“Cell phones don’t care where you are. With the laptop you’ll find in the trunk of that car, I was connected with you and the college.”
“The college? Classes aren’t over. It’s not the end of summer session. Did you quit?” It didn’t seem that illogical that he’d quit a career spanning three decades since he was driving a hot convertible and living with an underage floozy.
“They let me go.”
“The chancellor fired you? The best music professor in the entire University of California system?”
“Might just as well have. Retirement. There, I said it.”
I felt the air slide from my lungs. We both knew it would happen sometime, but my grandfather always looked and felt young, at least that’s what he said and what I wanted to see. “Retirement.” It was the F-word for people who never planned to grow up or slow down. I sounded disgustingly chipper as I said, “This is great. Why, you can create some new music, you can travel, you can have hobbies, you can — ”
“Stop your preaching. Jane, look at me. I’m not some coot who lives in the past, who sits around whittling apples and bananas out of wood or solving the world’s problems with the other coots at a local watering hole. I’m a musician who had a stroke and now finds even walking a pain in the — well, and a royal pain it is. I can’t play because these fingers can’t even manage to find the frets.” He stared at his hands and balled them into fists. “As for traveling, just getting to Vegas last month was all I could do. This kid, who turned out to be the pilot and was barely shaving, asked me if I wanted a wheelchair to get off the stinking airplane. For Pete’s sake, they had me board with the mommies and the babies.”
“Gosh, Gramps, I’m coming with you next time.”
“Jane. The geezers board first.”
“Ah, do you want to tell me what you’ve done here in Las Vegas?” I asked, and it was a roundabout way to learn if he was doing the horizontal snuggly-buggly with the underage hoochie-coochie strip club dancer.
“Nothing.”
“You sure?” Okay, I really didn’t ask that because I really didn’t want to know. I just nodded.
He loosened the leather and silver braided bolo tie from his neck, slipping it out of a clasp that looked like the great state of Texas. Unbuttoning the shirt’s top buttons, he rubbed his throat and said, “Sitting in a hotel room overlooking the Strip, watching the fireworks go off at Treasure Island, that hotel with the pirate theme, ordering room service and watching Nick at Nite, reruns of Andy Griffith and old movies. That’s what I’ve been doing. Most of the time, I was having my own, what do you call it, pity party, like you did after Colin’s death.”
I moved the ten feet to the kitchen and grabbed bottles of water. “But you’re here now. We’re a pair when it comes to pity parties.” I pretended to wipe something off the stove, squeezing my eyes shut. But bringing up Colin’s name made an image flash into my mind. For the millionth time I could see me in the stands as Colin’s F-15 explode into a fireball right over the airfield. The air show crowd gasped. I remembered falling forward into the crowd with my chin hitting the bleacher in front and then everything in my world went black. Now each day as I brushed my teeth or dried my hair, I saw the scar on my chin from my fall. It was a constant, daily reminder, if I needed one. Pilot error, the final report had said. Not enough left to bury him.
I blinked back tears. “Remember you dragged me back home? I recall you stormed my quarters on the air force base and snapped Ben & Jerry from my quaking fingers. You growled, ‘Get that caboose of yours off the sofa and put on some clothes, girly. You’re coming home.’”
Gramps laughed. It was hollow with a raspy cough, too, but it was a start.
“Yes, and then you stopped at Denny’s, forced me to eat something other than ice cream, and took me to a jam session with Slam Dunk. As I remember it, soda spewed from your nose when I tried to play some of your music.”
He laughed a bit more, less shallow.
“Was it root beer or Pepsi?” I asked.
“You were so pathetic.”
“Yeah, runs in the family. Look at you. Let’s get you an omelet or a peanut butter sandwich. Then you can tell me your plans.” And for a second I regretted that word “plans,” because a seventy-year-old midnight cowboy driving a brand-new scarlet-colored Mustang might not have the wherewithal to formulate good plans. There was also the matter of the lady with the pasties on her feminine places. She was hanging in the air, at least in the air I was breathing.
