line struck Jessica so funny that she let go a chuckle, which caused him to laugh too, then suddenly stop to hold his head between his hands. “And not too much more laughter tonight either, okay? I have a headache.” At that, no matter how badly it hurt him to do so, they both laughed until they cried, she from seeing her handsome husband in such a terrible state, and he— although he was able to camouflage his hurting tears as laughter spillover—from the pain and painful truth of all of it, including the fact that they were already strapped for money, and now this.

  6

  With barely a lick of sleep, Cora arrived on the sidewalk in front of Harry’s at 5:40 A.M., twenty minutes before the grill opened. People had taken to lining up outside and starting their visiting a little early since Lester didn’t turn his CLOSED sign to OPEN until 6 A.M. straight up, not a minute before or after. Cora figured Lester probably wouldn’t yet know about Sam’s bid for mayor, since he lived right above the grill. He turned in early and came straight down to work when he awakened. Cora leaned toward the door to make sure nobody would get in before her. Oh! she thought. This is going to be good! Her adrenaline was pumping so hard she felt like one of those jitterbug lures her husband used to cast near the shore to catch bass.

  Arthur Landers was next to arrive. He usually sat in his truck until Lester opened the door, but today he all but leaped out of his old Ford pickup for a closer look when he noticed Sam’s poster in Hornsby’s window, which was right next to the grill. Cora watched his lips moving as he read Sam’s slogan aloud, which, as far as she was concerned, was brilliant enough to beat Gladys without one issue being brought up by either of them.

  “Well I’ll be dadgum!” Arthur said loudly. Just as Cora hoped, Arthur made his way straight toward her.

  “It’s about time for a swap, wouldn’t you say, Arthur? Of course I’ve known about his run for mayor since December, what with him asking me to be on his election committee and all.” She puffed herself up so much Arthur thought she was mimicking Queen Lady Gladys.

  “I think old Sammy done swapped his brain for peanuts,” Arthur said, shaking his head.

  This was not the reaction she’d been expecting. “I’d say the only one who’s nuts, Arthur Landers, is the one who doesn’t recognize the best mayoral candidate when he sees one!”

  “Ya say he asked you ta be on his ee-lection committee?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, pride oozing in her words, her chin lifting when she spoke.

  “Well there ya have it. Nuff said. Sam’s nuts.”

  “Arthur Landers,” Cora said through her clenched jaw, “you are an impossible old coot.”

  “I’d say tha only im-possible thing in this here conversation is tha notion of Sammy boy bein’ a mayor.” And then he smiled, which really made her angry. But the smile wasn’t only because he’d said something clever, which he knew he had, but because he saw what Cora didn’t see, and that was Gladys tromping her finest mayoral tromp right up behind her.

  “Good morning, Arthur, Cora,” Gladys said without looking at them. Instead she nudged Cora out of the way in order to put her hand up to the grill’s window to block the glare and make sure Lester was stirring in there.

  Cora spun around to find herself not a foot from Gladys’s face. Due to her political alignment with Sam, Cora expected Gladys to unleash a tirade of hateful words her way, which caused her to instinctively back up, bumping smack into Arthur, who pushed her—and none too gently, she would say when she retold the story, although she made it sound like he’d launched her—off the top of his feet, which she’d accidentally stepped on. Arthur’s move cast her straight into Gladys, suddenly making Cora feel like the ball in a game of bumper pool. Arthur laughed at Cora’s flailing arms and backed himself up another yard to clear the way for what would undoubtedly be her return trip.

  “Cora Davis!” Gladys said, as she held her arms out and backed Cora off. “What on earth!” Gladys straightened her disheveled self.

  Cora steadied herself, then went eyeball to eyeball with Gladys, who just looked at her like she was daft. It wasn’t until that moment that it hit her: Gladys didn’t know yet. Priceless. Cora’s eyes ablaze with anticipation, she turned to face Arthur . . . who didn’t say a word. His mouth, which had previously been open, clamped shut. He knew exactly what Cora was waiting for. With his index finger and thumb pinched together, he drew a line across his lips and mimicked throwing away a key. A storm flashed in Cora’s eyes, which was immediately extinguished by what she saw over Arthur’s shoulder: Sam Vitner. Yes!

  Sam almost never frequented Harry’s in the morning, what with opening his salvage business so early. But this morning he decided to open late, figuring he would chalk up his appearance at Harry’s Grill as his first official campaign stop. On his way to the grill, he first sidled up to Hornsby’s window to admire his poster in the daylight. He stood grinning at himself for a moment before turning to notice Arthur, Cora and Gladys staring at him. He straightened his spine and drew a deep breath. “Game on,” he muttered to himself as a rehearsed—yes, in the mirror— campaign smile spread across his face. “Good morning, Arthur, Cora, Gladys,” he said with vigor, pinning her with his stare.

