Jessica looked at the small stack of bookmarks in the plastic bin in front of her. She’d gotten so tired of dragging everything out and putting it away, she’d gathered her supplies all in a container so she could take advantage of surprise pockets of time. “Um, I, well . . . To tell the truth, not exactly. I’ve had my mind on other things the last couple days.”
“I realize you and Paul don’t have a whole heap of things to prepare, but it’s not something that can be put off until the last minute. You two put your heads together this evening so you can present a plan at tomorrow night’s meeting.”
“Tomorrow night? Our meetings are on Thursdays, right?”
“We’re meeting twice a week now since time is so short. I’ll see you, or you and Paul, or . . . I’ll see somebody from your committee at seven sharp. Good-bye.”
Jessica sighed and put her plastic bin back in the closet. It was time to remove her imaginary bookmark production-line hat and put on her committee face. There was a sketch to be made.
But wait! There’s more! A car pulled in with a new set of this evening’s motel guests. She had to let that committee face fly right on by. It was time to don her Welcome-to-the-Lamp-Post smile.
“May Belle, it’s Gladys. We’re going to need refreshments for tomorrow night’s Centennial Plus Thirty meeting.”
“But tomorrow is Tuesday.”
“That’s right.” Silence. More silence. Gladys uttered a loud sigh. She was getting tired of having to explain the same thing over and over. “We’re meeting twice a week now, May Belle. Tuesdays and Thursdays. I trust you can lay out refreshments for us then?”
Before Gladys said good-bye, May Belle turned the dial on her oven to 350 degrees. Whatever she was going to bake, that would at least be close.
Edward Showalter’s van was a sight. It was painted multicolors of green and beige, creating a camouflage pattern. At first glance, one might have thought he was a hunting zealot, especially since it was bow season for deer and more than a few men wore combinations of camouflage and blaze orange. On second glance, you knew he was indeed hunting, but not for deer. Big, black lettering declared “Edward Showalter, Electrician. Affordable. Dependable. Sober. Jesus Loves You. Even if you don’t SEE him coming again, HE IS!”
“Mayor McKern!” he said, bounding out of his van and extending his hand before he even closed his door. Gladys shook heartily, readied to butter him up, maybe even get him to donate his time for the sake of the Centennial Plus 30. See that he got a nice mention in the booklet.
Cora Davis sat in the window at Harry’s drinking an afternoon cup of coffee, watching the curious duo. She hadn’t seen Gladys smile like that for months. What on earth? She watched Gladys walk Edward Showalter to near the corner of the building where she pointed up, Edward Showalter’s gaze following her pointing finger. They were looking at the clock. Gladys’s mouth was flying two-forty and her arms seemed to be indicating the size of something. Edward Showalter was nodding his head, rubbing his chin, nodding some more. They took turns studying a paper Gladys held in her hands.
Edward Showalter went back to his van and retrieved a clipboard. It had a long string hanging from it, a string as long as the chain that looped down Edward Showalter’s backside connecting his belt to his long wallet, which was protruding out of the top of his painter’s pants’ pocket. Cora thought that if he wasn’t wearing painter’s pants, he might have been mistaken for a biker, or a hippie—or worse yet, a vagabond, gypsy or con artist! What a sight! Even painter’s pants can’t legitimize that pitiful vision.
Edward Showalter looked at the paper Gladys now unfolded in front of him. He plucked the pencil from under a clip and Cora realized the string was attaching the pencil to the clipboard. Does the man lose things that easily, or does he have some kind of a phobia? Cora looked back to his van, wondering if it, too, was somehow attached to the ground. Like maybe he’d tossed out an anchor after he stopped, although she saw no such evidence. He was glancing from the paper to the clock, then scribbling on the paper on his clipboard. After a few minutes of this behavior, he and Gladys talked their way into the building.
“Lester,” Cora said, leaving her table and walking over to the counter. “Heard anything about clock repairs over on the square building?” which is how many referred to the one-story structure.
Lester bent down in order to give himself a view of the clock in question. “Nope. Can’t say as I have. One-fourteen and all is still well, same as yesterday and year before.”
