“I have a clinic a few streets over. I work at the hospital two nights a week to pay my bills, but the clinic is where I really help people. I can give you a small share of my supplies and a prescription. It’s impossible to get anything at the hospital, too many rules.” He poured a little dressing on his salad and pointed his fork at her plate. “Finish your food, and we’ll go.”
“Thank you.” Tears quivered in her eyes, and she almost kept them from spilling. “I always knew you were a good man and an amazing doctor.” They finished their meal in silence, and Anthony paid the bill.
“This way,” Anthony motioned up the street. A plaque was fixed to the door and read “Anthony Costino, MD.” He pulled a key ring from his pocket and held the door open for her to pass. There were two examination rooms, a small waiting area, a receptionist’s desk and an office. Anthony flipped on the lights, and she followed him to a locked cabinet. “I can’t spare much. I have to account for medications to the state although they are mainly interested in painkillers. I don’t believe anyone investigates vaccines and such, but I can’t take the chance.” He removed a clear bottle labeled penicillin. Marcie cradled it in her hand. “Here are vaccines for measles, mumps, rubella, whooping cough, and polio. I can’t give you morphine, but I’ll give you a prescription for a good pain killer and more antibiotics in pill form.”
“You have saved my daughter’s life. There are no words to express my gratitude.” Tears rolled unchecked down her face and landed on the bosom of her sensible white blouse.
Anthony handed her a box of tissue. “You’re welcome.” He removed a prescription pad from his desk drawer and scribbled on it. “Doctor handwriting.” He smiled.
He took the treasures from Marcie’s hand and placed them in a small brown bag. “Can you let me know how your daughter is?”
“We’re well off the grid, but I am certain with the antibiotics, she’ll get well.” She stood on her toes and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Anthony. Those words seem paltry for the gift of Ava’s life, but I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Anthony’s voice was low and rough. “Well, the sooner she gets the medicine the better off she will be. I have thought of you often, Marcie. I’m glad you’re happy. I’ll walk you to your car.”
As Anthony became smaller and smaller in her rearview mirror, she managed a small grimace of a smile. It pained her to know he had wanted more from her, but she wished him happy. With all her heart, she wished him the best.
Marcie turned the car toward the shopping mall and parked by the Target. Once inside, she dropped the prescriptions at the drug counter and pulled the rest of the money from her pocket. After paying for the drugs, she had more than two hundred dollars.
There were leather gloves lined with wool for Tom and John. She chose plain knit gloves and hats for all the children. Oranges, nuts and chocolate broken into big pieces would add to Christmas morning. Looking closely at these items, she decided they looked authentic to the time – or authentic enough. If questioned, she would say she ordered the clothes from a catalogue.
She and Amanda both hated the corsets available at the Mercantile. A sale bin filled with bras caught her eye. Ten for her and ten for Amanda would last a good while. She wouldn’t spend any of her funds on panties. She didn’t wear them most of the time, and John liked it that way.
Two giant boxes of feminine hygiene products went into the basket. She was sick to death of those rags she had to launder. Marcie was almost to the register when the condom display caught her eye. Both Tom and John used the ones she could purchase, but they were thick and while the men didn’t complain, she knew they weren’t fond of them. Lubricated, ribbed, colored and plain, Marcie filled the rest of her cart with masculine delights.
The clock chimed eleven. The next meteor storm began at one and ended at three. They had enough time, but she’d like to be there on the early side. Marcie put her packages in the back seat, started the car and headed for the Wander Inn. Christmas songs played without stop on the radio, and she sang along.
Radio wouldn’t be in wide use until the nineteen thirties, not for thirty-two more years. Well, she’d be old, but she might live to have one in her home again.
Her husband was waiting, and she missed him. She parked across the street from the blinking Budweiser sign and dashed across in a break in the traffic.
She opened the door and peered inside. John sat at the bar, a beer in his hand, surrounded by a little sea of men clad in red.
Santa Claus had come to town.
