by Dan Walsh
“No . . . I’ve asked myself that question a dozen times. It’s . . . a risk. That’s why we’re keeping his room dark and quiet. Why I’m keeping him sedated.”
The whole thing felt like it should be overwhelming her. She was surprised at how well she was taking it. Dr. Halper had clearly thought about this very carefully. She’d been praying, asking God to heal Art miraculously, but, if not that, to give the doctor wisdom and direct his thoughts in the right direction. “What will happen once we take Art to Shands?”
“They will operate. The surgeon will go right to the aneurysm and tie it off with a clip. After that, the hope is that it won’t bleed ever again. And Art will heal up and make a full recovery.”
He didn’t sound convincing. “That’s . . . the hope?”
“I’ve got to be honest with you.” He looked away, toward the door. Then turned toward her again. “Hope is the strongest word I can use, in light of what we’re facing.”
“So after all this, Art could still die?”
“Leanne . . . you need to know. Yes, Art could still die. Earlier I said 15 percent of aneurysm cases die before they reach the hospital. But another 50 percent die within thirty days of reaching the hospital. Of those who survive past thirty days, half of them suffer permanent brain damage.”
Leanne closed her eyes. Tears began rolling down her face.
13
No sunrise beach walk today, either.
Best Rick could manage was crawling out of bed at 10:30 a.m. He blamed it on boredom and one too many rum and Cokes last night.
After he’d walked through the toy store, Rick had a hunch he should call his mother before heading back to HoJo’s, so he’d stopped at a pay phone. Good thing he did. She was a mess. Through nonstop tears, she’d filled him in on the latest update from the doctor. It sounded pretty bad for old Art.
Sounded pretty bad for him too.
Rick had only planned on staying through today, planned to drive home tomorrow. He was supposed to be back at work on Tuesday. Mom didn’t come right out and say it, but it was obvious she was hoping he’d stay on at the store for at least another week. He had plenty of vacation time left. He’d have to be a pretty lousy son not to give in. Didn’t see any other way around it.
That conclusion is what led to the “one too many” rum and Cokes last night. He couldn’t believe it. Here he was on a Saturday night, sitting in a rundown Howard Johnson’s, drinking by himself, watching television. He’d actually sat through an episode of Trapper John, M.D. He did learn one important thing: Magic Fingers felt a lot better on your back when you were drunk. Seemed to last longer too.
But that was behind him now. Before him lay the beach, the ocean, the blue sky, and the breeze, for which this town was named. It was hard to fathom it was almost December. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, cutoff jeans, and bare feet. The water was a bit nippy for his taste, but that didn’t stop a handful of tourists splashing around in the waves right in front of him. Their skin was vampire white. The ladies wore latex swimming caps and the men wore something way too close to bikini bottoms, their bellies like beach balls bouncing in the sea.
It was revolting. He had to look away.
Actually, thirty minutes into his walk and he just had to wonder why God ever made people in the first place. Everywhere he looked—with people out of the picture—were scenes that inspired wonder and awe. The colors in the sky, the reflections in the water, the rolling sand dunes, sea oats and palm trees. The seagulls and pelicans, sand crabs and periwinkles. It all fit together in harmonious symmetry. Gazing at such things, it was hard not to believe in a Supreme Being.
But if he turned his head just a tad, there were these human beings trampling through the beautiful scenes, looking ridiculous and entirely out of place.
Like the woman walking toward him just now, not twenty paces ahead. She had to be seventy, wearing a bright pink (and skimpy) two-piece bathing suit, her skin all leathery from a thousand hours baking in the sun. On her head she wore a matching pink towel like a turban.
No one should have to see this. Not on a beach handcrafted by Almighty God.
She smiled at him as she passed. He smiled back. Then realized that he must have been staring, sadly reinforcing her delusion.
Not far behind her was a middle-aged man walking at a furious pace. At least he was covered up. But with what? A plaid shirt and striped short pants. And he wore sneakers with dark colored socks—dark colored socks—pulled up to his knees. Who does that? He wore a baseball cap with a white cloth hanging down the back like a mullet. His arms flung way up and down with each step. Obviously for some cardiovascular benefit. But should Rick have to see it?
Should anyone have to see it?
Rick stopped and looked at his watch. He’d better turn around and head back to the motel. He needed to get showered, get something to eat before driving over the bridge to the store. He sat a moment to allow the last two walkers to get far out in front. For a few brief minutes, the beach was clear of human debris. He sat back, resting on his hands, and took in a deep breath of fresh air.
His thoughts drifted back to one of the conversations he’d had with Andrea yesterday. The one where she’d talked about how wonderful his mother was, how she always knew just the right thing to say and always gave out such perfect advice. What was that quote again, the one that really bugged him? Something about authority.
That’s right . . . Authority doesn’t have to be loud, just firm.
He shook his head at the absurdity of the remark. Their relationship, especially during his teen years, was filled with loud arguments. He got up and started walking. As he did, his mind began searching through the files, trying to remember some of the bigger fights. Not so much what the fights were about but the harsh things that were said . . . and the volume.
