Chin Up, Honey

by Curtiss Ann Matlock

  That first summer, John Cole’s ship spent many weekends in a row in port. Nearly every Saturday and Sunday, they would get up early, get doughnuts at a bakery and head for the beach, where they would then stretch out on canvas cots. Emma would turn her head to face John Cole and gaze at him for long minutes, imprinting the sight into her mind, to carry her through when he would be gone. When their bodies were made hot and sweaty by the strong sun, they would jump up and run into the water. Many evenings they would walk the beach hand in hand. They padded on bare feet through the lapping waves, and gathered seashells and kissed and watched the water glow with the coral setting sun.

  One evening, when the light was especially wonderful, Emma had embarrassed John Cole to death by going up to a woman whom she saw taking pictures with a complicated camera and asking her to take their picture. Emma had suspected that the woman would be able to handle their fancy camera with ease, and this proved the case. The woman was a travel photographer, she told them. She was particular about positioning Emma and John Cole in relation to the golden rays of the setting sun. She took half a dozen shots. It was as if Emma and John Cole were there for the woman’s pleasure.

  Surprisingly, John Cole, once he had felt reassured by the woman’s friendliness, had liked the attention. It had been Emma who began to get impatient with it. She worried at the cost of the film and developing. However, when she had seen the results, she had been thrilled. She had framed her favorite, and had sent copies to both her mother and grandmother, and to John Cole’s parents.

  Two years later, when they had moved back to John Cole’s hometown, she had found the beach photograph that she had sent the elder Berrys in the possession of Joella. “Mother Berry didn’t like you in the bikini,” Joella told her in a low and furtive voice.

  During those early years, Emma and John Cole hardly ever had a cross word. Neither of them liked to argue. It reminded them too much of their own families. Very probably those years were where the habit of swallowing their words had become entrenched.

  An only child, Emma had been used to being alone and was not overly upset with John Cole’s absences when he had to go to sea. There had been two long cruises, however, that had stretched her capacity for alone time. After the first of these, when he had sailed for nearly two months down toward Cuba, she had welcomed him with the eager anticipation seen in all the movies, flying into her conquering sailor’s arms when he disembarked from his mighty ship. She could not get enough of him, kissing and holding him. She eagerly expected him to spend every moment with her. This was the way of a woman and surely not too unreasonable a request, except it likely overwhelmed him, a man.

  The following day, he announced that he was going off to a football game with several single buddies from the ship. Emma told him that she wanted to be with him and reminded him that he didn’t even like football. He insisted he was going anyway, and off he went. Emma could not believe that he would choose football that he did not like and male companionship over being with her when she asked him to be.

  After he had stalked out the door of their apartment, she flew into a major hissy fit and threw their eight-by-ten wedding portrait at the door. The glass shattered and ripped tiny holes in the photograph. Seeing this, she then sobbed all afternoon. She cleaned up the mess before John Cole returned home. The following day, she sought out a professional photographer who advertised repairs of damaged photographs.

  “It looks like you broke the picture in the frame,” he said, examining it closely.

  “I did,” she said in a small voice. “Can you fix it?”

  He smiled gently and said that he could. He did a wonderful job, and Emma had bought a stately new frame. John Cole had never even noticed. For years she would pick up the photograph and remember, and vow not to get into a fight with him ever again.

  There was a distinct difference between the photographs of their first year and one taken on the day of his release from the Navy. In that picture, they were standing together, John Cole’s arm draped around Emma in a nonchalant stance, in front of a brand-new sporty Dodge Charger. John Cole had by then made an extended cruise to the Mediterranean Sea and managed to grow a mustache. Emma, having spent those eight months on her own and praying daily fervent prayers that her husband would not be sent to Vietnam, had her hair up and wore a Lady Winston pale blue linen sheath dress and little white boots. She had prevailed on their mailman to take the picture. He had cut off the very end of the car, and John Cole had been disappointed about that.

  They had become proud owners of the sporty maroon sedan four months earlier, upon John Cole’s return from extended sea duty. He had, as always, saved up quite a bit of money. Emma had surprised him with savings of her own. With their nest egg—and the confidence of youth that they were only going to progress to greater things—they decided to buy their first new car. John Cole knew exactly what vehicle he wanted. He had always wanted a convertible, but they could not afford one. They could, however, afford one of the new sunroof types. “It’s practical,” he told Emma during one of their trips to look the car over. “Easy to close, won’t lose heat or air.”

  Emma told him they should buy it. They went over their finances and knew exactly the limit of what they could afford. They visited a car dealer and found just the color they wanted.

  “Are you sure you want this car?” John Cole asked Emma.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  It was very likely that the dealer took one look at the young couple with their innocent and eager faces, and thought, I’m in the money. He took the details of their trade-in and finances. Emma told him the limit of what she and John Cole could afford each month and was pleased at how easily the salesman agreed to it. Everything seemed set. They were taken back to the business manager’s office where about a hundred papers were put before them for their signatures. The business manager went through each page in two seconds, pointing at the figures. Emma followed as best she could. All of a sudden, a figure jumped out at her.

