Randy seemed relieved that the topic steered around to health issues. “That’s great. Has he been eating more vegetables and walking more often like I suggested?”
“Yes, but it hasn’t been easy. He loves his salty snacks and he sits at his desk most of the day.”
“If he doesn’t make some lifestyle changes, he’s going to need medication to keep things under control.”
“I know. I’ll keep after him.” Lorraine was glad that the conversation was flowing again.
When she finished her meal, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with the napkin, and then lifted her coffee cup and said, “You’ve made this a very special birthday for me, Randy. Thank you so much.”
“You deserve the best,” he said, setting his fork down next to his plate. Then he covered his mouth with his napkin and coughed again.
“Are you catching a cold?”
He shook his head. “No, I’ll be all right. It’s just a little tickle.”
“Oh,” she said, wondering why he was acting so peculiar tonight. Randy usually didn’t behave in such an awkward manner. He was quiet, yes, but he was also dignified and articulate when he did speak, especially when dealing with patients and medical personnel. That’s what puzzled her tonight. His mannerisms and dialogue were both halting and stifled.
She glanced out the window as the last rays of daylight with their long, slow shifts of color cast amber glints on their table. The waiter returned and warmed their coffees. Lorraine took a sip, her eyes smiling above the rim at Randy, before she set the cup back down. He looked handsomer than usual this evening in the dimmed light, as the sun dipped below the horizon on the sparkling lake. He even seemed more peaceful now that the meal was over.
As Lorraine silently assessed Randy’s behavior, he reached across the table and took her hands in both of his own, and then stroked the tops of them with his thumbs. The pads of his fingertips felt smooth against her palms. His eyes met hers for a moment then he looked down at her hands again and gave them a gentle squeeze. He looked up again and cleared his throat, and said, “Lorraine, I wanted to make this night special for you, because you are so special to me.” He took a deep breath and then he continued. “You’re beautiful, intelligent, sweet, and you have a great sense of humor. When I first met you, I never dreamed that I would be sitting here with you like this.”
Lorraine’s heart beat aflutter and she held her breath when she realized with sudden anticipation, the possible reason for his anxious behavior and what may be coming next.
“In the beginning, I was genuinely concerned for you as a patient when you lost the baby. As time went on, it became more of an admiration for you when you became so adept in your profession. But somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you. You make me happy, Lorraine, and I don’t ever want to lose you.” Randy released her hands and reached inside his jacket pocket. He slowly pulled out a velvet box and opened it in her direction. “Will you marry me?”
Lorraine’s hand flew to her heart and she drew in a sharp breath when she saw the sparkling diamond. “Oh, my! Oh, Randy! It’s beautiful!” She immediately reached across the table to hold the ring and knocked her water glass over in the process. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said as she grabbed a napkin and quickly dabbed the spot on the table. “I’m sorry, Randy. I just didn’t expect to hear this from you tonight. The ring is so beautiful and I am honored that you asked, but I can’t accept your proposal right now. My divorce isn’t even final yet.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he said with newfound confidence.” As long as you have no children to consider, and you have no major assets to divide, you’re legally free in this state to be engaged before your divorce is final.”
She was stunned by the speed in which he responded. “Are you sure? How do you know?”
Randy nodded his head and aimed his eyes at Tony Caperio. Lorraine followed his directive and then asked, “You’ve already talked to Mr. Caperio about this?”
“Yes, I see him here all the time.”
FIVE
Dylan couldn't find two socks that matched and most of his clothes needed laundering. He found a pair of pants and a shirt that didn’t look too bad, so he shook them out and put them on. He patted Misty good-bye on the way out the door and hurried down the road to the church.
Today was finally payday. He thought of how he would spend his money as he swept the foyer hall. He could finally do all the things he’d been putting off for so long. He’d mail out a money order for part of his taxes and pay his electric bill. He would treat himself to a thick juicy steak all smothered in mushrooms and onions. He'd need potatoes and things for a salad and maybe some soft rolls with butter, and cat food, can't forget the cat food. He made his mental grocery list, and it made the time go faster.
