by Lisa Wingate
My emergency medical training raced through my mind. Reassure the victim. Move the victim to a safe location … “Donetta, everything’s all right. Here, let me help you into the chair.”
“Ssshh!” she hissed, shrugging my hands away. Bits of pottery crunched under her feet as she stumbled across the kitchen, grabbed the radio, lowered it to the countertop, and increased the volume.
“… and then a half hour or so after they headed out,” the man was saying, “I seen the storm report on TV.” His voice blared through the kitchen now. Outside, the dogs stopped barking and came to the back door to peer in. “I couldn’t get ahold of my wife on the mobile phone, so I headed out after her and her friends. I thought I’d catch up pretty quick, since they hadn’t been gone long and they don’t drive too fast. I didn’t bother unhookin’ my bass boat, even. I just followed the way they were headed, watchin’ all the way for their van. I kept goin’ farther and farther without seein’ them, and finally, I’d made it all the way down to the coast, but there still wasn’t any sign. I found out her ship’d left port hours ago to get ahead of the storm, so I knew they couldn’ta been on it.”
“That’s Ron … ald … Ronald,” Donetta breathed, bracing her hands on the counter, her elbows locked.
I stopped where I was, teetering on bits of debris as the radio played on. “… didn’t have any way of knowin’ what’d happened to them. I started to head back toward home, but by then the roads were clogged up for miles. I couldn’t get out, so I just drove back into Perdida, run my truck and boat up in a hotel parkin’ garage, and hunkered down there. When that storm was over, the whole area was flooded and there was water way up on the parkin’ garage. Turned out it was a good thing I had my bass rig hooked up behind my truck, because it come in handy. I just backed right down the parkin’ garage, like a boat ramp, put her in the water, and headed out to see if I could help anybody.
“After a while, I got with some other fellas, and we went around town, carrying out folks who’d got stranded by the floodwater. It was nothin’ but chaos around here all that time, no way to get any communication out. We did that for quite a few days, checkin’ neighborhoods and movin’ folks, till finally the emergency people come to the area where we were.
“All this time, I didn’t have any means of contactin’ my wife, to let her know where I was, or make sure she was all right. When you’re in a spot like that, you recall all the times you been together—all the good times, and the moments you got crosswise with each other, and all the times you shoulda said somethin’ nice but you didn’t bother. When it could be you’ll never see somebody again, you sure wish you’da done better, so this is for Donetta Bradford of Daily, Texas. Wherever you are tonight, I hope you’re hearin’ my voice. Marryin’ you was the best thing I ever done. I shoulda said I love you more often. If I get home, and you get home, I won’t be cheap with them words anymore, you can bet on that. I want to send that message to every fella who’s out there right now fallin’ asleep in his easy chair in front of the TV. Get up. Hug your kids and kiss your wife. Say the things you hadn’t bothered to say, while you still got the chance. It don’t make you less of a man. It makes you more.”
When Ophelia took the mike, she sounded teary, as well.
“Well, there you have it, all you husbands and fathers out there. Some good advice. And Donetta Bradford of Daily, Texas, if you’re listening right now, you have a very special man—a hero who’s been helping storm victims in the flood zone, waiting to come home to the woman he loves. That’s it for tonight, all you listeners in radio land. Good night and Godspeed from Ophelia, near Perdida, Texas, with ‘Voices From the Storm.’ ”
When I turned to Donetta, tears wouldn’t let me speak. It didn’t matter, because she was already weeping.
“That’s my Ronald,” she sobbed, and we staggered across broken bits of pottery into each other’s arms, then rocked back and forth in a hug.
We’d barely let go when the phone started ringing. The first call was from Imagene, but before they’d finished recapping Ronald’s radio show appearance, Donetta answered the Call Waiting, and I listened to her end of the conversation as I dried my eyes with a napkin, then started picking up the shattered mug.
“This is who?”
“Well, I’ll be …”
“All the way from Fort Worth? Well, great hearin’ from ya!”
“Oh yes, I did just catch Ophelia’s show.”
