“Nope. Hasn’t worked for decades. It’s been sittin’ there so long the door probably doesn’t work anymore either. That Victrola,” she said, pointing at it with one of the dice she’d picked up, “used to be Arthur’s folks and he just can’t seem to get rid of it.” She picked up the remaining die and gave them a quick shake and roll. Nothing. It flashed through Jessie’s mind that as cantankerous as her husband could be, he was equally as sentimental—although he didn’t reveal that side as often. He showed it most, she thought, in how attached he was to his old coveralls, his old chair, how when she’d aged out of the ball league he’d hung her old baseball mitts on display in the back bedroom, collected all her programs in a box . . . slept in the hospital chair beside her when she’d miscarried their only pregnancy and packed away the baby things before she’d arrived home. The box was probably still in the attic; she’d never asked.
“See that old sheet there next to it?” she asked Katie, pointing at the tower up against the Victrola. “It’s covering a stack of four dusty boxes of old 78s we inherited with the broken Victrola.” Jessie was trying to sound disgusted, but her voice betrayed other feelings. “Arthur says he can still hear his dad singing along to those scratchy old things. Says they’re the reason he started playing the harmonica. Says he’s gonna find somebody to fix that thing one day, listen to every single one of those records—one right after the other—until he can play them all on his Hohner.” It was her turn to roll again. She picked up the dice, gave an aggressive shake (as if to shake her anger back up), then all but slammed them to the table. “But then Arthur says lots of things now, doesn’t he?” Her head gave a frustrated wag as she shot a glance at Vera, who was just picking up the dice at the other table and was briefly hurled into a bout of guilt, which she tried to shake off before rolling, lest it give her bad luck.
“Is there no one in town who does repairs on such things?” Katie asked, popping a chocolate-covered raisin in her mouth, one of the three small pieces of chocolate she would allow herself this evening.
“I haven’t heard tell of any such person,” Maggie said, “and I pretty much hear tell about everything in the shop!” A burst of laughter rippled through the room. It was amazing, Katie mused, how women could jabber away, roll the dice and add the scores all at the same time. “I have an old grandfather clock I’d love to get repaired,” Maggie said. “Oh, I suppose there’s a clock repair person in Hethrow, but you ladies keep me so busy with your beautifying and my great-grandkids keep me so busy with their lives that I just never seem to get around to looking one up.” While the dice bounced on the tables, the women came up with a litany of broken antiques and collectibles they’d hung onto, thinking they’d get them fixed one day. Things they just couldn’t part with no matter how many pieces they were in.
“Sam Vitner doesn’t do repairs?” Katie asked.
“All that Sam Vitner knows how to do,” Gladys pronounced in judgment, “is to tell a good story.”
“Apparently stories good enough to talk you into buying that old wheelbarrow you’ve got in your front yard, the one you put your boulder collection in.” Dorothy’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “What was his story on that wheelbarrow, Gladys?”
Gladys’s lips drew tight across her teeth. She picked through the bridge mix until she found a caramel. Before she put it in her mouth she answered, “That it was big enough to hold my boulders.”
Josh hung up from talking to Shelby—forty-five minutes, something he’d never get away with if his mom was home—then checked his e-mail. Good! One from Alex. All it said, however, was “SCORE! Landed a date with Jennifer. Will keep you posted.” He decided to send Dorothy an e-mail. Anything but do his homework. Besides, he was feeling a little punk and talking to Dorothy always made him feel better. Dear Outtamyway,
Mom said you didn’t know I wasn’t going to be around for Thanksgiving. Sorry I hadn’t mentioned it. Guess I just didn’t think about it. Mostly what I’ve been thinking about is how strange it is mom’s letting me take the SUV by myself. First solo road trip. I feel ready for it. Too bad you and Sheba can’t hop a ride. We’d hammer down all the way to the windy. Might be the best part of my holiday. Probably would.
Sounds like you’re all going to have a big time, like you call it. Busy but big. I’m gonna spend the whole weekend with my dad and his Daily Kids. I think I’ve told you I call them his Daily Kids cause they’re the ones who are with him every day. I guess they’re my half brother and sister but they don’t feel like it. (I think I’ve got more halves of relatives than anyone I know!) They just feel like his kids. They’re okay, I guess.