Pastor Jacobson met Dylan at the end of the day and handed him his paycheck. “I'm very pleased with your work, Dylan. You really are ‘a hard worker and a fast learner,’ and I’m glad that you’re here.”
“Thank you, Pastor. I’m glad to be here too.” He folded the check and slid it into his back pocket before leaving the building.
Dylan crossed the street and stopped at the grocery store. It was five o’clock and the line to the counter stretched in-and-out like children lined up for a game of crack-the-whip. When it was finally his turn, he stepped forward and placed his check on the counter.
“I'll need to see your driver’s license,” the woman said.
“I don't have one.”
“I'm sorry, sir. No ID, no cash. Fill out this application, bring it back with proof of identification, and we'll send you a check-cashing card in two weeks.”
“But I need it cashed now. Can’t you call the manager or something?” The muscles along Dylan's jaw began to tighten.
“I'm sorry, sir, company policy.” The clerk flashed a generic smile and motioned to the next customer to step forward.
When Dylan turned around to leave, he bumped into the man behind him and muttered a gruff apology. The bank was five blocks away in the opposite direction from his house, and they'd probably give him the same runaround too, but he stomped off anyway. If people could see how he felt inside, black bolts would be popping from his neck any second. His anger helped him make good time as he pounded out his frustration, for he was halfway down the very next block when he spotted Sam's Suds 'n Spuds. Suddenly, a brainstorm thundered down and brought his Franken-self to life. He took a step back and looked in the window as the gears in his brain began to turn. I bet Sam will cash my check.
The smell of beer and deep-fried food hit Dylan at the door. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the daylight outside, to the darkness inside the dimly lit bar. The jukebox played a twangy country song, while a young couple attempted to line-dance without the rest of the line. Dylan trudged across the room, scraped a stool across the floor then plunked his rump down on it.
Across the bar neon lights in cursive letters advertised brands of beer, while rows of bottles topped with silver spouts reflected off the mirrored wall. A portly bartender wiped a cloth over the counter, weaving it in and out, between bowls of pretzels and salty peanuts while making his way toward Dylan. “What can I do fer ya?” he asked, still wiping.
“I'd like to speak to Sam.” Dylan said, as he lit a cigarette.
“You're a speakin’ to him.”
“Can you cash a paycheck for me?” Dylan pulled the check from his back pocket for Sam to inspect.
Sam left the cloth on the counter and took the check. “Aren't you a bit out of your turf?” he said with a chuckle. “This is from the Green Valley Church.”
“I know where it's from. I just work there. Can you cash it for me or not?”
“Sure can,” Sam said, as he walked to the register, punched a key then pulled out a stack of twenties and change. He placed the money in front of Dylan and said, “You can count it if you please, but she's all there.”
Dylan stared at the pile of money.
“So what'll ya have?”
Dylan looked up. He didn’t intend to stay, but the food smelled good and he was hungry. He needed to unwind anyway. He’d worked hard all week and deserved a break, so he promised himself that he'd only have one. “Gimme a beer.”
Sam opened the bottle and poured the beer into a glass. Together they watched the golden liquid bubble and foam before them. “A perfect head,” Sam proudly announced. “I wish mine was.” He pushed back the hair on his forehead to expose a long scar. “Yeeeap...a few years back, I got hit by some young whippersnapper. Took to drinking like he was dying of thirst, then took to cussing at folks at my fine establishment here, so I shut him off. He wun’t too happy about that, so he picked up a bottle and bashed me in the skull. Bled like a butchered hog, I did. Took the doctor se'mteen stitches to sew me up.”
Dylan half-heartedly listened to Sam's tale of woe while trying to keep his eyes from rolling. He didn't really want to hear about the old guy's problems. He had enough of his own. He flicked the ash from his cigarette and scanned the menu again, hoping that Sam would get the drift that he wasn’t interested in listening.
