Nellie Ruth had spent an inordinate amount of time before her Saturday date staring in the mirror, wondering what was becoming of her that she would take a day off of work. Since when did an assistant manager shirk responsibilities? She always worked on Saturdays, and at a cash register to boot! But yesterday, when ES had mentioned the possibility of a matinee, she immediately called one of the checkers who usually had Saturdays off and asked her if she’d like to trade days with her, Nellie Ruth taking the woman’s Thursday spot, which she agreed to. Now she had to phone ES to tell him it was a go. She still had a difficult time believing a woman should call a man. It’s not the way things had been done in her era. Even though she’d never actually dated as a teen—or as an adult, for that matter—she’d learned the protocols.
In order to clean his van within earshot of his telephone, Edward Showalter had pulled it right up onto his front lawn, right up next to the front door of his house, which he propped open. Once in a while he’d even stop crumbling papers and tossing cans just to make sure he wasn’t missing a ring-a-ling. When she finally did call, he was happy to learn the matinee was on. He barely finished up all his cleaning, chores and personal scrubbing before it had been time to pick her up.
And now, all too soon, the show was over and he was driving her home. It was as though time had speeded up on him and he wondered how he might slow it down the next time they were together.
“You never did tell me how you liked the movie,” he said, turning his head toward her for a flash, then looking down at his speedometer only to realize he was barely going fifteen miles an hour. Still, he didn’t push down one lick harder on the gas pedal.
Mmmm. What was that aftershave fragrance? “Yes, the movie was great. I can’t think when I’ve last been to a movie.”
Edward Showalter was smacked with an outrageous thought and his heart began to hammer at the risk, but he decided to walk the plank and follow through with it anyway before he chickened out. “Maybe we oughta make it a regular date. You know, our Saturday Afternoon Matinee date?”
“That would be so nice, and believe me when I say I’d like to say yes.” (Shot down, he thought.) “But the truth is, Saturday is my scheduled workday and I doubt I could find someone to permanently trade with me. Wilbur counts on me, being the assistant manager and all.”
“You’re the assistant manager of the whole of Your Store?” he asked, suddenly feeling even more intimidated to be dating someone in management, odd-job man that he’d become.
Never being one to sound braggart, she replied, “Oh, it’s just more of a title than anything, you know, something Wilbur gave me one time instead of a raise. Not that he isn’t good to me! He certainly is. And for the most part, I like my job.”
“For the most part, huh?”
“You know what I do love about the grocery business?” She closed her eyes as if to envision it. “I love the order of the neat rows of shelves, the bright colors of the fruits and vegetables right down to the different shades of peppers: red, green, yellow . . . those that are green but have tinges of red in them. . . . I love the sound of the cash register, even just pushing the buttons on it, as silly as that sounds. I like the idea I’m helping to feed a town of people I’ve grown to love.” She opened her eyes and stared out the window, realizing she was closer to her home than she’d like to be and suddenly feeling quite embarrassed to have prattled on about such silly things.
“Sounds like you like all the parts. Sounds like the hum of a grocery store is like music to you.”
She turned her head straight toward him. “How poetic! That’s exactly it! But, of course, nothing is perfect.”
Well, don’t I know that about myself! “What parts or part don’t you like?” he asked. “I mean about your job.”
She drew another fragrant breath of his aftershave, then released it, feeling a little nervous about the intimacy of what she was revealing, yet realizing she trusted sharing it with him. “I wish we had more variety in the store. Lately I’m just kind of bored, or restless or something with some of our selections. I’ve asked Wilbur if we might not carry a few scented candles along with the utilitarian ones, maybe a wider variety of tea bags. Just some little things like that.”
Edward Showalter didn’t know a thing about scented candles or fancy tea bags. He had nothing to say in response. He knew about wattage and switches, painting and hammering. Staying sober. Cheetos. He knew about Cheetos for goodness’ sakes!
“I worry if we don’t modernize just a little that we won’t make it. I already hear people talking about shopping at the big supermarkets in Hethrow because of the variety. But the truth is,” her voice saddening, “we could never be one of them.”
