On the long shelf against the next wall were ribbons, two small trophies and a pinewood derby car from his Scouting days. Propped in the midst of those were a six-inch-high figure of Tony the Tiger and a blue square of chalk, the kind used to chalk the end of a pool cue. Where in the world did that come from? I have no earthly idea. Maybe during a visit with his dad?
The next wall was completely covered by his desk, computer equipment and shelving to hold all the manuals. A notebook sat next to the keyboard, a three-hole punch beside it. She flipped open the notebook and discovered it was completely filled with printed copies of e-mails from Outtamyway!
“Dear Joshmeister, Just a note to let you know I’m still alive and kicking this fine Wednesday morning. I loved hearing all the gory details about your science project, even though Alex seemed to like dissecting much more than you. HA!” Note after note, Katie was drawn into the web of learning details about her son’s life she’d never known existed.
Suddenly her face flushed when she thought she heard Josh returning home, fearing she’d be caught red-handed in his personal business. Although nothing intimate had been revealed and Josh had in fact not returned, she felt guilty enough to close the notebook and scurry toward the door to leave his room. But not before stopping in the doorway and taking one last look at these fragments of her son’s life, mentally moving them into shape as though trying to fit pieces of an important puzzle together to reveal the whole of something…someone.
“Josh,” she said aloud. “The only thing I would miss about this place would be you, if you weren’t coming with me. You, a son I hardly know.” Tears began to stream down her cheeks. “It’s time that changed.” She gingerly stepped toward the plastic model ship and lifted it into her hands. “Okay, so we’re not moving next to the ocean and we won’t have a boat, but it’s a creek with running water and…clams. NO! Crabs. NO NO NO! CRAWDADS!” she shouted triumphantly.
Dorothy was reclining, feet up and her head resting in the shampoo bowl, relishing the feel of Maggie’s hands heartily scrubbing her scalp. When it came to hair, Maggie knew just what every woman liked, and for Dorothy, it was a good, hard scrub. “You just can’t get too rowdy with my pink scalp,” she used to say. Not so for May Belle. May Belle enjoyed the slow feel of trickling warm water and a gentle massage. Jessica, although she’d come only a few times because of a lack of funds, nearly became euphoric sniffing the fragrances of Maggie’s small collection of aromatherapy products—very cutting edge—while Gladys worried that “all that smelly stuff” would do something to her sinuses.
Although Maggie always set up an official index card in her jeweled box for new clients, she never needed to look at it again. She knew. And although she loved what she did, basking in the feel of hair slipping through her fingers—whether it was wet or dry—it was always a regret that no one in Partonville was brave enough to try any of the new, exotic styles she learned at the hair convention each year. No amount of persuading, cajoling and even bribing with “free product” could move them out of their boring ruts—other than that one time when May Belle, out of the clear blue, had stunned her by asking for a braided updo like she used to wear when she was courted by Homer.
Maggie began chattering to Dorothy as she towel-dried her thin white locks. “I wouldn’t have believed it until I saw Jessie drop you off! You really are not driving, then?”
“Nope. The Lord has made it clear to me that it’s time to stop before I hurt somebody. Besides, what fun could I really have behind the wheel of a vehicle that wasn’t The Tank?”
“True enough. Although I can envision you driving one of those big old SUVs like Miss Durbin bombs around in.”
“Funny you should say that, since it did cross my mind. But then I thought better. I tell you, it’s quite the adjustment to have to depend on others to make your way from here to there. It has made the idea of moving into town even a little sweeter, though. Having to walk for my dinner will keep me up and moving.”
“Well, just be sure you’re not moving too swiftly, Dorothy! Now that everyone in town knows about your nitroglycerin tablets, you’re likely to have them being stuffed down your throat every time a sneeze comes over you!” The women broke into peals of laughter, realizing that probably wasn’t far from the truth. When they settled down, Maggie began the blow-drying process, which interrupted the conversation and caused Sheba to scurry out from under Maggie’s station. As soon as she turned the dryer off, conversation resumed, but Sheba stayed put near the back room.
