by Pamela Morsi
“Go help Toni,” Geri said to me immediately. “She needs someone to lean on.”
I did what I was told. Toni seemed the picture of control, but I needed to do my duty to my son’s wife.
We made it out the front door of the church and down the steps to the sidewalk by the limousine. I was surprised to find that Geri was not right behind me. She seemed to have stayed in the church. I assumed it was something about flowers or consulting with the pastor. She emerged just before the pallbearers. And by the time they had carried J.D.’s body to the hearse, she was beside me once more. I needed her beside me. I remembered coming home from the war, thinking myself a dead man. How I wished I had been! How I wished I could have spared her, spared us, this pain.
We were all silent on the ride up to the cemetery. After the guns had fired, the flag folded and the coffin lowered into the earth, I walked zombielike toward the edge of the cemetery, trailing after the rest of the family. Inside the big black limo I looked up at the women in my life.
Geri looked as confused and hurt and, strangely, as guilty as I felt.
Toni was pale and looked so small.
“Are you all right?” I asked the girl.
She nodded. Then Geri reached over and patted her on the knee.
“You’re doing so well,” she told Toni. “J.D. would be so proud of you.”
Toni gave her a brave little smile. “I can’t lose control of myself and risk hurting the baby,” she said. “I have to stay calm and not go into labor. That’s what J.D. would want me to do. It’s all of him that I have left. And he’d want me to put the baby ahead of my own feelings, even ahead of my feelings for him.”
“That’s what we’ll all do,” Geri said. She glanced over at me for support. “We’ll save our grief for a more convenient time and put the baby first.”
And that’s what we did.
As I lay there in the hospital I was remembering and grieving. What better time for that than now?
I realized that it couldn’t be J.D. sitting there in the chair beside me. We’d laid J.D. into a cold dark hole on the top of the hill a long, long time ago. It must be our little Jackie. Little Jackie no longer, of course. He was Jack, a grown-up man, married and with a family of his own.
Yes, it was Jack sitting beside me. He was doing something with his hands, but I didn’t know what. And he was talking. He was talking and I was listening. I strained and concentrated, but I couldn’t make heads nor tails out of the conversation. I could hear him fine, but somewhere in my head the understanding mechanism just wasn’t in gear. I was sure it was important and I wanted to hear what he was saying, but it just didn’t work.
Of course, that wasn’t the case with that big band music. There was obviously some kind of concert going on out in the hallway and I could hear every note perfectly. And the sweet voices of the Andrews Sisters were as young today as they were the first time I’d heard them sing “Straighten Up and Fly Right.”
Tuesday, June 14, 3:30 p.m.
By midafternoon Bud’s condition was no better. The attending physician had been very blunt about his chances.
“I can’t tell you that he’ll make it through the next hour or the next three days,” he said. “I’m honestly surprised the old gentleman has held on as long as he has. But I don’t see anything good happening from here on out.”
“What about the tears?” Jack asked. “When I was sitting with him last night, I swear there were tears coming out of his eyes.”
The doctor waved off his concern. “That’s pretty common in stroke victims,” he assured him. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Jack accepted the man’s opinion, but he didn’t quite believe it. His grandfather had been communicating with him with the one thing he had left, his emotion.
With the worst seemingly imminent, Aunt Viv’s visitation schedule went completely out the window. The Shertz family was once more present en masse, crammed into the little hallway waiting room like a tin of sardines.
Jack escaped the floor completely, finding a little coffee and snack shop on the first floor with thirty-foot glass views of the adjoining courtyard. He took the opportunity to try to figure out what was going on at Swim Infinity. None of the news was good.
Dana was still not taking his calls. Even at the new business number that Laura had come up with. She was apparently screening everything. Laura had started screening, as well.
“Between the customers asking where the crews are and the crew guys calling up to say they’re leaving to work with Dana, it just doesn’t seem worth answering the phone.”
“Just keep answering,” Jack said. “Apologize to the customers and tell the guys that they can’t quit until they talk to me.”
“Can I quit?” she whined.
“Oh, Laura, you don’t want to quit,” Jack assured her. “You want to give it all you can these next few days and when I get home, I’m giving you a nice raise. Okay?”
“Okay,” she answered, still sounding forlorn. “The other line is ringing.”
“Chin up,” Jack encouraged.
He got off the phone and let out a big sigh. He’d had to offer the crew chief a bigger salary, as well. Jack didn’t mind paying for quality workers and artisans, but he couldn’t afford to get into a bidding war with Big Bob. Dana would certainly be able to pick off some of his best employees, but he hoped that camaraderie and company loyalty might hold some.
