Although he’d sounded pretty crabby, he also sounded like his usual self so nobody batted an eye.
Truth be told, Arthur was counting on the fact that nobody would be moving by five-forty. Although he enjoyed visiting with Herm and Vera, sometimes a fella just needed a little space. Time to be alone in his truck. Think about things, like what in tarnation he was gonna do with Jessie. Like there’s somethin’ anyone could do with that woman! He didn’t think she’d spoken one civil word to him since shortly after Herm and Vera had arrived. Of course, Herm and Vera’s endless chatter made up for any voids. Don’t those two hand-holdin’ jabber boxes ever shut up? And what was up with those near violent euchre games, he wondered. Sure, euchre was always lively, but these nightly games felt more like war, like there was an ax to grind. But what? As soon as the women had the dinner dishes cleared every evening, out came the cards. He thought maybe it was time to talk to Herm about just letting those two old hens win for an evening so they could be done with the euchre wars for now. And thinking about being done with things, it was time they were done with those endless dang bags of potato chips they keep runnin’ to Your Store to buy. Both of those women were liable to lose all their teeth if they kept pounding down on chips like that, and Jessie was gonna plumb cause them to go broke if she didn’t start making popcorn again. He was gonna just tell Jessie to make them all some popcorn if they had to suffer through another night of cards. And Herm, well, he’d done some of the dumbest bidding he’d ever seen last night. It was a miracle they’d still been able to win.
What was wrong with everybody?
Much to Arthur’s chagrin, by 5:10 A.M. every light in the house was on. The one thing he’d forgotten was that tonight was Wednesday night and the Happy Hookers were coming. The women wanted to get an early start on “preparations,” they’d called it. What preparations he couldn’t figure out since it seemed to him all they needed to do would be to put out a few bowls of the remaining potato chips (that would get rid of them!) and there you’d have it. But all the way to Harry’s, the women sat in the backseat yappin’ a mile a minute about little things they needed to do, like vacuum and get out the card tables and chairs and run into Your Store again for bridge mix and stop at the doughnut store for a dozen mixed for dessert and Oh, NO! Jessie hadn’t thought about prizes yet! Maybe they’d have to run to Hethrow, Vera suggested. After all, she hadn’t had a chance to study any of the new development Arthur had talked about all week. “Wal-Mart will have what I need, Vera,” Jessie said, nipping that excursion in the bud. She didn’t much like shopping. “Nothing fussy. I don’t know why they buy such fussy, useless bunco gifts anyway. Just more things to dust. I’m gonna keep it to a few practical items.” Yap, yap, yap, Arthur thought.
When they were nearing the grill, Arthur’s rude won-or-lost comment during their last visit sprang into Jessie’s head again—for the billionth time. That MAN! She wondered if Lester had heard it. It would be pretty embarrassing if he had, which made her kind of dread seeing him. She hoped the Landers men would have better sense this time than to bring it up again.
“Not a one of the Hookers phoned that they can’t come?” Vera asked Jessie with a pout while Arthur was pulling them into his usual parking space, trying to keep his ears slammed closed to protect them from the absolutely endless yappety-yap. Vera loved playing bunco and had been hoping she’d be able to substitute for somebody. Jessie didn’t answer right away; she was busy peering around Arthur’s head to see if Lester had opened up yet. No, the CLOSED sign was still on the door.
“Nope. No cancellations yet. Never can tell, though, Vera. Might be a last-minute something or other. If they all show up, you can still pull up a chair and visit with everyone. Got a couple new Hooker members since you were here. You’ll get to meet our new neighbor, the famous, or infamous, depending on how you see it, Katie Durbin, who owns Dorothy’s old place now. You know, the one who drives that big fancy SUV.”
“Foreign car,” Arthur said to Herm with disdain.
“You need say no more,” Herm said in response. He shook his head with remorse.
“In spite of her L-E-X-us, I like Mizz Durbin okay,” Arthur said to nobody in particular. “She don’t bother me none. She’s got spunk and I like that in a woman.” He turned his head to wink at his cousin. “Course too much spunk can be downright annoyin’, not to mention naggin’ and irritatin’,” he said, casting his eyes to his rearview mirror knowing he’d find Jessie’s eyes burning right into it, which they were.