“I heard Arthur’s got The Tank at his place. What are you planning to do with her, Dorothy? Maybe we ought to have a town burial, think?” Maggie combed Dorothy’s hair this way and that, knowing there was only one way it would end up and that it was too thin to do much of anything with.
“Maybe I ought to put her in my auction. Think I could get a dollar?”
“I’m afraid my answer might incriminate me, so I’ll keep it to myself,” Maggie said, grinning mischievously.
“It did cross my mind that one year at the county fair they had an old wrecker car they let people hit with a sledgehammer for a few coins. I think the Rotary did that for a fund-raiser. Maybe Social Concerns could earn a few bucks from something like that—say, set The Tank out in the square or something.”
“I know!” Maggie said to Dorothy as she spun her around in the chair so she could talk directly to her rather than via the mirror. “How about you put her in one of the demolition derbies out at the fairgrounds! Now, that would be the perfect ending!” Maggie threw her head back and chuckled at the mere thought of such a crazy idea.
“The way Arthur talked, I’m not sure The Tank’s got enough life left to even get to the fairgrounds, to be honest with you.”
“Spray today?” Maggie asked as she patted at Dorothy’s wispy, round hairdo.
“Just give me a squirt or two. Don’t imagine it will change the look of my pink scalp one way or the other, but I do like the way it smells.”
“You and Jessica and your fragrances.”
“Has she been in?”
“Not for some time now. But she does love fragrance. In fact, even though I almost never sell a lick from my aromatherapy display, it’s worth keeping it out—aside from my own pleasure, of course—just to watch her delight in inhaling a lungful from each bottle.”
Dorothy squinted as she thought, then said, “If I recollect correctly, her birthday’s coming up.” Maggie unfastened the plastic drape from around Dorothy’s neck. “I tell you what, I’m gonna leave you whatever it costs for a cut, wash, set and bottle of fragrance for her, but don’t tell her who did it, okay? You call her and tell her an angel passed through and left her a do, then surprise her by giving her the bottle of the fragrance she most likes. You’ve got all this grandbaby stuff and playpens and what-not in the shop anyway, so she wouldn’t even have to worry about getting a sitter!”
“Done deal,” Maggie said. While Dorothy was paying, she was blessedly reminded how wonderful it felt to give, especially to someone as hardworking as that Jessica Joy.
Dorothy walked out the door of La Feminique Hair Salon & Day Spa, yet again surprised to find The Tank missing from its usual parking spot in front of the shop. Sheba sat down on the curb and just stared at her mistress with a look on her face that said, what are we supposed to do now? About that time, Jessie pulled up and tooted her horn, sending Sheba into a barking fit until Dorothy opened the door and she jumped right in next to Jessie.
“You look beautiful as ever, dearie,” Jessie said to Dorothy once she was belted in.
“Looks, schmooks,” Dorothy said. “Wait until Arthur hears what I’ve finally decided to do with The Tank! Maggie Malone is not only a dear friend and a great beautician, she’s an inspired genius as well!”
“Now hear this!” Gladys belted out to the Happy Hookers, causing everyone in the room to stop their chattering and snap to attention. “Since the last two members have finally arrived and since they’re the onl
y ones who haven’t asked me yet—only because I didn’t give them a chance—let me make this an official announcement so we can get on with the game. Miss Durbin is not even in town, so obviously I didn’t invite her, and no, I did not invite Jessica Joy either. Why? you ask. Well, for one, Miss Durbin’s absence speaks for itself. For two, I didn’t know that just because one of us decided to invite special guests for an evening of bunco it meant that the rest of us had to do the same thing! How could we play with seven anyway?”
“I reckon the same way we learned to play our own special brand with six all these years,” Jessie said, taking the words right out of everyone else’s mouths.
Gladys yanked down the back end of her blazer and rested her knuckles on the table in front of which she was standing. “And why, pray tell, after all these years of playing with six would we need to change that?”
“Well,” Nellie Ruth said a bit hesitantly, “perhaps because we finally figured out we have more players and that it’s more fun with two complete tables? And because we liked our guests?” Somehow it had come out as more of a question than the statement she was wishing to make.