“Jane, girl. There’s more.” By that time, he’d finished the makeshift midnight meal. “The crisis is more than just this failing body, this bundle of bones. God’s let me down. I’m not a Christian anymore. Maybe it’s me who has let Him down, don’t know the answer on that.”
“Um, oh.” You’ve probably made notes right now that if you ever need counseling, I’ll be the last to be asked. I don’t blame you. I wasn’t too keen on myself at that second. But you have to understand that this was the man who had taken me to church and introduced me to the congregation three days after I was born. This was the man who had given me away when I married, been there just five months later when the jet exploded, and Gramps arranged Collin’s funeral. He had cheered me on when the District Council of my denomination granted my pastoral papers and held my hand when the same District Council threatened to withdraw them.
Jumping from one sure-thing conclusion to the next, exceeding the legal limit, what would I have said to any other man or woman if I heard this? I racked my overly educated counselor’s brain and came up with zilch. When the loss of faith comes straight from the mouth of the man you’ve idolized for your entire life, the earth opens and swallows your most patented advice. Big help I was. I stood there mute.
“I’m a slave to this body. And before you start quoting scripture with all the verses and lines and all that other stuff, which you’re good at, it’s not like Job and the thorn in his side. There are no earthly reasons why I should continue to live as I have.”
Standing at the sink, hot water spewing, I couldn’t seem to get my mind to order my fingers to twist the knobs to shut off the flow. When I did find my voice, my hands matched the color of the car in my driveway. “Have you talked with Him?” I picked up the sponge. I scrubbed and scrubbed the plate in my hands, long after the gooey remains of cheese and egg came off. I poured out the last cold cup from the coffeemaker and drank it in one deep swallow. I wiped up imaginary spills on the counter, and I was about to organize the refrigerator and take out the trash, after mopping the floor, when finally Gramps spoke again.
“I’ve yelled a lot.”
“You look pretty calm now.” I slammed the refrigerator once I’d placed the maraschino cherries in heavy syrup next to the mayonnaise and close to the Tabasco sauce. I’d alphabetized everything while I was waiting.
“As I was hiding, I realized I was a wretched waste of humanity, actually. You don’t need to blink — I saw that — I didn’t do anything you’d find disgraceful for a man of my age. Now I think I’ve worked out a solution, of sorts.”
“Men your age still do a lot,” I interrupted because I didn’t want to putter down the pathway of anything remotely connected with Gramps’ young chick, but a gal’s got to be tough. “I still don’t get it.” For the tenth time I washed out the coffee pot that didn’t need another rinse.
Gramps stifled a yawn. “Hey, stop grumbling. You’re not boring me, but I’m fading fast.”
“Cut to the chase, Gramps.”
“It’s dancing.”
“You’re going to become a professional dancer, you who refused to dance at my wedding because you have feet of clay or something like that? Positive thinking is groovy, but dancing isn’t something you jump into, especially competition dance like those shows on TV. Um, how will this help you?”
“Honey, how can someone with your over-educated brain be so lacking in common sense? I’m old and disgusting, but I’ve got an ace up my sleeve, and you’
re going to help me. We’re going dancing.”
“You’ve seen me dance, Gramps, and it’s almost as disgusting as my playing the rock music you and Slam Dunk perform. Besides, I inherited your left feet.”
“How often, Janey, do you miss this point?”
“It’s two in the morning. How’s that for a reason? If you want to go out dancing tonight, you’ve got the wrong granddaughter, even if I am your only granddaughter. Besides you’ve got more explaining to do, especially the part about the little lady who has been making you happy. Wait. Where are you going?”
“Let’s settle this tomorrow. This is a wagering town, and my best bet is that the guest room is straight down the hall, and knowing you, Jane, there will be fresh sheets on the bed, a bathrobe in the closet, and plenty of toiletries in the bathroom, still in flowered wrappers. If you want to talk more, you’re about to have the bathroom door closed in your pretty little face. The rest can wait until tomorrow, and you can come down a bit off your high preachin’ horse.” He turned and muttered in a loud voice, “Have you always been this bossy? I’d forgotten.”
