Sweet Caroline

by Rachel Hauck

  She slaps her forehead with her palm. “Oh my gosh, Caroline, I wasn’t—”

  “Right. You’re welcome.” Weaving among the trucks, antique and classic Mopars, I can’t spot her BMW. “Where did you park?”

  She takes the lead. “Over there. Caroline, why are we full asterning? Did you hit an iceberg? See a ninety-foot tidal wave?”

  Pulling her keys from her pocket, she aims her fob. The BMW blips and blinks. Quickly, I slip inside. Elle fires up the engine but doesn’t engage the gas. “Now, what is going on?”

  “J. D. is also dating Lucy McAllister.”

  “Caroline, no, he’s not.”

  “Marley and I heard her through the bathroom door, lamenting about being the other woman tonight.” I collapse against the cool leather seat. “She confessed they’d been together . . . if you know what I mean. Just get me out of here.”

  The blackness of the whole ordeal starts to settle over me.

  “He what? In the midst of wanting to sleep over with you?”

  “Worse, El—he wanted to move in.”

  “Caroline.” My friend’s voice is wispy with sympathy. “You’re kidding.”

  “Don’t I wish.” I recount the evening at the beach, J. D.’s proposition, my nervous hesitancy, but almost-decision to go for it tonight.

  Enter Lucy.

  When I conclude the tale, Elle flops back against her seat. “You are so blessed, Caroline. Look at me. I mean this: God is watching out for you.” Elle shifts into reverse. “Can you imagine finding out about Lucy afterwards?”

  Bile rises in my throat. Then I think about the first night he asked, and how I slept alone . . . the peace I felt. Now I understand. The peace that comes from doing the right thing.

  “Let’s just go, please.” I cover my eyes, fighting a headache.

  But as we pull away, a hand slams against the window. “Caroline, she means nothing.” J. D.’s face looms in front of me.

  Elle starts to gun away, but I hold out my hand. “Just a second,” I say, getting out when she stops the car. Let’s just end this here and now. I face J. D. square on. “Means nothing? Did you tell her that, J. D.? Because she thinks she’s in love with you.”

  He reaches for me, but I snap away from him. “We went out a few times . . . I met her out one night—”

  “Before or after the afternoon we talked, declared ourselves a couple? Before or after you asked to . . .” My teeth clinch. “Sleep over? Move in together?”

  The darkness of the night irritates me. Where’s the moon? The starlight? The only light is the man-made glow of Bo’s party.

  “Babe, I never told Lucy I loved her. I never asked her to move in.”

  “Funny thing here, J. D.—you never told me you loved me either.”

  Bing. Lightbulb overhead. I see clearly now. I almost gave myself to a man exactly like Mama. Selfish and cowardly. “And when were you going to tell me you were sleeping with Lucy? Tonight, when I thought living with you might be worth a try? After you slept with me for the first time?” Nausea slithers up my throat.

  A dozen yards away, Bodean and Marley watch from the picnic area. Elle blares the car radio. The bass vibrates against the glass.

  “Okay, I admit it. I’ve been with Lucy. But it meant nothing. We were just hanging out.”

  I jerk open the BMW’s door. “And you freaked because you imagined seeing Mitch kiss me. See you, J. D.”

  “Caroline, come on, this is ridiculous.” He comes at me like a cornered dog, but Elle hammers the gas before I’m all the way in and peels out of the yard.

  “Easy there, Steve McQueen.” I’m quivering all over.

  The light we’re careening toward switches to red, and she mashes the brake so hard I’m tossed toward the dash. My seat belt engages. “Steve McQueen, please.”

  “Sorry.”

  While we wait at the light, Elle thumps the steering wheel alongside comments like, “What is wrong with him?” or “Caroline, I’m so sorry.” When the light changes, she hits the gas. We’re off.

  The homes and businesses along Ribaut whiz by. “Funny in light of Cherry’s fear about Henry,” I muse aloud. “He would never . . . and here I was completely trusting J. D. who, truth be told, would.”

  “Caroline, I’ll say it again: God is watching over you. What are the odds of you finding out about J. D. on the night you planned to say yes? Women go years without discovering infidelity.”

