Lord willing, I’ll be here when you get back, and will hear from you when I hear from you.
Peace and grins,
Dorothy
Josh started to reply that Alex didn’t even know he was coming to Chicago, but decided he’d rather not get into that. Truth was, he was anxious to see Alex, but he wasn’t sure if Alex would want to see him. Since they no longer owned the brownstone near Alex’s home, he wasn’t even sure where he and his mom would be staying during the trip. He figured odds weren’t high he’d accidentally run into Alex, though.
After his runaway visit with Woodsy, just out of curiosity, Josh had spent some time going back through copies of his “sent” e-mails to assure himself he hadn’t turned into the jerk Alex implied he had. As if his day hadn’t been bad enough, he’d discovered that Alex had been right: every one of his e-mails was all about him and how “popular” he’d become, how swell Kevin was, how girls seemed to dig city guys, and on and on. They sounded more like Kevin talking than himself. Not one single time had he asked Alex what was up with him or commented on anything Alex had told him, which had become less and less. Not once. And not once had he even mentioned Shelby either. GREAT! Kevin was right, too.
Perhaps even more troublesome was the fact that now Kevin was taking Shelby to the dance. When was the last time he’d talked to her himself? Shelby, who had befriended him and dazzled him with her smile. Shelby, who had introduced him around to everyone, only for him to leave her in his “popular” dust, falling prey to the likes of Kevin! He held his right hand up to his forehead, pointing his index finger straight up and his thumb at a ninety-degree angle, forming an L. “You, Josh, are a loser.”
“You did WHAT, woman?”
“You heard me, Arthur Landers. After all these decades of marriage, I know when you hear me and when you don’t, and when you don’t, it’s usually because you don’t want to—although your hearing is no doubt NOT” (and she yelled that, just to prove her point) “what it used to be either. And since this is one of those don’t-want-to times, I will repeat myself, even though I know good and well you heard me. I said I signed you up to be on the Centennial Plus Thirty committee since what else have you got to do now that you don’t have The Tank to mess with—aside from torment me?”
“I got my La-Z-Boy. I got my TV and football season. I got you to put up with, and right this minute, that’s bout more than I kin stand, woman!”
Jessie harrumphed around the kitchen, clearing the lunch dishes from the meal Arthur had not helped her prepare, and the table he had not helped her set, and the dishes he would not help her do. Parking his butt in that dang La-Z-Boy was about all he seemed interested in tackling lately. By the time she’d put the dishes in the drainer and wiped down the table, she’d worked up a full head of steam. She marched into the living room, grabbed the remote control out of his hand, turned off the television, then stood looking down at his reclining self.
“Here’s the deal, Arthur, and I’m only going to say this once: you have got to do more than move from this chair to Harry’s and back. When you came home this morning and told me what Gladys said about folks putting their actions where their mouths were, or something like that, I thought, you know, it’s time Arthur did just that. And you know what, Arthur?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You would be a good person to have on that committee since I reckon you know about as much about this town as anyone who’s lived in it as long as you have—and those folks are dying by the minute.”
“Now jist a gol’ dern minute!” he said, snapping down his leg rest and planting his hands on the chair arms to boost himself up, since his knees weren’t what they used to be, especially after all the bending over, kneeling and crawling around under cars he’d done over the decades. About halfway up he said, “Why I ain’t even . . .”
Jessie reached out her hand and gently pushed on his chest, causing his back side to thunk back down in the chair. “I don’t give a hoot what you ain’t even because what you are is going to that meeting, and it starts at seven P.M. tomorrow in the hospitality room down at church, so you still got thirty-six hours to get your precious chair-time in.” She disappeared out of the living room before he could respond. By the time he pried himself out of his chair, he heard the back door slam. It wasn’t long after that he heard the sounds of something whapping into the side of the old outhouse. Throwing things at the outhouse was what she did when she was as mad as a hornet, especially if Arthur had retreated there to get away from her when they were in the middle of one of their storms, which blew in quite often. Since in her heyday she’d been a semi-pro softball catcher with the best pickoff arm in the traveling league, and since she now pitched for the Wild Musketeers (like Arthur, her knees weren’t what they used to be, what with all that squatting), she needed to keep her arm in shape, so she’d hurl anything at hand. This time it was a wad of acorns she’d collected from the ground on her way to her target.