I was sputtering as he limped out of sight. I really and truly wanted a strong cup of coffee, but at two A.M., that’s madness, although I’ve been nuts before. What I did was to take deep cleansings breaths of the coffee beans, flicked off the light and headed to bed.
I crawled between the sheets, pulled them to my neck and tried to focus on happy thoughts. Where was my happy place? The sandman and I wrestled. Like clockwork, I checked the clock at regular intervals from two to six, when the alarm turned on the radio to those ghastly chipper voices of early morning talk show hosts, announcing another hot, but dry “reallllly fabulous day in Vegas, baby.” I slapped the thing to the floor. It bounced, and the sound hurt my head. In my quest to get to my happy place, I’d neglected to shut my blinds before those four hours of tossing and turning not to be thought of as sleep, and now the sizzle had begun to heat the room. It was going to be a scorcher, for sure.
Then from the living room, I heard elevator music. I don’t even have an elevator. It was from West Side Story. The normal Gramps, before he became a rootin’-tootin’ cowboy, would have listened to the Rolling Stones, rap, or hip-hop. This was bad, I thought, as I pulled myself up to sit on the edge of the bed. Now some preachers get on their knees, and trust me, I’ve got the calluses to prove I do this, but right then God and I needed to look at each other. “I know you never give us more than we can handle, but Lord, I am just not that good. If you want my help, give me a clue.” I shrugged into my robe, dove under the bed for my scuffs and headed to the living room as I mumbled, “Help me because I may just do something I regret.”
Miracles were real. “Thank you, Jesus,” I yelled and waved my hands above my head just like an old-fashion revival meeting.
He was gone. As anyone who knows me will gladly tell you, I have a fertile imagination, so I could nearly believe that he’d left or been Raptured, but the crispy bacon calling my name from the stove told the truth and nothing but it. Plus the table was set for two. At one place were chocolate chip waffles and tall OJ. The coffee smelled strong; the mug was steaming. The newspaper was folded to the comics.
What’s a girl to do? I dove in to the feast. If I was wrong and I had been Raptured, I was thrilled to see that the food was yummo.
As I pierced the last forkful, using it to wipe up a puddle of Log Cabin syrup, Gramps limped through the front door with a plastic grocery sack in his hands.
“So, they were edible?”
“I should have waited.” My mind raced to the “situation,” as I’d named this catastrophe sometime between 3:15 A.M. and 4:30 A.M.
“No way, Janey girl. I figured coffee would get you up. I’m not sleeping well and been up for hours.” He poured a mug of coffee, took the carton from the bag, and added enough milk to make this java junkie cringe. “Before you start haranguing an old handicapped geezer about how I don’t need milk in coffee because it just takes away the real coffee taste and blah blah blah, you’ll want to know the church secretary, Vera, has been calling you every fifteen minutes since the crack of early.” He lifted the coffee mug and said, na zdrowie, which as everyone of Polish descent knows is the right toast for any drink.
“Forget the ‘to your health.’ I want to know why you didn’t holler for me when I got the calls.”
“I’ve been around a few churches and found that the preachers need their sleep as much as their flock needs to talk with them. Besides, she said it wasn’t that urgent. Isn’t Desert Hills like the rest of them, and if someone stubs their toe they’re popped on the prayer chain, or is it more a gossip mill?”
I wasn’t going to fuss, although the stubbed toe crack clipped a nick too close to the quick. The prayer chain at Desert Hills did spread the word about illnesses, deaths, and various folks entering rehab. That said, I sometimes thought people didn’t pray, but preyed off the info. I’d noticed whispering during the hospitality time and how people quieted when I walked by. Hey, maybe they had me on the prayer chain for God only knew what. A bad hair day? I chalked it up to an ugly part of human nature, and that some folks are uglier than others.
