“Dorothy!” Josh exclaimed. “You mean you really are going to quit driving?”
Dorothy reached down and picked up Sheba, who was standing on her hind legs and leaning her front paws in Dorothy’s lap. “I reckon it’s time we two ladies settled down a bit anyway. Since that day I ran you and your mom and Alex off the road, well…”
“You WHAT?” Jacob asked.
“It was nothing,” Katie said. “It was really nothing. I wasn’t looking where I was going either and…well, it really was nothing.” Josh’s mouth flew open.
“No, Katie,” Dorothy said. “It was something. I have had nightmares about what could have happened had you not driven your vehicle into the ditch to miss me. And me not even knowing what I’d done! I tell you, I have had nightmares. Yes, it’s time I turned in my keys before something worse happens.”
Nobody said a word. Finally May Belle got up and began clearing the dessert dishes. Josh jumped up to help, but May Belle waved him back down. “Earl, you know what comes next,” she said. After May Belle made the round picking up the plates, Earl gathered all the silverware. Still, nobody spoke a word.
“My goodness me!” Dorothy finally exclaimed. “You’d think you were all attending a funeral or something. It’s only a car. It’s only driving. It’s not like I’m turning in my pom-poms—although they’ll probably be next.”
“Pom-poms?” Jacob asked. “Pom-poms? I don’t think I even want to know about them!”
16
“Where in the world does time go?” Dorothy asked Sheba, who simply stared back at her without a single helpful response. They were seated in the kitchen, Dorothy at the table, Sheba curled at her feet. Dorothy was sorting through piles of her ancient, mismatched everyday tableware. She’d concluded she was going to put all her oddball pieces in the sale and buy herself a new service for four. She’d seen them in Wal-Mart for next to nothing and wondered why she hadn’t replaced her everyday stuff years ago. “If not now, when?” she asked Sheba, who still had no reply.
It was the second week in August, and it was nearly two weeks already since all her men had returned to their homes, of course promising her they’d be back to help with the auction and sale, as well as to say their final, official good-byes to the farm. Even though Katie assured them before she left that they’d always be welcome in the place where they were raised and that crawdad-hunting opportunities would never disappear since Crooked Creek Park would carry on, they simply looked at her as though she’d somehow missed the point. Although Jacob had pursed his lips, he refrained from saying what was on his mind.
During the week-plus that Dorothy’s men had been at the farm, they managed to sift through everything that mattered, each packing a box or two and taking it to UPS. There were only a few items mentioned that Dorothy wasn’t ready to part with, one being the massive mahogany desk that had been her father’s. She wasn’t sure yet whether it would fit appropriately in her new home or not, but the thought of leaving it behind or shipping it out was more than she could take, at least at the time. Of course, one day it would go to Jacob, the elder son. But that day wasn’t here yet.
Vinnie had mentioned liking the pocket watch she kept displayed in a nine-inch-tall, glass-domed case set atop the dining room bureau. It used to be her mother’s father’s watch, and even though it hadn’t worked for decades, it somehow gave her comfort to know that it was the very same face and hands that had marked her ancestors’ days, and the very same twelve-karat, rose-gold casing they’d held in their fingers that now sat within her gaze. On rare and moody occasions, she removed it from its domed home and held it curled safely in the palm of her hand like a crystal ball, imagining what they might have been waiting for as one or the other asked the time and her grandfather pressed the button, flipped opened the front cover and pronounced it, exactly. Yes, she recalled how he used to report it: “Why, sweetie pie, it’s ten minutes and twelve seconds after two o’clock,” he’d say. He died when Dorothy was only fifteen years old, but she would never forget the twinkle in his eyes and the way he all but sang the syllables when he called her sweetie pie, which is what he always called her, even when he was perturbed with her occasional stubborn behavior.
Steven mentioned liking a pocketknife with a bone handle he found in one of the junk drawers. Dorothy didn’t know where Henry had procured it, but every time she opened that drawer and thrashed through it for one thing or another, it made her smile to discover once again its presence in her life. No, it, too, needed to stay for now.
