by Sharon Short
“Guy is going to be fine,” I said. My voice sounded a little shakier than I wanted it to. Damn it. Guy would be fine. “But thanks for going to the trouble to check. You didn’t have to do that.”
I picked up Home Town Cooking again. Maybe I’d find a zesty variation on sloppy joes.
“I’d like to pray with you, anyway, Josie,” Dru said, “about the state of Guy’s soul, just in case he is at death’s door. Has he been saved?”
I looked back at Dru, incredulous. He really meant what he said. His concern was genuine even if, in my opinion, misguided. And ill timed.
“Pastor Purcell, I appreciate your concern. But not only does Guy have a while to go before he traipses through heaven’s pearly gates, Guy wouldn’t understand the concepts you’re talking about. I think God knows that.”
“But have you talked with him about it? If he would just say the words—”
This was getting wearisome. “Words aren’t the way to God’s favor,” I snapped.
The set of Dru’s face didn’t change, yet his expression shifted dramatically, instantly, to an icy coldness. I shivered and thought of my aunt’s expression . . . of her saying it, of Ginny writing it on the handkerchief that was still in my pocket. I squirmed uncomfortably. What kind of demons was old Dru wrestling with? What would he do if I whipped that handkerchief out and waved it at him?
“I had hoped and prayed, Josie, that you weren’t as mule-headed as your Aunt Clara, that you’d see this time of trial as a message from God that you need to get both your heart and Guy’s in the right place for the hereafter”—Dru’s voice started quivering, rising dramatically—“that I could help you turn your heart to righteousness and away from evil—”
“Since when is being a coffee-hour and carry-in-supper-loving Methodist . . . evil?” I was proud of myself. I managed to suppress both laughter and eye rolling as I spoke.
Dru narrowed his eyes. “There are some Methodists who are fine with the Lord,” he conceded.
Wow, I thought, I’d make an announcement at Sunday’s services. Everyone would be so relieved.
“But you . . .” Dru’s voice dropped dramatically. “You insist on consorting with those psychic demon worshippers—”
I held my hands up. “Please! One of those psychics is a Presbyterian, for pity’s sake. Several of them are Wiccan, but that’s not the same as demon worship. In fact it’s as opposite to demon worship as Christianity or Judaism. I’ve researched it, you see, and—”
“You’ve been reading their texts, their lies?”
I put my head in my hands. “I give up.”
A second later, I felt Dru’s sweaty grasp on my arm. “That’s wonderful Josie! You give up believing as they do! You’ll pray with me then . . .”
I jerked my arm from his grasp and glared at him. “No! I give up trying to have a reasonable discussion with you! What did you think? That I’d be in such an emotionally weakened state because of Guy that you could come up here and blither at me about our lost souls until I’d see things your way and condemn the psychics that are visiting our town for one tiny weekend?”
He returned my gaze.
“Wow,” I breathed softly. “That is what you thought. And that if that happened, I’d drop this whole thing about seeing you and Ginny . . .”
He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “You didn’t see me and that Ginny Proffitt. Now, I’ll admit, it is possible that one of those people might have bewitched you to think you saw us together, but—”
I groaned. “Pastor Purcell,” I said, “go away.”
He stood up. I reopened the Home Town Cooking magazine. Onward to a new and improved sloppy joe, a gourmet sloppy joe . . .
But Dru Purcell wasn’t quite through with me.
“You know, it’s really a shame your Aunt Clara left my church,” Dru said. “Perhaps if she’d stayed, you’d be on the path of righteousness now instead of defending these lost souls. And possibly losing yours in the process.”
I looked at him. He was smiling at me, smug, triumphant.
Why had she left his church? I’d never known. I just knew she’d never quite been the same after that, even though she’d seemed more relaxed at the Methodist church with Uncle Horace and me.
“Why did she leave?” I asked.
“You don’t remember? I’d just started my ministry, taking over from my dad, kicking off my ministry with a tent revival.” His chest puffed up proudly as he said it. “Your Aunt Clara came, and I asked her to let me pray with her about Guy.”