  “Sam,” Gladys said, acknowledging his presence with mayoral dignity. She looked at Arthur and Cora, waiting for their “Good morning” to Sam, but they just stood there, both of their mouths agape as their heads swiveled from Sam to her, then back again. For the second time in three days, Gladys thought something was fishy at Harry’s and it had to do with her. But before she could pursue it, next to arrive on the square was Harold Crab who looked like he’d been up all night, which he nearly had.

  By the time he’d arrived back a
t the Press from the Lamp Post last night, it was after 10 P.M. Sharon was in a state. She’d been worried about Paul (“And as a reporter, Mr. Crab, I should have been at the hospital covering the accident! I did take pictures of the crack, though”) and trying to select the top twenty-five mall entries since so many last-minute drop-offs were surprisingly strong contenders. Harold waited until she wound herself down before dropping the bomb about Sam’s poster, which he’d discovered on his way back to the office.

  The two of them yammered for an hour about the implications of a mayoral race, bemoaning it was too late to make phone calls. After coming up with a list of interview questions for both candidates, they had to put that topic to rest in order to focus on the mall names. They didn’t leave until after 1 A.M. When Harold got home, he replayed everything to his wife, then lay there with his eyes open for an hour, his mind spinning like a firecracker gone wild. By the time he dozed off, his alarm was ringing.

  The morning plan was for Sharon to head out to Swappin’ Sam’s to interview Sam and find out if he had a platform in place. She was on her way there right now. Harold agreed to cover the grill, which they knew would be the day’s first opportunity for reactions from Gladys. When he’d left home, he wondered if Maggie had spread the word about Paul’s accident last night. If she had, he considered all the chiding he’d likely have to endure about sidewalk neglect, especially since Sharon seemed intent on running her picture of the crack. He hoped the whole topic would be overshadowed by Sam’s announcement.

  Harold didn’t notice the little gathering outside the grill because he was writing on his reporter’s tablet as fast as he was walking, something folks around town had witnessed for decades. When he finally slammed the pad closed and looked up, he saw Sam, Cora, Arthur and Gladys staring at him. He whipped out his pad again, wondering if he would ever be able to keep track of all the heated words undoubtedly already flying. But before approaching them, he quickly grabbed his cell phone and called Sharon.

  “Get over to Harry’s, NOW!”

  Jessie Landers usually got up shortly after Arthur left for Harry’s in the morning. She wasn’t one to sleep in or loll around in a nightgown and robe. In fact, she wore pajamas and got dressed as soon as she awakened. She didn’t understand anyone wearing night clothes any time other than when they were ready to go to sleep, since that’s what they were for, for goodness sakes. This morning’s attire was the same as almost every other outfit in cool weather: jeans and a flannel shirt. Nothing frilly for Jessie.

  She cleared her plate from the table and set it in the sink. She only washed dishes once a day, and that was after supper. Sometimes she didn’t get around to that either. “They’re not going anywhere,” she’d tell Arthur if he happened to mention the pile—which, after nearly six decades of marriage, he’d pretty much learned not to do since Jessie didn’t take kindly to criticism and she was likely to throw something at him, like the dish soap, the wet dishrag or a Brillo pad, while reminding him that if the dirty dishes bothered him so much, his hands weren’t broken.

  Jessie threw just about anything any time to keep her pitching arm in shape. The Wild Musketeers, Partonville’s mostly senior citizens softball team, would start practicing around mid-April and she could hardly wait. Winter was hard on Jessie since she was a woman of get-up-and-go. She took another sip of her coffee while adding “skip rocks in creek” to her mental list of things to do today. If she could believe the radio weatherman—the radio her preferred mode of entertainment over that mindless and endless television Arthur watched—it could get up into the mid-fifties today.

  Before heading to the creek to warm up her pitching arm, however, she needed to pay bills. She hated that chore, but in all the years they’d been married, Arthur simply would never do it. A genius at car mechanics his whole life, he couldn’t add up rows of numbers correctly for the life of him, so she’d taken over paying the bills, although like the dishes, she let them pile up until they had to be done, and today was the day. Forty-five minutes later she was done with the dreaded reminder that money was too tight. Aside from her long-ago semi-pro baseball days, Jessie never worked a paying job since she’d married. When Arthur retired from running his automotive repair shop out in the shed, they had to tighten their belts, which it seemed they had to take in another notch every year. Challie Carter leased their land, but that was a modest and unpredictable income. Although it would be better for their pocketbooks if Arthur didn’t eat at the grill every morning, she enjoyed her quiet time too much to complain. Honestly, the man needed to find more to do besides hang around and torment her all day! Their financial situation was the overriding reason they’d accepted the option deal Katie offered them. But then, that needed to stay confidential, at least for now. It said so in the contract.