“I’m the one who oughta be throwing somethin’!” Arthur mumbled to himself. He settled back in his La-Z-BOY, lifted the leg rest, picked up the remote and turned on a soap opera. Although he never watched those types of “stories,” after a few minutes of viewing the likes of the troubles those folks were having, he decided the whole world had gone plumb goofy.
9
May Belle had arrived at church early to get some coffee going and set out a plate of her oatmeal raisin cookies. When she’d read that a Centennial Plus 30 committee was forming and that all interested parties should show up at church by 7:00 P.M. Thursday, she didn’t ask a single question or even let anyone know she was interested; she just fired up her oven and began lining up her ingredients. She always kept her flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt stored right next to one another since she so often sifted combinations of them together with her noisy old metal hand sifter whose blades whirred round and round as she cranked the handle.
“I have no idea how many might show up tonight, Earl,” she said as she moved a few things aside on her counter, clearing space for the procedure, “but it never hurts to have extra. Funny how committee members are more likely to keep showing up when they know there’ll be food in front of them. Yes, nothing like a little sweet enticement.” She laughed, although Earl didn’t understand at what. Just the same, he loved to hear the lilt of his mother’s laughter, which always made him smile. “I don’t imagine I’ll be able to add much more in terms of a contribution, but I guess every little bit will help since time is short. Of course, if they decide to have a bake sale, I can contribute to that. . . . Would you please get out my cookie sheets, honey? And grab me a stick of butter from the ice box, and the box of raisins out of the top cabinet over there,” she said, nodding her head in the appropriate directions while tying the long strings of her faded blue gingham apron in a neat bow behind her back. Although it was really her laundry day, no amount of routine would or could ever interfere with the opportunity to bake. She didn’t need to look at recipes; they seemed to come engraved in her memory along with her gift for creating new ones. She loved experimenting with ingredients, adding a pinch of this and a dab of that—as long as they were this-and-that staples she usually stocked, since funds were always tight.
One of her favorite things to add “just a bit of” to many baking recipes was coconut. She’d chop it up into morsels tiny enough so it couldn’t even be recognized. She even once, being low on crackers and plentiful on coconut, found herself stirring it into a meatloaf mixture, right along with eggs, onions and a little green pepper, because if Earl saw her adding the green pepper, he’d say he wasn’t hungry. If he didn’t catch her, he never said a word, not even if the green specks were right there in the meatloaf when she served it. Although May Belle hadn’t minded the hint of sweet coconut flavor in her meatloaf experiment, she decided it hadn’t done much for the texture, and she’d quickly added crackers to her grocery list.
“Who’s in here?” Gladys’s voice echoed down the church hall after she’d
entered at 6:45 and noticed the lights to the hospitality room were already on.
“Just me, dear! May Belle! Getting the coffee going!”
Gladys came around the corner and shivered. “Now that will taste good this chilly evening. How close is it to being ready?” She rubbed her hands together and acted as if she’d been expecting May Belle all along, although truthfully, she’d had no idea.
“Just another minute. Sounds like it’s on its last blurps before the light comes on.”
“I’m going to go hang my coat up in the narthex. I’ll be right back. I’d like to get this meeting started on time—at least I hope enough people show up to call it a meeting.” After her horrible morning at Harry’s yesterday and her huffy exit, she wondered how many they’d be. She snatched a cookie off the doily-decorated plate in the middle of the table, glancing over her shoulder, somewhat relieved that May Belle hadn’t caught her. Better get one before Dorothy and her sweet tooth arrive. While she was busy walking and staring at her teeth marks in the cookie, trying to detect if May Belle had snuck in any surprise ingredients to what otherwise looked to be an ordinary oatmeal raisin cookie, she was happy to see Sharon Teller and Eugene Casey, owner and undertaker at Casey’s Funeral Home, walk in together. They were chatting up a storm.