“Found you.”
Jack glanced up to see Claire, gourmet coffee and chocolate chip cookie in hand, smiling down at him. He quickly made room for her at his tiny table.
“How’s it going upstairs?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I really haven’t had a chance to get back in there,” she told him. “Aunt Viv’s got everyone doing fifteen-minute visits, making Bud’s hospital room busier than a bus stop. I’m glad we came last night and got to spend some quiet time with him.”
Jack nodded. “Me, too.”
“Though it’s funny how we stayed awake all night and still look like we slept in our clothes,” she pointed out, grinning.
Jack chuckled at the truth of that statement. They’d thrown their clothes on and hit the road. In the clear light of day, they both looked as if they’d dressed in the time it took them, except he was also sprinkled here and there with wood shavings.
“It’s good to hear you laugh,” Claire said.
Jack shook his head. “With all that’s going on, I really shouldn’t be. Poor old Bud just looks terrible. And things are really going south at the office. Laura was counting on me to come rescue her.”
“What’s happening?”
“Well, apparently Dana’s new business is the real deal,” he said. “She’s undercut me with all the jobs that were upcoming but hadn’t broken ground and she apparently has no qualms about stealing my design plans for those projects.”
“Oh, my God, that’s terrible,” Claire said, though she didn’t sound as if she were too concerned about it.
“It’s the nightmare of the small businessman,” Jack said. “You always worry that if you’re not there to be on top of things every minute, it will all come tumbling down like a house of cards.”
“Swim Infinity is not a house of cards,” Claire assured him. “It’s a strong, well-run business with a great reputation. It can’t be wiped off the map so easily.”
“No, but it can sure take some body blows.”
“What can you do?” she asked.
“Well, I can’t go after my clients. That’s very bad for business. Besides, they’re innocent. All they know is that the name of the business changed and that the price went down. I could sue Dana if I’m willing to take the time and money to do that,” Jack said. “I guess it will be convenient since I’ll already be in court.”
“In court?”
“News flash: Mrs. Butterman is now threatening to sue us to get out of the contract her husband signed.”
“Mrs. Butterman is suing?”
�
�Yeah, well, she’s probably got a package deal going. The word is she’s decided to divorce Big Bob. Something about him flying to Costa Rica for the weekend with Dana. It doesn’t look good.”
“How can all this happen in just a few short days?”
Jack shrugged. “You know Dana. When she decides she wants something, she really knows how to go and get it.”
“You said those were good qualities,” Claire reminded him.
Jack nodded. “And you said that I should be careful,” he replied. “So I guess you win.”
“Somehow it doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would,” she told him.
She reached over and took his hand in her own. Without thinking, Jack brought it to his lips.
“It’s funny how being here, with Bud teetering on the edge can put a lot of things in perspective,” Jack said.
Claire nodded.
“I even miss the kids,” he said.
“Me, too,” she admitted. “I wish Peyton and Presley were here right now arguing about inanities and trying to wipe snot on each other.”
They laughed and groaned simultaneously.
“Why don’t we take our coffee out in the courtyard,” Jack said. “We can sit in the shade and give them a call.”
Maybe it was just sheer exhaustion, but as the hours dragged on, afternoon into evening, Claire found herself more and more an observer of what was happening more than a participant in it.
She was hoping that the crowd of family members would dwindle as the day went on, but instead it seemed to get worse as no one left, and younger and more distant relatives continued to arrive.
The nursing staff finally had to put their collective foot down, and Aunt Viv’s Center for Strategic Operations was moved to a larger waiting room downstairs.
Claire and Jack, declared to be the most important, were set up as permanent occupants of two of the hallway waiting-area chairs. The other seat was used as a sort of batter’s circle where the next person to go into the room would wait their turn.
This had the unintended consequence of Jack and Claire being obliged to make conversation with every person in the family. Considering Jack’s usual attitude toward his family, Claire fully expected that the bulk of this well-intentioned chitchat would fall upon her. Normally this wasn’t much of a challenge, but after an interrupted night of sleep and fourteen stressful hours sitting in uncomfortable chairs, Claire wasn’t sure how many simple pleasantries that she’d be able to offer. She didn’t anticipate Jack making much effort to be conversational. But she was wrong.
Jack pulled the pieces of the treasure box out of his tote bag and showed them to every occupant of the chair. Ostensibly he was asking them to admire his handiwork, but more than that he was giving them an opening for a discussion of mutual interests. All of the men in the family had at least a passing knowledge of woodworking, some of the women, as well. And those who had never darkened the door of a wood shop could still admire the beginnings of a fine box. Over and over, Jack showed it to them, told what he knew of the story, fitted the dovetails together for inspection and listened intently to their memories of the box and their advice on his project.
