by Sharon Short
I looked at Mr. Hapstatter questioningly. He smiled. “Don’t you remember? You asked us to call.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid you hit a pretty deep part of the ditch there. Wouldn’t surprise me if your truck’s totaled.”
I wanted to say it was my cousin Sally’s truck, and she was going to total me when she found out.
Mr. Hapstatter looked at me appraisingly. “You want to spend the night with us? Or go home?”
“Home,” I said.
He nodded. “Home it is.” He got up off the porch swing. “Let me go just let the missus know I’ll be taking you—”
“No, you’ve really done enough for me,” I heard myself saying, and went on, shocking myself with the words, “could you just call my friend Owen Collins instead—555-1283.”
A half hour later, I was in the passenger seat of Owen’s car, still shaking, but not as hard, holding in both hands a mug of lemonade. Mrs. Hapstatter had told me, “just return the mug to me at church, Sugar.”
I would. Filled with Hershey’s chocolate hugs and kisses for these dear salt of the earth people.
Owen had come quickly, listened to Mr. Hapstatter describe the events that had led to me needing a ride home, followed by a stern, “Now, you take care of this little girl.” Owen had nodded, and then gently guided me to his car, his hand on my elbow.
I had yet to say a word.
I sipped on Mrs. Hapstatter’s lemonade. It was cool and sweet and good.
We had to go a long way home, since Mud Lick Road was closed by the Fireworks Barn. The countryside was just an impression of grays and blacks—black sky, dark gray trees, houses, barns, cornfields . . . one all much like the other, yet I knew if it were daylight, I’d recognize each individual house and barn and yes, even cornfield.
But I was glad for the cocooning darkness, for the gentle swaying of Owen’s car, going around curves and up and down slopes, and for the breeze that whistled in through the half-lowered windows. It was cool and sweet and good, too.
“You want to talk?”
“Mr. Hapstatter already covered everything that happened,” I said.
Long silence. Then, Owen, softly: “I meant about us.”
Did I want to talk about us? Let’s see. I’d come within seconds of being right by the Fireworks Barn, which hugs up right by the road, when it had suddenly and violently exploded, sending wood and glass and fireworks and God knows what all flying. Which meant I’d come within seconds of being injured. Maybe seriously. Maybe, even, dead.
No, I did not want to talk about us. I just wanted a ride home.
But you could have called lots of people, a voice whispered in my head, sounding a mite like Mrs. Oglevee. And you called Owen.
So why had I really called him? The image of the Hapstatters came to mind—a couple whose quiet devotion I’d admired from afar for a long time. And then I thought of Mrs. Beavy, and her love for her late husband, which a little wine shared with Cletus would never touch. Then of my Aunt Clara and Uncle Horace and their devotion to each other and to Guy and even, eventually, to me. And then even of Geri, so distraught over Alan’s death. All these people had something I’d never seen in my own parents, because they each took off when I was young. Something I’d never had with another person. Something, though, that maybe I wanted.
They all were so close to each other. No, they were more than close. They were bonded. And surely bonding like that couldn’t happen with secrets. Not secrets like the ones Owen had kept from me.
Now Owen wanted to know if I wanted to talk about us. I didn’t think so. I wanted to be able to look over at him, through the dark, and not feel like I was hitching a ride with a stranger.
But then, as we came up on a lane to another farmhouse, Owen slowed, then pulled in the lane, and shut off the car and his lights. Then—gearshift between us, be damned—he pulled me to him and hugged me.
It was enough to make me cry—for all I was feeling. And for all I wasn’t feeling.
When I’d finished, and Owen had found a tissue for me in the glove compartment, and I’d blown my nose, Owen said, “I’m sorry I lied to you, Josie.”
He did sound truly sorry. I stared out into the darkness, at the shadowy impression of a farmhouse up the lane. “You know, my daddy left about the time I was born and my mama ran off a few years after. I never knew why. My Aunt Clara told me it was because my daddy was no good and my mama took ill—but I could always tell she was lying. On both counts. I never could get the truth out of her. She thought she was lying for my own good, and maybe she was. I was a kid then.”