“Who’s the other new Hooker member?” Vera asked, trying to change the subject. Just then, Lester flipped the sign from CLOSED to OPEN.
“Saved by Lester!” Herm said. “Sorry to interrupt this stintilatin’ (as only Arthur could say it) conversation, ladies, but it’s time to go eat!”
Arthur managed to be the first one in the door. He walked right over to his usual stool and gave the seat top a tap to pay it his respect. “Not yet, honey,” he said to the red vinyl disk. “Maybe another week or so.”
“Arthur Landers, sometimes you worry me,” Gladys said.
“Feelin’s always mutual, Queen Lady,” he responded with a Cheshire smile.
“Arthur! Good to see you!” Harold Crab said from across the U. “I was beginning to think you didn’t love us anymore. I heard tell your cousin and his wife were here though. Hope you don’t mind; I mentioned it in the visitors column, even though you didn’t officially ask. I imagine you’ve been visiting up a storm.” Harold slid off his stool and walked over to the table where the rest of the Landers clan was seating themselves. He extended his hand to Herm. “Herman, right? You probably don’t remember me, but about a million years ago—maybe when you were twelve or so—we got in some trouble together down by the creek during one of your visits. Of course, I’m a few years younger than you boys so you probably might just remember me as the pesky tag-along brother to my cute, long-legged sister, who you might very well remember.” He stopped and smiled. “But still, I never once told what really happened in that outhouse, even though I heard my sister talking about what she’d overheard from my brother once.”
“And you are . . . ?” Herm asked as they shook hands.
“Oh, how remiss. I’m Harold Crab.”
“This here,” Arthur said to Herm as he pulled out his own chair at the table, “is the esteemed editor of the Partonville Press. You’ll be happy to know,” he said, casting his eyes at Harold, “that my cuz here thought we oughta stay home today cuz we’d learn jist as much out of your rag of a paper as we’d learn here today. Set him straight, Harold. Set the poor man straight.”
“I’m highly complimented, Herman, that you understand my role in this town, even though others do not.” He shot Arthur a look. “But as much as I hate to admit it—especially since Arthur’s the one who said it—he’s right: if you want to learn it first, come to Harry’s every day. I usually either learn here what needs to be in the paper or what folks are saying about what I’ve already put in it.”
“Your eggs are up!” Lester hollered to Harold.
“It was nice to see you again, Herman.” Harold spun on his heels and headed back to the counter, tossing a “Hi, Jessie” over his shoulder. Then he realized he had not even acknowledged the woman who must be Herman’s wife and came back to give her a quick greeting. “Vera, right?”
“Just like Cheers,” Herm said. “Everybody knows your name!”
“And your business,” Jessie said half under her breath. Just then Lester appeared with four coffee mugs, two mug handles in each hand. He always brought mugs to the tables since they were easier to carry. He slid them onto the table, made eye contact with no one and said, “Let me know when you’re ready to order.” Off he went. Herm didn’t dare say a word about anything other than food to the man; Vera had warned him before they’d even gotten out of bed. He thought she was exaggerating the episode but he kissed her on top of her head as she nestled in his arm and said he appreciated and respected h
er suggestions. Always had, always would.
Jessie ended up seated at the side of the table that faced the U. She watched Lester’s back as he broke eggs. Like most in town, she marveled at his egg-cracking trick. She looked at Vera who was staring at her with her eyebrows pinched together. They both cast their eyes back on the makeshift menu on the table between them. The boys had already decided what they wanted (of course, it was a nobrainer for Arthur) and had slid the table’s only menu to their corner.
“How’s Lester’s French toast?” Vera asked Jessie.
“Wouldn’t know. I’m not one for sweets in the morning.”
“I think I had it once back in the seventies,” Arthur said. “Didn’t kill me so I guess it was okay.”
“I think I’ll try it,” Vera said. “What are you having, Jessie?”
“Two eggs over easy, sausage patties and rye toast,” she said looking at the menu.
