“How long you been sitting there?” she asked.
“The whole time ya been flingin’ them rocks and twigs.”
“Why didn’t you say something? You knew I was looking for you!”
“How’d I know that?”
“What else would I be doing down here?”
“Why would I think ya’d wanna find me? Maybe ya’d rather just as soon find me a floatin’ as a sittin’.”
“Arthur Landers! I would want no such thing!” She noticed his eyes brighten just the slightest. “For openers, you’re too big for me to have to drag your dead body all the way back to the house.” The light in his eyes quickly extinguished, giving her a pang of guilt. “Well,” softening her tone in the slightest, “of course I was looking for you. If you’ve been sitting right there all along I’m sure you even heard me ask where you’d gone!”
“I thought maybe ya was lookin’ for another old coot,” he said.
Jessie wondered if he’d been inferring anything about Lester, which he had. “No, Arthur, for better or for worse, you’re the old coot I was hunting.”
For better or for worse. Jessie’s turn of a phrase struck them both as the truth of the bottom line. Did it get much worse than this? They started talking at the same time, Arthur intending to ask Jessie point-blank if anything was going on between her and Lester (even though he’d decided there wasn’t, he needed to hear her say it); and Jessie just wanting to say it’s time they talked (or maybe she’d finally just give him what’s for!), then see where it went from there. After stepping on each other’s words, they both fell silent.
“You go,” she said after a long pause.
“Jessie, I reckon the reason I went to the grill was ta ask Lester straight out if he still had eyes for ya. Then when I saw him standin’ there right in front of ya . . .”
“Arthur Landers, dang your stubborn head! I don’t know where you got such a wild idea! Lester was doing nothing but pouring me a cup of coffee!” Rather than retaliate, which she expected, Arthur’s expression went from sheepish to hang-dog.
“For better or for worse, Arthur, here we are. And to tell you the truth, the last few days I’ve been remembering some of the better, and here’s the plain truth, Arthur: I wouldn’t have had the better—the best—of my years without you.”
Arthur was stunned, as stunned as Jessie had been by her own admission. He wasn’t one for fancy words or explaining himself either. Never had been. He felt inadequate to respond, the words binding and twisting themselves up inside of him. But speak he must. “Jessie,” he began, then he lowered his voice and repeated her name. “Jessie, ya know I’ve always been proud of ya, don’tcha?”
“Yes, Arthur,” she said, her voice quaking the slightest bit as she tried to fight the unbidden emotions (“emotions are not to be trusted”) rising up in her throat, “I know that.”
He started to take a step toward her but stopped. “What about Lester, Jessie? Do ya ever regret not marryin’ him?” His eyes searched hers, his vulnerabilities laid bare.
She stood silent for five seconds, carefully choosing her words. “For one thing, Arthur, he never asked me. And for another thing, I never loved Lester. Never. I chose to marry you when you asked me, Arthur, and I didn’t have to think twice about it. For close to sixty years now, come hell or high water, we’ve stuck it out. I know some of it hasn’t been pretty, but we’ve stuck it out. That must mean something, right?”
“I reckon it means somethin’, but Jessie. . . .” Arthur wanted to ask his wife if she loved him, which she hadn’t exactly said. He wanted to ask her if she reckoned memories were enough. He wanted, through his now blurring vision, to grab her in his arms and plant a claiming kiss on her lips.
And so he did.
Before he’d barely backed off he whipped out his Hohner and played a chorus of “It Had to Be You,” the music speaking what he simply could not. After the last note silenced, Jessie opened her mouth and out squeaked, “Me, too.” Then for the first time ever she simply allowed herself to bawl.
When Herm and Vera returned from church, they were stunned to find Arthur and Jessie sitting at the kitchen table, the deck of cards laid out, a bowl of freshly popped popcorn on the table.
“Euchre?” Arthur asked Herman. Herm’s eyes darted to Jessie, then to Vera, who was looking at Jessie.
“Me and Arthur against you and Herm,” Jessie said. And then she winked. Although Arthur and Jessie went on to lose the game, old memories and the fact they were just, by golly, used to each other, made playing the game—on the same team—enough of a victory in itself, at least for now.
27
By Tuesday morning, May Belle’s back had improved enough so that she could plant herself on the couch and make short journeys to the kitchen and bathroom without wanting to scream. Dorothy had phoned a couple of women on UMC’s Care Committee who saw to it that casseroles were dropped off at the Justice household. Here May Belle was supposed to be baking up a storm for Thanksgiving and people were serving her instead. She wasn’t used to that, but it also helped her realize how good it made others feel when she’d done the same for them; she could see it on their faces. What good was it to love giving if there were no grateful recipients? She concluded this was a good, albeit difficult, lesson God was teaching her and she gave thanks. One thing was evident, though, and that’s that she was not even near well enough to start cooking and baking up a storm. And if she tried, Dorothy said she’d come over there and hog-tie her before she’d allow her to set herself back. May Belle knew she’d do it, too. It was a difficult call to make, but she donned a cloak of humility and picked up her phone.
“Dorothy, I’m giving in. Thank goodness I am better and getting around a bit, but I need to let people know today that I’m not up to handling the big duties for our Thanksgiving dinner at church. When did you say your family’s arriving? And how will we work this?”
