Silence of the Jams

by Gayle Leeson

  I tiptoed into the living room and smiled at the sight of Mom sleeping on the sofa with Princess Eloise tucked against her side and Rory lying on the floor beside them. Rory hopped up when he saw me, his tail wagging with excitement.

  “Somebody’s ready for breakfast,” I whispered. “Come on.”

  He followed me back into the kitchen, where I poured some kibble into his dish. As he munched on his food, Mom ambled into the kitchen.

  “I thought I smelled coffee,” she said.

  “It’s almost finished brewing. Have a seat.”

  She sat at the table. “How’s the thumb?”

  “Not bad. I took something for the pain—not the prescription medication. What would you like for breakfast?”

  “What would you like for breakfast? I’m certainly not going to ask you to make breakfast with your thumb all cut up.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “I’ll be making breakfast for people all morning. Why not start with my lovely mother?”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. Would it kill you to take a day off and let Jackie manage the café?”

  “No. I know that because I took yesterday off. And so did Jackie, come to think of it.” I groaned. “I’m half afraid to go in and see what’s waiting for me.”

  “I’m sure Shelly and Donna did a fine job.”

  “You saw no evidence of a fire when you went to get the car for me, did you?”

  “No. I absolutely did not.” She got up from the table, picked up the loaf of bread, and put two slices into the toaster.

  “What would you like to go with your toast?” I asked.

  “Butter.” She pressed the toaster lever and huffed as she took a knife from the drawer and then retrieved the tub of butter from the refrigerator.

  A truck pulled up outside. I peeped out and saw that it was Roger. I hurried through the house to the front door and flung it open before he could knock.

  “What’s wrong? Did something happen at the café?”

  He grasped my shoulders. “Relax, Flowerpot. Everything’s fine.”

  Flowerpot. Roger had been calling me by that nickname since our childhood. I was happy to see that he was finally relaxed enough since the stressful past few days to use it again. I, on the other hand, was still extremely stressed.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “No sign of a fire or electrical damage?”

  “Positive.” He followed me back to the kitchen. “Morning, Jenna.”

  “Hi, Roger. Are you here to talk some sense into my daughter?”

  “Actually, Jackie sent me to sit on her if necessary.”

  “Would you like some coffee?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind a cup. Thanks.”

  I poured him some coffee while he told me that Jackie was already at the café.

  “She’s trying to make it up to you for bailing on you yesterday,” he said.

  “But, Roger, she doesn’t have anything to make up. She needed to leave, and I insisted that she go.”

  He put creamer and sugar into his coffee. “And she needs you to let her take the morning shift today so she can feel sure you still have confidence in her.”

  “Did she say that?” I asked.

  “No, but I can read her pretty well.” He stirred the coffee and then took a sip. “Let her do this for you, Flowerpot. If you’re up to it, you can go in at lunch.”

  “Oh, I know Amy,” Mom said. “She’ll go in at lunchtime if we have to carry her in there on a stretcher.”

  I sat down at the table and looked at Roger. “You know, you’re really good at guilt trips.”

  “It’s why my older sister always keeps an overnight bag packed.” He winked.

  I laughed. “Fine. I’ll stay here until lunchtime. For Jackie.”

  Roger raised his cup. “To the fair Jacqueline.”

  Mom’s eyes widened. “Better never let her hear you call her that.”

  “I’ve called her that from time to time,” he said.

  “And you’ve got the bruises to show for it?” I teased.

  “Nah. Love taps don’t leave bruises. Not bad ones anyway.”

  • • •

  After Roger left, I talked Mom into going to check on Aunt Bess since Jackie was at the café. I taped a plastic bag over my left hand and took a shower. Washing my hair was particularly challenging, but I managed.

  I’d just finished drying my hair and dressing in jeans and my Down South Café shirt when someone knocked on my front door. I slipped on a pair of sneakers and went to see who was there.

  It was Dr. Kent.

  “Good morning.” He was wearing khaki shorts and a yellow T-shirt, and he looked very undoctorlike.

  “Hi, there. You make a lot of house calls, don’t you?”

  “When I’m in the neighborhood.” He smiled. “I don’t charge extra for them.”

  “In that case, would you like to come in?”

  He came into the living room and indicated the overhead light. “May I?”

  “Sure.”

  He flipped on the light, took my hand, and removed the dressing. “Minimal swelling. That’s good. Ah, yes, I think this is going to heal up nicely with only marginal scarring.”

  “Well, a little scar will remind me to be more careful, won’t it?”

  “That it will. If you’ll get your dressing, I’ll rebandage this.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

  “What’s a house call—a free house call—if you don’t get the full treatment?”

  I chuckled. “All right.” I went into the bedroom and retrieved the dressing. When I returned to the living room, Dr. Kent had taken a seat on the sofa. Rory had come to sit at his feet and was looking up at the man expectantly.

  “Does this little guy want a checkup?”

  “Probably,” I said. “He’s a little mooch, so I imagine he heard the word free and came running thinking maybe there was food involved.”

