“You don’t fool me for a second, Dorothy Jean Wetstra. Your favorite jelly bean flavor has always been licorice! You’re just pleasing yourself and we both know it.”
“Busted! You know me too well.”
“Yes, I guess I do—although after all of these years you can still surprise me.”
“Oh, like when have I surprised you lately?”
“When you asked for a lemon chiffon cake for your birthday instead of angel food.”
Dorothy studied the empty jelly bean bowl. “I am too full, May Belle. Why on earth did you let me eat all of those?” May Belle laughed again knowing full well that if Dorothy made up her mind to do something nobody could stop her. She watched Dorothy walk to the kitchen window where she stood gazing into the back yard for a moment. May Belle knew she was watching Earl tidy up her yard by the way she smiled.
“How’s this for another surprise!” Dorothy exclaimed. She turned to face May Belle. “I think I’ve just had me an epiphany!” She laughed, having reminded herself of a television evangelist she’d heard recently. “Do you know how many people don’t have enough of anything to eat in this world—dare I say right here in Partonville—let alone their choice of dessert? Plenty. And here I am fighting my weight and asking for more! What if I could turn my eating thoughts into feeding actions? Maybe something like a community Thanksgiving meal on Thanksgiving Day. A gift of thanksgiving.” Like a runaway train picking up a head of steam, her enthusiasm was mounting with each turn of her mental wheels. “Sponsored by our church! Now wouldn’t that just be the berries?”
May Belle instantly took to the idea, which Dorothy knew she would. “I wonder, though,” May Belle said, tapping her index fingers together after rubbing the small of her back, “do you think any of us will have the energy to tackle this kind of an undertaking so soon after the Pumpkin Festival? Like you very well know, I for one am still recuperating.”
“Good question.” Dorothy sat down. She knew herself well enough to know that sometimes her spontaneous ideas needed to be reined in long enough to give her common sense time to catch up with her enthusiasm. They sat and stared at each other. It was true: they’d both pretty much worn themselves out for the festivities—although every speck of energy had been worth it. “Well, we still have awhile to refresh ourselves,” she said with a tone of caution. “I wonder if St. Augustine’s might be interested in cosponsoring such an event with our church? You know, share the responsibilities as well as the blessings.” Her enthusiasm was taking over again. “And why does it have to be complicated and take a big bunch of doings? Just get a few people to volunteer to cook an extra turkey. Maybe Lester could do up a big pan of dressing, he’s always so good about those kinds of things.” Her mental wheels were now churning full throttle again.
“Well,” May Belle said, a note of optimism in her voice, “I guess I could bake some pans of spice bars, which would be cheaper and easier to serve than pumpkin pie but still have the seasonal flavor.”
“I think the boys are coming home for Thanksgiving and we Wetstras could take charge of potatoes. It would be a good transition too since for the first time we won’t be on the farm for Thanksgiving.” Dorothy’s smile flattened out. It had been only a matter of months since Dorothy had gotten the surprise offer by the Craig brothers, the farm had subsequently been sold to Katie Durbin, an auction had been held and Dorothy had moved from the place of her birth—the only home she’d ever known—into town. She’d moved into Katie’s Aunt Tess’s old house, which Dorothy had redecorated and made her own. And yet . . . would any home ever feel as much a part of her very soul as the farm? In all honesty, she wondered if the idea for the Thanksgiving dinner hadn’t at least in part sprung to life because, try as she might, she couldn’t stop feeling sad at the thought of not having Thanksgiving dinner at the farm. May Belle knowingly patted the top of Dorothy’s hand. Dorothy’s move into town hadn’t been an easy one and May Belle knew that no matter how much she tried to hide it, Dorothy still pined for the land she loved. If there were a way May Belle could help with the transition, she’d do it.