  “Sad part is Lucy. She’s trapped. God should look out for her too. J. D. probably didn’t think he was hurting either one of us.”

  “How do you do it?” The next light catches us, and Elle brakes again. Gently this time. “Always find the good.”

  “Lots of practice.” Tears ease down my cheeks. I brush them away. “J. D. has a way about him. Makes people feel special.”

  I blow my nose on a napkin Elle passed over.

  My cell rings, and when I fish it out of my handbag, the tiny screen tells me it’s J. D.

  Pressing End, I blink away a rush of tears, toss my phone into my bag, and pray that part of my summer never rings again.

  To: Hazel Palmer

  From: CSweeney

  Subject: The hits just keep on coming

  Hazel,

  I can top your Fernando story. Here’s the mini-sode. Went to Bodean’s birthday party with J. D. He wanted to make our relationship more permanent. He suggested living together.

  Hazel, I was seconds away from saying yes. Then, as if the cosmos needed a good laugh, I found out J. D. has a little cookie on the side.

  Lucy McAllister.

  And unlike with me, he had overnight privileges at her place. When I think about it, I feel ill. Yet, I miss him. He made me laugh and made me feel wanted.

  In other news: I sold the Mustang to pay for Café repairs. Can you believe it? Know what I miss—the memories. That car was a rolling memory machine. We had some laughs in that thing, didn’t we? Remember when Carl Younger and Peter-John Hayes filled the inside with sand? And when Elle hung out the window to flirt with Alex LeBoy and spilled her soda all over her lap just as we were driving up to school, late. Oh, and the time we went camping. LOL. It rained and we lived in the car for three days.

  Now I’m sad. I miss all that broken-down heap stood for. Well, we always have the photo albums of ’96 and ’97.

  “It’s a Blues riff in B, watch me for the changes and try to keep up.”

  Love you, Caroline

  DAILY SPECIAL

  Monday, August 6

  Fried Steak

  Squash Casserole, Baked Tomato

  Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits

  Banana Cream Pie

  Tea, Soda, Coffee

  $8.99

  27

  Waking with a jolt, I sit up, finding the living room dark except for the low glow of the lamp above my head.

  Jones’s worn, marked-up Bible falls from my chest as I move. Struggling to get my bearings, I feel as if I’m caught in a thick cloud of spicy, oily perfume.

  Who’s here? Running the heel of my hand over my eyes, I shove my hair away from my face and reach down for Jones’s Bible. The pages I’d been reading about a man named Moses slip from the binding.

  Holy ground.

  A pain ripples between my shoulder blades from sleeping with my head propped against the couch’s arm. Stretching, I try to stand, but a heady, weighty fragrance settles over me.

  Holy ground. The fragrance intensifies. Someone’s here.

  My pulse races. “Hello?” A quick glance at the door tells me all is secure. The deadbolt is turned, and the chain hangs across the door.

  A swirling sensation engulfs me and the fragrance strengthens. Did I spill something last night?

  No, I’ve never owned anything like this. It’s strong. Pure. Unlike anything I’ve ever breathed, but so familiar. The hair on my arm rises.

  Holy ground.

  Closing my eyes, I slip to my knees, half-afraid to open them and see some angelic apparit
ion standing before me.

  I’m one hundred percent sure I’d soil myself.

  Swallowing hard, catching my breath over a racing heart, I clasp my hands at my chest, unsure of what else to do. My body sways slightly back and forth.

  With each breath, the fragrance intensifies until I almost can’t take it anymore. It burns through my nostrils and into my lungs. An in-describable pure, weighty love wraps around me. I feel unworthy and ashamed, yet desperate for it to remain.

  Finally, I whisper, “Jesus?”

  Without seeing or hearing, I know.

  “Yes.”

  Terror mingles with awe. Think of nothing. Think of nothing. He’s pure and holy. Moses, how did you do it?

  The fragrance drips on me, soaking dry, barren places in my soul. A puff of air hits my forehead and my eyes well up. My torso expands as my chest heaves for air.

  “You are so loved, sweet Caroline. So loved.”