“Humph,” Gladys said in response.
It was now Maggie’s turn to get in her two cents’ worth. “Well, I for one quite agree with Nellie Ruth. Yes, I’m the one who invited them last month. And truthfully, I didn’t think about it being permanent until about halfway through the evening and I thought to myself, why not?”
“For one thing, we barely know Katie Durbin,” Gladys immediately responded.
“Maybe some of you barely know Katie, but I know her very well, and so does Jessica,” Dorothy said. “And as for Jessica, my goodness me! She’s already one of us. She’s fun and I’m sure she’d love to be a member.”
“She’s tardy.” Gladys’s mouth spoke before she herself even knew it had opened.
“For goodness sakes, Gladys!” Dorothy nearly shouted. “Give a new mother a break! One time tardy does not make her anything other than one time tardy!”
“I think Jessica would make a fine addition to our club, as would Katie—if she’s interested in joining,” May Belle said.
“And after all,” Dorothy said without a gap after May Belle’s statement, “if we don’t get some new blood in here pretty soon, this club will die—one at a time and literally. We’re none of us getting any younger, you know.” Everyone but Gladys broke into laughter. “So I’d say it’s unanimous—almost. Who’s got the next meeting? We’ll leave it up to them to do the official invite.”
“Me,” Nellie Ruth said. “I think I’ll send them written invitations so they understand they are being invited into the club, not just for the evening.”
“And if either of them declines, then what?” Gladys asked.
“Then they will have declined,” Dorothy said. “Amen and pass the dice!”
18
It was quite the parade. A large orange U-Haul truck led the way, followed by a green Chevy truck, a tangle of items and boxes held in the bed with miscellaneous straps and bungee cords, followed by two overflowing station wagons, tailgates open. The caboose was Edward Showalter’s camouflage van with “Jesus Loves You” written across the side—Dorothy riding shotgun, Sheba in her lap. Arthur stood at the end of his lane, having just picked up his mail, shaking his head as he watched them go by. He held his mouth shut so as not to be swallowing the dust kicking up from the gravel. Although he waved at Dorothy, she didn’t seem to see him.
Dorothy was bone-tired, hot, thirsty and feeling disoriented. Edward Showalter had talked at the top of his lungs the entire time his crew was packing up, then he’d hurried her into the van so they wouldn’t “miss the parade!” Her moments alone to say her good-byes to the empty bedroom where she’d been born, her anticipated farewell to the kitchen table at which she’d sat for most of her life, her final moments in the barn…each vanished in a flurry of hurry and blather. She felt as though she’d been punched in the stomach, her umbilical cord to the land severed without warning.
“If I’d rented a U-Haul just one inch shorter, that bedroom set and big old desk would not have fit! That desk must weigh a ton. Me and the boys have never lifted anything that heavy. It took prayer and an act of God to get that thing to budge an inch. What is that made of, anyway?”
A long silence followed.
“Dorothy?”
“Yes.”
“Dorothy, I asked you what that desk was made of.”
“Tradition,” she said. “Memories. Heartache. Business deals…Memories and…more memories…”
Edward Showalter looked her way for a moment, then decided just to leave her be. This was the first it had occurred to him just how difficult this transition was for her. She’d been so chipper and happy when they’d talked about things for the Vine Street house, it had never before struck him the impact it must have to leave a lifelong dwelling place. With his shaky background, including the fact that his dad had also been a drinker—although he’d never quit until he died—Edward Showalter had never had a chance to grow the same kind of roots that obviously tied Dorothy to her farm.
Dorothy thought for a moment that she might throw up, she felt so ill. Lord, she prayed to herself, hold me close. Hold on to me, Jesus. I know I’m doing the right thing, I just didn’t realize it would he so hard to drive away. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the headrest. If Edward Showalter hadn’t seen her hand stroking Sheba’s head, he might have thought she’d passed out.