“Dorothy, I think we could manage, Lord willing and our bodies hold out. It always makes me feel so good to feed folks,” her voice strengthening at the possibility. “Yes, I’m plenty worn out right now, but like you say, we’ve still got some time, and it wouldn’t be that much work if we shared the load. Just an extra turkey and some trimmings. . . . Certainly nothing like the Pumpkin Festival—especially if we could team up with St. Augustine’s. We don’t have that many younger folks in our church to pitch in, but even though I’ve heard tell their membership is going down just like ours is, they do.”
“Maybe,” Dorothy said somewhat tentatively, “we could just present the idea and see if they might fly with it, spare us old geezettes. I reckon the younger ones will have their own ideas about how things should be done anyway. Instant everything! Hard telling what all they know how to microwave these days.”
“Before you volunteer your boys, Dorothy, are you sure they’ll want to come home for Thanksgiving and get involved with something like this? The last time they were here you all worked so hard on the farm auction and you don’t get to see them very often . . . might they just want to come relax and spend time with you this trip?”
Dorothy screwed up her lips. “I can’t even imagine they won’t like the idea. Those boys grew up watching their father volunteer for just about everything. I’m not sure if my grandsons will get to come. Last I heard, Vincent and Joan were still fussing with each other over how they were going to split their time with the kids for the holidays this year.” Dorothy’s younger son, Vincent, and his wife had been divorced for a couple of years, a continuing grief for everyone. Never had Dorothy imagined divorce would be a word that applied to anyone in her family, but so it was. Lord, let them get over their pains and egos and make kind decisions for everyone! she prayed each time she thought about them.
“We’ll need to talk to Pastor, of course,” May Belle said. “Think he’d mind if we used our church basement? I don’t think more people would come than might fill that up, do you?”
“I’ll give him a call later today. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The St. Auggie’s folks might not be as interested as we hope, in which case maybe we should just let it go this year, maybe start planning something a little earlier for next year. Let’s take it one step at a time.”
5
Jessie heard Henrietta’s horn tooting from a quarter mile away. It was tradition among the Landerses to toot their horns when arriving and departing; it’s just what they did, everyone hanging out windows or standing at their doorways flailing their arms like there was no tomorrow. Where are you, Arthur Landers! She peeled off the rubber gloves she’d been wearing to clean the toilet, which she gave a good flush, hoping the smell of the bleach water would disappear down the hatch too. But just in case it didn’t, she spritzed the new bathroom deodorizer and quickly gave the air a sniff. Doesn’t smell like baked apple pie to me! She made fast tracks to the kitchen, tossed the rubber gloves in the cabinet under the kitchen sink and walked outside to wait. She let out a big sigh realizing that whatever wasn’t cleaned by now was just going to have to stay that way and that made her happy. She could see the dust kicking up at the end of the driveway as Henrietta’s nose pointed right at her. Within moments Herm and Vera were, kink by kink, unfolding themselves out of the car. Since Jessie wasn’t the hugging kind and everybody knew it, both Herm and Vera extended their hands in a greeting.
“Jessie!” Vera exclaimed, clapping Jessie’s hand between hers. “You haven’t aged one wrinkle!”
Jessie smiled and studied Vera’s face as she readied to return the compliment, then realized she couldn’t unless she told a whopper. She wondered if Vera had just done exactly that. Jessie had never been one to spend much time studying herself in the mirror. If you kept your hair cut short (she cut it herself ) and didn’t wear makeup, what was there to look at? She’d
much rather spend her time either playing baseball or listening to sports (especially baseball, no matter which league or team—although she was partial to the Pittsburgh Pirates) on the radio (she’d needed distance glasses for a couple of years but didn’t want to spend the money, so she’d purchased those cheap reading ones from Wal-Mart, which of course didn’t do a thing to help clear up the fuzzy TV), digging in the garden, working crosswords or 500-piece interlocking puzzles (both of which her Wal-Mart glasses did help) and—of course—winging whatever.
“Herm,” Jessie said nodding her head in a greeting. Herm shook her hand up and down so vigorously and for so long she thought he might rattle her brains loose.
“Hermie, honey! Settle down before you dislocate her pitching shoulder!”
Herm looked around Jessie toward the kitchen door, then surveyed the yard toward the shed but the shed doors were closed. “Where’s that ornery husband of yours?”