Chapter 4
December 24, 1998
John
John perched on the stool and surveyed the bar. A large mirror covered the wall behind the bar, but he preferred the one in the saloon at home. It had a naked woman relaxing on her side etched in the glass. Her hair covered some of the more interesting parts, but a man could use his imagination. His lips curled into a sultry smile. Yes, sir, that mirror was mighty fine.
Bottles of all shapes, colors and sizes were lined up in front of the plain mirror. A man had many choices when the barkeep said ‘name your poison.’ At the saloon, a man could get beer or whiskey, and the beer was warm. The beer he’d ordered tonight came in a mug frosted with ice and slid down his throat in a cooling wave.
A group of men played pool, and behind them a tall box glittered with colored light. When the music stopped, one of the men dropped a coin into it, punched a button, and a different song filled the room. He’d been wondering about the music since he didn’t see a piano anywhere. The sound coming from the colored machine seemed bigger, deeper, complicated. He’d never heard the like. A smooth voice floated over the steady thump, thump, thump that underscored the melody. The man sang to a woman about how he’d heard through the grapevine that she was planning to leave him for another man. John sympathized as he listened to the words. Well, hell, your woman running off with another man. That was an age-old tale. It would hurt though. It surely would hurt.
He gave his head a rueful shake. A man could have music without musicians. It was an age of wonders. It surely was.
He faced the mirror and turned his attention to the shelf high on the wall. A little box sat there, and people were inside. They were only a few inches tall, but they looked like real folk. Their lips moved. They were talking, but he couldn’t hear. The woman wore a long, fancy dress. Marcie might wear something like that to church but not for every day. That little redheaded woman had her hands on her hips, and she was shouting. She was mad, and disrespect for her man radiated like poison from her snapping eyes.
The barkeep wandered over. “Want the sound turned up?” he asked. “When the juke box is playing,” he motioned toward the flashing box by the pool table, “I generally keep the television sound off, but if you’re watching, I’ll turn up the volume.”
Television. Marcie had described television. Those little people were actors, and they were pretending to live in a time he recognized as his own. He shook his head. “No, thank you. I can tell what they’re up to just by watching.” John lifted the cold mug to his lips and let the beer roll down his throat.
A young woman backed through a swinging door with plates in her hands and balanced on her arms. She set the food on a nearby table and chatted with the customers before moving to another table.
“What’s that?” John pointed at a platter piled high.
“Nachos,” the barkeep said.
“How much are they?” John asked.
“Eight dollars.”
He counted his money. “I’ll have some of those and another beer.”
“Sheila,” the barkeep called, “more nachos.” She nodded her head and swung through the door.
John leaned his back against the bar and stared at the door. He wished Marcie would walk through it. Not knowing where his wife was and if she was all right made him jumpier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
Sheila laid a plate of food on the counter. Nachos, they were called nachos. “Thank y
ou, ma’am.” John tipped his head in a polite how-do-you-do kind of way.
She swept her eyes over his old-fashioned clothes and paused for a beat. “You’re welcome, cowboy.”
The door opened, letting in a rush of cold air. A man in a red suit entered and took the stool next to John’s. The barkeep brought him a beer, and he took a long pull. “I needed that.” He shook his head. “Man, oh man, playing Santa Claus is not as easy as you might think.”
“You look mighty thin for Santa Claus,” John observed.
“I had a pillow stuffed in the suit,” the stranger laughed. “I filled in for a buddy whose wife is ill. The kids are cute, but all that ho-ho-hoing takes a toll on a man.”
John closed his eyes. Ava was at home, struggling to breathe, while he sat in a bar eating nachos with a man pretending to be Santa. He sent up a silent prayer that Marcie would return soon with the medicine. He picked up what looked like part of a tortilla topped with meat and cheese and jalapeno peppers. There was some thick cream and salsa. Salsa, he’d had that before down Mexico way. He pushed the platter toward the man. “Want some?”
