Dearest Dorothy, Help! I've Lost Myself!

by Charlene Baumbich

  “I’ve had it with you, you stuck-up, ignoring, ignoramus.” Although Shelby said it under her breath, she meant every word.

  7

  Things were hopping at Harry’s Grill. Lester K. Biggs, the grill’s sole owner, cook and waiter, was flipping bacon, cracking eggs, pouring coffee and ringing up customers as fast as his brain and appendages could handle them. Lester worked the griddle with his back toward the U-shaped counter, but you could be sure he neither missed a conversation nor failed to weigh in on it, no matter how many words and spatulas were airborne at the time. This morning the hot buzz among the regulars was the day’s headline in the Partonville Press that read “Partonville to Celebrate Its Centennial Plus 30!”

  To most, the entire notion seemed more odd than anything else. Acting Mayor Gladys McKern had been liberally quoted in the article (no surprise there) as she made pronouncements—and that is the exact word she used—about the “gala” and the “pride in the town’s history” and the “importance of marking such momentous anniversaries.” Sitting at the U this morning, Gladys had fully expected to be cheered on and congratulated for her idea. Instead, she hadn’t had a bite of her eggs since she’d been spending all her time trying to bolster excitement while whisking away the negative banter, which, frankly, she was beginning to get sick of.

  Discussions were flying this way and that about the short amount of time left to organize any kind of celebration worth its salt, what with the Pumpkin Festival and dance just around the corner. “I thought official celebrations only came in increments of twenty-fives,” Lester said over his shoulder to Arthur. “You know, like one hundred, then one hundred and twenty-five, then one hundred and fifty. . . . And come to think about it, I don’t recollect anyone even mentioning our one-hundred and twenty-fifth, although we did things up quite big for our centennial, even going so far as to bring in that dandy of a magician, from Champaign he was, if I do recall correctly,” he said, skidding a plate heaping with three eggs, fried breakfast potatoes, three pieces of bacon and two slices of highly buttered rye bread in front of Arthur.

  “Too bad that magician didn’t go and make Gladys disappear before we went and made her mayor, huh?” Arthur said, winking at Lester. Of course, he said it just loudly enough for Gladys to hear him. He quickly spun his stool straight toward her, raised his coffee mug in the air as if to toast her and said, “Just kidding, Queen Lady. Just kidding.”

  “You know, Arthur, some days your stale humor is just disgusting.” Gladys straightened her spine, pumped up her voice a couple decibels and swiveled her stool toward him. “If as many people cared as much about this town as I do,” she paused and turned a quarter turn more so as to make sure those behind her could also hear, “maybe it would be booming rather than dying.” She slid off her stool and stood. “I’d like to challenge some of you to get on the Centennial Plus Thirty committee and put yourselves to work as hard as you . . . ,” and she stopped here a fraction of a second to look straight back at Arthur, “flap your jaws.” She then raised her voice to nearly shouting level. “It’s time we take a stand and declare our worth!” She seated herself, swung back toward her plate and took a bite of her cold eggs. “Figures!” was all she said before wadding up her napkin, tossing it atop her uneaten food, paying her bill and storming out the door.

  Tears threatened to sprout in her eyes, but with determination, she emotionally jackhammered the negative voices from her head. In spite of these whining inhabitants, under my able direction, this town will live—even if I have to do everything by myself!

  Back at Harry’s, eyes flashed from one person to another as the truth and challenge of Gladys’s statement sank in. The town was dying and poised to be gobbled up by Hethrow. Low murmurs now accompanied the eating, and folks found themselves at least flirting with the idea that perhaps a celebration to let the surrounding towns, especially Hethrow, know they cared about themselves was in order. The debates were cut short when Maggie Malone entered, waving a copy of the Partonville Press in the air. “Hey, everybody! Did you see my picture in today’s paper?”