Lord, it’s not like I’m never coming back. Why, I’ll be back here tomorrow, helping price things for the sale. And I’ll only live a few miles away…
Maybe it’s best I didn’t have a chance to walk around saying too many good-byes alone, probably working myself into full blubbering. Maybe, just like with The Tank, you’re really helping me, and to tell the truth, after all the praying I’ve been doing over this, I just know you are.
Jesus, I need to move through this. Lordy, Lordy, help shore me up. Amen.
By the time the little parade pulled up in front of the house on Vine, Dorothy felt that she had at least caught her breath, although she neither opened her eyes nor lifted her head off the headrest until she heard all the car and truck doors slamming around her, calling her out of her reverie.
Edward Showalter had walked around to Dorothy’s side of the van to open the door for her. Before he knew what hit him, Sheba had bounded through the window and into his arms. “I tell you what, Missy,” he said to her as he set her down, “it’s a darn good thing I’ve been off the hooch as many years as I have, or you’d be nothing but a splatter on the sidewalk!”
“Oh my!” Dorothy said, realizing what Sheba had done. “She’s spent her entire life leaping out The Tank’s window and into my arms. I guess old habits die hard, or so they say.”
“Yes, ma’am. I guess they do.” The truth of those words didn’t escape them, and it hung heavily in the air for a moment, especially in light of the current situation.
“Welcome to your new home, Dorothy,” he finally said as he opened the creaky van door for her. “May I escort you? Now, if you were my bride, I’d be carrying you over the threshold!” Although Edward Showalter was doing what he could to try to lighten the moment, Dorothy didn’t seem to catch his humor. She in fact still looked somewhat glazed over as she stared at the front porch, toward which they were now walking elbow in elbow.
“What in the world?” Dorothy stood stunned as she looked at the beautifully painted mailbox now mounted where the old rusty one had been. Delicate multicolored blossoms, some painted on swaying stems, covered the entire box. Every color of the rainbow was represented, and it was just about the happiest “bouquet” one could imagine! A grapevine wreath was mounted in a large circle around the mailbox, as though it had been framed, and Dorothy’s house numbers were hand-painted between the wreath and the box. “Who in the world…”
“You mean, you didn’t know about this?” Edward Showalter asked. �
�Why, that woman worked for hours…” Suddenly he stopped talking, realizing he was about to give away what had obviously, unbeknownst to him, been done in secret.
From around her neck, Dorothy removed the old skeleton key, which Katie never had detached from Aunt Tess’s original lace. Although Katie had apologized for the odd, makeshift key chain when she presented it to Dorothy at the closing, Dorothy couldn’t imagine letting go of the fingerprints of the one who had passed through this door before her. Katie even offered to have Edward Showalter install new door hardware with a dead bolt, but Dorothy had fervently declined. “There’s something about the feel of a skeleton key that assures me the past really did happen,” she said. When Edward Showalter had handed the key to Dorothy, having had it in his possession for all the painting and such, he had joked about how the lace didn’t match his camouflage and therefore he couldn’t keep it. But to Dorothy it was no joke; the combination of lace and worn key was a poignant mark of Tess’s life.
After Edward Showalter heard the lock click, he pushed the door open for Dorothy. Strung across the entire living room was a banner hand-printed on shelf paper. WELCOME HOME DOROTHY! it read. Again, beautiful flowers—obviously painted by the same artist who’d done the mailbox—were painted inside each of the Os.
“If you think this is all something,” Edward Showalter said, “wait until you see the kitchen! And that, Miss Wetstra, was your doing!”
Dorothy rounded the corner into the kitchen and was immediately captured by the fire engine red that blazed across her ceiling. “Don’t blame it on me,” Edward Showalter said. “I tried to warn you!” She stood looking upward for quite a spell, then she backed out of the room into the doorway so she could get a good gander at it in perspective to the room. It was then she noticed the tiny band of flowers that had been hand-painted mid-wall around the kitchen, creating a delicate border. The miniature flower bouquets were about a foot apart, each joined by a hand-painted, fire engine red ribbon, which perfectly matched the color of her ceiling paint. In fact, she was sure it was her kitchen paint.
Dearest Dorothy, Slow Down, You're Wearing Us Out! Page 15