Vinnie studied an outdoor photo of her and Henry taken shortly after they were married. She kept it in a small oval frame near her bed, and it had been there as long as he could remember. “Not yet, son. No, you can’t have that yet. I still need to wake up and see us the way we used to be. Oh, we were so in love!” She picked it up and held it to her chest like a sleeping baby, then gently kissed the glass before setting it back in its sacred spot.
Katie had been good enough to let the guys use her Lexus to take a couple loads of piddly stuff, as Dorothy referred to it, over to the house on Vine. Two SUVs lessened the number of trips they had to make. They hauled items like an end table, some small kitchen appliances, a couple sets of sheets for her bed—which she was certainly taking, she’d decided—extra towels, an old iron doorstop shaped like a bulldog, a fairly new halogen lamp that would probably light up her entire new home, a dresser, a filing cabinet, a couple of paintings and a few other odds and ends. She didn’t want to move any large furniture items until she’d made up her mind for sure about paint colors and such. “I’m just gonna sneak up on the place bit by bit,” she teased.
As far as Dorothy knew, Katie and Jacob never again had entered into verbal battle, probably worrying they’d kill her with their bickering, what with her chest pains following their last bout. She tickled May Belle during a phone conversation in which she shared her “death by verbal sparring” theory. “Oh, Dorothy! You’re such a corker!” May Belle had said. Mostly, Dorothy told May Belle, Katie and Jacob had ignored each other after that, speaking only when they had to, and being very polite at that.
Katie and Vinnie had actually entered into some lively conversations, Dorothy explained during her continuing recap to May Belle, seeming to hit it off by the time she and Josh headed back to Chicago a few days before the men left. And once the boys all went crawdad hunting together, their uneasiness with one another completely disappeared. “I guess once a fellow squishes his toes in the same rushing waters as another and they come up the hill together with their pant legs rolled up, they are bonded for good.” The entire, lengthy phone conversation had caused the two women to begin reminiscing about some of their own best hunts, making fun of themselves along the way for telling “fish tales” about crawdads!
After she and May Belle had hung up—when the silence of the farm seemed to ring very loudly in the shadow of their giggling conversation—Dorothy thought how odd it was not to be able to jump into The Tank and retrieve May Belle and Earl for a smorgasbord night. The emotional pangs that raced through her when she thought about taking a ride, then realized yet again that it was now impossible, were sometimes so intense that they felt nothing short of a physical wound, or what she imagined one suffering withdrawal symptoms from drugs might experience, such was the intensity of her longing.
Although Arthur had once even volunteered to come pick her up so she could “just pet The Tank,” she’d declined, realizing she couldn’t bear to see such a faithful old friend parked for good. Not yet, at least. Arthur had asked what she wanted him to do with her, but the best Dorothy could do was to tell him she’d let him know later. Yes, later.
In the meantime, she had to put her lipstick on and ready the treasurer’s report for the evening’s Social Concerns Committee meeting, which seemed to have rolled around again quicker than a flash. Then again, they had moved it up a week, feeling that time was running out before the rummage sale. Jessica volunteered to come pick her up, saying she co
uld certainly use an excuse to leave the house a bit early and return home a bit late since Sarah Sue had been so cranky lately. Dorothy accepted Jessica’s gracious invitation, realizing it would probably do them both a world of good. It occurred to her that even after she moved, she’d have to find a ride when community band practice began again in the fall, since it was out at the park district building near the edge of town—allowing that she had enough breath left by then to play her clarinet.
Dear Joshmeister,
Well, our meeting was pretty uneventful, aside from Acting Mayor Gladys McKern, who is still having fits about the Boy Scouts directing traffic at the auction, which I cannot believe is only a couple weeks away! That woman can stay rankled about something longer than anyone I KNOW, and no amount of facts can persuade her to change her mind. Nevertheless, we voted and she lost. End of story. HA!