“Seems Edward Showalter and Gladys are making a good study of it. They must be finally going to fix that thing.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Lester said as he rinsed the final plate in the pile of dishes he’d been doing up.
“What do you know about Edward Showalter?” Cora asked as she gathered her purse to check out.
“That he pays his bill and leaves a better tip than most when he eats here,” and clearly, he’d thrown a direct barb, “which isn’t very often.”
“Well, if you ask me, he looks shifty.”
“Good thing I didn’t ask you then, isn’t it.” Lester snapped the dishtowel, then flipped it over his shoulder.
Cora handed over her money and received her change, intending to plunk the coins into a collection jar Lester always kept on his counter promoting donations for one needy family or another. She suspected it would be for the Bedfords, whose great-grandmother had just passed last night. She’d overheard somebody talking about it at the counter this morning. Before she let go of her contribution, she read the big sign wrapped around the jar, taped to the back with duct tape. It was written in Magic Marker as bold as you please. “HELP SUPPORT THE CENTENNIAL + 30.” Rather than drop in her coins, she decided to do one step better. “You know when that Centennial committee is meeting, Lester?”
“I think yesterday’s paper said the meeting had been on Thursday.”
Cora dropped the coins in her handbag and headed straight home to mark her calendar.
19
Katie sat in her living room on her mud-colored, kit-leather couch, legs curled up under her, sipping a double-strong latte, wondering how she was ever going to tell Josh. And Delbert. How on earth could she tell Pastor Delbert Carol, Jr. What would it be like to learn your father . . . and then, there she would be, standing before him.
She was glad Dorothy encouraged her to just sit with this news herself for as long as it took to decide what, if anything, who, if anyone, to tell or do next. “Just pray for God to lead you,” Dorothy had said. “But I don’t know how to pray, Dorothy.” Dorothy had smiled and patted her cheek. “Just say, ‘Help me.’ That works as swell as anything!”
Help me.
It was bad enough she might spend a lifetime coming to grips with it all, and yet, she realized she felt vaguely relieved. Oddly grateful for finally putting a suspicion to rest. To be able to look at photos, which she hoped to do soon, and see the eyes of the man who was her father. But especially, it felt good to at long-last feel at peace about God. With God. Ever since she’d met Dorothy, her ongoing prayers and affirmations about God loving us, no matter what, had quietly helped her to lose what she at last realized had been a “not good enough for God” fear that had followed her all of her life. Why she’d always felt that way, she wasn’t sure. Maybe not having a father . . . being divorced. . . . Like Dorothy often said, whatever. At the moment, those things didn’t seem to matter that much anymore. It was the next steps that caused her to fret.
Help me.
As much as she dreaded tackling a thing like this or tried to talk herself out of ever revealing the truth to anyone else, she felt fairly certain they both had to know. Her mind began to imagine how many other people might ultimately find out. What if it became public knowledge?
Did anyone else really need to know? Might there be another Core Four Covenant between she and Dorothy, Josh and Pastor Delbert? Now that light had finally entered her soul, she was not anxious to step into more uproar and
receive the possible judgments of the town.
Help me.
For the first time, she clearly understood the temptation, no, the choice, to bury the truth.
Help me.
She wanted to see Pastor Delbert—Delbert—and study his face. Not talk to him. Not yet, anyway. Just see his face. She recalled how when she’d first met him, something seemed familiar about him. No wonder!
20
For the next several days, Partonville was a whir and blur of preparations. Raymond Ringwald had been thrown into a complete tizzy when Gladys requested he supply a special song before her pronouncements—like the band didn’t have enough to pull together for the whole shebang: chili dinner entertainment, talent show backup, and about one-third of the music for the dance. Same as for the last five years, it had been advertised there would be “live” music by “Partonville’s own Community Band” as well as “modern tunes spun by a popular and well-known DJ,” which had been the Pumpkin Festival committee’s attempt—and a hugely successful one at that—to lure back the younger crowd. Raymond wondered why they billed the Partonville Community Band as “live” music. Wasn’t that obvious? What would the alternative be for the band? Music from the beyond? (Never mind they sometimes sounded like it.)