“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” The Santa impersonator lifted a chip from the plate.
The redheaded woman on the television appeared again, but this time she only wore a corset. It was laced tight and her breasts exploded over the top. John’s mouth was one long line of disapproval.
Santa took another chip and considered the television. “It’s an old John Wayne movie, McClintock.”
John’s jaw dropped. “John Wayne?”
“Yup. He’s older in this one, but it’s good. Here comes the spanking scene.”
The redhead was balanced on a ladder still dressed in that scandalous corset. If Marcie dressed like that he’d spank her good and proper. He inhaled a sharp breath. Holy hell, the ladder wasn’t secure. It was coming away from the house and that silly woman was hanging on. Clear as day, she was going to fall. A fall from that height could really hurt a person. She might break a leg or… The ladder was tipping, tipping, tipping and sure enough that little gal fell. John winced, but, Lord have mercy, she fell into a horse trough. Now, that was some kind of coincidence, but he was mighty glad she hadn’t hit the ground.
People stood around watching. Those men should have been helping not standing around like a bunch of tenderfoots. He snorted his disapproval. The redhead jumped out of the trough, but then she pulled a woman who appeared to be laughing at her into the water. Well, she probably deserved it, but that was pure mean. Now that tiny corset was wet and what little modesty she’d had was gone. Every man in that crowd was getting a look. She might as well be naked. Where was her husband?
The little woman ran into a saloon and hunkered down. She was hiding. A large man gone soft in the middle stormed into the scene.
“That’s John Wayne,” Santa said. “He’s her husband.”
“That’s John Wayne? I thought he was handsome,” John voiced his insult. Marcie’d always said he was handsome.
Santa shrugged.
He raised his eyes to the screen. TV John Wayne found the redhead hiding in the saloon.
Well, now he could cover her up, take her home, and sort it out. She deserved a spanking, but he needed to get her away from that jeering crowd.
What John saw next brought him to his feet. TV John Wayne took hold of the little gal’s wrist and dragged her outside. He was rough and jerked her along behind him. He took a seat and pulled her over his lap. She was yelling and flailing. Another man handed him a hairbrush, and he lit into her backside. He delivered a series of hard smacks to her wet bottom. Then he dumped her in the dirt at his feet and stormed away, leaving her the object of laughter and scorn.
More Santas gathered while the scene ran on the television. At its conclusion, they sighed and began to drift away.
“That’s no way to spank your woman.” Indignation and disbelief rang in John’s words.
“It’s not?” a Santa queried.
“Of course not. Your woman shouldn’t fear you. She shouldn’t run away from you. She should know and agree that spanking is your way to keep her safe. Good God, you don’t drag her through town by the arm.” He shook his head at the disturbing idea. “A spanking hurts. It’s supposed to, but your woman knows she is being spanked because you love her. A man spanks for three reasons: his woman risked her health, her safety or acted in a way that weakens your marriage or your family.” He paused. “AND it’s private between a man and his woman, not a public spectacle. A spanking is given with love and concern. You don’t embarrass or humiliate your wife.”
The Santa crowd was silent in their intent listening. “You never spank in anger. Dumping your wife in the dirt and storming off. Well, I can’t even figure it. After a spanking, you hold your woman close, rock her, say any little thing that comes into your head as long as its low and sweet. You make damn sure she knows why she was punished, and then you forgive, forget and move on. No fighting. No shouting. No cold silences. You’re back on steady ground.”
“Do you spank your wife?” The question was hesitant, tentative.
“Of course, don’t you?” John viewed the Santas with surprise.
The door flew open and bounced off the wall. A woman stormed in and headed for the bar. Her skirt was so short John thought he’d get a good look at her bloomers if she bent over even a little bit. Her blouse was cut low. Her generous cleavage rose and fell with her angry breaths. She was a pretty little thing with light brown hair and big brown eyes, but she was on the warpath.