“Go right on in! We’ve got refreshments just about ready.”
“Refreshments?” Eugene asked. As soon as Gladys was out of earshot he said to Sharon, “This might be better than I expected!”
Sharon set her briefcase down on one of the chairs surrounding the table. “Cookies! May Belle must be on the committee!”
“Well, I’m not sure about that,” May Belle said, arriving around the partition between the kitchen area and the meeting room. She set a tray of steaming coffee mugs filled right up to the brim onto the table. “I am on cookie patrol! Go right on and help yourselves. Napkins are right there and I’ll be back with the cream, sugar and sweetener. Oh, and a few spoons,” she said after surveying the setting. “As for actually being on the committee, that’s debatable. Are you here this evening on official newspaper duty, Sharon?” she asked, wiping her hands down the front of her best apron.
“Sort of. I’ll take a few notes, no doubt; can’t help myself. I’m sure we’ll at least run a blurb about the formation of the committees, report contact names and such. But mostly I just want to take part. Besides, my social calendar hasn’t exactly been filled up lately with much more than band practice, so, why not!”
“Perty thing the likes of you ain’t got a filled-up social calendar? What’s a matter with these dern fellas today?” Arthur stood in the doorway to the room, not really wanting to enter, but happy to see Sharon Teller’s cute little self, giving her a longer-than-usual once-over. He could be a hopeless old flirt, even though Sharon knew he was harmless. In fact, she felt rather flattered by his attention, even if he was only teasing her. It was nice to be thought of as a “cute little self” by anyone, even if that anyone was wearing coveralls and a baseball cap that looked as old as his eighty-plus years.
“Arthur Landers, you old codger! Will you please stop gawking and get out of the doorway,” Gladys demanded rather than asked. “You’re old enough to be her great-grandfather. And what on earth are you doing here? You’re about the last person I expected to see.”
“That contrarian woman of mine done signed me up, that’s what I’m a doin’ here.”
“Although I’d like to see this evening end with many commitments to hard work, and maybe even get subcommittee assignments in place, we’ve had no sign-ups. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Pause. “Unless . . .” Her voice halted as she put the pieces together, then realized Jessie must have cornswaggled her husband. (“Don’t you mean hornswoggled, Gladys?” Folks had tried to correct her for years, but she was sure they were all wrong.) “Why, Arthur Landers! I do believe you’ve been had! Good for Jessie!” Gladys nearly laughed herself silly. She couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather see cornswaggled than Arthur!
Arthur started to turn on his heels and leave, his face contorting into thunder.
“Here, Arthur. Simmer down and come sit by me,” Sharon said, pulling out the chair next to her. She figured her invitation might help him save face as well as cool his jets.
Arthur looked at Sharon, then at everyone else in the room, then back at Sharon. “Well, now,” he said with a newborn slyness in his voice, “maybe Jessie’s the one who’ll git had in the end!” His hand tipped the bill of his baseball cap at Sharon. “Ma’am,” he said, acknowledging the young thing he was parking himself next to.
“This must be the Centennial Plus Thirty meeting!” Jessica’s voice was filled with enthusiasm as she entered, Sarah Sue strapped to her chest in one of those cuddly contraptions, a sprawling mass of sweater-covered arms and chunky legs reaching forward like a spider searching for the fly. Paul followed close behind.
“Well, look at you! Aren’t you a handsome family!” May Belle said, first removing Sarah Sue’s little hand-knit cap and gently kissing the top of her head, then smiling at Paul, then scurrying to get some more mugs of coffee filled up and delivered. She also unwrapped the second plate of cookies and brought them to the table.