  One of the twice-weekly Partonville Press’s newer columns was the one Sharon Teller, the Press’s young ace reporter, had proposed during an editorial meeting a few months earlier: “Meet Your Neighbor.” She’d pointed out to Harold Crab, the editor, that it was amazing to her that she had lived in a town this small for her entire life and, if truth be told, she really didn’t know that much about any of the residents who weren’t her direct relatives. “Mr. Crab, I believe spontaneous, surprise interviews—you know, ones with just a few chatty and off-the-cuff questions along with some personal background—could help bring us closer together as a community. Maybe encourage us to reach out to folks we don’t know as well. Then we’ll run a head shot with each interview so people can recognize each other.” Harold thought it was a fine idea, and the spot had been launched. Today’s “Meet Your Neighbor” interview had taken place between the time Gladys had told Harold about the Centennial Plus 30 and today’s edition, so before many in town even knew about the event.

  Today’s neighbor was, of course, none other than Maggie Malone, who had been the first to come out of the post office where Sharon had positioned herself. When Sharon started to explain the Centennial Plus 30 to Maggie, Sharon was astounded to learn Maggie had already heard about it, straight from the horse’s mouth. (This, of course, revealed Sharon’s youth since everybody knew most all news either originated at Harry’s or Maggie’s or the barbershop or the tavern.) When Maggie was asked what she thought about the celebration, she’d replied, “I’m always for celebrating anything! A Centennial Plus Thirty seems like a good excuse and opportunity for the ladies of Partonville to come on into La Feminique Hair Salon & Day Spa to get a new hairdo for the bash. That’s La Feminique Hair Salon & Day Spa, located just a block off the square. The clock is ticking, so hurry on in. Appointments are not always necessary but good hair is!” Sharon thought it was possibly the second-worst column since “Meet Your Neighbor” had begun running, but Maggie was delighted at the opportunity to receive free advertising, since it seemed to her she’d paid plenty over the years to keep her shop’s name in front of folks—never mind her clientele never grew or changed, unless one of them sadly died. Young folks traveled to Hethrow to the upscale salons with lots of buzz, aisles of stations, endless shelves of product and rock music blaring in the background.

  As luck would have it, the accompanying photo was taken the same day Maggie’s eyebrows had gone on all crooked, but at least the picture was blurry enough so that nobody could tell. Sharon, once again embarrassed by having her byline appear with the column, was sure, however, that no column would ever be worse than the premiere had been.

  During that first editorial meeting, in order to keep the surprise element intact and to keep the column from becoming politicized, she and Harold had agreed that when she had a moment during her work day, she’d decide where her location would be: anywhere from right outside the Press’s doorstep, to the doughnut shop, to By George’s station, to My Store or Wal-Mart or the back pew. When she arrived on location, the first person she saw would become the subject of the column, if they agreed to have their words put in print, which many would not. As luck (or bad luck) would have it, Cora Davis was the first to walk out of Richardson’s Rexall Drugs after Sharon had posted herself there with excitement in her belly, a tape recorder in her hand and a camera around her neck.

  Although Sharon had mixed emotions when she saw Cora—Cora being long on both gossip and wind—she at least knew she had a talker. When she held the microphone up to Cora’s mouth and said she’d like to interview her for a new spot in the Partonville Press, Cora pushed the microphone to the little gadget aside and said, “I’d love to talk to you! You. I’d love to talk to Y-O-U, not a machine!” Sharon put her tape recorder in her handbag and pulled out her steno. Whatever it takes. (Sharon would quickly learn that the tape recorder was not her friend for Partonville interviews
since the sight of it seemed to clam people up, aside from Maggie Malone, who had practically grabbed it out of her hand to get her mouth right up to it in order to make sure she got in a plug for her shop.) Sharon then asked Cora to give her a little background about herself.

  Eighteen minutes later, Cora was still talking; she’d barely gotten to her high school days. So far, Sharon had only deemed a few tidbits worthy of newspaper column inches. Sharon finally interrupted and said she thought she had “quite enough” for the short column, although truth be told, she’d had quite enough of Cora. It was then Sharon realized that getting basic stats like name and years as a resident, then asking for an opinion on a current event, would probably make for more interesting reading than gathering terminally boring life stories.