“To tell you the truth, he’s . . . um . . .”
Just then they heard a horn begin to honk. They turned to find Arthur’s pickup tearing down the gravel road, then watched it rush up the drive. Arthur slammed it into park and hopped out. Herm took note that Arthur could still move pretty quickly for an old coot.
“Talk about the devil,” Jessie said. Herm and Vera laughed; Jessie did not.
“Herman the Vermin!” Arthur said as Herm hobbled toward his cousin, his bad knees working as best they could. The men hugged each other so hard it made them both grunt.
“Arthur the . . . ,” Herm shook his head and laughed. “Never could think of a good rhyme for that one, not in all the decades I’ve known ya! Maybe one of these days.”
Arthur next hugged Vera with only a little less enthusiasm than he had shared with Herm. “So yur still married to him, huh? Only a saint of a woman would put up with the likes of such a rascally fella, Vera Landers.”
“Ain’t it the truth,” she said while winking at Herm, the love of her life.
“What are you doin’ with your La-Z-Boy in your truck, Arthur?” Herm had walked over to the pickup to see what he first imagined must be a new chair. It didn’t take him long to recognize the old one: aside from the color of the fabric, its identical twin was safely and blissfully parked in his very own living room.
“Just airin’ her out,” Arthur said matter-of-factly. “Just airin’ her out.”
Herm looked out over the field far enough to spot his uncle’s old outhouse. “See the shrine is still in place,” he said. “We sure had us some good times in there when we was young, didn’t we, Art?” Herm slapped Arthur on the back.
“I reckon we surely did.” The two men stared out yonder like they were viewing a visitation from the Queen of England rather than staring at an old outhouse.
“How about you and I go into the house and find something more interesting to look at,” Jessie said to Vera. “Like how about a nice cold root beer?”
“Sounds good to me!”
If there’s one thing Vera had always been, Jessie thought, it was agreeable.
Vera and Jessie drank their root beers—Jessie swigging hers out of the bottle and Vera having hers over ice—and caught up on the daily things of life. Arthur and Herm strolled on out to the outhouse for old time’s sake. Once there, Herm stepped inside the door and said, “Look-ee-here, Art.” He was grinning from ear to ear. He unbuttoned the middle pocket of his coveralls (an unbreakable love for coveralls was as tightly knit into the Landers men’s genes as was their love for Buicks and La-Z-Boys) and withdrew two cigars. Arthur’s eyes lit up; it had been a long while since he’d enjoyed a fine cigar. Even though Jessie had bugged him for years to give up the “nasty stinking cigar habit,” in the end he hadn’t done it for her, which he surely never admitted. He’d watched some health program he’d seen on TV one night. A group of doctors was performing an operation on a guy with lung cancer and it was so gruesome it turned his stomach. Even though he didn’t used to inhale his cigars and even though he used to smoke only about three of them a week, he couldn’t get the images out of his mind. Not only did he give up cigars right then, he vowed to never watch that health channel again. But what the heck, one cigar every year or so, along with a little snuff now and again, wouldn’t kill a man. And now here they were about to hide in the outhouse to smoke, just like when they were kids. Funny how the old feeling of hiding out—especially with a cigar in his hand—resurrected itself in his racing heart.
Arthur, Herm and their other two scalawag cousins used to take turns hiding in the outhouse and get in all kinds of trouble, especially when the leaves were on the trees and the outhouse wasn’t so visible from the farmhouse. Not only had they smoked cigars and some of his dad’s cigarettes in that tiny structure, but they’d repeatedly gone through one or another of their sister’s diaries, hunkered down over a Sears catalog in which some of the models wore nothing but brassieres and girdles, and for various reasons tortured one another by holding someone’s head down the hole until they swore they’d never tell—which they had not. Would the two stout men be able to fit inside, or would they have to be pried out, they wondered? The Landers cousins didn’t last long in there this time, but nonetheless, it’s where all of the day’s favorite stories began after those first few silent and bliss-filled puffs. There was just something satisfying, they each realized without expressing it—which wouldn’t have been very “Landers Man” at all—about being with someone who knew your stories and could nod a knowing head at you when you told them again anyway. In celebration, Arthur whipped out his Hohner harmonica and played a few bars of “Memories,” a song he’d just mastered. They were sweet enough notes to bring a tear to Herman’s eye. Although he couldn’t imagine an entire play about cats, he had loved the words to that song since the very first time he’d heard it on the radio.
