“NO MORE!” he shouted. He slid painfully off his stool and limped out the door before he had a chance to change his mind. Edward Showalter tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar and chased after him. It just so happened that that very morning Edward Showalter had awakened on the edge of a wet, plowed field. He was covered with mud, one shoe missing. How he got there he had no earthly idea. His car was parked along the side of the road, the driver’s door still open. Apparently he’d left it running since it was out of gas and the battery was dead. Although it wasn’t the first blackout he’d had, it was to be his last since that very evening he and Johnny made a pact to leave the bottle behind. They believed something bigger than the both of them had brought them—together—to that moment. It hadn’t been an easy road, Lord knew, but having somebody to walk it with had bonded them for life. They still held each other accountable, in and out of AA meetings, both believing that only the will of God, prayer, their AA sponsors and dogged determination had kept them sober for this long. It would only take one slip, they would remind each other. “Having a beer is probably fine for you guys,” they would say when some of their friends convened for a cold one (and truly, they both knew that to be true, most people being able to stop after a brew or two), “but not for us. We have got to remember that difference. Enjoy yourselves, though!”
Not until Johnny had stayed sober for six months did his Mary come home. He got a job as a short-order cook—not his first job in this position—a couple of towns away, especially a couple of towns away from the tavern that still drew him like a hummingbird to red nectar. On more than one occasion he’d said to Edward Showalter over their sodas, “One day, ES, I’m going to have my own café. Nobody telling me what to do. I’m not going to serve booze or dinners. Just breakfast and lunch so I can be home with my family in the evenings.” Edward Showalter, an electrician by original trade, promised Johnny that when he got ready he’d help him find a place and fix it up. It was like a covenant they made with each other. And one day at a time, they moved toward that “one day.”
Then several months ago the old feed station property near Yorkville had gone up for sale. The building had been empty for years, some occasionally wishing the eyesore would just burn down. But it didn’t. And one day Johnny called Edward Showalter and said he’d had a vision while he’d been at church that morning. “Don’t know another way to explain it, but I saw me in the old feed station—of course it was fancied up—serving food to you and a fine lady. I think it’s time, ES, that I put my money where my mouth’s been all these years. I talked it over with the Missus and she said she believed it was time too. Of course we prayed, but she also said she just had a feeling. So we all but wiped out our savings and bought the place this morning! I’m taking you up on that offer to help me remodel since that’s the only way we’ll be able to afford to do it. I can’t pay you much, but I’ll give you what I can.”
“I’d say rather than a vision you had a hallucination, Johnny, because I sure don’t have a fine lady in my life. Not that I wouldn’t like to. But that’s not going to stop you from opening your restaurant or me from keeping my word.” Other than the side job Edward Showalter had recently done for Gladys when she’d hired him to do the wiring and mount the new clock ensemble on the square building, Edward had worked full-time for Johnny helping him get ready to see his dream come true. It was the first longer-term job he’d had since he’d done all the updating to Tess Walker’s old place in preparation for Dorothy’s move. At Arthur’s recommendation (who’d heard tell Edward Showalter was sober), Katie Durbin, who’d inherited the house when her aunt died and then worked a formal trade deal with Dorothy into her contract for Crooked Creek, had hired Edward Showalter to bring everything up to code, electrical and any other way. He was the genius who could do it all, and so he had, including some painting and helping Dorothy to create her vision of that four-poster bed made out of old dining room table legs from Swappin’ Sam’s.
And who would have guessed that within a short amount of time after Johnny and he had started working on The Piece, Nellie Ruth McGregor would be sitting right there across from him at a table. It wasn’t but a few days after their work had commenced on the restaurant that Edward Showalter had received a call from Nellie Ruth, a mutual friend of theirs having passed on his name as somebody who could do some painting for her. Seems she’d had a “painting incident,” is the way it had been presented. It had been an incident all right: she’d ended up sitting smack in the middle of a spilled gallon of Splendid Rose. “What were you thinking?” the entire Partonville Community Band wanted to know when she showed up at practice with rose-colored freckles and wads of paint in her cuticles.