  When she had asked Cora what she thought about our country’s peace-making efforts, Cora stopped talking. Cold turkey. She just clammed up for about a minute—which is a long time when nothing is happening—although Sharon assumed Cora was formulating her thoughtful opinion. When Cora finally spoke, all she said was, “I thought we were talking about me.” Sharon sighed, but being quick on her feet said, “Oh, but we are, Cora! That’s why I’m so interested to know what YOU think about our country’s approach to bringing peace to Iraq.” Silence for another minute, then an answer. “Oh. In that case, I think if the world would like to see peace in action, they should have been at my. . . .” Cora rambled on and on about her Uncle Duke and Aunt Pam and their stellar efforts to pull feuding factions together at the last family reunion. Sharon’s eyes glazed over and her hand pretended to write shorthand on her steno, although in reality she was just scribbling endless loops of circles of every size with an occasional “blah, blah blah” thrown in to entertain herself until Cora ran out of breath—which Sharon hoped was before sundown.

  When Sharon had returned to the office looking somewhat like a deflated air mattress, Harold had asked her how it went. “Mr. Crab, let me just say two words: Cora Davis. Need I say more?” In an uncommon-yet-fatherly gesture, Harold Crab then gave Sharon Teller a quick hug, his sympathetic silence speaking volumes. Sharon would have rather skipped the debut of “Meet Your Neighbor,” but since they’d agreed that there would be no bias, the premiere column went down in Sharon’s personal history book as a supreme egg-on-face experience.

  YOUR NEIGHBOR: Cora Davis. Lifetime Partonville resident. Says, “Ladies don’t tell their age.” Loves living in Partonville and sharing her stories as well as learning everyone else’s.

  QUESTION: What is your stand on the USA’s peace-making efforts in Iraq?

  ANSWER: She is for peace and has seen it demonstrated in her family. She’d love to talk to you about her thoughts. TIDBIT: Cora can often be found frequenting Harry’s Grill. Look for her in the front window table.

  After Harold read Sharon’s copy he said, “Translation: Cora Davis is an old, lifetime Partonville gossip who will talk endlessly to anyone about anything, then repeat everything she says and hears, just not always exactly the way it (a) happened or (b) she heard it. She sits in the window at Harry’s so she doesn’t miss a trick.

  “Nice, kind, self-disciplined job, Sharon!”

  In the accompanying photo, Cora’s mouth was wide open.

  8

  Katie was breathless from dragging the clothes rack in the Chaos Room to the opposite wall. She needed to make room for the exercise equipment, or at least clear enough space to see what, if any of it, would fit. She was determined to get a mini gym set up before she became a complete slug. Although she’d toyed with the idea of getting Edward Showalter, the man who had done such a good job rehabbing her aunt’s house, to build her an executive-level, heated and air-conditioned gym in the barn, she’d finally ruled against it. What if she decided to sell the farm after all? She’d never recoup her money since the whole farm would obviously be bulldozed and developed.

  Even though the Chaos Room wasn’t quite readied yet, she felt a huge relief to finally have Aunt Tess’s boxes disbursed and the center floor space opened. She’d tossed most of Aunt Tess’s papers, kept a few medical records and put the letters in a ski-boot box she kept on the upper shelf in her closet. “Out of sight, out of mind,” her mom used to say. She’d determined she’d already spent far too much time on them and resolved to keep herself from obsessing.

  While she stacked a few storage boxes and set two more work suits, four pairs of shoes and two objects of expensive art she’d never really liked into the pile for the Now and Again Resale shop—although she might give Jessica first shot at the items—Katie’s dad . . . at least see . . . his eyes . . . from a distance . . . covenant . . . CW . . . TW . . . yammered through her mind. No matter her resolve, her mind had a mind of its own. While continuing to work, she mentally twiddled with the Core Four initials, concluding that her Aunt Tess—Tessa Martha Walker—was TW, since she was clearly in on the covenant. And since her mom’s maiden name had also been Walker, then CW must be Clarice Walker. At least that seemed like a safe bet since both of the women clearly were in on it. Both of these women were now gone, taking with them whatever it was they knew. DW. Must be another relative, but I sure don’t know one with those initials. DC . . . haven’t a clue. Two down, two to go . . . A dated leather jacket to the resale pile, a wooden wastebasket to Josh’s room, a picture downstairs to the living room. Might work with my decor. Have to ask Jessica.