Anyway, I’m hoping to get to see Alex one of the days. Maybe Friday or Saturday—although dad’s family usually likes to go look at the Christmas windows at Marshall Field’s on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Ever seen them? They have these scenes like from movies or whatever. Kinda cool but never seems worth the hassle to me, not since I got past ten years old, I think. I’d rather go to a movie. We’ll see. Gonna e-mail Alex next to see what his schedule looks like. Hard to tell since he finally got a date with Jennifer. He’s been working on that since kindergarten I think. Good for him. Now maybe he’ll stop razzing me about Shelby.
Speaking of Shelby, she told me to tell you hi. She said you’d be seeing her “Grannie M” at bunco tonight and then for your “pink scalp appointment.” (Shelby said YOU call it that. I think it’s mean. You have hair. Just not much of it.) Guess Mrs. Malone mentioned it to her because she said she’s always happy when it’s your day since you’re fun. Of course I agreed.
Wonder if Shelby’s gonna be at your Thanksgiving dinner. Forgot to ask her. Doubt it though. She’s got all those relatives. I’ll miss her over the holiday. (How sappy is THAT?!) I’ll miss you too. And mom. (Okay, Sap Overload.)
Gotta study. Talk to you soon, before I leave, I hope.
Your pal,
Joshmeister
After Arthur had stormed out of the grill he and Herm had spent the first hour of their torturous streak just tearing around in the truck, Arthur’s anger causing the truck tires to kick up gravel on the back roads or lay a patch on the hard road a time or two as he tromped on the gas pedal as fast as his mouth was flying. There’d been a time during their youth when laying a patch of rubber would have made them both proud. All it had done this night was to make Herm a nervous wreck. Herm didn’t know it, but Arthur had scared himself a little, although, of course, he’d never admit it. Herm’s feet had been pressed into the floorboard and his hand frozen to the door handle as though it had rigor mortis. That’s when Herm had suggested they stop by The Tap and play a game or two of shuffleboard, maybe have a Schlitz to calm their nerves. Since the Hookers would be gathering, Herm didn’t think they should go home, so for lack of anything better to do, Arthur pulled into the parking lot of The Tap and in he’d stomped.
But Arthur’s anger made his beer taste bitter. After two swallows, he’d left it on the bar, not even carrying it over to the shuffleboard table with him. To make matters worse, here he was trying not to think about Jessie and there she was, her eyes looking at him from a dozen different pictures hanging on the wall. Since The Tap sponsored the Wild Musketeers baseball team (and had the best Friday night fish fry in the county, including the one served by weasel Lester), there was last season’s winning team photo right on the wall next to his end of the shuffleboard, right along with about a dozen other years’ worth that spread the entire length of the entire shuffleboard. And since Jessie was the pitcher, she was always front and center in the photos. A dozen sets of her feisty eyes were looking right at him while he tried to finesse the puck down the board toward his target. The same eyes Lester had no doubt found so attractive. The same eyes whose determination and spunk had, so many years ago, lured them both to her front porch.
Dad-gum it! A man can’t fault another man for havin’ been attracted to her, kin he? I mean, just look at her ! His eyes scanned the nearest photo one more time. But d
ad-gum it, one man got her and the other didn’t and that’s the way it’s gonna stay—even if I have to fight for that yelpin’, throwin’, cantankerous woman!
It struck Arthur that his wife might be a lot of things, but gol’dern she’d never been a sneak. He figured if she got it in her fool head she liked another man better, she’d have just told him. Just like that. Jessie didn’t tritsy-foot around. She’d a zinged a few words at me just like she was pickin’ off somebody at second base, and that would have been that. Right?
“Let’s go, Herm,” Arthur said after intentionally sliding the pucks down the shuffleboard and into the end gutter with a thunk. “Let’s get out of here.” Herm didn’t have to ask what was wrong; he’d caught Arthur looking at those pictures time and again even though it was clear he was trying not to.