  “That’s not what we said we could afford for a monthly payment,” she said, drawing back her signing hand.

  The business manager met her gaze. “Oh.” He flipped through the papers. “This is what you agreed to pay.” He showed her.

  “No. There’s been a mistake.”

  The salesman was called. She and John Cole were told they must have misunderstood. While John Cole looked at her, Emma said very politely that perhaps they had misunderstood and she was sorry, but they were not going to pay any more for the new car. She and John Cole were asked to wait for the dealership manager to be consulted. They spent the time taking turns getting in and out of the car, John Cole opening and closing the sunroof, as he said, “Do you think we ought to go ahead and pay the extra? It’s not so much.”

  “If you want to, we can,” Emma said. She was stuck between making him happy and stubborn annoyance at the salesman.

  Frowning, John Cole went off to get a Coke out of the cold-drink machine.

  Emma wandered around. The plate-glass windows reflected her image and the vehicles in the showroom. It had gotten dark while they had done all the talking and waiting. Quite suddenly, she saw John Cole behind her, his image reflected in the glass. He was standing gazing at the car of his dreams. She did the wildest thing, something she would only do on two more occasions in her life. She said, “God, if You can get us the car, please do. If they meet our price, I’ll know that we should agree and have the car. If they do not meet our price, then I accept that we are not to have this car.”

  When the salesman returned, he said, “I’m sorry, but we just can’t lower the price of the car any more.”

  Emma and John Cole thanked him and left. Emma watched John Cole and was relieved to see he was not crushed. In fact, he said, “Our car is paid for,” as if he was seeing this for the first time. And he was so happy with this thought that he grabbed Emma to him and kissed her.

  “Hey!” A shout came from the showroom, where, in a rather star
tling manner, their salesman burst out the door. “O-kay! You win. It’s yours!” he yelled, so worked up that he seemed to jump into the air.

  Emma and John Cole stared at the man, who actually said exactly, “The damn car is yours!”

  John Cole shook his head. “Nah…I don’t want it now.”

  But Emma put a hand on his arm. “Oh, but…”

  He gazed at her, then sighed deeply and said, “Okay, if you want it.”

  He was to call it her car for as long as they owned it, which was ten years, but the only time she got to drive it was when he was not around.

  When John Cole was released from the Navy and they drove back to his hometown and showed the car to his mother and father, Pop Berry said, “I think you’d get more use out of a pickup,” and Mother Berry said, “White seats? You’ll never keep those clean.”

  One thing Emma never forgot about the night they bought the car. It was the memory of driving home in it. John Cole cranked open the sunroof and told her to turn on the radio. It was a wonderful, top-of-the-line stereo, with speakers in the back and the doors. They felt rich. The night air and stars came in the sunroof, and the Supremes singing “Someday We’ll Be Together” came out of the radio. When they arrived in their driveway, they opened the doors, then danced to the music there in the moonlight.

  We Are Family

  22

  1550 AM on the Radio Dial

  The Home Folks Show

  A chorus of melodious bells rang in Winston’s earphones, and Jim Rainwater grinned at him from over at the controls.

  “How do ya’ like those bells?” Winston asked his audience. “We thought we’d liven up the Home Folks Show with some new sound effects. Those big-city stations don’t have anythin’ on us down here at 1550 AM on the radio dial, comin’ at you from Valentine, America, which is as close to heaven as you can get on earth.”

  A choir pealed out, “Hal-le-luyah!” followed by bells and cymbals.

  “We’ve got a pretty busy show for you today. We are going to be playin’ music from Oklahoma artists and have a few contests to see if you out there can guess the identity of some of the talented people our state has produced. In the second hour, Miz Lillian Jennings, a retired history professor, is goin’ to visit with us about the history of our state. You might just learn somethin’, so stay tuned.

  “In just a minute we’ll have Belinda Blaine with her Around Town and Beyond report. She’s doin’ the show by phone today from over at the drugstore. But first, here’s a message from one of our sponsors….”

  He heard the advertising jingle come on for the Valentine Voice, and then a click of the phone. “Hey, Belinda. How’re you makin’ out today?”

  “Hello, Winston. Hello, ever’ body.”

  Winston jumped and grabbed his earphones, at the same time seeing Jim Rainwater rapidly adjusting buttons. “You’re not on the air yet, honey…and you don’t have to shout. We can hear you fine. And I think you need to turn your radio down.”

  “Oh…I forgot. I’m sorry. There. Is that better?”

  “Great.” Winston liked how Belinda got contrite on the radio. It was the only place she ever got contrite about anything, as far as he could tell.

  Down at the drugstore, standing tensely behind the counter, Belinda held the phone receiver to her ear with one hand and f lagged her other hand at Lyle and the new deputy, Giff Phelps, who sat on the other side of the counter talking their fool heads off. She was already aggravated because her mother was off somewhere with Jaydee again, apparently completely forgetting that today was Belinda’s day on the radio, and Cousin Arlo had called in sick with measles, of all things, a story that his mother, if she could be believed, backed up.