  The declaration washes over me, and a wail escapes from some deep, hidden place. The dam bursts. All these years of giving up my dreams, my plans, for someone else, feeling responsible for the happiness of the whole world—all of it has been about being loved.

  I can’t stop the tears now, even if I wanted. Love and hope consume me. My thoughts awaken, fighting to rescue my right to be hurt and angered. But the heat of the fragrance is burning it all away.

  Falling onto the coffee table, I let everything go. Have it all. My throat burns, and my nose runs, but I don’t care. Jesus—this God-man Mitch, Andy, Elle, and others know—loves me.

  And now I know. If He promises to love me like this, I’ll follow Him to the ends of the earth. Who can compare?

  “I believe.”

  “You are so loved, sweet Caroline.”

  Mercy Bea eyeballs me. “Did you color your hair? Oh.

  My. Gosh. You waxed your brows.”

  Giddy, I shake my head and scoop ice into a mason jar. Dupree wants iced tea this morning instead of coffee. “No, and big fat no on the eyebrows.”

  “Well, something’s different. You look . . . brighter. You lost weight, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, five pounds overnight.” And a hundred pounds of burden.

  Sarcastic exhale. “You’re wearing new makeup?”

  “No, again. Same ole Cover Girl.”

  My wee morning encounter with the Prince of Peace has affected more than my insides, it appears.

  Mercy Bea pops her hands together. “Got it. You’re in love with J. D. Am I right? It’s love. I knew it.” She squeezes my arm. “Just had to give it some time.”

  I grab the basket of Bubba’s Biscuits and Dupree’s tea. “Stop guessing.”

  “Oh my stars, it’s Mitch.” She slaps her thigh. “I knew that country crooner had his hooks in you.”

  Mercy Bea follows me over to the breakfast-club boys. I address her over my shoulder. “Mercy Bea, don’t you have customers?”

  She snaps a clean towel at my rump. “For once, you’re more interesting.”

  Mercy Bea tries a few more times to get a word out of me about being in love with J. D. or Mitch, but I confess nothing. A scent memory teases my nose and almost makes me weepy.

  “Leave it alone, Mercy Bea.” I retreat to the office and lock the door. My emotions are raw and tender, on the surface. Last night’s en-counter is a sacred thing between God and me, and I’m not ready to discuss it yet.

  By midafternoon, rain clouds gather and break over Beaufort, wash-ing away the muggy heat of the day—if only for a moment. Miss Jeanne comes running in for her early supper, shaking the rain from her permed gray hair.

  “Couldn’t run in fast enough from the car, daggum. Got all wet. And I used to run track.”

  She sits at her table by the defunct fireplace. When I bring around her order, she motions for me to sit.

  “I have an idea for you.”

  “All right.” I perch on the edge of the seat. “What’s your idea?”

  “Reminisce Night. Let folks come around and tell their stories. I bet there are a lot of memories to be shared about Beaufort and the Frogmore Café. I’m sure there’s even old pictures floating around. Pick a Sunday or Monday evening, get a microphone, and let people talk. You got your Friday night music, now add this. Mark my words, you won’t be able to seat them all.”

  Miss Jeanne spears a hunk of her pot-roast casserole, a pleased look on her cherubic face.

  “Good idea. I’ll talk to the crew.” We could use business. We need money.

  I gather everyone together and lay out the idea, and Andy, Mercy Bea, and Russell jump on it like flies on cake. Mercy Bea’s been wanting to pick up an extra shift. Paris too.

  There’s a collective “Yeah,” and bobbing of heads.

  “All right. Let’s do it.” I pick a date in September for Reminisce Night, call the paper to place another ad, then phone Mitch.

  “Can I impose on you once more?” I hunt around the desk for my paper clip, hoping I didn’t throw it away in the big cleanup. “Can we use your sound gear for other musicians? And we’re having a Reminisce Night.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Awesome.” I sound a little giggly.

  “What’s up with you, Gidget?”

  “Nothing. Happy, I guess.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “What’d you do, elope?”

  “Elope?” I love how he’s fishing without any bait. “No. Definitely no. Mitch, J. D. and I parted ways.”

  Silence. “Are you okay?”