  She surveyed the room, stepping off floor space and spreading her arms to at least form a vague measurement as to how much room she’d have—or not—for the treadmill. She grabbed a pencil and paper from her bedroom, took a few notes, donned her jacket and walked to the barn to see what, if any, of the miscellaneous items temporarily stored there might fit. Be ruthless! she thought on the way up the slope to the big barn doors. Any piece of equipment that won’t fit doesn’t stay. And what if none of it fits? Then join a health club in Hethrow. Bet they’ve got several to choose from.

  Several times throughout the day she’d picked up the phone to call Jessica or Dorothy, then set it back down again, realizing she needed to stay on task. And truth be told, between her goals to get this project done and her haunting speculations about the Core Four’s secret—about her—she wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

  Dearest Dorothy, aka Outtamyway,

  I know I haven’t phoned or emailed you lately, but Help! I’ve lost myself! (Will explain later.) Let me know when I can stop by and I’ll see if Sergeant Mom, aka She Who Yells, will let me borrow the car, since she won’t get me one of my own. (Hey, how about next time you see her you put in a good word for that, okay? Too bad The Tank’s tanked!) Whenever we can get together, I’ll pick you up and we’ll speed down a few roads. (Nothing like bribery!)

  Joshmeister

  Dear Lost Joshmeister (although I see your new email address says Josh-o),

  I can’t imagine how you’ve already lost yourself since you are too young for Alzheimer’s, but I’m rearin’ to listen. Funny how you’ve lost yourself just when I’ve been found out! (Won’t explain later . . . I don’t think. Although maybe I’ll have to. Yes, probably will—*absolutely* will, maybe, now that I think about it—but not right now.)

  Since I can’t go much of anyplace without a car, and the only things I go to on a regular basis are band practice and to get my pink scalp “done,” give me a call, an email or drop by. If I’m here, I’m all *yours*! And boy oh boy, speeding anywhere sounds great, as long as we can have the windows open and Sheba comes with us, but what I could really use is a hearty dose of Crooked Creek Farm! Maybe you could speed us there?

  As for putting in a good word about you and a car, I haven’t caught a glimpse of you *or* your mom lately. Maybe the two of you have plucked the creek plumb out of crawdads by now? However, I’m sorry to hear it sounds like you’ve been “at it” again. Like they say on the television (although I imagine that phrase has already come and gone), Whassup with that? (You should hear how that comes out of my mouth when my partial pl
ate isn’t seated right!)

  Looking forward to a fast ride and a good visit, Dorothy, who feels more in the way than out of it lately.

  PS Sheba says HI!

  Dear Outtamyway (sorry, Dear Intheway doesn’t work for me, plus you could never be that) and Sheba,

  BAD NEWS! Won’t see you right away to find out what you’re not going to tell me yet (okay, you’ve got my curiosity pumped) since Mom said we’re going to Chicago this weekend. She said her roots need to be done and she needs a city fix. Mumbled something about the deli (don’t know why; all she eats is tasteless stuff anyway), the city energy and a “distraction from obsessing about the core four,” whatever that is. Sounds like one of her video workouts.

  Will contact you soon after we return and I can escape,

  Joshmeister

  PS Notice email address is changed back to Joshmeister. Forget Josh-o. He’s lost too, for good hopefully.

  Dear Joshmeister,

  No wonder you’re lost: sounds like there’s been too many of you to keep track of! HA!

  Although it’s bad news for me we can’t get together (but I understand), it’s good news for you and your best friend Alex since I’m sure you’re anxious to see each other. Won’t you two have a big time catching up! Please tell him I said hello! Maybe he could come visit for the Pumpkin Festival or our “grand” 130-year celebration . . . or . . . *whatever*?