“Yes, ma’am, that was my Ronald. I’m Donetta Bradford of Daily, Texas. The Donetta Bradford.” Donetta’s southern drawl turned thick and sweet as she opened a kitchen drawer and rummaged through scissors, glue bottles, rubber bands, twist ties, screwdrivers, and other assorted flotsam until she came up with a notepad and paper. “Oh yes, ma’am, I surely would lo-ove that. I truly would. Matter of fact, if ye-ew’ll show up in Daily, say about … oh … eight thirty tomorrow mornin’, I’ll give you a hurricane story like you ain’t ever heard. All righty, then, it’s a date. Ye-ew just come ri-ight to the Daily Hotel buildin’ on Main Street. Ye-ew can’t miss it.”
She hung up the phone with a triumphant squeal. “That was the Fort Worth newspaper! They heard Ronald on Ophelia’s program and they’re gonna do a story about Ronald and me. Praise the Lord! There’s gonna be a surprise waitin’ for Betty Prine in the mornin’. Oh, praise the Lord!”
For the next half hour, Donetta took calls from friends and neighbors who’d heard the show. Finally, she turned off the phone, and we stood in the center of the kitchen, the house oddly quiet after all the excitement. She looked tired but triumphant as we hugged goodnight.
“I guess this is good-bye,” I said quietly. “I’ll be leaving pretty early. I’ll drop the dogs at the vet clinic.”
“Oh, hon, I’ll see you in the mornin’. I’ll be up.” Smiling, she cupped a hand over my cheek. “I sure do hate to see ye-ew go. I’ll miss ye-ew bein’ here.”
“I’ll miss being here,” I admitted, and a corkscrew twisted in my chest.
“You could just change your plans and stay awhile longer. The dogs can stay, too.”
I shook my head, because I didn’t trust myself to speak. Everything in me wanted to say yes.
Donetta smiled sadly, as if she knew I wouldn’t. “Well, it ain’t good-bye,” she said finally. “I’m gonna be in touch. The gals and I got to book another cruise yet. When I get on that ship, I want ye-ew to show me all that stuff regular folks don’t get the chance to see—like the engine room and the crow’s nest. It’ll be just like on Ti-itanic.”
Nodding, I hugged her again, then headed off to bed for my last night in Daily, Texas.
There was no point, really, in telling Donetta that Festivale Cruises owned numerous vessels operating out of countless ports. Donetta Bradford and I would probably never end up on the same ship again.
Chapter 25
Donetta Bradford
After all that excitement about Ronald bein’ on the radio and the Fort Worth newspaper calling, I went to bed and slept like a baby. Of all things, I dreamed about Mexico, about travelin’ way down south of the border to a big hacienda. My mama’s twin brother, Macerio’s baby boy, was there. He was an old man now, but I knew his smile. That was my mama’s smile. Around him by the gate, there were kids and grandkids, and great-grandkids—my family, greetin’ me with open arms, like they knew all this time I’d be coming someday.
I stayed in bed, enjoyin’ the dream until nearly seven o’clock, when Imagene come bangin’ on the door, about to have a rigor out there. She’d probably been trying to call all mornin’, but with the phone turned off from last night, there was nothing to take me away from that sweet dream about Mexico. I didn’t get woke up early by the dogs barking at the mail truck, and soon as I started down the hall to let Imagene in, I knew Kai was gone and so were her dogs. The house was quiet as an undertaker’s parlor.
Imagene asked about Kai after she got done chewin’ me out for sleeping late and keeping the phone turned off. “She
left early this mornin’,” I said. “I didn’t even wake up, I guess.” I went to the back door and looked out. The yard was cleaned up and the dogs’ dishes had been emptied and set on the steps, so it was like they were never there at all.
Imagene gave me a mouth-down look. “I was hoping she wouldn’t go.”
“Me, too. I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t budge. Sure is gonna be lonely around here until Ronald can get home from the hurricane. It’s somethin’, isn’t it—my Ronald a big hero, rescuing people? And here I been all this time, mad at him for goin’ off fishing. Wait till I tell him about that. We’ll have a laugh over it, I bet.” Imagene nodded with a light in her eye, like she was happy about the idea of me and Ronald having a laugh. She still had a fret on her mouth, though, so I said, “You look like you need some coffee and a sweet roll.”
“Donetta, we ain’t got time for coffee. We got to get down to the hotel buildin’ before Betty shows up.” Her mouth worked like she was chewing a worry to pieces. She wouldn’t be happy when she found out the Fort Worth newspaper called last night and I didn’t even tell her about it.