I looked at Owen. “But I’m not a kid now, though one thing hasn’t changed. I don’t like being lied to. I can handle the truth—just about any truth. But I can’t handle secrets between us—or always wondering if I know the whole truth.”
Owen sighed. “The job over at Masonville Community College was a fresh start for me. When I first moved here, Paradise seemed like a quaint little town where maybe I could fit in eventually. Be somebody. I couldn’t just go into Sandy’s Restaurant and say, hey, folks, guess what, I killed a guy once.”
‘And now what does Paradise seem like to you?” I asked. My heart clenched up like a fist. I hated that. It meant I was scared. Which meant I cared. Which, suddenly, I didn’t want to.
“You’ve lived here all your life, Josie,” Owen said, waving a hand at the windshield to indicate the farm country and, just down the road, Paradise. “You have no idea how hard it is to fit yourself into a place where everybody already knows everybody, where a stranger sticks out instead of blends in, where gossip is an art form.”
‘You chose to come here, Owen,” I said quietly. “What did you think you’d find—Utopia?”
Owen shrugged. “Maybe. Yes. I guess—well, that was naive.”
“And you chose to get close to me. I trusted you enough to let you into my life—into Guy’s life. That wasn’t easy for me.”
“I should have trusted you.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” Owen said.
“I know.”
“Look—I would have told you eventually.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.”
”Have you told me everything about your past, Josie? I mean, I know about Aunt Clara and Uncle Horace and things about your childhood and you taking over the laundromat—but you don’t talk much about your life after that. What about all the things you haven’t told me?”
Of course there were things I hadn’t told him. I’d had boyfriends and lovers before Owen. I’d made my share of goofs, had my ration of regrets. He was right about that. But I hadn’t hidden anything major—like divorce, a kid, a killing—that might be a real factor in deciding if he wanted a long-term relationship with me.
That thought hit me hard, like a slap out of nowhere.
Did I want a long-term relationship with Owen? Was that what I was after in the long run with him—marriage, family?
And was I being too hard on him, too easy on myself?
I didn’t know the answers to those questions. And so I wasn’t sure how to answer Owen’s question, either.
Finally, in the uncomfortable silence Owen said, “Are we—going to be okay?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Only time will tell.” That was a phrase my Aunt Clara liked to use whenever she wished she could tell the future, but couldn’t.
Owen thought for a minute. “Time will tell,” he repeated. Then he nodded. “That’s fair.”
“What in the world were you thinking, telling him only time will tell?”
I moaned, wishing I could will myself awake, instead of sitting up in a dream-version of my bed with Mrs. Oglevee standing at the foot of my bed, whacking the bedpost with a flaming sparkler.
I’d had a hard enough time getting to sleep after I’d gotten home and had to call Sally and explain about her truck. She had not been in the least understanding, even when I tried to explain to her that it was not my fault. She’d calmed down a
little when I told her my car insurance would cover the repairs. But then she’d started screaming at me about what was she supposed to do with three little boys and no transportation and she’d have to bum rides with her ex-mother-in-law and just how did I think that made her feel, and . . .
I hung up on her—gently, because I did feel sorry about her truck—but I surely didn’t need to be yelled at after what I’d been through.
And I surely didn’t need that now, in my dreams.
So, I said crossly to Mrs. Oglevee, “Stop that. You’re going to set the bed sheets afire.”
Mrs. Oglevee cackled, waving her sparkler even more wildly, so that multicolored sparks showered all over her as well as my bed. Since she was wearing a vinyl jumpsuit in a hot pink that matched a very flammable-looking wig, this was unnerving. Apparently, though, in the afterlife, you’re fireproof. In Mrs. Oglevee’s case, I wasn’t sure if this was because she was in a fireproof afterlife, or because she was in an afterlife where the heat from a few sparklers wasn’t going to make any difference. In any case, neither her vinyl jumpsuit nor her wig was melting.
She, however, was hollering at me, “Well, something’s gotta make this bed hot. Sure isn’t gonna be Owen, the way you’ve been acting.”
I pulled my blanket up to my chin—really, who wants her old junior high history teacher seeing her in a T-shirt-as-nightie—and frowned at Mrs. Oglevee. “You know, I liked you better in junior high. Your language was at least proper then.”