  Dr. Kent laughed. “Sit down here and let’s get that thumb bandaged back up.”

  “You know, I’m really impressed with how well you treat your patients. I mean, Mom wasn’t even your patient, and you checked on her several times. You really didn’t have to do that.”

  “It was no big deal. I’d heard about what had happened and was concerned. I’ve come to enjoy eating at the café, and I’d like to think we’re becoming friends.”

  “Of course.” I thought about the photograph in his office. “I have to admit—while I was waiting for you in the exam room yesterday, I checked out your photographs and—”

  “Ah! Trying to make sure I was legitimate, eh? Well, my diplomas are in my office, so . . .”

  I laughed. “No, it wasn’t that. I always enjoy finding out more about people—where they come from, what their stories are. In fact, I saw the photo of you in front of a practice with an older man. I thought he might be your dad.”

  “You’re an astute young lady. That was indeed my father. When I was a fresh-faced young man just out of medical school, my best friend and I went into practice with Dad.”

  “How nice.”

  A shadow passed over his face. “It was . . . at least until Barry—that was my friend—was killed in an automobile accident.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “These things happen.” He put the splint over my thumb and taped it into place. “Barry was a good man. My father and I—well, my father mostly—did everything we could to help him, but . . .” He shook his head. “We failed.”

  “But you can’t blame yourself.”

  “Oh, yes, I can, my dear Ms. Flowers. Indeed, I can. I was with Barry when the car crashed.”

  I caught my breath.

  “Barry had a drinking problem,” he continued. “It started when we were in college�
��mainly a social thing, you know. But then Barry began drinking to relax and to escape his worries. I began seeing the toll it was taking on him, and I convinced him to go to rehab.”

  “That’s how you know so much about addiction,” I said.

  He nodded. “I speak from experience. Barry went to rehab one summer. I thought he was cured. But as soon as we got back to school and the party scene, rehab went out the window. It was a vicious cycle.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too. You couldn’t possibly know how sorry I am. Barry went into rehab again before our internships began.” He closed his eyes. “This time I was positive that Barry’s recovery was permanent. And for months, he was fine. He was great!” He opened his eyes, and I could see they glistened with tears. “We went into business with my dad, enjoyed a booming practice, were helping people every day. We had three terrific years.”

  “And he relapsed?”

  “He relapsed,” he said softly. “One night during a Memorial Day weekend, Barry and I had gone to a party and he wound up drinking. He swore that he was sober when we left, and I believed him.”

  “And you allowed him to drive.”

  “Yeah. I did. But I should’ve known better. I hadn’t been with him all along. I’d blown him off for some pretty coeds. I should’ve been paying more attention to Barry.” He sighed. “On the way home, he ran a stop sign, and we were T-boned by another vehicle.”

  “I’m so very, very sorry,” I said softly.

  He gave a humorless smile. “I tried to stay in North Carolina—did my best to stick it out. After a few months, I gave up. I almost gave up medicine altogether. In the end, I wound up going from first one place to another. Finally, I wound up here.”

  “Well . . . I’m glad you did.”

  “Yes,” he said, forcing a note of gaiety into his voice. “No one can cheer a patient up like Dr. Taylor Kent!”

  I smiled. “You can, you know. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “I seldom am these days. That all happened a long, long time ago. It is still hard to think about, though.” He handed me back the rest of the bandages and stood. “I must be going.”

  “Thank you for coming by.”

  “Anytime. Let me know if that becomes infected or if you need anything.”

  • • •

  Jackie had everything well under control by the time I arrived at lunchtime. Not that I doubted that she would, but she’d even surprised me by baking an apple pie.

  “Wow, it smells great in here,” I said as I deposited my purse on the shelf in the kitchen.

  “I just got the pie out of the oven.”

  I lowered my voice to just above a whisper. “How was everything when you got here this morning?”

  “Everything was great. Shelly and Donna apparently did a terrific job.” She patted my shoulder. “I know this place couldn’t survive without you for very long, but it was all right for a few hours.”

  “That is kinda tough to admit—not just the place being okay without me but thriving.” I grinned and returned my voice to normal volume. “Thanks for taking the morning shift.”

  “My pleasure.” She took off her apron and hung it on a hook by the door. “Before I go, what would you like to make Aunt Jenna and Granny for lunch tomorrow? I thought I’d stop by the grocery store.”

  “We need to make something good. Aunt Bess has had a stressful week,” I said. “Mom has too, come to think of it. She slept on my sofa last night. I invited her to share my bed, but she was afraid she’d roll over on my thumb or something.”

  “How is your thumb, by the way?”

  “It hurts, but not too badly.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own for the rest of the day?” she asked.

  “Positive. It’s good to be out of the house and not have people fussing over me. Dr. Kent even came by to change my dressing this morning.”

  “I think that guy has a crush on Aunt Jenna or something. I don’t know of any other doctor who’s that attentive.”

  “I don’t either.” I put on a pair of gloves and began shredding lettuce. “I think he’s lonely.”

  “Lonely, and he has the hots for your mom.” She raised her brows. “Did he say to be sure and mention his visit to her?”