  Jessie put on her jacket and walked the envelopes down the lane to their mailbox. Since their farm was next to Crooked Creek Farm, first she heard, then saw, the back end of Josh’s new truck go fishtailing down the gravel road toward Hethrow. Jessie’d heard Katie’s SUV pass by some time ago. He must be late for school today. Good thing his mom isn’t home to see that!

  7

  Harold stuffed his cell phone back in his pocket, grabbed his pencil and poised it over his pad. “Mayor McKern, what was your reaction when you heard Sam Vitner here was running against you?”

  Everyone’s eyebrows flew up in the air as their eyeballs shot toward Gladys. “Running against me for what?” she asked, as she looked at Sam, waiting for him to clarify the question. And what was that ridiculous giant button he was wearing? she wondered.

  Sam looked perplexed. Surely Gladys knew, right? He looked at Harold who shrugged his shoulders. Even if she didn’t know, a mayoral candidate didn’t have to make his own announcement, did he?

  Harold took a deep breath. “He’s running against you for mayor, Mayor.” Gladys took a closer look at the button. TIME TO SWAP. VITNER FOR MAYOR. She gave Sam a good hard stare, as though daring him to say it was true.

  Sam pasted his campaign smile back on his face and tapped the button twice with his index finger, which he then pointed at her. “Here’s to a fair-and-square race between you and me,” he said, turning his finger back toward himself. Then he held out his hand to shake, which Gladys was momentarily too stunned to take.

  “You saw it here, folks.” He quickly withdrew his hand as he spoke to everyone gathered around, including Jacob who’d stopped by to pick up one of Lester’s large coffees to drink on his way to the airport. He and his mom had stayed up late chatting and he told her not to get up early. “Our current Mayor, our current Acting Mayor that is—and wouldn’t it be nice if she did act like it!—won’t even shake to a fair-and-square campaign,” he said, looking toward Harold. “Did you get that, Harold?” he all but whispered out of the side of his mouth. Harold grimaced but nodded while Sam reached into his pocket. “If any of you think it’s time for a SWAP, start wearing you one of these!” He withdrew a fistful of buttons which he held out on his palm. Cora grabbed one and pinned it to her coat. Arthur shook his head when Sam passed the buttons his way. Harold explained that official press members could not wear anyone’s campaign buttons, especially while on duty.

  Gladys was momentarily saved by the bell when Lester unlocked the door and she could be the first to duck in—everyone right on her heels.

  Jessica nursed Sarah Sue while she talked to Katie in hushed tones so as not to awaken Paul. She’d watched the clock and made herself wait until 8 A.M. to call Katie on her cell phone. Jessica knew the construction crew started at 7 and Katie liked to be on-site to make sure everyone checked in. Jessica at first thought she shouldn’t bother Katie, but she knew Katie wouldn’t want to learn the news about Paul from someone else, and moreover, Jessica needed to talk to her best friend.

  Paul had barely slept last night and neither had she. Even though he tried to convince her to go to bed, she insisted on camping out on the couch
in case he needed anything. “If you don’t want me to worry, then don’t make me leave your side tonight,” she said. He muttered something about emotional blackmail but smiled and shut his eyes. In reality, she was worried about his concussion and wanted to keep an eye on him for at least twenty-four hours.

  “You should see him, Katie. Both eyes are black and swollen, his nose has a scrape, his head has a bandage and his leg’s in a blue cast, if you can imagine that. I could just kick myself for sending him racing off like that, but I promised him I wouldn’t bring it up again.”

  As badly as Katie felt for Paul and Jessica, she was somewhat distracted. She’d just said good-bye to Sharon Teller, who, tape recorder in hand, asked her how she felt about the uprising against Gladys—and therefore herself, since Sam’s platform included promises to stop Partonville from becoming Durbinville. After Sharon left, Katie instructed Edward Showalter to lock the front door and not let anyone else in unless they were delivering materials. She needed to think. She’d started her day by arguing with Josh and it had gone downhill from there. And now here her best friend with her own serious problems was on the phone. She just didn’t have the heart to interrupt her with her issues, at least not right now.

  “I’ve noticed that crack in the sidewalk, Jessica. I can picture just where you’re talking about. To be honest, you have a lawsuit on your hands, no doubt about it. Maybe you two should talk it over. I know you told me Harold said his liability insurance would cover the hospital costs, but what about Paul’s missed work? Pain and suffering? Neglect?”

  After a long period of silence, Jessica quietly said, “We’re just not the suing type, Katie. We adore Harold and we know how hard he works too. The town’s too small to cause trouble over a stumble. Yes, financially this isn’t good, but we’ll make it. God always sees us through. And you know. . . . Oh, never mind.”