I can hardly believe you talked your mother into private driving lessons! What? You don’t trust Hethrow High drivers’ education to train you proper? Too bad The Tank isn’t still up and running; I could teach you how to drive. (Did your stomach just do a flip-flop?) HAHAHA! So, do you think you’ll have your license before you move down here? LOOK OUT, PARTONVILLE! A JOSHMEISTER ON THE LOOSE! And they all thought *I* was something!
I finally did IT today: I phoned Edward Showalter and told him to paint my kitchen ceiling fire engine red! He called me back in the afternoon and said the only true fire engine paint he could find was enamel, and he asked me if I knew what I was doing. Did I really want a shiny red ceiling in my kitchen? I assured him that I might be old but that I wasn’t daft—at least not too daft—and that I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m leaving everything else white. Who knows what I might do once I get in there and start playing. I just might draw flowers on the walls with Magic Markers!
When I asked if he knew of any movers he might recommend, he told me that he and a couple of his AA buddies can move me since they’ve done that type of thing before. (Is there anything Edward Showalter DOESN’T do?) Your mom bragged on him so much that I just went ahead and gave him that job, too. I’ll soon be moving into my New Home for GOOD; my bed will be the last thing to get moved in. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I don’t want to actually be living at Crooked Creek during the auction. No sir, I want to feel like I’ve already moved on.
Last I talked to your mom, your moving company was hopefully now set to get your stuff down here a week after the auction, which she figured would give Edward Showalter time to do whatever she might want done beforehand—which she didn’t think would be much. I imagine it’s costing her a pretty penny to have all your fine furniture moved. I surely do wish I could see your fancy townhouse before you leave it, but so goes life. It does give me pleasure, though, to think my old “office” will now become your room. Yes, new life in old places is what I like to picture. I reckon you’ll be sitting nearly where I am now, just typing away on YOUR computer!
I’m going to bed. And YES, I’ve been taking good care of myself and not working too hard. I sit like a queen in the barn and just boss people around when they come to drop things off or price them for the sale. I think I’ve finally found my calling! HA!
Peace and grins,
Outtamyway (although it doesn’t exactly fit anymore) & Sheba
P.S. Looks like the Wild Musketeers will win the league, as usual. I don’t think anybody can catch them now unless the Palmer Pirates win every game for the rest of the season. Fat chance of THAT!
“I tell you, I just can’t believe it!” Lester said as he poured Arthur his fifth cup of coffee, if he’d been keeping track correctly. “And if you have another refill, I’m gonna have to think about charging you double!” Arthur just stared Lester a good one, ignoring his familiar and hollow threat.
“Well, you can believe it, I tell ya! And it came direct from Dorothy’s mouth. The Tank is nearly dead as a doornail, and she’s parked in my ol’ shed where I towed her after the wreck. Dorothy hasn’t even been by to see her, and like I’m a-tellin’ ya, she’s claimin’ her drivin’ days is over.”
“I can’t believe it. I tell you, I just can’t believe it!” Lester said again, shaking his head while staring out the window. “Now, I can’t say I’m not a bit relieved to know that old car won’t be racing around anymore, but I just wonder how Dorothy is going to handle this. I mean really. I mean, I know she’s moving into town soon, but…I just can’t imagine giving up driving myself.”
“I know what ya mean,” Arthur said empathetically. “I try to imagine myself what that might be like. Nope. I can’t even imagine it. No siree, Bob. I cannot imagine not drivin’. Why, when that woman of mine gets to naggin’ for too long a spell, sometimes my good ol’ Ford truck just kidnaps me down the lane. Know what I mean?”
“You say The Tank is nearly as dead as a doornail. Does that mean she’s got at least a lick of life left in her?”
“I’d say about one good slurp would be it.”
“I declare. I just never thought I’d see the day.”
“What day is that?” Cora Davis asked as she entered Harry’s.
“The day Dorothy Jean Wetstra stopped driving,” Lester said.
“What?” Cora bypassed her table in the window and bustled right up to the counter for this bit of information. “Surely you’re not telling the truth!”