“No, you can’t be. But look what you are. Look at all the older folks, like Dorothy, for instance, who can’t drive anymore. How would they get their groceries if it wasn’t for Your Store keeping staples stocked at a place folks can walk to, or have deliveries right to their doors when they’re no longer able to walk? I would venture to say that not a one of those big fancy places would bring groceries to your door. Not a stinkin’ one. Or know exactly where you live without telling them. Worry about you if you don’t come to the door. Why, look at what happened with Tess Walker! If it hadn’t been for her grocery delivery—you know, the day she didn’t come to the door—why who knows how long she might have been in there by herself, dead in her bed.”
“I guess you’re right. That does make me feel better. And yet, Partonville itself has got to keep going to support a grocer who will do all of that, and with not many young folks sticking around or coming back, how long can we keep on?”
The van turned right and crept along toward Nellie Ruth’s place now, like it was sneaking up on something in its camouflaged splendor; but if he drove any slower, he thought, he wouldn’t be moving at all. Finally it came to rest in front of her house. He shut off the engine and stared straight ahead, wondering why he hadn’t made it a Saturday night date since they could have taken in dinner and a show. And why hadn’t he thought to ask her for dinner before this date? It would seem too . . . spur-of-the-moment now. Inappropriate. Like he was taking it for granted she had nothing else to do. What’s a dollar-off coupon anyway compared to time spent with Nellie Ruth! He felt cheap. He looked at his watch; it wasn’t even 4 P.M.
Out of the corner of Nellie Ruth’s eye, she saw him looking at his watch. She suddenly felt badly for bringing such a gloomy topic to their date and figured he was bored out of his gourd. No wonder he’s looking at his watch! “Goodness, ES, I’m so sorry to have bored you with my ramblings.” She reached for the door handle, her face turning crimson.
“Don’t you DARE touch that handle, ma’am!” He pulled open his door and jogged around the van to do the honors. With each step he chastised himself for having brought up a dead person, for goodness’ sakes! A dead person! What were you thinking bringing up a DEAD PERSON when she was talking about her beloved groceries! You fool! No wonder Nellie Ruth was in such a hurry to get out of his van. And if she thought he always drove that slowly, she’d probably never want to ride with him again.
“Thank you,” Nellie Ruth said as she slid down off the seat.
“I’ll walk you around.” Silently but way too swiftly for both of them, they ended up at the bottom of the staircase to her private entrance, which was around to the back of the large home Bernice Norris owned. Nellie Ruth had rented the upstairs of Bernice’s place for thirty-five years. It was the bottom-of-the-stairway spot she’d told him to meet her for each of their previous dates. It just didn’t seem appropriate for him to come up those steps. Although neither of them mentioned it, they’d both seen the curtains in Bernice’s living room move slightly each time they came and went. No, Nellie Ruth did not want to have Bernice listening to two sets of footsteps going up the back stairs to her house. Not until Edward Showalter, professional painter, was painting, and then, well, he’d have to come up. That would be official business. Immediately aft
er his mom, Dorothy and Jessica had launched themselves into their last fit of laughter, Josh headed up to his bedroom to check his e-mail. He was going to give Shelby a call if he didn’t have a message from her, but he decided not to since, at least for the moment, all women seemed more than he could understand. Instead of booting up he threw himself on his bed right after turning on the television on top of his dresser. It had been a long while since he’d watched Saturday cartoons.
Downstairs the voices had finally settled into conversation, Jessica having to excuse herself only once to be sick, and then she thought it was because she’d laughed herself sick rather than actually succumbing to a pregnancy queasiness. At least for the moment.
“Since I’ve got the two of you here,” Dorothy said, “let me tell you about something in the works. Jessica, although this officially has to do with you, let me just say right now that I do not expect you to be involved in any official capacity. None. You’ve got enough on your hands.” Jessica had a puzzled look on her face as she worked to keep track of her official involvement, or not, in whatever Dorothy was speaking about. “Well, I guess that sounded rather confusing, didn’t it?” Dorothy said. Jessica’s head nodded, as did Katie’s. “Bottom line: It’s now official. The Social Concerns Committee at UMC, which you are officially on, which is your only official part, has teamed up with the Social Concerns Committee at St. Augustine’s. We’re going to host a Thanksgiving dinner for the community, right down in our church basement! We thought it would be nice to offer a meal to folks who either don’t have any family around or might otherwise be too financially hard up to put out a Thanksgiving spread.”