“Paul and me, well, we decided we needed to get out and do something together for a change,” she said as they seated themselves around the table. She looked at Gladys, who was staring in an unkindly fashion at Sarah Sue, whose fist was jammed into her mouth, a long string of drool dangling from her lower lip. “I figure if Sarah Sue starts acting up, one of us can just take her home.”
“Good,” Gladys said. She yanked her blazer back down over her bosom, noticing with chagrin that it must have been bunched up since she took off her coat. She glanced at her giant wristwatch face. “Six fifty-nine. Let’s all get seated,” she said, straightening her ever-present bronze nametag, reminding everyone that she was the mayor—like they could ever possibly forget that little fact. When she heard the church door open, she expected it would be Dorothy, surprised she hadn’t already arrived. Surely, she’d need to be getting her twenty-nine-cents-worth into the doings. That was okay, though, because Gladys wanted to talk to her about something anyway. However, instead of Dorothy, Doc Streator sauntered in.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Looks like I made it in the nick of time.”
“Well, howdy, Doc,” Arthur said with enthusiasm. “Reckin it’s been a long time since I saw you! Glad to know yur still alive and a-kickin’, Doc.”
“Arthur Landers, you old devil. It has been a long time. And I’m glad to know, since you don’t ever come see your good doctor, that you haven’t croaked. Then again, I imagine if a person has the power to stay alive on spit and vinegar alone, you’re likely to live forever.” The two of them laughed a comfortable laugh, genuinely glad to see each other.
Doc Streator had recently brought a young internist into his practice, which afforded him the ability to start taking a little much-needed time off. Very little, but nonetheless a step in the right direction. For years he’d been good at prescribing rest and relaxation for his patients, but he hadn’t been quite as good at taking it for himself. The needs of the townspeople had always overridden his desire to vacation. But now, nearing seventy-five and having outlived his wife, he knew it was time to call in reinforcements and spend more time with his grandchildren. Maybe even play more golf in the summer and become a winter snowbird for a week or so—or more, if the town took to the new doctor and things worked out all right. But in this transitional period, when folks were still leery of the young (“Why, he’s no more than a kid!”) new physician, the least he could do was to take some small steps toward getting involved with more personal things. Why not dip into the Centennial Plus 30?
“Please, folks, let’s get this meeting under way. Of course, since we have no ‘official’ members yet,” and Gladys made quotation marks in the air to make sure people got her drift, especially Arthur, who she snickered at once again, “w
e have no secretary to record our minutes, or sergeant at arms to keep us in order, or . . .”
“Sergeant at arms? Whatdaya think this is, Your Highness, the military?” Arthur said more than asked, interrupting her sentence. A quiet chuckle rippled through the room, although nobody dared release a full-blown laugh since Gladys had clearly not perceived Arthur’s comment as a funny one.
Gladys eyeballed Arthur a good one, sucked in her cheeks, yanked down the bottom of her jacket which was already yanked down, measured her tone and looked around the room. “Arthur, everyone . . . I’m glad you’ve all come. I think it would be best if we try to stick to business so we can get out of here early, setting a good standard to follow for the rest of our meetings.” Jessica’s hand went up in the air. “Jessica?”
“Paul and I, or one or the other of us, might not always be able to come to all the meetings since we never know when we’ll have too many check-ins at the motel or the baby might be cranky or sleeping. Is it okay if we just come when we can, whichever one of us can come, if it’s not both of us when we can?” Gladys had always intimidated Jessica and Jessica hated the fact she knew she had just sounded like a blathering idiot. “What I mean is . . .”
“I understand, Jessica. I’m sure I can speak for all of us when I say we’ll appreciate whatever help you two can give us. We don’t want any cracks in our master plan, though, so just don’t accept any more responsibility than you think you can handle, okay?” Jessica looked at Paul, who nodded his head in the affirmative. Jessica passed on the nod to Gladys.
“Good. Then let’s move on. Let’s begin by establishing our mission statement for the celebration. I’ve been working on a brief one I believe can also be used in advertising. ‘Celebrating Our Roots.’”
Dearest Dorothy, Help! I've Lost Myself! Page 9