While the ladies were shopping he and Herm (after trying to entertain themselves playing shuffleboard) had made their way back to the house, hidden the truck in the old shed-turned-garage-turned-shed (Herm’s idea to avoid any confrontations until Art calmed down), hiked down to the creek and seated themselves down near the fire pit. Arthur sat on a stump staring toward the creek water, which was all but invisible since the sun had long ago set. As much as he hated thinking about this whole gol-dern predicament, he had to sort it out. His gut felt like a rolling boil of confusion. What was he to do—if anything? He thought back to when he and Jessie were first married, how every evening she wasn’t on the road playing ball they used to jaunt down to the creek, Jessie saying she had to keep her bending and springing and moving legs in shape. She’d jump the narrow crossings of the creek and on the heels of her landing stop to do a few toe touches and deep squats or toss her arm as though she was throwing a zinging pickoff play to second. He’d always been attracted to Jessie’s enthusiasm and competitive nature, her “giddyup and go-go-go,” he used to call it. They’d started their creek ritual early in their marriage and if he hadn’t been so ... whatever ... he would have smiled at the memories. When she’d finally wear herself down, they’d sometimes sit on a couple of stumps and watch the sunset together. Now it was dark and cold and damp and he was sitting across from his cousin who was getting on his very last nerve and who, by the way, might have started this whole dang mess!
When had he and Jessie stopped taking their evening constitutionals? His brain hurt. Must have been at least . . . well, maybe now that he thought about it, maybe a decade or two since they’d walked down to the creek together. Surely it ain’t been that long! Visions of Herm and Vera’s creek-side hand-holding rifled into his head. He picked up a twig and cracked it in half, then he yelled at the creek to “shut up so as I can think!” The bubbling wasn’t soothing like it usually was; it sounded more like blurping and slurping that was mocking him, keeping him from concentrating on the matter at hand, which was the state of his marriage. Just the other day he’d heard some television talk-show guru ask a couple about “the state of their marriage” and he’d jokingly said to the guru, “Such hogwash. But if I had to pick I’d say ours is a wind-whipped Nebraska.” Now the question didn’t seem funny. When had he ever—ever?—during its nearly sixty years of existence considered the state of their marriage? A marriage just was. That was a girlie-guy thing to think about.
Lester aside, what was the state of his marriage? The state of my particular marriage. I’d say it’s a gol’ dern, belly-achin’ annoyin’ mess, he thought, but he had no earthly idea what to do about it. What if she really was seeing Lester? Then what? And if she wasn’t (which he was more inclined to believe now that he’d spent some time calming down and trying to sort it all out), well, he’d made a mess out of things now, with both his wife and Lester. Herm had tried to warn him. Me and my hot head. Then again, there were all those signs.
“Arthur,” Herm said after his cousin yelled “Shut UP!” to the creek for the second time, “I think you’re having yourself a nervous breakdown—or worse—over something that you are plumb imagining.” Herm felt like a broken record, but what else was there to say that might help calm his cousin who was sizzling like the lit wick of a firecracker.
“You sayin’ I imagined Lester’s googly eyes? You gonna tell me you didn’t see ’em? You gonna tell me my wife didn’t disappear for hours and blame it on a bag of potato chips? You gonna . . .” He suddenly found himself with nothing else to add, having said it all time and again in the last hours, so right out loud he told himself to just shut up, which saved Herm the effort.
“Art,” Herm said, exhaustion plaguing him now, “even if Lester did smile at Jessie, you smile at people all the time yourself and it don’t mean a thing. Why, you smile at Vera and you don’t see me getting all huffy, do you?” Herm pushed the button on his Timex. The illumination behind the hands let him know he’d been yawning for an hour already and it was only 9 P.M. He was cold from sitting on a stump in the damp night air, the coldness seeping through his clothing and radiating down to his arthritic knees and up to his bursitis-laden elbows. And he was hungry and tired. And he was sick of listening to Arthur. Enough was enough. The alarm had gone off at 5:15 A.M. to get them ready for breakfast at Harry’s, and most of the day since had been filled with tension. He was done in. And Arthur, although he might be crackin’ up, had at last finally run out of words.
But bunco sometimes didn’t break up until 10 P.M. or so. Where were they to go if not to the house? It was their only option.
20
The last time Katie and Gladys were paired up for the evening was at the head table. “I understand you’ve volunteered to help with the Thanksgiving dinner,” Gladys said as she rolled the dice.
“That’s right.”
“Have you ever worked at anything like that before?” Gladys asked, sure Katie had no idea what she might be in for. Gladys scored three points before having to hand the dice off to their opponents.