Nothing odd about that, I thought. Aunt Clara prayed all the time about Guy.
But Dru’s voice started to rise as he went on. “And so I prayed that whatever sins of her family—whatever demons might reside in Guy—be cast out—”
I didn’t hear the rest of what he said. I stared at him in horror. I’d read everything I could find about autism and knew that well before the condition was identified for what it really is—a mental disability—there were descriptions written in the medieval times of both “saints” and the “demon possessed” that, in retrospect, described tics and actions and behavioral oddities that fit autism. But for someone in this age—even twenty years ago—to describe a mental disability as demon possession?
“Get out,” I said.
Dru didn’t hear me. I said it again. He stopped talking and looked at me. “I want you to leave now,” I said, standing up, “or I will call security.”
Slowly, a sad smile, that also hinted of satisfaction, widened Dru’s mouth. “You’re reacting just as your aunt did,” he said, shaking his head. “I never knew that little lady could utter such words.”
Aunt Clara’s saying came to mind again. Had she used it on him? It would surely have been the perfect response. Guy was incapable of having figurative demons. His condition was not a choice or a supernatural punishment or the result of a soul gone wrong. His condition was just . . . his condition.
And Guy could not help his condition or the abilities it denied him.
But Dru had a choice. And he’d chosen to see other people less than generously . . . sometimes as less than human if they didn’t fit his narrow definition of “rightness.” That surely sounded like a spiritual demon to me.
I narrowed my eyes at Dru, approximating the expression my Aunt Clara wore whenever she tossed out her saying. “That there is a devil, there is no doubt . . . but is he trying to get in? Or trying to get out?”
Dru recoiled as if I’d whopped him upside the head.
“Is that what Aunt Clara said to you?”
“I—I don’t remember,” Dru said. With a quivering hand, he ran the handkerchief over his pale, sweating brow again. Then he made an attempt at a laugh. “No, no, I’m sure I’d remember a clever saying like that. And I’ve never heard it before.”
I narrowed my eyes further. Liar, I thought. Just like he’d lied about being with Ginny Proffitt at Serpent Mound. He’d heard that saying before—and it shook him up. It wasn’t a common saying. And if he hadn’t heard it from my aunt, had he heard it from Ginny? After all, she’d written it as a last message to me—in case of her death—on the handkerchief I had in my pocket. Was he shaken because the saying came from Ginny? Because she’d used it as a clue to her death, and he knew that?
I narrowed my eyes some more. “Which is it, Dru? Is he trying to get in? Or out?”
Dru flinched, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Now, Josie, I think you ought to reconsider praying with me—”
“And we think you ought to leave her alone.”
Dru whipped around at the new voice, sing-song high and bubble-gum-popping sassy. Cherry’s, in other words. I grinned. Coming down the hall with Cherry was Sally. An unlikely pair of rescuers, but I was glad for their arrival. I stood.
“Uh—maybe you would like to join hands in prayer?” He eyed Cherry, barely able to maintain his appreciation for how she looked. She wore three-inch-heel red pumps to complement her black leather skirt an
d red and white silk striped blouse, and plenty of the perfume and makeup he liked to preach against.
Cherry snorted and popped her bubble gum. “You wouldn’t have a prayer of joining anything with me if we were the last two people on earth.”
Sally crossed her arms. “She means beat it.”
Dru shook his head and walked away. Quickly, I noticed.
“You know, you all are gonna burn for talking that way to a preacher man,” I said, barely keeping back both a laugh and the prick of tears. If they’d called and asked if I needed them to come, I would have said no. They knew that I’d say that, knew I did need them, hadn’t called, and come anyway.
“Sounds like fun,” Cherry said, waggling her eyebrows.
I laughed after all.
Sally hooked her arm through mine. “Come on. Bet there’s a vending machine in the cafeteria stuffed with Big Fizzes.”
I shook my head. “I need to stay. What if—”
“Guy will still be in testing for another forty-five minutes. We checked at the front desk.”
Cherry hooked her arm through my other arm. “He’ll be okay, sweetie,” she said.