Sam pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and trumpeted like an elephant when he blew into it. Another customer called to him, so he walked away to refill the man’s glass.
The smell of deep fried food wafted from the kitchen. Dylan looked at the Spud Menu: Deep-fried potato skins, French fries, curly fries, and home fries. Then there were foods to accompany the fried spuds: Hamburgers, cheeseburgers and deep fried fish. Sam obviously wasn’t concerned about his cholesterol level or that of his customers either. When he passed by again, Dylan ordered a cheeseburger and a plate of curly fries.
When the order arrived, Dylan poured catsup across the pile of fries and checked under the bun of his burger. No one ever put enough catsup on for him, so he added a little bit more.
“Hey, Sam, I need another beer!”
* * *
Oblivious to how he got home last night, Dylan reeked of stale beer, rancid grease and cigarette smoke. He grabbed his pants and checked the pockets then threw them back on the chair. A third of his paycheck was gone! What a sorry beginning to his new start in life. He’d never be able to cover the bills now. The tax payment couldn't wait, but the electric company might give him more time. He’d have to call them later.
He pulled a tray of ice cubes from the freezer and smacked it on the counter then filled a glass with ice and water. He chugged it all down as Misty brushed against his leg before padding off to a nearby chair.
Dylan rubbed the stubble on his chin then walked into the bathroom and dry shaved. He always used a disposable razor rather than an electric one, which reminded him of a swarm of hornets buzzing across his face. He stepped into the shower and washed as well as he could with the sliver of soap in the tray.
After drying off, he put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, thinking of how much weight he'd lost. But his shoulders were still broad and strong and his stomach flat and firm. He gave his belly a friendly slap then flexed his biceps while turning to study himself in the mirror. He was actually glad he'd lost some weight. He was getting a bit of a paunch with all of Lorraine's cooking and baking in the past. If she wasn't mixing up something from the apples out back, it was a batch of sugar cookies or a blueberry pie. He wasn't complaining that’s for sure. Everything she made was great. Trouble was that he ate most of it himself, then guzzled milk like a newborn calf to wash it all down. He combed his hair away from his face and glanced one last time in the mirror before walking out the door.
The line at the front desk of the supermarket wasn't as long today. Dylan knew that making the remaining money stretch would be about as productive as wringing out a dry sponge. He approached the woman behind the counter and requested a money order to mail out his tax payment, then said, “I also need a stamp.”
Dylan stopped by the church to use the phone to make the necessary arrangements with the electric company to pay the bill later. No one was inside the office when he arrived, but since he’d been entrusted with the care of the sanctuary and given some liberty within the building, he used the phone on Pastor Jacobson’s desk.
He listened to the pre-recorded message, press one for this, two for that, three or four for something more, but it frustrated him, so he bypassed the whole business and hit the “O” button to take him directly to a live person. When one finally answered, he said, “This is Dylan Clark. I'm calling about my disconnection notice. I’ve been out of town for awhile, and the person renting my home during that time, left me with three months worth of bills. Can you please give me an extension on my shut off date? I will pay you next Friday.”
“What is your address, Mr. Clark?”
“2170 Bard Road , Fredonia, New York.”
“One moment please while I pull up your account.” There was a long pause and when the woman returned, she said, “Mr. Clark, it seems that you’ve already been given an extension on the payment for this address. Someone called on the 12th of June. I'm sorry, but unless we receive the full amount of $83.08 by five o'clock Wednesday, your service will be terminated.”
Dylan thanked the woman and hung up the phone then grumbled, “It might as well be $803.” He stomped out of the church and back to the store, then jerked a shopping cart from the corral and steered his way down the aisle. Forced to wait on his fancy steak dinner, he picked up a pound of hamburger instead. That, along with a jar of spaghetti sauce and a box of pasta, would suffice for a meal or two. He tossed a few more items into the cart, before reaching the final stretch where he ordered a pack of cigarettes. He handed the cashier the last of his money, and she handed him back two dollars.