“Hah! You didn’t like me at all then. And I didn’t like you either, but I figured you’d at least have the smarts to latch on to a cutie like Owen.”
I rolled my eyes. “A cutie who’s a divorced father and a killer.”
“Oh please. You ever hear of forgive and forget?”
“I have. Owen never gave me the chance.”
“My, my. We’re getting awfully prim aren’t we? Hmmm. Wonder if I can look up an herbal tea cure for that.” Mrs. Oglevee tossed the still-sparking sparkler over her back shoulder—a dangerous gesture, I thought, but the sparkler just disappeared into the mist behind her. Mrs. Oglevee was always accompanied by mist. She reached out and suddenly had a book in her hand, as if she’d pulled it from a shelf I couldn’t see.
It was an old book, yellowed pages, leather cover, metal clasp—not the look of a book I’d figure would hold herbal remedies. It was more like a personal journal. But Mrs. Oglevee had never been one for worrying about other people’s privacy. After all, she’d read every note I’d ever tried to pass in her class. Aloud. Now, she opened up the book and started thumbing through.
“Hmm—here’s something for rheumatism, but that’s not what we’re after,” she said, and pulled out a page and started eating it. “Indigestion, chronic headaches, low energy . . .” she kept naming maladies, ripping out a page for each one, and stuffing it in her mouth. She was getting harder and harder to understand.
“Stop!” I hollered. “Look, just let me be, okay? Why do you care about Owen and me, anyway?”
Mrs. Oglevee looked up, stared at me as if she were surprised to see me. Then she swallowed the lump of paper in her mouth.
My stomach lurched.
She stared off for a moment, saying as if to herself, “you know, I could have used those remedies back when I was alive and teaching those little brats. If I’d only known . . .” Then she regarded me sternly. I suddenly felt like the kid in eighth grade Ohio History who hadn’t been able to recite all the Indian nations the Shawnee chief Tecumseh had pulled together to join forces with the British to capture Detroit in the War of 1812. Uh, Shawnee, of course . . .
She waved the half-eaten book angrily. “If you’d minded your own business and hadn’t started digging around into Paradise’s history, none of this would have happened! You’d still be happy with Owen, and Alan would be alive, and Cletus—”
“Now, hold on,” I said. “Owen should have shared his history with me, and as for Paradise’s history having anything to do with Alan . . .” I paused, looking askance at Mrs. Oglevee. “Wait a minute,” I said. “You were always after me for daydreaming during local and Ohio History class. You always said I should be more interested, that I just might be surprised what I’d learn—”
Mrs. Oglevee suddenly looked alarmed, popped the rest of the book in her mouth, started chewing, and disappeared into her own mist.
17
Five minutes later—at least that’s how it seemed—my alarm went off. I awoke with a jerk, ready to tell Mrs. Oglevee to leave me alone, but of course she wasn’t standing at the foot of my bed. Still, as I made up my bed, I checked for sparkler burn holes. There weren’t any.
Another fifteen minutes later, I was showered, dressed in a loose T-shirt, shorts, socks, and tennies, hair fluffed (when it’s just a few inches long, there’s not a lot else you can do with it), and had put on a bit of mascara and gel blush. I was going to spend the whole day in my laundromat after my breakfast with Winnie. You learn to dress cool and comfy after a few summers in a laundromat. Even in one that, like mine, has industrial-strength fans.
I was at Sandy’s Restaurant right before it opened up, a few minutes before 7 A.M. A few customers—Sandy’s regulars—were already sitting in the rockers on the front porch that extends across the length of the restaurant. They rocked back and forth and fanned themselves as if the heat of the day were already upon them.
I gave a little wave, stuck to the far end of the porch, not wanting to talk. Bubba, Tom, and Pete—the three most faithful of Sandy’s regulars, all of them wearing John Deere caps although their behinds hadn’t warmed a tractor seat in years—gave me a long look. The sisters Heffie and Bessie Greatharte—whose birdlike sizes and mannerisms defy the implications of their names—stared at me, then started whispering.
I stared at the sky. Amazing how fascinating a cloudless, azure blue, June morning sky can be.