  Belinda had not been able to find one person to help her out, so she was stuck at the drugstore. She had counted on the mid-morning lull, but then Lyle and his new best buddy Giff had come in for coffee. Giff had even had the audacity to go and tune the radio to the all-talk station. She could not believe his high-handed rudeness.

  She had gone to the radio and jerked the dial right back where it belonged, informing both men that it was time for her show and for them to be quiet. They did not see her waving at them right then, though. To get their attention, she threatened to shove Giff Phelps’s coffee into his lap. He cast her a startled looked, and she mouthed, Shut up. It was not so much Lyle and Giff talking as it was Giff expounding and Lyle listening with the devotion of a puppy dog. The sight made Belinda nuts.

  Just then she realized that Winston had cued her with, “What’s the news about town today, Miss Belinda?”

  “Oh…we’ve got some exciting happenings to tell you folks.” She found her notes. “As many of you may know, there has been a rash of petty thefts in Valentine in the past couple of months. Two of the latest were reported just yesterday evenin’ by Mrs. George Julian, who had a cotton flannel blanket stolen off her clothesline, and Naomi Smith, who lost two brand-new pairs of jeans and a blue T-shirt that belonged to her son, Fisk, off her line.”

  “Don’t forget…Berry Stop…” Lyle said, holding up a finger.

  Shooting him a glare and waving an impatient hand, Belinda said into the phone, “I didn’t even know that people used clotheslines anymore. It obviously is not safe. If you want that fresh-breeze smell, you can just throw a Downy sheet in your dryer.”

  “That might be a good subject for a poll,” stuck in Winston. “How many of our ladies still use a clothesline?”

  “Uh, yes, it would be.” She wished people would quit interrupting her. “Then, only two hours ago this very morning, there was a theft from the Quick Stop that turned into a pretty good mess. Some little girl came in there grabbing things. Paris Miller was clerking. She was back in the cooler, stocking the racks. She recognized the girl—only she thought it was a boy who had previously shoplifted and gotten away. She hollered at him, uh, her, and the girl grabbed candy and a bag of diapers, and ran out. Paris ran after her, which she thought was a him, until she saw a ponytail hanging out from beneath the little girl’s hat.

  “Paris tackled the girl around back of the Stop, but the girl got away and ran into the ladies room and locked the door. There she jammed up the toilet with a diaper and flooded the room. Paris didn’t know at the time that this was what had happened, of course, since she was still outside and hollerin’, tryin’ to get someone’s attention. When she saw the water runnin’ out from under the door, she worried that the girl might have been trying to drown herself, a situation that did happen sometime back at the sheriff’s office. Paris then ran for help, which left the bathroom door unguarded, and the girl was able to get away.

  “The sheriff’s department believes that all these thefts are related and are being committed by a gang of youths. They are asking everyone to keep a lookout and for anyone who knows anything to come forward. If you even think you have a clue, please call the sheriff’s office.

  “Please don’t call me. I repeat—call the sheriff’s office, not me.” She halfway expected Winston to break in, but he didn’t.

  “Now, on to excitement of a good kind—our own Charlotte Conroy from down at the Valentine Voice has been selected as a contestant on the Wheel of Fortune. The show’s production company recently held an audition in Oklahoma City. Charlotte practiced being exuberant for two weeks to prepare. Exuberance is a requirement for the show. It wasn’t too easy for her, but obviously she did that okay, and obviously the show’s producers are not prejudiced against tall people. Those other contestants aren’t gonna have a chance, because Charlotte has been watchin’ Wheel of Fortune since it began. Charlotte and her husband, Sandy, will leave here on Thursday and be gone to California for two weeks, one of those spent at a romantic, seaside resort of unknown name and destination. That was all Sandy’s idea, too.

  “And saving the best for last, I’m goin’ to right now on the air do the drawing for the free tickets to the Glorious Women’s Day. In case you haven’t heard, this is a one-day event of revival a
nd celebration for women, being held at the Servants’ Fellowship Church up in Lawton…but all of you who bought the chances know this, so…”

  “You’re gonna do the drawin’ right now?” Winston asked.

  “Yes.” She had forgotten to be prepared for his interrupting. It was like he waited for her to forget him. “It won’t take but a minute. I only have to draw two winners.”

  “Then we’re gonna do a drum-roll for you.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes…here we go. Can we have a drumroll, please, sir?”

  The drumroll sounded in her ears.

  “Are you drawin’?” Winston asked.

  “Yes…I’m reachin’ my hand into the Lance cookie jar. It doesn’t have cookies in it. Naomi was goin’ to do this, but she had to take her mother to the doctor. If I pull out my own ticket, it will be disqualified, of course. And the first winner is…Marilee Holloway!”

  There came the sound of a crowd clapping, then Belinda said, “I’ll bet Marilee needs this day away. Does everyone know that she is havin’ another baby? And she is well into her forties. Marilee, sugar, you got a whole day away from dishes and diapers, and I’ll bet they get a stool for you to put your feet up.”

  Then she said she was drawing again, and there came the sound of the drumroll. She pulled out a ticket and waited through several more seconds of drumroll before she read it out.