“We got time for coffee. We’re showing up at the buildin’ at eight thirty sharp, and not a minute before. If Betty gets there with the fire marshal before that, she can just sit on the curb and wait.” I put water in the coffee maker, thinking about Kai and wishing she woulda woke me up before she left.
Imagene followed me around the kitchen, giving me a bug-eyed look, like she thought I might be runnin’ a fever. “Why’re we waitin’ till eight thirty to go down to the buildin’?”
“That’s a full-cup story. Wait’ll I get the coffee made.” My mind jumped tracks, which was never a problem, because Imagene and me always could carry on more than one conversation at a time. “She’s a sweet little thing, ain’t she? Kai, I mean.”
“Real sweet. I drove by the field house just now and there was Kemp, just standin’ on the pitcher’s mound, starin’ off into the haze. Looked like the saddest human I ever did see.”
“That boy’s so stubborn. They’re both stubborn. Anybody with half a brain can see them two’re meant to be.”
Imagene set the cream and sugar on the little table and nodded. “Well, you know how young folks are. They don’t always see what’s right in front of their eyes.”
“True enough.” I watched the coffee brew a minute, waitin’ until I could sneak a couple cups. “That’s sad, though, ain’t it?”
“Guess that’s what keeps meddlesome old ladies like us in business.”
“Guess so.”
I took a couple sweet rolls out of the freezer and microwaved them, then fixed the coffee and brought it to the kitchen table.
Imagene didn’t even doctor up her coffee. She was more interested in why we weren’t breakin’ out the artillery to fight Betty Prine. “Now you gonna tell me why we’re waitin’ to go to the buildin’?”
I started in on the tale while I was doctorin’ up my coffee. “A reporter called last night, Imagene—from the Fort Worth newspaper. I told her to show up at the buildin’ at eight thirty this mornin’. Betty’s gonna get a welcomin’ committee like she won’t believe.”
“A reporter?” Imagene’s bottom lip dangled. “What’d she want? Why didn’t you call me?” She ended the sentence in a huff.
“It was late, Imagene. I didn’t want to wake you up. She called about Ronald on the radio, on ‘Voices From the Storm.’ ”
“As if I could sleep when I’m worryin’ about my best friend getting kicked out of her building and her livelihood, and Kemp havin’ his heart broke. As if I’d be noddin’ off with all that goin’ on.” Imagene’s mouth and eye squeezed together on one side of her face, and I knew she was on her way to blowin’ a gasket. “And here you are, sleepin’ like a baby at seven o’clock in the mornin’, thank you very much. Not worried about your best friend pacing the floor all night.”
I should’ve known she wasn’t gonna take it well that I didn’t call her right away about the newspaper. “I had to turn the phone off because it wouldn’t stop ringin’. Every cousin I ever had called the house.”
“I was up at midnight. And after.”
Sometimes, Imagene was like a record with a scratch—stuck on one thing. “All right, well anyhow, everybody wants to know the rest of the story about Ronald and me—was I okay? What happened to me when I was in the hurricane evacuation? How’d I make it back to Daily and did I know where Ronald was all this time? What’d I think when I heard him on the radio? Are we gonna do somethin’ special together when he does get back? People got all sorts of questions—some of ’em kind of, well, private … truth be told.”
“Private?” Imagene’s eyebrows shot up, and all of a sudden she wasn’t mad at me anymore. She leaned close, like the walls had ears. “Do tell.”
“Someone asked me how were we gonna rekindle the romance when Ronald got back, and wanted details, too. I guess it’s not every day a man who ain’t said I love you in over forty years spits it out on a national radio show.”
Imagene’s cheeks and the end of her nose got red, and her eyes filled up. “I’ll be,” she whispered, shaking her head. She checked over her shoulder, then leaned close again. “How are you gonna rekindle the romance?”
“Imagene!” I gasped out, and we had us a good giggle before starting in on our sweet rolls.
Imagene sighed, chewin’ on a bite. “Guess even after hearin’ Ronald on the radio, Kai didn’t decide to stay, or Kemp didn’t come rushin’ over here to ask her not to go?”