So she’d called this Edward Showalter (and why did everybody always call him by both names? she’d wondered) they’d recommended. “You’ll have to wait maybe a couple, three-four weeks, maybe a month or more,” he’d said to her into the receiver. “I’m working full-time on an important job. Kind of a rush. Gotta stick with it.” Nellie Ruth agreed that would be fine since she didn’t perceive any other options and she was in no hurry. Then at the Pumpkin Festival dance, the mutual friend pointed her out to Edward Showalter. “That’s the woman whose living room you’re going to be painting.”
“Really,” he said rather than asked. Next thing he knew, his feet had walked him right over to her. “Edward Showalter,” he’d said extending his hand. “Electrician, affordable, dependable, sober, and for you, a painter to boot. Jesus Loves You. Even if you don’t see Him coming again, HE IS!” Aside from the painter reference, it was the same string of words that boldly appeared over the camouflage paint on the outside of his van.
“Oh! A believer!” Nellie Ruth said as she shook his hand. (If there was ever a prayer warrior, it was Nellie Ruth McGregor.) They’d spent nearly the entire evening twirling around the floor and talking as fast as they could, stopping only to have some punch and catch their breath. It was as though they’d been created to dance together: not once had he stepped on her toes; not once had she missed his lead.
Now here they sat across from one another at A Little Piece of NYC, Edward Showalter having just helped to seat her. “Truly, Edward, you are such a gentleman.”
“Truly, Nellie Ruth, you wouldn’t have said that fifteen years ago. I was a drunken snake until Jesus got ahold of me and I got sober. Jesus and Johnny. What a duo!”
Nellie Ruth’s heart sank when she heard the word “drunken.” By the look on Edward Showalter’s face, she could tell she hadn’t hidden her reaction well, which was embarrassing.
“You better believe I was, as in was a snake. If you don’t believe it, just ask Arthur Landers. He’ll recollect my worst days and tell it like it was. Why, it’s likely I still owe the man money for work he did on my car that I never, in my drunken stuporness, got around to paying him. And now that I’ve thought about it, I’m going to look him up this week and see if I can’t square things away.”
“You’ve given me no reason to doubt you. It’s just that a long time ago. . . .” Her eyes shifted from his to the table to the front door, then back to the table. “Oh, never mind,” she finally said making eye contact with him again. Lord, let it be true that he is always sober now!
Nellie Ruth had only been involved with one other person who drank too much and that had been her dad. Hearing Edward Showalter bring up his darker days brought back horrid memories for Nellie Ruth. Her father had died when Nellie Ruth was only a teen. He fell off a curb in front of the tavern and was struck dead by a passing car. Since her mother had already passed on, Nellie Ruth packed up a few belongings and started driving until the car ran out of gas, which is how she ended up in Partonville, Dorothy having found her asleep behind the wheel in the church parking lot. She took her in and the rest, as they say, was history.
Nellie Ruth had always hoped for a good man in her life, often bending God’s ear about it. And yet, her history with her father left her wary of men. But her assistant manager’s job a
t Your Store, playing in the community band and serving at church kept her happily busy. Besides, Partonville wasn’t exactly a metropolis of eligible men her age—or any other age, for that matter. Up until the Pumpkin Festival, none had caught her attention. Edward Showalter’s bold introductory statement of faith had pried something open. Now she hoped she could trust her growing vulnerabilities, for she was attracted to him. She looked at what appeared to be a fine gentleman sitting across from her and said another silent prayer for him, that his prior weakness would remain just that. She knew if he even so much as once flirted with a relapse that would be the last he would see of her.
“So tell me,” she said, as she leaned back for Johnny to set the water glasses on their table, “what job are you going to tackle next, now that the restaurant is open?”
Edward Showalter rubbed his chin. “At the moment, only God knows. I’ve just got a couple little kinks left to work out here for Johnny,” and he stopped talking enough for the two men to wink at each other, Johnny nodding his head toward Nellie Ruth making it clear he was waiting for an introduction, which Edward Showalter obliged him with.