Still, Bubba came over. “Heard you were over at the Fireworks Barn when it went up last night.”
I sighed. I might as well get this over with. I looked Bubba in the eyes. “I wasn’t at the Fireworks Barn. I was just driving down Mud Lick Road not far from the Fireworks Barn when it exploded.”
That’s all it took. Within seconds, Bubba’s buddies and the Greatharte sisters flocked around me.
“What’d it look like, Josie?”
“Didja see anyone there? I heard tell someone was seen running from the place right before it went up.”
“I think it was the government. Those Breitenstraters, they’ve always been secretive and uppity. Probably Cletus was onto something with his ginseng research. Maybe figured out how to make a ginseng bomb, or something. Then the government found out and Cletus held out and so—”
“Now, Pete, that’s just crazy talk. If Cletus had invented a ginseng bomb he’d have sold it to the government to get his own money to get away from his brother—”
“God rest his soul.”
“Amen.” This was chorused several times.
“Say, has anyone seen hide or hair of Cletus?”
“No.” This was followed by two more no’s and a nope.
“It’s the curse, I say, the curse of Paradise, just like that little Breitenstrater girl was going on about at the play meeting,” chirped Heffie Greatharte, her hands fluttering above our heads, as if her long, thin arms were strings tethering rare, white specimens of hummingbirds.
“Oh, the curse!” echoed Bessie.
“The curse?” Pete and Tom intoned, taking off their John Deeres to scratch their heads.
“Sure—the curse! The theatre still isn’t done, I hear. Oh, it won’t be done in time for the annual Founder’s Day Parade.”
“And look what happened at the pie-eating contest!”
“Oh, we probably won’t even have the parade—it would be too disrespectful to Alan.”
“And now the Fireworks Barn is gone and we’ll have no fireworks!”
“Oh well. We can always go up to Masonville for the
fireworks.”
The reality hit me. Paradise couldn’t afford fireworks without the big discount Cletus had always given our town.
And for Guy and me, it wasn’t a simple matter of going to a different display. Guy would want to go to our spot, at our park, at our display. And so did I. Tears welled in my eyes at the memory of him clapping his hands over his ears and squeezing his eyes closed at the red fireworks but still having the time of his life.
Then I felt something pecking at my arm. It was Bessie, her forefinger jabbing away, as she made her gray eyes squinty, glaring at me. “It was you. You brought that Breitenstrater girl to our meeting, and she started talking about the curse on Paradise, and now look what’s happened.”
The others stared at me. I stepped back. “Now, look, the curse of Paradise is just something kids around here like to talk about, and—”
The front door of Sandy’s Restaurant flew open, and there stood Sandy herself in her blue-and-white checked apron
(which matched the placemats), her bluish-white hair teased up high thanks to her standing weekly appointment at Cherry’s Chat N Curl. She did something with her tongue to switch her cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other.
“You all gonna stand out here jabbering, or do you want breakfast?” she groused, in her gravelly voice. “The biscuits are just outta the oven, and the sausage gravy won’t keep forever.”
With that she turned, letting the door slam to.
Someday, I need to check whether she and Mrs. Oglevee are related. Maybe third cousins once removed, or something.
But right then, I thought, bless you, Sandy, as everyone turned from me and went into the restaurant.
And I trailed in right behind.
Sandy’s fresh-from-the-oven biscuits and fresh-from-the-skillet sausage gravy are not to be missed.
But a while later, sitting across from Winnie in the booth at the back of the restaurant, I was just picking at the fluffy biscuit smothered with sausage gravy.
How, I thought, had things gotten so out of hand? No parade, probably no play, and no fireworks. Sally overstressed and overworked at the theatre and mad at me, even if she did have all clean clothes and linens. Uncle Otis in jail for ginseng poaching. Alan dead; probably murdered. Cletus and Trudy missing. Slinky the ferret sick and racking up God knows what kind of bills that I couldn’t afford because (a) my car was back in the shop and (b) I’d wrecked Sally’s truck and my insurance would go up. Owen’s and my relationship on the fritz. Paradise—and the ghost of Mrs. Oglevee—blaming everything on me.