He kept walking and walking and thinking the whole while.
At one point, he stopped in his tracks. In every memory he conjured up, every loud conversation he could recall with his mother . . . he was the loud one, not her. He couldn’t remember a single instance when she had actually yelled or raised her voice at him. How was that possible? Until that moment, it had been a settled thing in his mind for years, what he’d always believed.
His mom had been a strict, overbearing parent.
But in every memory he could recall, she really had only ever been . . . firm.
That couldn’t be right. He had to be forgetting something.
14
Rick arrived at the Book Nook a few minutes before 1:00 p.m. There were several spots along the curb to park; he pulled his Celica into the one closest to the front door. That way he could watch through the glass doorway window, see if any of the bums hanging around here started messing with it. The lights were on inside. Andrea must have already opened things up.
As he stepped through the doorway, he was surprised to find the store mostly empty. Just a few teenagers looking at records, a gray-haired lady eyeing the knickknacks. Andrea was sitting on a stool behind the counter. Her hair was different somehow, pulled back farther behind her head maybe. It looked nice. She wore a light green sweater. Some Christmas music played through the speakers. Nobody he recognized.
She smiled as he walked toward her. “Didn’t bring a jacket?” she asked.
He’d put on a green velour pullover that morning and had wondered if it would be too warm. “Feels pretty nice out there.”
“Guess you didn’t catch the news. A cold front is blowing in this afternoon. Temperature is supposed to start dropping before dark.”
He shook his head. “Forgot about the roller-coaster weather you all get down here in the winter. Maybe it’ll be good for business. Make people feel like Christmas shopping.” He stood next to her, leaned close so the elderly woman didn’t hear him. “Why’s the store so empty?”
“I guess the regulars are used to us being closed on Sundays. I didn’t tell anyone yesterday that we’d be open, because I hadn’t talked with your m
om yet. But it might be a good thing if it’s a little slow, give us some time to catch up.”
He wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
“I mean, I probably need to spend some time with you, going over the merchandise, since you’ll be on your own tomorrow.”
“What?”
“I guess we got so busy yesterday, I forgot to tell you. I can only work in the afternoon. I’m a waitress at a little restaurant over on Beach Street. Just breakfast and lunch, but I usually don’t get off till 2:30, sometimes 3:00. So you’ll have to open up, hold down the fort on your own till then.”
He couldn’t believe it. His face must have registered the shock.
“It’s not that bad, Rick. Really. I can probably show you everything you need to know in an hour. You’ll probably find the most difficult thing will be keeping the coffee going and remembering to turn the music on when it cuts off. I’m going to make some cassettes for you before I leave, so you’ll at least have ninety minutes worth at a time.”
Rick didn’t make coffee. He either bought it or one of the secretaries made it at the office.
“Actually, after I show you what to do in here, I was hoping you might be able to spend some time back in Art’s office. We need to order some things so they’ll be here by the end of the week.”
This was growing more sour by the minute.
“But come here first. There’s somebody I want you to meet.” She stood up and walked around him. Then a few steps down the center aisle.
He watched her but didn’t respond, still reeling a bit from the things she’d just said.
She turned around. “C’mon. It’ll just take a minute.”
He followed her toward the back.
“Say, Andrea,” a male voice yelled over one of the aisles near the front.
They stopped halfway. “Need something?” she replied.
It was one of the teenagers by the records. “We can’t find Keith Green’s new album. Thought it came out a while ago.”
“We don’t carry it. None of the stores do,” she said. “Guess you didn’t hear. He’s not selling them in stores anymore. You’ve got to order it directly from his ministry in Texas.”
“Really? Know how much they’re selling it for?”
“For free . . . well, not really for free. For however much you want to donate.”
“No way. You mean I could get it if I sent in a dollar?”
“I suppose, but I think you’re missing the point. When you’re ready to check out, I’ll give you one of his newsletters. I have a few under the counter.”
“Hey, dude,” his friend said. “We can both get one, maybe we’ll send in five bucks between us.”
Andrea continued walking down the aisle. Rick didn’t understand a single word of that conversation.
They reached an open area with a sofa and upholstered chair. A little girl sat on the sofa, with some kind of project spread out beside her, with more of it on the coffee table.
“Amy, I’d like you to meet Mr. Denton. He’s Leanne’s son.” The little girl looked up, smiling brightly. She had the same color hair as Andrea, pulled into a ponytail on one side.
“I didn’t know Mrs. Bell had a boy.”
“Well, he’s not a boy, Amy.”
“Well, I didn’t want to say she had a man.”
Rick laughed. She was cute. She reached out her little hand, so he shook it. “Nice to meet you, Amy.”
“And you too, Mr. Denton.”
“Can she call me Rick?” he asked Andrea quietly.
“It’s okay with me.”
“How about you call me Rick?”
“Okay.”
“What you got here, some kind of school project?”
“No, silly.” She held up a JCPenney Christmas catalog, with a picture of Santa on the front wearing a blue apron, painting a toy. “I’m making a catalog.”
Rick didn’t understand. “Looks like the catalog is already made.”