And I cried after all. But that was okay, because I had two friends to lead me to the Big Fizz machine.
10
At Suzy Fu’s Chinese Buffet, Jell-O salad and pizza and lo mein all reside happily on the same buffet line. Crawfish, cashew chicken, and macaroons—like Sally was having? Fine. Egg drop soup, pork lo mein, and carrot-raison salad—as on Cherry’s plate? No problem. Or my choice—a plate piled with nothing but crab Rangoons and sweet-n-sour sauce? Okey-dokey.
Try ordering those combinations at a regular restaurant and see what looks the waiter gives you. But Suzy offered up a happy fusion of Chinese, Midwestern, and pizza. Occasionally, she clucked that, really, the hot and sour soup would be good for your sinuses, but other than that, her view was “to each his or her own.” Ah . . . food free will. The world would be a better place if it applied Suzy Fu’s Chinese Buffet’s food philosophy to more than just food.
I happily ate one crab Rangoon after another, letting the goodness of comfort food and friendship renew my strength.
After we’d had our Big Fizz Diet Colas in the hospital cafeteria, we’d returned to the waiting area. Not long after that, Guy was brought back out of the MRI area. He was surprisingly calm, although he had a panicked look in his eyes. A nurse explained to me that he’d reacted badly to going into the MRI scanner and had been given another sedative. He’d probably be sleeping soon.
We went with him back to emergency. I stayed by Guy in the same small treatment room we’d waited in earlier, while Sally and Cherry waited for me out in the family waiting area, even though I’d told them I had no idea how long we’d be here. They told me to hush up, that of course they’d wait for me. Cherry’d put Lex in charge of her beauty salon, and Sally wasn’t needed at the bar until 5:00 P.M. Sally’s triplets—Harry, Barry, and Larry—were with their grandpa on a weekend fishing trip. Meanwhile, they told me, Winnie sent me hugs and was helping Chip make sure my laundromat customers were well tended, while gathering signatures for the petition we’d started.
An hour passed while I waited by Guy’s side. He stared at me and I sang to him softly until he fell asleep. Dr. Herlihy came in and told me the good news was that the MRI had found nothing wrong. My heart soared at that. But Guy’s symptoms suggested a hypoglycemic reaction, an effect of diabetes, and Dr. Herlihy wanted to give him a blood test on the coming Monday.
My heart fell. Aunt Clara’s sister, Doreen, had had diabetes. Guy was a little overweight and in his midforties. He was just approaching the age where health risks start to go up for anyone. But for him, managing them would be trickier.
Dr. Herlihy assured me that the staff at Stillwater would call him immediately if Guy had any problems, but that probably Guy would sleep most of the afternoon. He wanted Guy to return to Stillwater, and me to go on back home and not worry.
Hah, I thought, but didn’t say it.
Guy was groggy, but cleared to ride back with me to Stillwater. Cherry rode with us—just in case I needed help, she said—and Sally followed. Guy dozed during most of the fifteen-minute ride. We got him settled into his room, where I tucked him in for another nap. Then Cherry and Sally waited for me in the commons room while I talked with Don Richmond, who assured me that he and the rest of the staff would closely watch Guy.
I suggested that maybe I ought to spend the rest of the day and the night at Stillwater, but Don insisted that, no, Guy would be better served if he got back to his regular routine as soon as possible given that he’d have to follow the diet for the blood test the next day. They’d keep him busy and occupied and call me if there were any problems. On Monday morning, I’d come back up to take Guy to the doctor’s office for the blood test. I’d either have to leave the laundromat open and unattended or see if I could hire Chip again.
And then we were done. Don smiled at me kindly, but it was clear he needed to get back to work. Suddenly, I felt exhausted. Guy didn’t need me to be there until the coming Monday morning. The crisis had passed, at least for the time being.
I left Don’s office and went back to the commons area, and found Sally in a checkers game with Emilio.
“How do you keep doing that?” she was asking in amazement.
Emilio guffawed and clapped his hands together. I grinned, feeling a bit of my energy come back. One of the wonders of autism is that people who have it can be developmentally delayed in most every area, and yet possess wondrous gifts in other ways. Emilio was the reigning checkers champion. No one could beat him. And Guy could repeat any music line on a harmonica and drew with almost photographic precision.