Once outside, he began his walk home to his lonely existence. He was an empty man living in an empty cracker box who didn’t belong to anyone who cared. Maybe he didn’t belong here at all. How he ached for the soft light in the window that once guided him home every night. How he ached for the hot meals on cold days that Lorraine had prepared for him each evening. How he ached for the woman he loved and adored, who had left with a piece of his heart. All because within a few short months of their wedding day, he’d come to the idiotic assumption that life at the bar with his buddies was more exciting than spending time with his wife. Anything for kicks back then. A good time Charlie that was him.
Looking back, he realized now how foolish he’d been to choose his pretend friends and pointless parties over the woman that he loved. She must have been so sad there all alone each evening, especially toward the end. But now it was payback time and he was the one alone, living in anguish, full of regret and empty of love. Lorraine’s mere presence in their home made him feel like he belonged, and that he was needed, and that he mattered to someone. Just having her there was enough, but he didn’t realize it then.
SIX
Dylan finished plastering a crack in the library wall when Pastor Jacobson walked in carrying a gallon of paint. “Thanks, Pastor,” he said, stepping off the ladder and wiping his hands on a cloth.
“You’re doing a great job in here, Dylan.” The minister said while looking up and around at the walls. “I like what you’ve done with that old cabinet out back too. My wife wants to put it in our dining room now. She says it looks like something from Andrew’s Antiques.”
“Thank you,” Dylan said, bowing his head. Other than his mother praising him as a young boy, he’d never heard such a nice compliment about his work.
“Where did you learn to build and carve so well?”
Dylan hesitated. He really didn’t want to say, but answered anyway. “My father had a little shop in back of our house. He took custom orders for bookcases, china cabinets, headboards, you name it, and he built it. I used to watch him for hours when I was growing up. He was a real master craftsman.” Dylan’s voice trailed off, as he shook his head once in disbelief. “As I grew older, his drinking grew worse. I’d find him slumped in a chair with his chin on his chest, a bottle in his hand, and a job
half-done on the floor. I’d finish his project while he slept, and when he woke up, he never knew the difference. I guess he thought little elves came in during the night and cobbled his shoes, or in his case, carved his cabinets.”
“Did you say he was a master craftsman?”
“Yes, he’s dead now.” Dylan tossed the cloth on the table.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Dylan turned away and picked up a stack of books from a shelf. “I’m going to pull these cases out so I can paint behind them.”
Pastor Jacobson walked over and helped clear another table. “Your father has passed down a wonderful gift to you. I’m afraid that you won’t be here long, once the word gets out. You’re not only a master craftsman yourself, but you have a talent to be a craftsman for the Master. I pray that you’ll become one someday.”
Dylan felt a peculiar sensation inside of his chest. He imagined it was the same feeling Misty experienced while curled up on his lap, where she felt safe, accepted, and appreciated.
“Did you know that Jesus was a carpenter?”
“Yes, I know.” Dylan pulled more books from the shelves and stacked them on the tables.
“He specializes in things that are broken.” Pastor Jacobson looked at Dylan again. The minister had the most compassionate eyes that he had ever seen. They were like those doe-eyed pictures of puppy dogs and wounded children that could make your heart go soft and sad. It almost seemed that the minister himself was wounded in some distant past. Yet, he exuded a sweetness of some sort, like a wild violet pressed under a shoe, where the injured flower can’t help but give off its fragrance once it’s been crushed, because of the essence it possesses.
Dylan didn’t say anymore, not that he didn’t want to talk; he just didn’t know what to say to the man. He didn’t have the tools to chisel through the protective wall that he had built around his heart. He also felt that if he contributed too much to the conversation, it would spark a sermon on something like repentance or forgiveness, and he couldn’t deal with that right now.
The Missing Piece (Inspirational Love Story) Page 5