She held up a black composition notebook. “No,” she gently scolded. “This is my catalog. I’m making it for Annabelle, so she can pick out what she wants for Christmas.”
He saw a blonde-haired doll sitting next to her on the sofa. Presumably Annabelle. “Oh. Why don’t you just have Annabelle look at the Penney’s catalog?”
Amy looked all set to explain. “Hold on, sweetie,” Andrea said. “You can tell Rick all about that later. I’ve got some things I need to show him in the store first.”
“Okay. It’s not ready to show anyone yet anyway. I’ve got a lot more I have to do with it first.”
Andrea headed toward the aisle closest to the back wall. “We’ll start over here.”
“Okay if I get a cup of coffee first?”
“Yeah, I can use one too. Then we’ll make a fresh pot.”
“You’re going to have to show me how to do that too.”
“What?”
“Make coffee. I don’t know how.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “Accountants don’t make coffee.”
She smiled. “Guess that means you don’t clean toilets, either.”
“Toilets?”
“I was saving that for last.”
15
Rick sat in the Book Nook’s dreary back office, Art’s office.
A few minutes ago, Andrea had finished giving him the grand tour, explaining way more than he could retain. But she was right. It wasn’t that complicated. He’d actually felt stupid for his apprehension. Teenagers in high school get hired for jobs like this at minimum wage. People came in to the store, picked stuff out, and brought it up to the counter to pay for it. That’s it.
But if they asked questions about the merchandise, that would be a problem. What’s the best book on marriage? I’m buying a book for a friend, do you recommend this one? Which of these three Bibles is a better translation? He didn’t know anything, knew he didn’t know anything, but he hated appearing that way. He had an almost biological resistance to saying “I don’t know.” His practice had always been to come up with something that sounded like it made sense and say it with authority.
But he couldn’t do that here; he had no reference point to even pretend.
Andrea had seemed to discern his struggle and offered some advice: “If customers ask you questions, tell them you’re just watching the store for a few days to help your mom out while Art’s in the hospital.” Then she walked him behind the counter and pulled out a pad of paper, suggesting he could write their questions down, get their name and phone number, and tell them she’d call them back when she got in at around 3:00 p.m.
Rick had then asked if she shouldn’t write down her phone number in case any of their questions were urgent. Immediately, he felt like a total fool for saying it. Who would ever have a question about a religious book that needed immediate attention? She’d given him a look that said “You’re kidding, right?” But she didn’t say it, which was all he could hope for. Instead she’d said, “I can’t take personal calls at the restaurant.”
Rick knew he’d only asked the question to get her telephone number. Like some reflex reaction. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to detect his scheme. She was probably wondering, though, how someone with a master’s degree could ask such a lame question.
Sitting there now in Art’s squeaky chair, he looked back on this whole episode with a fair amount of self-disdain. Because, after all, he wasn’t interested in Andrea, so there was no point responding to some misguided impulse to get her phone number. She was attractive enough, more than a little, and had a pleasing personality . . . and she smelled nice.
But she was a churchgoer, like his mom.
Worse than that . . . she had a kid.
Andrea popped her head through the office doorway. “How’s it going back here?”
Rick looked around at the mess of papers and stacks of folders. “Not so good. I’m sure Art had some kind of system here, but I’m not seeing it yet.” She had given him a wri
tten list of books, records, and religious paraphernalia to reorder, hoping to get them in the store and ready for resale by this Friday. Almost two hours had passed. “So far,” Rick said, “I’ve only found three of the wholesale vendors who sell the items on your list.”
“Any of them those big nativity sets?”
Rick shook his head. “Nope.”
“Hope you find them. I’ve had several people asking about them. Think your mom said they had a really nice markup.” She looked around the office. “Wish I could help you, but I hardly ever did anything back here.”
“I’m sure if I keep digging, I’ll connect all the dots. No customers out there?”
“Not at the moment. Care for a cup of coffee?”
“I’d love one.”
“Feel like making it? What’s left in here doesn’t smell very good.”
Rick made a face.
“I know you watched me make the last pot, but tomorrow you’re going to have to tackle this giant on your own.”
Rick smiled then got up. At about the same time, the front door opened and closed. “Better see who that is,” she said. “Sure you’re okay?”
He wanted to say “It’s just coffee.” But he was a little nervous. “I remember what you did. Just not sure how it’ll turn out.”
“We’re not Dunkin’ Donuts, so if it’s close, most people will be fine.” She smiled then walked away.
He got up and walked the few steps to the little cabinet next to the sofa, where the Mr. Coffee sat. As he began carefully following the steps he’d just committed to memory, he remembered reading an interview with the inventor of Mr. Coffee in a Forbes magazine article last year. The guy compared his creativity to that of Michelangelo. It was a clever little thing. But c’mon . . . it just made coffee.
He glanced over at Amy still hard at work on her catalog project. She looked up at him. “I like that smell.”
“Me too. Like how it tastes?”
“I’m only six.”
Rick laughed. “Right.” He needed to stop talking so he didn’t screw up the count on the scoops. Out of the corner of his eye, he could tell she was still looking at him.