“Want breakfast spuds with that?” She hadn’t realized Arthur, in his impatience, had waved Lester back over. Lester had already written down her order on his tablet. When she looked up they made brief eye contact, then both veered their eyes in other directions. Yup, he’d heard Arthur’s dumb comment during their last visit. She could just tell. Her cheeks reddened with anger at Arthur and embarrassment for herself as she cast her eyes toward her husband, who was looking at Lester. Lester veered his eyes toward Vera and waited for her order, pen perched over the pad.
“How many pieces of French toast do you serve?” she asked.
“How many ya want?”
“Two.”
“Then I serve you two,” he said, his hand scrawling on the pad. “Side?”
“Side?” Vera asked him back. “Side?”
“Side order,” Arthur said. “Like a side of bacon or ham, sausage or . . . Side order, Vera.”
“Oh. Well, I think I’ll have . . . Where are the sides listed?”
“Along the bottom,” Lester said, who locked eyes with Jessie again for the briefest of moments and ever so slightly wagged his head at his growing impatience with Vera. Nah, Jessie thought, shaking her head at her own thoughts. He didn’t hear Arthur’s dumb comment. Her cheeks darkened, having embarrassed herself imaging such nonsense. Even if he did, he’s as used to Arthur as I am!
“Oh. I see,” Vera said running her finger under the word “sides.” “I’ll have . . . ham! Yes. Ham sounds wonderful. Wait. Is it off the bone?”
“Is there another place a pig can grow it?” Lester asked sarcastically, which was just his nature. But Herm didn’t know Lester that well and he was thinking his tone of voice was not an appropriate one to use with his wife.
“Well . . . ,” Vera said, putting her finger to her mouth in a thoughtful gesture.
Vera could be so exasperatin’! Arthur thought. “She wants ham,” he said, trying to end their misery while taking note that Lester was looking at Jessie again (since she was shaking her head, causing Lester to wonder if she wanted to change her order) causing Arthur to wonder why he was looking at Jessie when he was waiting for Vera’s order. And why, Arthur also wondered, was Jessie shaking her head at Lester like that? “And I’ll have the usual,” he barked. “What about you, Herm?”
“Three eggs scrambled, bacon crispy, potatoes with onions and whole wheat toast. Get that?”
“Yup. Arthur’s usual.” Lester was gone before any of them could respond, but not before glancing at Jessie one last time. (Of course, he’d glanced at each of them to make sure they were done with their world’s-longest-bout of ordering, but Arthur didn’t know that.)
Arthur stared at his wife, a prickly feeling climbing up his neck. Her cheeks were pink. He turned and looked at Lester behind the U. When Lester turned around with a plate of something in his hands, he glanced over to their table, wondering why Arthur was staring at him, if Arthur had perhaps called him back and he hadn’t heard him. Arthur, however, thought he saw Lester’s eyes flash toward his wife again. Is somethin’ fishy here? He looked from Lester to Jessie and back at Lester again. If he didn’t know better, a fella could wonder if Lester was making googly eyes at his wife. Nah. Then, like a seed that had just sprouted to life, Herm’s question from his last visit rang into Arthur’s head, once again causing a flashback to the last turn of events that had followed his question some six odd years ago. ‘Aren’t you the guy old Art here stole Jessie from?’ Well, come to think about it, he IS the guy I stole Jessie from.... Arthur uncharacteristically began chewing on his bottom lip. Surely it can’t be! But gist look at those two . . . and . . . where DID that woman go when she run off the other day, was gone fer hours and only came back with a bag of potato chips? POTATO CHIPS!
Vera, in her typical fashion, started chattering nonstop about the Hookers’ meeting and progress, Hethrow and the amount of rain they’d had this year. In the midst, she noticed Arthur was chewing on his bottom lip, his eyes darting between his wife and Lester. Jessie look flushed or something, and neither of them seemed to be paying a lick of attention to what she was saying. Her mind took to racing like a bumblebee in a flower bed, landing a moment here and another there. Something wasn’t right.
OH! Surely not ...
17
“Oh, sweetheart. I feel so bad. I wish I could throw up for you a few times just to relieve some of your burden.”