I dialed the church’s number and reached Vera. She cracked a “Good morning, honey,” and then said, “First off, the District Council is visiting next Friday and requested an appointment with you, but that’s not why I’ve been calling. Pastor Bob says he has a surprise for you and the youth group.” I could tell by the tone that her eyes were rolling and her head was making circles. Vera had been the secretary for Desert Hills Community Church for decades, seen other preachers come and go, and little except Pastor Bob’s “surprises” fazed her.
There was more to Vera than met the eye, which was plenty considering she looked about as much like a church secretary as sixty-ish Sarah Jessica Parker if she stumbled into Desert Hills, forgot any fashion sense, and plunked her keister behind a computer. The only secretary-like item was cat’s eye glasses that perched on her nose. She smelled as if she were marinated in Smuckers jam, which wasn’t appealing when mixed with the essence of Marlboro on her breath.
“Any idea what it is?” Did I need a surprise with my beloved grandfather on the lam from God, taken up with an adolescent deviant, and the District Council waiting to slip my neck through a noose? Not.
“You’re not going to like it, Pastor Jane. But heck, it’s a crapshoot around here. Might be something you can add on to what you’re already doing. Hold on, Jane.”
I could hear her cooing to someone standing in her office about, “You are so sweet,” and then she was on the line with, “Put on your big girl panties and make up your own mind. I gave up mind reading years ago when I quit traveling with the circus.”
The line went dead and my appetite with it, which says a lot. Pastor Bob Normal, whom I had begun to secretly and in various muttering times call Ab, apparently was taking over my life in ways that are abnormally annoying even for him.
It took me twenty-five minutes flat to jump into tan slacks and a blazing pink cotton T from the last Victoria’s Secret sale and drive to church, just two miles north of the condo. I like to think I’m hip but I’m unhip about mega churches. Give me a steeple and a cross? I’m good. That said, when I drove up to Desert Hills a few weeks ago, I thought I’d stumbled into the Silicon Valley. The building humongous, all windows and sand-colored brick, stretching greenbelts and a flagpole plunked in the middle of it all. The cross? Good question. I asked, too. There isn’t one outside, and that, I was told, goes along with the new trend to make the worship center more available to all people. Call me old-fashioned — wait, don’t you dare. Yet, it’s been my thinking that a church isn’t a church without looking like a church. Since I didn’t get a vote — and since I was only filling in for the youth pastor, I probably would never get one — on this issue I kept my lips sealed. I know that’s a shock.
Faced with a crisis at home and one at church, I gingerly parked my scuffed SUV in th
e “staff” zone and slapped the sunscreen over the dashboard so that later, when I left for the day, I wouldn’t scorch my bountiful backside, and straightened my spine. Like a courteous little soldier, I marched up the marble walk to face my fate. I had barely plastered on a tooth-brightener smile when the pastor met me as I whooshed through the automatic doors into the Foyer of Heavenly Conditioned Air.
“’Bout time you’re here. Memo’s on your desk. Questions? Vera’s got it,” said the senior minister, all this with the palm of his hand facing my face.
There was this thing about him that brought out a feeling of grease in me, like the kind that forms on the top of simmering spaghetti sauce when you use cheap hamburger.
He cocked his Elvis-impersonator head. “Yes?”
I was grateful the man wasn’t psychic, but I refused to talk to the hand so I waited until he dropped it. “Good morning, Pastor. How are you today? Questions about what?”
“Board decided. Youth group. You. VBS. Great opportunity.”
“Excuse me?” I shivered. “Repeat that, please.”
“No can do. Off to a fundraiser breakfast. Think again, Pastor Jane, if you have any notions that this place — ” He waved a hand around the cavern of the foyer and then swept it toward the marble floor. “ — Well, if you think for one second the church is financed by prayer. Money talks, not just here, but everywhere. Vegas is no different. Never kid yourself about that.”
Taking yet another cleansing breath, I touched the sleeve of his blue silk suit jacket. “Vacation Bible School starts Monday. And where did you leave that reality check? Today is Friday. You’re saying that my youth group will handle it?”
“What don’t you get, Pastor Jane?” It came out in a huff as he smoothed the sideburns that went out in the seventies.
Killing Casanova Page 17