Dearest Dorothy, Help! I've Lost Myself!

by Charlene Baumbich

  She’d been practicing her saxophone for nearly an hour now. Although she had already memorized several of the band’s performance numbers for the Pumpkin Festival and the Centennial Plus 30 doings—memorization being one of her gifts, which is why she was so good at quoting bible passages—she still disciplined herself to keep her eyes on each note while practicing. When she was playing for her own pleasure, however, it was a different story. As soon as she was done with official practices, she’d fold up the music, file it in the appropriate notebooks (even the spices in her spice rack were alphabetized), stow her music stand, take off her shoes, sink her toes into her deep-piled hand-hooked rug and just play away. So as usual, that’s just what she did. She’d never understood why she was able to play faster when barefoot—although curling her toes around a few strands, clamping onto them and pulling upwards did seem to help her reach those high notes—but it was just one of those oddities she’d come to accept and enjoy. (Little did she know Gertrude most enjoyed playing keyboard barefoot too, especially when she sat at the Hammond organ, where her toes could dance across the foot pedals.)

  It had been a busy day at work, what with Your Store’s usual mid-week, one-day sales and double coupons. Both the official practice and her barefoot playing had helped her to unwind. She finally felt relaxed enough to move on to her next task. Although she loved her God, her job, music, Partonville, the band and her Hooker friends, she’d been going through a spell—“We all have little periods of adjustment,” Dorothy had told her—wherein she longed for change. This ebb-and-tide of discontent had lasted about two years. Not until she’d arrived home from bunco at Dorothy’s house had she figured out what, exactly, needed to change: her decorating! Compared to Dorothy’s red ceiling and sunshiny bathroom, Nellie Ruth’s apartment was drab. (She would never, not for the life of her, understand why sometimes the obvious just wasn’t.)

  With tender care, she packed up her saxophone and retrieved the paint chips she’d splayed on her kitchen table time and again since picking them up at Menard’s in Hethrow. Although she’d tried to shop locally at Wal-Mart, they just didn’t have anything that seemed, well, “pizzazzy enough” is how she’d described it to Jessica when running into her in the checkout line, paint chips and new plunger in hand. (“I cannot believe we’re both here in Hethrow, in the very same store, in the same LINE!” She is so easily excited, Nellie Ruth had thought to herself.) While they’d moved toward the cash register, Nellie Ruth expressed that she might need Jessica’s creative eye to help her pull a few things together. After seeing the delicate flower border and beautiful mailbox Jessica had painted for Dorothy, and listening to the continued praise from Katie about how Jessica had helped her decorate her living room with no less expertise than her Chicago interior designer, word had spread that Jessica was the local decorating genius.

  “You know, Jessica,” Nellie Ruth had said, walking backward in the line, “maybe you should get out of the motel business and launch your own cable decorating show. You know, just like on HGTV.” Since Jessica and Paul didn’t have cable television, she couldn’t picture exactly what Nellie Ruth was talking about, although she’d certainly heard about the channel. But regardless, she was highly flattered and completely intimidated by the mere thought of talking to a camera. She’d blushed just thinking about it, and continued to do so until she’d paid the cashier and walked to her car, afraid the clerk had been wondering just who she thought she was to even consider a career in television.

  Nellie Ruth lined up the paint chips in a perfectly straight and even line, then began the process of elimination, pushing them up and out of the line one at a time, closing the gap after each dismissal. At last, there was only one chip left. “Splendid Rose!” Nellie Ruth exclaimed to the paint chip. “That does it!” It was the same color she’d ended up liking every time, even though she tried not to be prejudiced, giving every color more than one chance. She retrieved her handbag from the back of the kitchen chair next to her, where she always hung it, and tucked the chip into her wallet. Next time she went to Hethrow, her selection would be readied.

  Once she’d experienced her decorating epiphany and selected the paint color, it was nearly unimaginable to her she’d never once noticed that the only cheery colors in her dwelling were those in the multitudes of items she’d hooked. At sixty-two, she was the only Happy Hooker who still hooked rugs, toilet seat covers, wall hangings, tissue-box covers, throw pillows, coasters. . . . She surveyed the living room, kitchen, both bedrooms—one she used as her music and craft room—and the bathroom. She counted fourteen hooked items! What is WRONG with me! The rest of the hookers had, decades ago, tired of the craft and its look, although they had each continued to accept her occasional fluffy gift with graciousness. Nellie Ruth McGregor, how can you be so full of music and yet such a one-note person in other areas of your life!

  Splendid Rose would be a good complement to her playing rug, the only hooked item she was going to allow herself to keep on display. The rest were going to get packed in a box and stored . . . in the music room, at least for a while—just in case.

  Gladys had spent the entire morning with one salesperson after another, comparing the benefits of digital clocks versus analog, small versus big, multipurposes versus plain-and-simple. But then he had arrived with the super-duper of all choices. Something for everyone. Something with an excellent WOW! factor. Something to equal Gladys’s “superb vision to steer Partonville into the future,” he’d said.