  “If you’d asked me a few days ago, I would’ve said ‘Getting there.’ But, today—”

  Leaning over the desk, I tip the door closed. “Mitch, this really bizarre thing happened to me last night.”

  I recap the whole God encounter, because, I have to confess, in the sensible light of day my head is starting to question the experience. I’ve never heard of such a thing happening to anyone before, not even a preacher’s son.

  “That’s amazing, Caroline,” Mitch says when my story is done. “Jesus visited you. Not the first time in history He’s done that, but I don’t know of many who’ve experienced what you did.”

  “W-what do you think it means?”

  “Lots of things. Mostly to let you know in no uncertain terms He loves you. Don’t look now, Caroline—I think you got saved.”

  I jump up in my seat as an image of a TV preacher I once saw crosses my mind. He must have said say-ved a thousand times. “No, no, I don’t want to be a Holy Roller.”

  “Then don’t. Be a lover of Jesus. Pray, read your Bible, go to church, love others.”

  “Lover of Jesus? I don’t know, Mitch, that sounds weird. Who would understand what I’m saying?”

  “Plenty of people. But if you aren’t comfortable with that, say you’re a disciple of Jesus, or a follower of Jesus. Take your pick.”

  I can feel my face scrunching up. Who knew church came with so much terminology. “What do you call yourself?”

  “A prodigal.” He laughs. “Caroline, either way, you’ve met Him. Read the red words in your Bible and do what He says.”

  A chill runs over me. “Okay.” Then, “What are the red words?”

  “Jesus’ words and parables. His instructions to us.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Caroline—” Mitch’s voice warbles. “This news is better than any award I’ve ever won.”

  Elle rushes me after church the following Sunday. “We’re going shopping. New clothes will cheer you up.”

  “All my wealth is tied up in bathroom plumbing.” I shake my hair over my shoulders. “And, I don’t need cheering up. Really, I’m fine.”

  “Okay, okay, I confess, I need cheering up.” We head straight toward her car. “I’ve been thinking: must find the planet where it’s raining men.”

  “Again,” I say as she aims her key fob and bleep-bleeps her car, “I have no extra dinero.”

  ”My treat.” She flashes her palm. “No protesting.”

  Forty-fi
ve minutes later we walk into the Savannah Mall and beeline it to The Limited. The store is bright and fragrant with the new-clothes smell. A very slender blonde with Jennifer Aniston hair approaches.

  “Everything on this side of the store”—she gestures right—“is half off. Can I help you find anything?”

  Elle-the-shopping-guru appears slightly insulted. The salesgirl should’ve recognized her designer clothes. “No, thank you.”

  John Mayer sings to us via the store Muzak while Elle and I riffle through the half-off rack.

  “Elle, look, why don’t you buy me lunch and call it a good day, hmm?”

  She sighs, peering over her shoulder at me. “One top. Or a skirt. Both, maybe. Please. You love skirts.” Spinning around, she slaps a sage-green top against my chest. “Matches your eyes. And the scoop neck is sexy, but not too . . .” She arches her eyebrows. “If you know what I mean? Mom always said to leave them wondering.”

  The soft material under my fingertips deactivates my ability to protest. “Well, maybe one top.”

  “And one skirt.” Elle’s melodic laugh floats around us. “Remember when we went shopping for bathing suits and found that old blue light outside the old Kmart—”

  “We convinced Larry Olsen to hook it up to work in the Mustang,” I say while surfing the sales racks.

  “You got cocky one night and flashed an unmarked police car.”

  For the next few minutes, we’re lost in giggles. Since the night Jesus visited, it seems easier to laugh. Even to cry.

  Elle shoves several tops and skirts at me. “Don’t look at the price tag. Just try them on.”

  Of course, I look at the price tag. Even at half off, the cheapest top was thirty dollars.

  In the dressing-room mirror, I wince at my ET-like complexion in the harsh dressing-room lights. Despite the fright of my reflection, I slip on a top and sporty skirt. The fabric feels cool and soft against my skin. When I glance in the mirror, the creature from outer space is gone. Instead, a pretty girl with rosy cheeks, pink lips, and bright green eyes stares back at me.

  The top and skirt are perfect. But letting Elle buy for me seems . . . somewhat pitiful.