“What a nice idea,” Jessica said, “but it doesn’t seem fair for me not to do anything. Since I’m on the committee I ought to . . .”
“I will not hear another word about it, Jessica. You are hereby officially absolved. Period. Theresa Brewton is chairing the event and I believe we’re going to have plenty of cooks and volunteers.” Jessica started to open her mouth but Dorothy put a finger to her own lips. “Hush, child. You just cook up that little one there, okay?” She then turned her head toward Katie. “Katie, I’ve been wanting to talk to you, too. I thought perhaps you and Josh might like to help out. That is if you don’t have any other special doings. It might be a right nice way for you to get to meet a few more folks around here. And I know Josh and my grandsons will have a good time together again, no matter what they’re doing.”
Katie hadn’t given much thought to Thanksgiving since her last conversation with her ex. In fact, she’d tried to block the entire holiday out of her mind; all it produced was visions of her lone stranded self sitting at her own kitchen table, just waiting for the sounds of a mousetrap to trip. In fact, she’d already picked up a Healthy Foods frozen turkey dinner the last time she’d gone to the grocery store in Hethrow, the Hethrow store offering far more in terms of an organic section, health food aisle, larger and more exotic fresh fruits and vegetables than Your Store. When the cashier had wrung up the frozen dinner, Katie thought how pathetic her little Thanksgiving dinner for one looked on the conveyor belt. She held her own brief pity party when she got home, stepped around the mousetraps and put it in the freezer. “Just another day here in paradise,” she’d said to herself, then quickly added, “but snap out of it, Katie! That whole Pilgrim thing was a long time ago anyway. Who cares?” And thus, she’d stuffed down any emotions she might have harbored about the holiday—until this moment.
“Oh, Dorothy,” Katie said, her dejected voice revealing her feelings for what she was about to say. “I guess Josh didn’t tell you yet. He’s not going to be here for Thanksgiving. It’s his dad’s turn to have Josh for Thanksgiving. Josh asked me if I wanted to go to Chicago with him, maybe visit with friends or start my holiday shopping with the throngs. I thought about it, but there’s really no one in Chicago I’d want to spend Thanksgiving with (nobody to invite me) so I told him to just go ahead and take the SUV.”
Dorothy’s face fell. After all her thinking about her own grandsons and the wrangling that had gone on about their Thanksgiving, she hadn’t even considered Josh might be with his dad, whom he seldom mentioned. “Oh, honey. No, he didn’t tell me. But do you mean to say you were just going to sit at this farm all by yourself? On Thanksgiving Day?”
Katie nodded but she forced herself to paste on a bright face. “It won’t be that bad. I can read and do whatever I want. No loud music and banging doors, no smart-aleck answers and cleaning up after someone for a few days.” She smiled, but suddenly everything that made her nuts was just the list of things she realized she’d miss in the wake of her son’s absence.
“I won’t hear of it!” Dorothy said. “You know you’re always welcome to spend any holidays with me and my family. Always. And this year we’re spending our dinner in the church basement. Sure, we’ll be serving, but we’ll no doubt eat ourselves silly and have a good time doing both.”
“Did you say your sons were both coming in?” Jessica asked.
“Yes! I’m so happy! I wasn’t sure Jacob would be able to make it; he’s got some big cases going on now. But he assured me he’d be here to celebrate my birthday. And I’m just thrilled my grandsons get to come, too! They were maybe going to be off with their mother.” She cast her eyes toward Katie, a sudden pang in her heart. “But you know, Katie, the sadness in your eyes helps me remember I need to pray for her, too.” Katie swallowed a couple of times.
“Katie, you hadn’t even told me you were going to be alone on Thanksgiving!” Jessica looked like she might burst into tears on her friend’s behalf. “You shouldn’t keep things like that to yourself. I’ve just learned the hard way that doesn’t work well—along with what a relief it is to finally share . . . whatever.” A sheepish grin crossed her face.
“Lord,” Dorothy said, closing her eyes, “we thank You for the wonderful gift of friends to help us share our loads.” Katie swiped at her lower lashes with the back of her knuckle. “And to be with us to help celebrate the good stuff!” She paused for a moment, then opened her eyes. “And I am most happy to report, friends of mine, that all of my guys said they thought it would be great to help out at the church. To tell the truth, we were having a hard time picturing us having our own dinner anywhere but here at the . . .” Dorothy stopped short her words, not wanting to make Katie feel guilty for living in what was now her own home, as well as being sad about not seeing her son for Thanksgiving. Lord, shut my mouth! she prayed as she slammed her lips together.