  “No, he didn’t. But he might’ve thought she’d be there this morning.”

  Jackie saw that I was struggling with the lettuce and she pulled on a pair of gloves and started helping me. “That makes sense. Was he looking around like he was maybe trying to see where she was?”

  I shook my head. “You’re impossible. Mom could do worse, though. I mean, Dr. Kent is a little old for her, but he’s a nice guy. I really do wish she’d get out more.”

  “So about lunch . . .”

  As she finished helping me with the lunch prep, we decided on chicken and rice, macaroni and cheese, broccoli, and peach cobbler.

  Chapter 19

  I went home straight after work so I could rest for a little while before having to get ready to go to the funeral home. I’d underestimated how difficult it would be to work without the use of my left thumb. Not only had Jackie had to help me with the lettuce, Shelly had needed to peel the potatoes and make the fries as well as slice the tomatoes. Plus, the cut was painful. Had I not been going to the funeral home this evening, I would have taken those other two prescription pills Dr. Kent’s nurse had given me. And since the café was closed tomorrow, I’d be sorely tempted to get that prescription filled and loop out for the entire day. Instead, I settled for taking an over-the-counter pain reliever and sleeping on the sofa for half an hour.

  The alarm I’d set on my phone woke me up, and I slept through it for a couple of minutes. I really wished I could stay at home, but I felt obligated to go to the funeral home. After all, Mr. Lincoln had died in my café.

  By the time Ryan came to pick me up, I’d managed to make myself look respectable. I wore a black skirt and short-sleeved top, my makeup was subtle, and my hair was pulled back away from my face.

  Ryan told me I looked beautiful, which I felt was stretching the truth a bit but which I appreciated very much. He’d put the top up on the convertible, and I was thankful for that too.

  “So how was work today?” Ryan asked as we headed toward Pelham’s.

  “It was more challenging than I thought it would be. Plus, several people came in because they’d heard that I’d cut myself and they wanted to see how I was doing. That was sweet, of course, but—”

  “But it made it that much harder to work with the constant distractions,” he finished.

  “Exactly.” I smiled. “Some had home remedies—or probably more like old wives’ tales—to prescribe. For instance, Mr. Landon—the beekeeper—told me to put honey on the wound so it won’t get infected or scar as badly.”

  “Well, I have heard that honey has antibacterial properties, so it might not hurt to try that one.”

  “I might try the honey,” I said, “but I’m definitely not going to pee on it.”

  Ryan turned to give me a look of alarmed curiosity.

  “Don’t even ask,” I told him.

  • • •

  It took us over forty minutes to get to the funeral home and to find a parking spot. I immediately excused myself and found the ladies’ room.

  “Goodness, Amy, you’re as pale as a ghost!” Joyce Kaye exclaimed as she dried her hands. “I heard about what happened. I take it you aren’t feeling all that great.”

  “Not really. I wish I’d thought to bring my pain medicine with me.”

  She dug into her purse and brought out an aspirin bottle. “Here, take one of these.” She opened the bottle. “You aren’t driving, are you?”

  “No.”

  She handed me a white tablet. There was a water cooler between two armchairs in the spacious b
athroom. I took a cup from the dispenser, got some water, and took the aspirin.

  Then a thought occurred to me. “Why would you ask if I’m driving? Aspirin doesn’t affect one’s motor skills, does it?”

  “Oh, no. Aspirin doesn’t. But that does. It’s a prescription medication Dr. Kent prescribed for my migraines.” She grinned. “You’ll feel better in a jiffy.”

  “But why do you carry your prescription medication in an aspirin bottle?”

  “I don’t want to be seen carrying around a prescription bottle. It might make people think there’s something wrong with me.”

  I was staring at Joyce with what I imagined was an expression akin to horror.

  She patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, hon. It’ll be okay. I’ve shared them with other friends on occasion. Trust me, you’ll be thanking me within half an hour. And the medicine might actually make conversing with that blowhard Elva Lincoln a little more tolerable. Huh. Maybe I should take one too.” She laughed.

  “So you don’t like Mrs. Lincoln?” Maybe she didn’t appreciate Joyce passing out prescription meds any more than I did.

  Joyce shook her head. “She’s a complete phony—out there playing the part of the grieving widow. She ought to realize that I was privy to her husband’s communications. I know what the real situation was.”

  “You think she’s . . .” I let the sentence hang.

  “I think she’s glad he’s dead. Now she doesn’t have to go to the trouble and expense of divorcing him.” She patted my shoulder again. “Feel better, sweetie.”

  When I left the bathroom a couple of minutes later, Joyce was standing just outside the door talking with Thomas Lincoln.

  “Hello, Ms. Flowers,” he said. “Heard about what happened to you. It’s just like I was telling Ms. Kaye here—you can never be too sure of anything or too safe. Ain’t that right?”

  He and I both looked at Joyce, who nodded stiffly.

  “Just ask my brother,” he continued. “Oh, wait. You can’t, can you?”

  As Thomas was ambling away, Ryan approached us.

  “Are you both all right?” he asked.