When Raymond inquired of Gladys what song she had in mind, she answered, “You know, that song that talks about accenting the positive and eliminating the negative. I don’t know what the title is; you’re the music man!” He knew no amount of rehearsals would help his rag-tag group of musicians be able to do that melody justice, not with only a handful of rehearsals left. It would serve her right if he had Arthur Landers play it solo on his harmonica, which is just what he decided to do. Upon Raymond’s request, Arthur said, “Raymond, there probly twern’t a harder song wrote to play on the harmonica,” but Raymond assured him if anyone was up to the task, it was Arthur. “And no need to mention this to Gladys; we’ll surprise her with your solo! Won’t that be grand?” After all, Raymond decided, she’d only requested he “supply a special song.” She hadn’t said how, exactly, it was to be presented. If technicalities counted on Court TV (and they did), they could do for Gladys. But nonetheless, he’d stepped up rehearsals to twice a week and he didn’t care how many people groaned, which was all of them.
“Didn’t ya know the dern Centennial Plus Thirty committee is meetin’ twice a week too?” Arthur had reprimanded more than asked. Between two band practices, two committee meetings and Sharon having him prowl through newspaper archives for old photographs and Partonville “tidbits,” “whatever the gol-fool whatchamajiggy those were supposed ta be,” he was barely ever home. “I’m beginnin’ to worry my La-Z-Boy might forgit how ta hug my butt!” he lamented to Jessie. She just smiled. She smiled like a cat with a mouse dangling from its mouth, he thought.
He did have to admit, although not to Jessie, that he enjoyed spending time at the Partonville Press offices, digging through the old papers in the archive room in the basement. It was quite a trip down memory lane for him. Just seeing the old Buick advertisements made him want to pick up a wrench again. He didn’t even need to look at newspaper dates to figure the era; he could tell the year by the model of the car. He had to keep prying his eyes away from those beauties, though, or he’d never get done in time for the next meeting. “Tidbits is the task,” he reminded himself aloud. “Think I just wrote me a poem!” He laughed, enjoying the sound of his voice bouncing around in the cellar amidst the old stones and mortar.
More than one headline ushered him down memory lane. PARTONVILLE HOSTS FIRST FROG JUMP CONTEST. What a day that had been! When he’d pulled his frog out of the bucket, more than a few gasps were heard, including one from Jessie, who’d given a wolf whistle to rival any man’s. “No creek like a Crooked Creek to find the bi-guns!” he’d said.
“What’s his name, Arthur?” Harold, notepad in hand, had wanted to know.
“Jessie Too.”
Harold looked up, pencil poised over his notebook. “Is that t-o-o or t-w-o, Arthur?”
Arthur glared at Harold as though he must be daft. “Forgit it,” Arthur said, shaking his head, gently setting his big bug-eyed frog back in its bucket and covering her with a damp shop rag. “I jist renamed her Dolores.”
Arthur smiled remembering the exchange. Old stories were pure gold. He felt warm inside thinking about how attached he was to this quirky town. Couldn’t even imagine having lived anywhere else. “Aw, now don’t go gittin mushy, Arthur,” he chided himself aloud.
He took the stenographer’s pad Sharon had given him, flipped to the first page and printed “TID BITTS” across the top. “1) First frog jumpin contest in (he flipped through the paper until he found a Buick ad) 1953.” He checked the paper’s date, though, just to make sure since he didn’t want their booklet to be incorrect. “Dead on!” The photo that ran with the headline was a close-up of three frogs crossing the finish line. Too bad one of them wasn’t Dolores. His only consolation was a winning ribbon for the Biggest Frog. It had taken him three more years to come up with the best jumper. Sadly, that was the year the contest was canceled due to lack of participants. He guessed the novelty had worn off, at least in Partonville.
Although Shelby’s mom was delighted by Shelby’s enthusiasm for the dance, she truly despised shopping and was relieved when Shelby had asked her if she’d be too hurt if she went to Hethrow with her Grannie M. A reasonable budget was determined and the cash handed over. Shelby gave her mom a kiss on the cheek, stuffed the wad of bills in her tiny handbag she draped over her shoulder, said she didn’t know what time they’d be back and ran out the door to Maggie’s car. Maggie had already tooted her horn twice. As soon as she jumped in the car, they were all a-twitter.