“Your birthday?” Katie asked, shifting gears to help move them all along.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” Dorothy asked, realizing her mouth was already back open, but then, She did ask me a question, You know Lord! “I was a gift of Thanksgiving to my parents.” Dorothy sprouted a warm smile, then shared how many birthdays and Thanksgivings her mom and dad had so beautifully and prayerfully and thankfully woven that message into her grateful heart.
Jessica’s eyes welled. “Oh, Dorothy, I sure pray I can leave that kind of a feeling with Sarah Sue.” Then she put her hands to her abdomen. “And this little monkey.” A veil of guilt fell over her for being upset at the news of this child within her womb. A gift of thanksgiving, from God. Now if I can only remember that during the next few—make that many—wild years.
Katie’s body temperature began to rise and her cheeks flushed. “Is it warm in here or is it just me? Or are we just too emotional?” She, after all, used to be a woman of controlled emotions. What on earth was happening to her? Although she’d been warmed by Dorothy’s lovely Thanksgiving birthday story, she hadn’t been moved enough to break out in a sweat over it.
Dorothy smiled. “I hate to tell you, Katie, but honestly, you look like you’re having a hot flash. Have you had any of those before? Or do you know if you’ve started through the change?”
There it was. Hot flashes. Mood swings. What she’d been trying to ignore: The Change. Swirling in the room in the midst of them. Swirling in the room
along with all the crazed hormones of a newly pregnant mom and the memories of a well-seasoned and long-gone-through-it older woman. Katie picked up a nearby magazine and began to fan herself. Just as Josh was heading down the stairs, they all broke out in laughter again. He turned around and marched right back up the stairs. “Women!”
15
“I’m sure by now you’ve all seen the notice in the Partonville Press and this week’s bulletin about the upcoming Thanksgiving dinner co-sponsored by the joint Social Concerns Committees of our own UMC and St. Augustine’s.” Pastor Delbert Carol Jr. hoped his enthusiasm made up for his lack of knowledge about the details regarding the event. He pushed his glasses up his nose, raked his hand through the top of his thinning hair and glanced at the hand-scrawled note from his wife he held between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He squinted a moment, trying to decipher her handwriting, then nodded appreciation to her; she’d handed him the note at the last moment. “Dorothy, would you like to say a few words for us?”
Although Dorothy was taken by surprise at Pastor’s offer, she stood—as did Gladys, who yanked down the bottom of her blazer, turned to face the rest of the congregants (front pew, remember—always) and instantly began booming her voice back across the pews. “As head of the Social Concerns Committee here at UMC,” she said, giving an authoritative nod to Dorothy, who politely smiled and sat down, “on behalf of both of the churches, I’d like to offer a welcome to anyone who would like to attend. Although I am not in charge of the event, per se, I do know we will be starting with a Thanksgiving prayer promptly at three P.M. and serving turkey, dressing, potatoes and a few as yet unnamed side dishes immediately following the prayer. But here’s what we need you to do, besides show up on time. We co-sponsors need you to let us know—and at this point I believe it is Sue Johansen or Theresa Brewton you are to call and their numbers are in your bulletin—by this Friday at the latest if you’re coming and how many there will be in your party. As you can well imagine, we need to be able to thoughtfully plan such an undertaking. PLUS,” and she paused to center the buttons on her blazer by shifting it slightly to the left, “don’t forget that we’ll be taking up a freewill offering, so come prepared.” When Gladys’s backside hit the pew, Dorothy’s simultaneously sprang up off hers. It happened with such perfect timing it reminded Pastor of one of those old pound-a-peg toys: pound one in; another pops out. That old wooden toy had been one of his favorites when he was a child, then one of his son’s as well. He glazed over for a moment wondering what had ever become of it now that his son and daughter were several years beyond the pound-a-peg phase. Then he wondered if he needed some of that dinko (or was it ginko?) stuff he’d seen advertised on the television. Something that might help him stay focused.
Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?! Page 15