“Vision!” Johnny said as he walked away.
“What did he say?” Nellie Ruth asked. “Sounded like he said vision.”
“Hm.” Edward Showalter was clearly going to offer no more, so Nellie Ruth let it go.
“You were talking about your next job,” she said as her eyes began to cast around the menu looking for something that would radiate “New York City dish.”
“Oh, right. I was saying that I don’t have anything lined up just yet.”
“What about my living room,” she asked, disappointed he’d already forgotten.
“Of course! But I thought you were referring to a paying job. The only pay I will accept for painting your living room is the company of your beautiful self.”
Nellie Ruth lowered her eyes, unaccustomed to outright flattery. She felt like a sixteen-year-old rather than the sixty-something woman she was. “Sixty-something and never been kissed,” she’d sighed to herself on her sixtieth birthday. Even though it was true, she knew no one would believe it. When she lifted her eyes, Edward Showalter was studying her face to see if he might be speaking too boldly. She gave him a shy smile and they held one another’s gazes so long it began to feel inappropriate so they went back to looking at their menus.
“What do you think is the best New York City dish Johnny has on the menu?” Nellie Ruth had no personal New York point of reference from which to draw and nothing seemed obvious. Steak sandwich? she’d wondered. Could it be the cheesy hash browns with green onions in them, which surely is an unusual combination for these parts, even though they sound good to me?
“New York City dish?” Edward asked, gleam in his eye. Then he broke out in a full-blown smile. “Why are you asking about a New York City dish?”
“Because of the name of the restaurant, silly!” Do not be calling a grown man silly, Nellie Ruth! He’ll think you’re ... silly. Oh, Lord! I just don’t know how to ACT!
“What’s New York got to do with the name of Johnny’s restaurant?” Edward Showalter already knew the answer to his question but he wanted to hear it out loud.
“You know, Little Piece of NYC.”
A ripple of laughter flew out of him. “Is that what you thought the NYC was? New York City?”
“Who wouldn’t think that?” she asked in all innocence, feeling sillier by the minute and not exactly flattered to feel she was the brunt of some kind of joke.
“Johnny! JOHNNY, come over here!” Edward Showalter belted in the direction of the kitchen. “Of course you thought that, Nellie Ruth. I told him!” he said to her. She was relieved to learn it wasn’t she who Edward was . . . making fun of?
Johnny appeared from the kitchen. From terrific aromas and what looked to be tomato paste on his chin, she had the feeling something good was going on in there.
“Nellie Ruth here has proven me right. I knew it! I win! Pay up, buddy.”
“Name of my restaurant, right?” Johnny asked Nellie Ruth flatly, then sighed.
“Right,” she said. “But what’s to win? It’s A Little Piece of NYC, which so cleverly rhymes. And NYC is New York City. I mean even we Pardon-Me-Villers know that!”
Johnny just shook his head and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He rifled through the bill compartment and Nellie Ruth’s breath caught in her throat. So he’s quit drinking and taken up gambling!
“Here you go, ES,” Johnny said as he handed Edward Showalter a piece of paper. “Paid in full.”
Edward Showalter noticed Nellie Ruth straining to see how much the payoff had been, her face looking somber. If it was more than five dollars, she thought, she was out of there, no matter how flattering he’d been. Edward Showalter took note of her face and slid the paper over in front of her. She picked it up and began to read, then laughed out loud. It was a dollar-off matinee coupon for one of the theaters in Hethrow. “That’s what you bet? Coupons?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Johnny said. “We try to keep all aspects of our lives on the up and up lest we stumble and head down the slippery slope.”
“But what is that NYC on your sign outside if it’s not New York City?” Nellie Ruth wanted to know.
“Go ahead and tell her,” Edward Showalter said. “Go on.” He uttered another Told you! under his breath.
“New Yorkville Cuisine. But a name that long wouldn’t fit on the sign so we decided to just use the initials. We thought folks would notice the whole of it on the front of the menu, but I guess not.”