An hour later, the women, who were still at the kitchen table, heard the men approaching the house. Jessie had just finished telling Vera about the day’s La-Z-Boy escapade and they were both laughing. Even though Jessie told the story without a hint of humor, Vera had found the whole thing hysterically funny and erupted in laughter. Although Jessie still didn’t think it was that funny, recounting it and watching Vera’s face light up lightened her up about it, too, and next thing she knew, she was laughing as well. Vera’s ability to be happy about nothing was one of the reasons Jessie had taken to her the first time they’d met. Before the men entered the door, though—each carrying a half of the chair they’d retrieved out of the truck—Jessie told Vera she couldn’t tell Herm about the Runaway La-Z-Boy, as Vera kept calling it, and Vera nodded her head in agreement. Although the menfolk had agreed to keep their little cigar escapade a secret, they knew from the gals’ sniffing that they’d been discovered.
Late that night after they’d all gone to bed, Jessie heard Herm laughing like a hyena, Vera shushing him loudly as he laughed.
Vera had blabbed. Of course.
Katie was exhausted. She’d spent the entire late afternoon and part of the evening driving around the outskirts of Hethrow surveying the lay of the land, trying to put herself in Colton’s head to imagine what he might be envisioning for his next move (What else is he going after?), as he’d lost his prime expansion opportunity when he lost Crooked Creek Farm. Since he wanted to have lunch with her, however, she assumed he was making his move for his second chance at the farm.
To entertain herself between bouts of collecting stats, Katie mentally laid out the house of her dreams, the one she’d always wanted to build for herself, picturing it being the largest in the new Crooked Creek development, and of course the one located on the prime plot. Where would that be? Backed up to the park where the view would always be one of green . . . but not too close to the historic site? Or health spa? Or . . .
After it turned dark, she’d visited the library to look up old maps, scout newspapers and search survey results on population growth—many of the same things she’d done before making Dorothy her offer that had landed
the farm. She was stunned when the library made the announcement they’d be closing in fifteen minutes, which would be 9 P.M. This morning she’d told Josh to do his homework when he got home and to go ahead and make himself a sandwich if she wasn’t there in time for dinner; she never expected she’d be this late. When she’d phoned at seven, she’d gotten the machine. She figured Josh was down at the creek where he’d been spending much of his time lately. He sure won’t want to move. But he could still hang out at the creek; after all it will be open to the public during park hours as soon as the conservation district gets things in place. He’d either be there or in the barn, a place of solitude he’d become as attached to as Dorothy. And if there’s any kind of farm preservation, he could even visit the barn. Just so he doesn’t have to change schools—unless they build a new one in our development.
Our development, she’d caught herself thinking again on her way home. Oh, my! Was she beginning to feel more at home in Partonville than she realized—mice, boredom and all? Somebody spare me! Gads, her mind was already a couple of years ahead of the clock. Either that or she’d completely lost it.
When she pulled up the lane she noticed the only light glowing from the house radiated from Josh’s bedroom window. It was the familiar flicker of a television. She turned off the SUV’s engine, grabbed her handbag and briefcase, then headed for the back porch. She was happy to see Josh had actually left his muddy shoes on the new rug. Will wonders never cease! She didn’t bother flicking on the kitchen light; the glow of the back spotlight through the porch window was just enough for her to make her way to the kitchen table to deposit her items. She shed her coat, draped it over the back of a chair and, not unlike her son, walked directly across the floor to the refrigerator. She was starving; she hadn’t even stopped for dinner. She reached for the fridge door and SNAP!
Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?! Page 5