“I’m wearing my power-shopping shoes and have my elbows all sharpened for the crowds,” Maggie told her. “We’ve got to get going, Shelby! Not a minute to spare; the stores close at nine!” They chatted a mile a minute, discussing the pros and cons of wearing different colors (the latest trends lifted straight out of a recent glamour magazine Maggie subscribed to), designs (scoop neck, boat neck, sleeveless—“just nothing too too”), the height of heels (“NO! Don’t make me wear heels!”) and fragrance. “Stop by the shop before dance day, Shelby, and we’ll give a test drive to some of my aromatherapy fragrances. They smell different on different women, you know, what with body chemistry and all. And since I only carry essential oils, it will only take the teensiest drop. We want something . . . mysterious. Might have to blend a couple.” She was so excited by all the possibilities that she had to force herself to concentrate on driving.
When they entered the first store, Maggie insisted they put together a game plan. “Let’s see: dress, shoes, nice new petticoat, since I doubt you own one. . . .” Shelby confirmed her Grannie M’s suspicions with a head nod. “That’s what your budget has to cover. How much have you got?” Shelby retrieved her funds and they counted it out together. “Of course, you’ll need accessories too, but I’ve got an entire dresser full of those, yours for the hunt-and-peck. Let’s start with the dress. First things first. It’ll probably take up most of your budget anyway. We’ll just do the best we can with what’s left.” Although Maggie would have been happy to subsidize, she knew Shelby’s mother wouldn’t approve.
By mall number two and store number . . . Shelby had lost count by now. All she knew was that she was exhausted and her great-grandmother seemed to acquire more energy by the moment.
“The store will be closing in ten minutes,” the automated voice said over the loudspeakers. “Please take your purchases to the check-out counter.” Shelby was glad to hear the announcement, having slipped, stepped and struggled her way into and out of countless dresses. As soon as she’d be done with one stack, Maggie would show up with another. Wouldn’t you know the final one she tried on—Halleluiah!—was the dress. “Absolutely perfect!” Maggie said, clapping her hands as Shelby turned in front of the mirror.
“What size shoe do you
wear?” Maggie asked through the dressing room door while Shelby was putting her jeans and sweater back on.
“Eight.”
“I’m going to run your dress over to the shoe department and see if I can find something on the sale rack. I’ll meet you there.”
“Grannie M, I’ve got homework to do. How about we look for shoes another day?”
Silence. Before Shelby was to the end of her sentence, Maggie was already holding the fabric up to the row of shoes on the “Size 8-9” rack.
Crafters’ fingers were flying; keyboards clicked away as family histories were recollected and set to paper—whether into a computer or hand-scrawled; Edward Showalter worked up endless schematics and calculations for the square’s new clock; in-home rehearsals for the talent show had folks excited, frustrated, arguing, preening and making costumes; gentlemen ordered corsages; and pumpkins, bales of straw, gourds and cornstalks were being hauled by wagonloads to the park district building where the dance would be held. Gladys’s constant dogging of everyone had some folks fearing nobody would last the two-and-a-half weeks until the big weekend.
The only person who truly seemed to have nothing to do for any of the festivities was Cora, who, when she showed up for Thursday’s Centennial Plus Thirty meeting, was informed by Gladys that she had already missed too many meetings to jump in now, thank you very much. Cora looked so deflated that Jessica offered her a job helping to decorate the platform for Gladys’s pronouncements, but Cora declined, saying, “I believe my talents could be better used elsewhere.” Arthur said he was happy to learn she had such good talents, then asked her if she’d signed them up for the talent show yet. Sharon kicked him under the table. “I was jist askin!”
Feeling stung from all sides, Cora spun on her heels to leave. Then she turned and dropped a momentary bomb. “What’s going on between you and Edward Showalter, Gladys?” You could almost hear the snap of heads turning toward the mayor.
Dearest Dorothy, Help! I've Lost Myself! Page 20