“Told you,” Edward said again while Nellie Ruth flipped her menu closed to study it. There it was, plain as day. NEW YORKVILLE CUISINE.
Nellie Ruth looked deep in thought. “I have an idea!” she spouted to Johnny. “If you can figure out what truly is a New York dish, you could cover all the bases. Just one thing. One really New York thing. But who can we find who’s lived in New York City that can help us figure out that perfect dish?”
Johnny laughed his great booming laugh. “I have,” he said. “Both Mary and I have lived in New York City. That’s where we first met. And what a brilliant idea!” Johnny said. “ES, she’s not only a living vision but she’s smart to boot. Hang on to this one, Mr. Showalter!” he said as he headed back to the kitchen. Johnny’s bold teasing embarrassed Edward Showalter, which is, of course, why he kept it up.
“Vision,” Nellie Ruth said. “There! He definitely said vision . . . ES.” She was the first person aside from Johnny to ever call him that. “Do you mind if I call you ES?” No indeedy, he did not, and yes, indeedy-do, she’d purred his initials, he told Johnny the next day.
10
Jessie was making the bed, grumbling within herself about the pressure she felt to keep things tidy while company was present. If she left any little thing lying around, Vera wanted to know where she could put it for her, assuming that Jessie was as neat as she was, which she was surely not. In fact, if Herm and Vera weren’t staying there, she wouldn’t even be making her bed, but she’d noticed Vera glancing in their room when she’d pass by so she figured it wouldn’t kill her since they would be leaving in . . . How many days and hours is it? A quick calculation let her know they’d be there at least another week and . . . two more weeks assuming they left the day after Thanksgiving, which surely they would. She fussed within herself as she tucked in the bottom corners of the sheet, something Arthur kicked out each time she tucked it in, saying his feet needed to breathe, so really what was the point of making the bed? When she was through she picked up Arthur’s coveralls and socks. They were lying on the floor right where he’d stepped out of them last night (same as night before and night before), the coveralls looking like a collapsed denim slinky. She tried to run the numbers in her head that could tally how many times since they’d been married that she had picked up his pants, socks, underwear, newspapers, car parts he’d absentmindedly carried in from the garage. Too many decades, too many item
s to process without exploding her brain. Too many for any woman, Arthur Landers!
Worst of all, in the midst of her litany of pet peeves, she could not get Arthur’s “won or lost” statement about the whole of their marriage out of her mind.
She smoothed the ripples in the soft quilted bedspread with her aged hand, noticing the accumulating wrinkles around her knuckles. Where do the years go? The bedspread had been a handmade gift from her mother after she and Arthur had married. It was a too-fancy-for-both-of-them item she got down from their attic only when company came. She’d always guessed her mom had hoped the beauty of the quilt might add a touch of softness to the harshness she already saw brewing between her tough daughter and her often gruff new husband, the two of them erupting into a fight as often as they exploded with laughter. “Two such fiery souls,” her mother had said. Jessie pondered how swiftly and easily lives can change courses in the batting of an eye, the asking of a question after a ballgame, an impulsive answer.
As she continued to fuss with the bedspread, tugging it this way and that, finding herself working to get it perfectly squared up on the bed, she thought about how lives can just as easily change courses by what doesn’t get said. Her memory locked on a brisk sunny day (pre-Arthur) when Lester had circled their conversation around to the topic of children, even recalling the exact feel of the sun on her left shoulder. She’d returned from a tournament on a Sunday (the grill was closed on Sundays) and Lester had surprised her by showing up at her door to take her out to the park for a picnic. He’d made them a late dinner of ham sandwiches, a light smear of mustard on each slice (how did he even know that’s just the way I liked it?), and a special batch of not-too-much-onion potato salad just for her, separate from that he’d served on the day’s luncheon menu. There was a large dill pickle each, carefully wrapped in wax paper. A jar filled with fresh-squeezed lemonade they drank out of two empty jelly jars. Everything neatly packed in a picnic basket, blanket thrown over his shoulder when he came to the door.
Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?! Page 10