Katie wanted to respond with her long litany of volunteer projects, which had drawn the top socialites in Cook County, made millions of dollars and at which she’d worked her tail off coordinating all the committees and served the hors d’oeuvres. But that would have been an out-and-out lie. The only thing she’d ever actually volunteered for was to head up a commercial Realtors’ committee on urban development and then, all she’d really done was appoint people to do the work. She hadn’t even called the caterer. “No, I have not. I’m sure you’ll have much to teach me,” Katie said ever so sincerely to Gladys, continuing to grease the axle of the one woman she figured could rally the troops to make her new venture miserable if she set her mind to it. She also knew if Gladys was on her side, she could help jump-start the project since she was well connected and also good at appointing people—and she was relentless when making sure they were doing their jobs. She recalled Dorothy had once said she and Gladys might become “good buddies” one day. Although Katie saw no opportunity for that, when it came to getting things done, it almost stung to think she and Gladys might be more alike than she’d care to imagine.
“She’d teach you if she could,” Dorothy said to Katie, “but it will have to be another time since she’s not going to be working on Thanksgiving Day either.” Figuring she’d made her counterpoint when she noticed Gladys huff and jerk down her blazer, she added, “That’s because Gladys is blessed to be able to spend the day with her family, which is wonderful.” And it was, they all agreed. Especially Katie. This time not to grease Gladys’s cooperation, but because she wished she could say the same about her own Thanksgiving day.
Katie scored the last four points to give her and Gladys the win for the final round of the evening. After everyone tallied their scores, Gladys discovered that the last win had secured her the prize for the most wins. Had it been anyone other than Jessie who’d purchased the prizes, she might have been more filled with anticipation, but just the same, she did love being a winner. Nellie Ruth took most buncos and Vera was absolutely thrilled to win the booby prize, even though it meant she had the worst scorecard.
When
the ladies were handed their bags, Gladys opened hers first and said, “A black oven mitt. Black. Well. At least it won’t show the dirt, I guess.” Nellie Ruth opened her bag next and did her very best to hide her disappointment. A beige dish towel would definitely not go with her Splendid Rose kitchen paint. Even though ES had yet to begin, she’d already picked out a colorful floral-print kitchen tablecloth with a black-and-white-checked gingham border.
“Gladys, what would you think about trading? That mitt will go perfectly with my new kitchen colors when we’re done. I’m afraid I’ve burned so many holes in my old mitt that there’s now more hole than fabric.” Gladys, who had raised an eyebrow at Nellie Ruth’s mention of “we,” as in “when we’re done,” took one look at the beige dish towel—beige being her favorite color—and the swap was made. Of course, Vera didn’t have to open her bag to know a nylon scrubber awaited her, and yet she couldn’t remember exactly what color it was. She stuck her hand in and took out her prize. “What an interesting shade of . . . would you call this green?”
“I’d call it something that gets the job done,” Jessie said. “What difference does it make what color a scrubber is as long as it scrubs?”
“Right,” Vera said. “That is exactly right.” I’ll keep it under my sink.
“You gals stay seated,” Jessie said, looking at the cuckoo clock. “Vera and I are going to bring the coffee and dessert right to you.” They scurried off to the kitchen. “You get the Styrofoam cups and bag of napkins,” Jessie instructed. “I’ll grab the doughnuts.” When they got back to the living room, Vera set about giving each lady a cup and a napkin. Jessie came around behind her plunking a doughnut on each of their napkins. At least, Gladys noted, she’d used tongs. Last time she’d used her fingers. (Of course, the tongs had been Vera’s idea.) Katie started to take a pass, then realized it would look rude. She also started to ask for a knife, since a half of the frosted greasy-looking doughnut before her would surely be worth heartburn and five pounds, but there was no knife. She decided she could just quietly eat what she wanted and leave the rest. Jessie set the box containing the last of the dozen doughnuts at the table in front of Gladys and went back to the kitchen to get the coffee pot, sugar container and the mug of spoons she kept on her counter. She’d wait to see if anyone asked for cream, which she hoped they did not because she forgot to buy some. She and Arthur didn’t use cream—and neither did Herm and Vera—so she hadn’t given it a thought when they’d been running their errands this afternoon. She went from table to table pouring the black brew into the cups hoping to get the evening wrapped up.
Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?! Page 20