  Like any good salesperson with intuitive skills—especially those that led to closing the deal—he not only listened to Gladys’s every word, but said he’d often read about her in the papers. He knew just how to reel her in.

  Much to her surprise, he’d started his pitch by convincing her that she could probably get the old one fixed, something no other presenter had even mentioned. Of course, odds were (“if I was a betting man, which, of course, I am not”) it would cost more than a new one by the time any electrician or clock repairman would undoubtedly have to not only disassemble the old one but rewire its connections to bring it up to code. “And who knows if they’d for sure be able to find parts for it—and if so, how long might that take, and when, exactly, was the celebration again?” And he just knew what a good “stalwart steward” of the town’s money she had been since taking over for her dearly departed husband, the esteemed former mayor, and he was sure she wouldn’t want to squander any of her “prudent budget.”

  Hustling right along . . .

  The first small catalog he’d pushed across her desk showed clocks that looked exactly like the one that had been hanging off the corner of the building for as long as she could remember. Of course, who would be able to appreciate her fine taste if it appeared to be just like anyone else’s? he wondered aloud. “But what about keeping the integrity of the old building?” she’d ask. “Integrity, madam, is sticking with your vision of stepping into the future, moving forward in time.” It was a direct quote from her own mouth and she could hardly believe he remembered it!

  Sounds of cha-chink.

  Two more brochures came and went, each falling short of her expectations, he was sure. And then, then he pulled out the prestigious mother of all brands, presentation binders—and prices. He presented her with the first phase of the digital ensemble, which would not only display the time, but the temperature.

  “But wait, there’s more!” When he had used that phrase while flipping to the grandest portion of the ensemble, acting like he was the first person ever to utter it, Gladys pursed her lips. Does he think I’m that gullible? She knew for a fact they used that phrase on nearly every infomercial created, and she’d seen her fair share of them late at night when she couldn’t sleep, after having been awakened by a strange sound—or then again, was it usually her bladder? Didn’t matter which; she was awake and on high alert for intruders, a bathroom run or . . . and then . . . television to help her stop thinking about either of them. What’s more, she’d actually orde
red a few things from those crazy programs (admittedly, sometimes because of the “more” that followed the “But wait”), although when they’d arrived, she couldn’t think for the life of her why.

  The day she opened the box containing the contents of something she’d seen after midnight on one of the shopping networks was the day she swore off turning on the television in the middle of the night. She’d ordered a set of hair accessories to create all kinds of up-do’s. The ladies had looked so glamorous and happy with them that Gladys was sure they’d give her a lift, too. Trouble was, Gladys all but forgot her hair was only about two inches long, for goodness sake. “There ought to be a law against taking advantage of tired people,” she said, putting them back in the box in which they’d arrived. She stuffed the “stupefied and deranged decision” under her arm and stomped straight to the post office with it.

  “And heeeeere’s the MORE!” the clock salesperson said as he turned the page in his slick binder while simultaneously handing her a four-color brochure. She had been just on the verge of dismissing him (This man thinks he can cornswaggle me!), when . . . “Along with the time and temperature, there is a streaming light banner that can be programmed to announce anything you believe important for the worthy citizens of Partonville, and all visitors, of course, to know, Mayor McKern.”

  Cha-chink, cha-CHINK!

  “Where do I sign and how soon can you deliver it? And I’m assuming expert installation is included in this outrageous price!”

  “Actually, Miss Mayor, . . .”

  “That is Mrs. Mayor. Acting Mayor Gladys McKern.”

  “Actually, I believe, since you are officiating as the mayor, you are not acting at all.” His smile was so affirming. At least somebody understood all the work she did! “Mayor McKern, installation is not included. How could we possibly include installation fees with our products—which are, might I say, very fairly priced for the market— when we have no idea what we’d be dealing with in terms of code or even electrical availability to the point of service, for that matter? Our prices are strictly for the merchandise, although they do include delivery.”

  Gladys glared at him, but no amount of her best evil eye was going to get him to include hooking the thing up. Nonetheless, she figured she could get Edward Showalter to handle any electrical work and installation for a song. She’d heard Dorothy bragging on and on about the “wonderful job Edward Showalter has done” and the “wonderful way he knows just what you want” and the “wonderful way . . .” Although Gladys knew nobody could be that wonderful—and she wondered if Dorothy wasn’t sweet on the man, the way she carried on—she figured he must at least be staying sober.

  As soon as Gladys got off the phone, making what she had termed an emergency appointment with Edward Showalter (and why did everybody always refer to him using both of his names?) to come by and give her an estimate, she began fretting about the committees—which she hadn’t had a lot of time to do for the last several hours since she’d been so busy holding court with clock salespersons, not to mention ordering street signs. She decided she’d best collect a few reports. She made her first call to the office of the Partonville Press.

  “Sharon, have you talked to Harold about the printing of our Centennial Plus Thirty booklet?”