“He’s beaten her five times already,” said Cherry. I turned and saw her in a corner giving Dominique French-braided pigtails. Dominique normally wore her hair in a long ponytail.
I gasped. “How did you get her to let you do that?”
“What?” said Cherry, looking confused.
“Braid her hair. Dominique never lets anyone touch her hair,” I responded.
“She’s nice. Pretty. Looks like Lissy,” Dominique said, and patted Cherry on the head.
“Who’s Lissy?” asked Cherry, looking even more confused.
“I have no idea,” I replied.
Emilio was not happy to lose Sally as his checkers partner, but by the time we left, he and Dominique were playing. That is, he was moving the checker for both himself (black) and for her (red), while she stared at the board and happily stroked her braids.
Then out in the parking lot I thanked Sally and Cherry. Sally said, “We’re taking you to Suzy Fu’s,” and I said, “Thanks, but I have to get back to my laundromat,” and Cherry said, “If I can play hooky from my salon, you can miss another hour at the laundromat,” and so I ended up at Suzy Fu’s, eating crab Rangoons to my heart’s content, while filling them in on what was happening with Guy and how Dru Purcell swore he hadn’t been with Ginny at Serpent Mound, even though I’d seen them.
“If you hadn’t distracted everyone on the bus with your hickey,” I said, dipping a crab Rangoon in sweet-n-sour sauce, “someone else might have seen them together and then Dru couldn’t try to convince everyone I just thought I saw them because I’d been bewitched.”
“It’s not my fault I’m so fascinating,” Cherry said, huffing a little.
“Besides, there are plenty of folks who would take Dru’s word over even a busload of psychics,” Sally said. “And over our word, too.”
Too true. I’d already spoken up in support of the LeFevers and the psychics and against Pastor Purcell. Some folks didn’t think a woman ought to be a bar owner, though no one had the nerve to tell Sally that to her face. And Cherry—well. In Paradise’s dictionary, Cherry’s picture was in full color next to “wild woman.” Not that she minded. She played to the reputation.
“But I know they did meet out at Serpent Mound. And he was looking at her all tender,
” I said.
“Woo-hoo! You think Pastor Purcell’s doing the hanky-panky with a witchy woman he just met?” Cherry waggled her eyebrows.
I shook my head. “It wasn’t like that. It was too tender, at least the way he was reacting to her. She looked like she was laughing at him. His look was the kind you can only have after you’ve known and cared about someone a long while.”
“You sure did pick up a lot with just one glance out a bus window,” Sally said.
“Josie is what psychics would call intuitive,” Cherry replied, sounding like an expert.
“Lover boy tell you that—or did he pass along that insider tidbit through some nonverbal exchange?” Now Sally waggled her eyebrows. Cherry frowned primly.
I put a half-eaten crab Rangoon back down on my plate and looked at Cherry. “What?” I demanded.
She tried to look virtuous. Difficult, given the dreamy look that softened her shimmery-blue-lidded eyes and the slow way her tongue traced her fuchsia-glossed lips. “Sally’s just jealous because Max and me were a bit cozy at the Bar-None last night.”
Sally snorted. “Cozy? You and Max were so co-o-ozy that Bubba, Ronny, and Dewlap were taking bets on whether Max and you’d wait to get back to the Red Horse, or just hop on the pool table.”
Cherry virtuously clasped the front of her low-cut, lime-green silk blouse. “Well, I never.”
“Not what I heard. How do you keep your lipstick from smearing with all that smooching?”
“What do you care? You never wear anything more than Chapstick!”
“Puh-lease,” I pled. “Suzy Fu’s going to kick us out of here if you two get much louder. Nice, quiet families are staring.” I eyed the remaining mound of crab Rangoons and mentally bemoaned the “100% no doggy bags, no exceptions!” policy. “Cherry, how did you hook up with Max last night, what with the psychic fair going on?”
“We went to the Bar-None after the psychic fair was over.”