“Young folks can be single-minded sometimes.” I pulled my sweet roll apart to let the inside cool. “Them two both got things in their past that makes them afraid—Kemp losin’ his mama when he was young, and then all his trouble with Jen and baseball, and Kai with her family bein’ such a mess, and her little brother dyin’ young. Them two got to overcome the feelin’s of loss before they can move on and form healthy new relationships.”
“You been watching Oprah again.”
“It helps to know psychology when you’re dealin’ with folks,” I said, and Imagene nodded like she agreed with me, and so I went on. “But don’t you worry. I got a plan.”
Blinking real slow, she leaned away from the table, her head twisting to one side like she was afraid to ask. “A plan? For which—Kai and Kemp or Betty and the building inspector?”
“Both, actually. First one, then the other, but with the order reversed.”
“Oh lands.” Imagene deflated like a blow-up Santa after someone’d pulled the plug. “I don’t think I even care to know.”
I grabbed my coffee and stood up. “You don’t need to for right now. Just sit here and have your coffee while I go get dressed. It’s almost time. Betty Prine ain’t gonna know what hit her.”
I hurried off down the hall with my mind cranking like the old mill engine. While I was getting myself ready for the big day ahead, I went through the plans in my mind. Then God and me went over the plans together. I was sure hoping we were both on the same page this time. I was nearly finished fixing my hair, and (aside from wishin’ I was twenty years younger) I was feelin’ ready to talk to that reporter and Betty Prine, when all of a sudden Imagene gave a scream that rattled my makeup mirror from all the way down the hall.
“Donetta! Donetta, come quick!”
I ran toward the kitchen with a trail of hairspray puffin’ behind me. Imagene was in the living room doorway, waving like she was bringin’ a race-car driver in for a pit stop. “Look! It’s ‘Voices From the Storm’ on the Good Mornin’ America show! There’s Ophelia in person… . I thought she’d be younger than that… .”
By the time I rounded the corner, Ophelia was on the screen with Diane Sawyer. Imagene’d stopped waving, and she had a hand over her mouth. “She’s talkin’ … about Ronald,” she whispered between her fingers. “Look.” She pointed at the screen, and, sure enough, down there at the bottom was a blue bar that read Deep in the heart of Texas, and then i
n smaller letters, radio message touches tender spot nationwide.
On the show, Ophelia was retelling the story of Ronald, my Ronald, and how at the shelter in Perdida, he come right up to her and said, “Ma’am, I need you to put me on the radio. I’ve got to get a message out to my wife.”
Right there on Good Morning America, Ophelia told about how Ronald’s face looked when he said those words over the radio, and how he spoke through tears, and how it made her think about all the people in her life that she’d never told how she felt. She told how she offered to get Ronald out of there in their radio helicopter, but Ronald said no. His truck and bass boat were still in Perdida, and as soon as he got some food, he was headed back with the volunteers to keep helpin’ folks.
Diane Sawyer said Ronald was a true hero. Ophelia agreed that he was, then she told how, after Ronald’s message aired, phone lines lit up all across the nation. “I knew that what he’d said was special,” Ophelia told Diane. “And that it went deeper than just the storm, or the families who have been separated, or the people who’ve lost homes or loved ones. Mr. Bradford’s message goes to the heart of who we are, and what we are as human beings, and what we could be. So often, our work and our activities, and the ordinary business of life get the best part of us, and the people we love get the least. On the show, I frequently receive calls from listeners who have lost loved ones unexpectedly—either through death, divorce, arguments, family estrangements—and those callers all carry one characteristic in common. There are things they wish they’d said when they had the chance. Ronald’s message speaks to all those people for whom there’s still time to step up to the plate.”
Diane Sawyer nodded along, then turned to look at the TV screen. “Let’s give a listen to the words of Ronald Bradford.”
At the bottom of the screen, the blue bar changed, so that it read voice of Ronald Bradford, and as Ronald talked, the GMA cameras filmed the New York City street, showing folks in a hurry to go about a normal day. Watching them, I wondered how many went home at night and did just what Ronald and me’d done—spent time with their computers, and their TVs, and their quilts for the church bizarre, instead of spending time with each other. Whenever Ronald finally made it back to Daily, it wasn’t gonna be like that between us anymore. Not ever again.