“That is one of the sweetest things you’ve ever said to me, honey.”
Paul stood in the bathroom next to his wife, who was in her usual position on the floor. His dented metal lunchbox was in his hand; it wasn’t even light outside and he was already heading to work. “Have you made a doctor’s appointment yet?”
“I thought we talked about this yesterday after I had to flee from the joint Social Concern’s meeting, never to return. You know we’ve stretched our funds as far as they’ll go right now. I am ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure I’m pregnant. I don’t really need a doctor to tell me that right this minute. And the sooner I go, the more co-pays we’ll have to make. Maybe if I just wait a month or so . . .”
“You will do no such thing, Jessica!” Paul never raised his voice with her. It had shocked both of them. “Honey, I don’t care how tight the budget is, we’re not going to mess around with your health or the health of our baby. God never lets us down. Remember how your grandmother always used to say that? We have to believe that now. Finances will work out.”
“I just wish we hadn’t purchased the new sign out front and. . . . Well, I mean I am glad we have it since it sure makes us more visible, but the timing is just bad.”
“Maybe the timing is more perfect than you know. Maybe it’s the new sign that will draw in a few more folks who like to take the back roads and they’ll be just the paying guests whose money pays our co-pay. Don’t forget our new ad!”
Jessica and Paul had deliberated a long time before deciding, for the first time ever, to spend money on advertising. A young salesman had appeared at the hotel a few weeks ago, briefcase in hand, and told them about the new startup publication he was pitching called BackRoads Illinois. He’d been raised by parents who loved to travel the back roads, he’d said; it was just in his blood. He decided to try to make a living out of doing something he loved to do. He’d majored in journalism and minored in business and (the more he shared, the faster he talked) one day it just came to him, he said: travel the way you like, pitch to the tourism industry to get distribution and gather the ads. Surely there were still enough folks left on this earth who weren’t in a hurry, he’d said.
If he’d tried to pressure Paul and Jessica in any way to “buy now,” that would have been the end. But instead he’d left them with a mock-up of what was soon destined to be his first issue. Said they could get in on the ground floor and that he was selling annual space at discount prices to those willing to take the first risk. Paul and Jessica had enjoyed the little paper, reading it from front to back, even making note of a few places they’d never heard of and would like to visit one day.
Althoug
h Partonville used to be on what would have been called a pretty main drag back in its day, the express-way now ran through Hethrow. Aside from people visiting Partonville residents, there wasn’t much cause to be meandering through Partonville and staying overnight, unless you simply enjoyed the meandering, and Paul and Jessica had decided when they bought the little hotel that surely there were people who liked to bypass the expressways. In the end, they’d transferred some funds out of their nearly depleted savings and written the salesman a check. New answering machine; new sign; new advertising. Now to pray for the payoff—and continued prayers that they hadn’t been ripped off. When Jessica had bubbled on to Katie about BackRoads Illinois and the great opportunity they’d bought into, rather than being excited for them, Katie had asked her if they’d done any homework on this guy who just showed up at their door. “Any business references or proof he even was who he said he was?” None. “How long ago did you write him the check?” Long enough ago that they couldn’t cancel it within the thirty-six hours of the change-your-mind law. Katie had sighed while Jessica groaned.
Paul leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “What’s done is done, hon,” he said referring to . . . everything that was useless to fret about, from the check to the pregnancy. “I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight. I sure hope you have a better day and that Sarah Sue cooperates. If you don’t feel up to making dinner, just let it go. I can find something. The only thing I for sure want you to do today is to make that doctor’s appointment, hear?”
She slumped back against the wall and sighed. Even though she was coming around to accepting the idea and even though she had such a supportive husband, and even though he was so reassuring, there was still a chance the doctor would say, “Whoops! Just a gas bubble!” and she would instantly belch and . . . But once she made that appointment and a real doctor told her otherwise, there would be no turning back. “Fine. I’ll make the dumb appointment.” Although she’d acquiesced, she’d done so with a sigh and a pouting face. The cutest pouting face Paul thought he would ever lay eyes on.
Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?! Page 17