“This is a near perfect fit,” Cousin Julie said as he joined the corners together. “Your grandpa would be really proud to see how well you’ve done. Did he teach you how to do this?”
Jack waved off the compliment. “I wish he had,” Jack answered. “I’m self-taught. My stepfather didn’t do any kind of manual labor. He didn’t have any idea how to even get started. I was always good at it myself. So I guess it must be my genetics.”
Bernard agreed when it was his turn to critique Jack’s work. “This has got to be the Crabtree line,” he said. “The Shertz family, we can make something out of nothing, but Bud and J.D. they could take something good and make it into something special.”
When Poot showed up he had three different grades of sandpaper. “Everybody’s talking about you being stuck up here while you’re trying to finish up Geri’s treasure box,” he said. “I figured that at least you could get some sanding done.”
Claire found herself observing her husband as she listened. This was the Jack she’d fallen in love with, she realized. He was relaxed, friendly, open, interested. So much of the time in the last few years, he would have been unable just to sit here. He would have to be up and moving, talking on the phone or text messaging. And it was now that she would have forgiven him for it. It was now, with things in such as uproar in the business, that she would have cut him some slack. But he seemed completely willing to sit here near his grandfather’s door and pass the time.
When the preacher, Con McKiever, took the extra seat, he dutifully admired Jack’s handiwork like everyone else. He looked strangely unclergylike in a T-shirt and gray cargo pants with brightly colored suspenders. But he was here on a mission and unwilling to be distracted by idle conversation. He clasped the hands of both Jack and Claire.
“Let us call upon the Lord,” he said.
Claire bowed her head reverently and listened to his prayer to heaven that, in her thinking, was way over the top. The preacher called on the auspices of all the saints in heaven, angels both on earth and in sky, and the power that controls both the tides and the baby’s cry to watch at Bud’s bedside. “Almighty God, father of all things and ruler of the universe, we cry out for Your healing hand-ah!” he said loudly and quickly. “Knowing that in all things Your time is per-fec-tion and Your wisdom flawless, we bow to Your judgment in this and in all-ah. Blessed Savior-ah and Good Shepherd-ah, we beseech You in all things-ah that…”
Claire’s mind wandered. It wandered away from the words in the waiting room to the dear old man lying alone in the hospital bed. She remembered his smile, so like Jack’s and the dark eyes that sparkled like Zaidi’s. He’d buried his only son, lost the woman he loved all his life and was practically estranged from his grandson.
Please, no more suffering for Bud, Claire pleaded silently.
McKiever’s prayer went on interminably, voicing every biblical truth from the Garden of Eden to the Rapture, mentioning every prophet, poet and apostle and leaving no worshipful cliché unuttered. When he finally pronounced the amen, the preacher sighed as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He looked as if he felt much better.
Claire couldn’t say the same for herself as she forced a smile to her lips while surreptitiously wiping her sweaty palms on her slacks. Jack stretched out his legs as if he’d been cramped in one position too long.
“I want you to know that our prayer chain is still secure and circling Bud and you two in a holy admonition.”
“Thank you,” Jack said politely.
A momentary silence ensued, but Claire had the distinct feeling that the preacher was just warming up for his next sermonette. Jack forestalled him. “You know, Con, there’s been something I’ve wanted to ask you about your church.”
“What’s that?”
“How do you know if you’re succeeding?” he asked.
“I don’t catch your meaning,” the preacher responded.
“What I’m curious about is what exactly you’re trying to accomplish. Most of your parishioners are Catholic. So are you trying to convert them to Evangelicalism? I’d think that would be your goal, but after visiting your church it seems more like a way to continue with the faith that they already have until their own church shows up to minister to them? If that happens, won’t it put you out of business?”
The preacher smiled and shrugged. “I can’t know the answer to that one, son,” he said. “Folks talk about the hereafter and how we can’t know for sure what heaven will be like. That’s so true. And for me, the here and now is the same. Things we don’t expect have a way of happening. And the Good Lord continues to work in mysterious ways.” He hesitated thoughtfully. “God gives me my job to do and I do it,” he continued. “It’s one foot in front of another, I keep walking the path. I try not to waste a minute gazing off in the future or imagini
ng where I’m headed. Truth is, I just don’t know. But God does. So I just have to trust him to get me there.”
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.”