“Brett,” she hissed. The Santa next to him at the bar shriveled under her glare. “I told you to meet me at the café, but I find you here in a bar swilling beer. What do you have to say for yourself?” she demanded.
“You said to meet at ten, Linda. It’s nine-thirty.” The man’s meek voice made John cringe.
“Of all the nerve, first you leave me waiting alone and now you make excuses. Forget it, I’m going shopping.” She stamped her foot, turned on her heel and stomped back out through the silent bar.
“That little gal needs a spanking,” John stated.
“She does?” Santa asked.
“She might as well write it on a card and hand it to you. The clothes, the disrespect, the tantrum… she’s asking for it. She’s wondering if you care enough to take her in hand. She’s unhappy, plain as day. She’s begging for your attention.”
Santa studied John’s face as if he was looking for the meaning of life. The other Santas drifted away, but a thoughtfulness, a tension of thinking permeated the bar.
“My wife, Marcie, wasn’t so sure at first, but she came to understand. I haven’t spanked her in years, but if I needed to, I would.” He drew his brows together. “In fact, she was making plans that affected the whole family without telling me. That harms our relationship. She knows she deserves a spanking, but I understand why she did it. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll spank or not.”
“Your wife’s name is Marcie?” Santa asked.
“Yup. Marcie Wyld Wayne, smartest woman in San Miguel.” John’s voice dripped with pride.
“Marcie Wyld? Marcie Wyld, the doctor? She’s my cousin, but I haven’t seen her in ten years.”
“Well, for land’s sake. You must be—”
The door let in another blast of frosty air. “Brett,” Marcie screamed. “Oh, Brett, I was hoping to find you.” She crossed to the bar and pulled her cousin in for a hug. “Brett, this is my husband, John Wayne. John, my cousin, Brett.”
“I believe we borrowed your car and some money, Brett.” John shook the man’s outstretched hand. “But we’ll settle up before we leave.”
John held his wife by the shoulders and searched her face for an answer. “Did you get what we needed?”
“I did, John, I did.” Her smile eased his worries. “Brett, can you come back to the ranch? John and I only have a few hours, and I need to talk to you.”
“Only a few hours?” he repeated.
�
�Come to the ranch, and I’ll explain.” She stood on tiptoe to place a little kiss on his cheek. “Please?”
“Okay. I’ll meet you at the ranch.”
Seatbelts buckled, John turned to look at the packages in the back seat. “What’s all this?”
“The medicine and I bought a few gifts,” she said.
He pulled a box of condoms from the bag and turned the box this way and that. “Extra-large, lubricated condoms,” he read. “These must be for me.” He wriggled his eyebrows and leered.
“Well, yes, for us. Improvements have been made in one hundred years in the field of contraception. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” Marcie grinned.
“I do like a good surprise.” John opened the box and removed a square packet. He tucked it in his pocket.
“You would have been a good boy scout,” Marcie giggled.
“Boy scout?” John held to the little wall at the front of the car and watched the world whiz by. He’d rather have his feet on the ground. He surely would.
“They are always prepared,” Marcie reached over to pat the foil package in his pocket.
“A man can always hope, and being prepared saved my life any number of times.” He held her hand over his heart until she pulled it away to fiddle with the little stick between their seats. “I might get lucky.”
John pulled his eyes from the rushing landscape and laid his eyes on his wife. A cascade of curly hair waved about like crazy corkscrews. When she had appeared in his life her hair had been a short halo framing her pretty face. She’d grown it long because he loved running his hands through it and spreading it out on the pillow while he rose above her. It was only one of the many things she’d done for him. She’d given him a home and three children that he loved beyond reckoning. Soon, she would return their daughter to health. He swallowed hard at the memory of Ava’s suffering.
He was already lucky.
He reached over and pushed some of the tangled curls over her shoulder. Marcie smiled his way, and his heart constricted painfully in his chest. His manhood responded in the usual way, and John adjusted his trousers.
12 Naughty Days of Christmas 2018 Page 32