“Well, surely he is tellin’ the truth,” Arthur grunted. “Said she’s givin’ up drivin’ for good. The Tank is rightly sick, and Dorothy figures it’s time.” As before, Arthur didn’t go into what had scared Dorothy, figuring she had a right to her own stories without Cora muckin’ them up with her exaggerations.
“How will she get around?” Cora asked.
“I reckon the same way May Belle has done all these years since Homer died. After all, she won’t have far to go for nothin’ once she moves onto Vine,” Arthur replied.
“And she’s going to do that when?” Cora asked Arthur. She spun her stool toward Lester and all but ordered him just to serve her coffee at the counter today, then quickly spun back to face Arthur.
“I reckon when she’s good and ready. Beans, Cora! I don’t keep a collar on Dorothy. But I reckon she’ll be movin’ before the sale so as Swifty don’t auction her furniture right out from under her.” Swifty Forester, the county’s premier auctioneer, had once been accused of doing just that. Word had it the owner had to buy his very own couch back from the highest bidder since Swifty said he never went back on a sale.
“And when is that Katie person moving in? Or is she?”
Arthur tossed his money on the counter, told Lester to keep the change, stood up off the stool, hiked up his pants, then turned to Cora. “Cora Davis. You have always done asked too many questions of too many folks about too many things. And this time ya ain’t gittin’ an answer.” And then he was gone. Here The Tank was, gaspin’ for breath in his garage, and all Cora Davis could think about was that city slicker. Wasn’t it bad enough he was soon gonna have to endure a foreign car parked right on the farm next to his? What was the world a-comin’ to?
17
Katie walked from room to room in their brownstone, thinking about how Dorothy’s sons were preparing themselves to say good-bye to the farm. Try as she might, she could not muster one hint of emotional attachment to the brownstone. Surely there’s something…She meandered from the spacious dining room, with its oversized black lacquer table and hutch and its African décor, to the kitchen, which was mostly white and serene, to her bedroom, which had no clutter or extras other than the multiple bottles of French perfume she displayed on top of her bird’s-eye maple dresser. Nothing. I feel nothing.
Then she wandered into Josh’s bedroom. Although she’d always nagged him to get that place in order and un-clutter the mess, she had never actually taken stock of what the mess consisted of, other than occasional building mounds of dirty clothes piled on the floor. Since the housekeeper actually cleaned his room, for the most part Katie never entered.
&nbs
p; Right inside the door next to the wall switch was a poster of Bruce Springsteen. Alex had seen him in concert a year ago and bought Josh the poster for a souvenir. Katie hadn’t allowed Joshua to attend the concert, believing the influence of fans would not be a good one. Josh had been angry with her for two weeks, repeating again and again that many of the parents were going—had gone—to the concert. “Well, I’m not them,” she’d said.
“Well, that’s for sure,” he’d replied.
After hearing a few of her business associates talk about how much they’d enjoyed it and how multigenerational the crowd had been, she’d been somewhat sorry she hadn’t let Josh attend, although she never admitted that to him.
Next to the Springsteen poster was a small shelf about a foot long where Josh kept a plastic model of a ship he’d built when he was about ten. It wasn’t very well done—paint drips here and there, things not quite matched up correctly before the glue had dried—so why he kept it was a mystery to her. But there it was, a piece of his past perched in the air. To the left of that was a curled-up piece of paper about five inches square, secured to the wall across the top by a piece of masking tape. She gently ran her index finger from top to bottom to uncurl it so she could decipher what it said: “Thank you for bringing your lovely boat for show-and-tell, Josh. I could see by your enthusiasm that you really enjoyed the project and that you obviously love the water. Perhaps one day you’ll own your own boat! Mrs. Sharper.”
Katie’s heart began to pound. All these years…a note from his teacher…I never heard him talk about boats or the water. Then again, when have I really asked him what he likes?
Dearest Dorothy, Slow Down, You're Wearing Us Out! Page 14