  “Yes, I have. Harold said he’d be glad to donate the printing of the booklet itself, but that somebody would have to pay for the paper and supply any artwork or photographs, as well as hopefully pay for his pressman’s overtime, in case we were running close to deadline with our submission.” Although Harold had for many years been able to handle the entire printing operations of the newspaper alone, using his circa 1969, Harris V15A web press, it had been several years since he’d been strong enough to handle the heavy rolls of paper and mechanical apparatus by himself. Besides, it had been a long while since OSHA would allow anyone to be running the equipment alone, just in case someone got caught up in the whizzing machinery and found themselves appearing in—as in in—the morning headlines. “He also liked the idea of running a ‘Meet Your Town’ column for the two weeks before the festivities, which as you well know will be four issues since we publish twice a week.”

  “Splendid work, Sharon.”

  “Actually, I’m just doing my job, both for the committee and for Harold, who pays me. But to be honest with you, it’s more fun than I might have suspected. I really think the whole weekend is going to be very special.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s nice,” Gladys said, already having tuned out Sharon since she was busy looking up Eugene’s number. “And what did you say Arthur’s doing?”

  “I haven’t assigned him anything just yet, but I think I’ll have him start going through our archives in search of tidbits for the column and images from the past.”

  “Great. I’ll see you Tuesday then.”

  “Tuesday?”

  “Of course! We can’t possibly get everything done meeting only once a week, especially since you and Harold are already worried things might be running late. Mark your calendar for every Tuesday and Thursday evening until the festival. You said you didn’t have anything else on your calendar anyway, right?”

  Although that might have been true, Sharon was always hopeful. It rankled her hide that Gladys assumed Mr. Debonair would not be waiting right around the corner! Before Sharon could protest either Gladys’s presumptions or mention that Tuesday was tomorrow, Gladys had hung up and started dialing Eugene.

  “Eugene. Mayor McKern here. How’s it going with the interviews?”

  “Doc and I are getting along right nicely, thank you. We finally did touch bases earlier today. We’ve made our lists and have already started contacting a few folks. Pastor Delbert was quite excited about the opportunity since he said not only would it be a chance to honor his father, but to put in a good plug for God. Maggie and Ben Malone’s family makes up for such a large portion of our current population that . . .”

  “Well, I haven’t received a call from either of you.”

  “Oh, you’re on both of our lists alright. You can believe we have talked plenty about you.” Eugene’s whole face broke out in a wry smile. “We haven’t called because we assumed you would be wanting to put your own story together since you know you better than we do. You also knew the past mayor better than either one of us, too. We figured we could never tell it as . . . well as you can.” Of course, what he and Doc had decided was that nothing they’d say would be good enough for her, so why not let her just write the dang thing herself!

  “In fact, I’ve already started writing a little something, Eugene. I’ll turn it straight in to Sharon, if you don’t mind. Just make sure you leave me plenty of column inches.”

  Even though she’d said “if you don’t mind,” Eugene knew it wouldn’t make a bit of difference, even if they—and perhaps God Almighty Himself—did. “We’re leaving layout to whoever is doing layout. Will that be Sharon?”

  “I’m sure Harold will ultimately do the layout. I’ve got a few things to report about all of that at our meeting Tuesday. I’m having Harold attend, too.” Although she hadn’t talked to him yet, she made a mental note to make sure he was there since it was becoming obvious he needed to be.

  “Did you say Tuesday? I thought our meetings were on Thursdays, like it said in the newspaper. That’s what I’ve got written down here on my calendar.”

  “That was only for our first meeting, Eugene. There is no way we can possibly get everything done meeting once a week. Goodness! That would mean we’d only have three meetings left! We’ll be meeting as an entire committee on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but of course you subcommittee people have to be dogging your tasks every day, if we’re to do things right. We’ll be lucky to make it, even at that.

  “But I don’t have time to keep explaining myself, Eugene. Like I said, I have other calls to make. I’ll see you. . . .” Gladys flipped her calendar and was stunned to discover that Tuesday was tomorrow. “I’ll see you tomorrow night at seven sharp!” She hung u
p the phone and dialed the Lamp Post Motel. She was nearly beside herself with the reality of the racing of time itself, no matter which way anyone was driving.

  “Lamp Post Motel! Would you like to book a room for Partonville’s Pumpkin Festival and Centennial Plus Thirty?”

  Gladys sat with her mouth open, trying to decide if she was annoyed at having to wait so long to talk, or excited—yet completely surprised—that Jessica Joy had become a one-woman advertisement. She decided she would do nothing to discourage such a good promotion for her event. “I do not need a room, Jessica, since as the mayor I live right here in town; but what a grand way to give our event attention! I applaud your ingenuity!”

  “Well, thank you, Gladys. I . . .”

  “I’d love to chat,” Gladys said, interrupting Jessica, “but I’m just phoning to see how your plans for the dedication ceremony are coming along.”