“Oh, May Belle! This is such good news! You’re on the road to recovery! Now just do-not-overdo-it. I have spoken my piece. As for my family, much to my delighted surprise, Jacob arrives late this very afternoon! We just hung up! He said things wrapped up quicker than he thought they might, his hardest case settling out of court. Vinnie and the boys will be here late tomorrow night. He couldn’t get them out of school any earlier. He was a little worried the airlines might be overbooked, but he assured me they wouldn’t accept any amount of bribing they might offer them to give up their seats. Don’t you worry about a thing either, dear. It’s the Wetstra clan to the rescue! And we’re all darn happy to do it. It’s just what we need to help us get over not being at the farm this year.”
“Oh, bless you, my friend. Bless you and yours. I’ve already started explaining to Earl that other people might be coming into our kitchen to cook and bake. He says he understands, but we’ll see. I know you’ll handle it just right, though. He’ll trust them all if you’re with them and I’m sitting nearby. Of course, he knows your boys, but he doesn’t see them that often, and teenagers change so much as they’re growing up that he might not recognize your grandsons, but he’ll be okay.” Dorothy knew May Belle was working to convince herself.
“Jacob and me will come by in the morning and see what you’ve got on your list, and if you don’t have one, since you’re up and around now, make one. And be specific. I’m not sure what we’ll do about the desserts. You know I stink at baking. But never fear, we’ll figure out something. Is that turkey thawing in your refrigerator?”
“Yes, ma’am. Since it was right at sixteen pounds—and goodness, if they’re all this small we’re liable to be in trouble!— I had Earl put it in the fridge when Nellie Ruth dropped it off. I gave it a little nudge with my finger just a while ago. It’s still got a ways to go, but it should be just right by Thursday morning. Probably a good idea to get it in really early so it has time to set before we slice it. I think it would be best to take it to church already sliced.”
“Look how smart you are: that is exactl
y what Theresa told us to do! I tell you, she’s a real crackerjack! But don’t you think about any of this. You just concentrate on getting well and we’ll do whatever needs to be done the best way we figure to do it. And you know, that reminds me: I have to phone Katie to see if she’ll cook Jessica’s turkey. Jessica called me on the verge of tears this morning saying at the last minute the hotel had booked up for the holiday and she thought she’d have her hands too full to do a turkey, which was the only thing she took on. I tried to keep her from volunteering in the first place but you know how conscientious she is. Poor thing, she is having such a time. . . .” Dorothy remembered that today was Jessica’s doctor’s appointment and she hoped it went well for her with the new Doctor Nielson.
“I better go, May Belle. I’ve got my own chores to accomplish, too. I better not get so busy checking in with everyone else that I forget my own to-do list! First off, now that Jacob’s coming in tonight, I’ve got to finish getting my house ready for my family. They said they all want to stay here with me and they don’t care how crowded we are. This ought to be something. I’m going to let them figure it out since I can’t. There’s my double bed, the double bed in the guest room, one couch and one rollaway bed I’ve borrowed in case none of those men fit on the couch—and I sure don’t want to sleep on it either. I reckon this whole entire house is gonna look like one giant pile of puppies when we get ready to go to bed!”
Katie hung up the phone after talking to Dorothy, then phoned Jessica to assure her it would be no trouble at all for her to cook the turkey. She would, in fact, come and pick it up since she had something to show her anyway. When Jessica asked if it was her hair, Katie simply moaned. “You have to promise me you will not laugh.” Jessica reminded Katie she had a doctor’s appointment and told her not to stop by until after four-thirty. Katie tried to guess what Jessica’s reaction to her hair might be, then she pictured Jacob looking at her head and . . . Perhaps that rat of a Colton Craig had, after all, reminded her that she was a woman since Jacob kept popping into her mind.
But wondering what anyone would think about her hair was the least of her frets: she’d never cooked a turkey before. She assumed they came with directions, though. If not, there was always the Internet. She for sure wasn’t going to ask Jessica how to cook it, though, since sick or not, stressed to the hilt or not, Jessica would take the job back. No, she’d handle this one on her own.
When Doctor Nielson saw how long it had been since Jessica’d had a checkup, he insisted on giving her a quick once-over along with a pregnancy test. He didn’t chat with her like Doc Streator always did when he’d examined her. She found getting a physical embarrassing and Doc’s casual conversation had always helped her relax. This doctor just went straight to work, only asking her questions that pointedly pertained to her health. Nothing about her daughter—who Doc would have asked about, or more likely chatted with in the reception area—or how the motel was doing or . . . It just wasn’t the same.
When Doctor Nielson was done with the examination, he said he was going to step out for a few moments to collect the lab results. He instructed her to go ahead and get dressed. He told her to open the door when she was ready, which she did. He sat on the stool and rolled it over to the end of the examining table where she’d climbed back up, legs dangling over the end. This left him looking up at her, which felt uncomfortable since he was the doctor and she was just the patient, but she was trapped.
“Jessica Joy,” he said, looking at her chart, “you are a healthy, pregnant woman.” He looked up and smiled. It was the first she’d seen him smile and it completely changed his face. She’d been so expecting to hear the words confirming her pregnancy that to actually hear them didn’t faze her. “I see by your chart you have a five-month-old daughter. Physically you are in fine shape, and as you undoubtedly already know from your last experience—since I see Doc made a note here that you had it pretty bad during your first pregnancy—the morning sickness will probably soon subside and you’ll get your energy back. I’d like to ask you, though, how are you feeling emotionally about this pregnancy? Was it planned?”
Jessica’s face turned crimson. Such a personal question. “No,” she said, the sound barely escaping her mouth.
“How do you feel about it?”
“I have good days when I know everything will be okay because God will provide, and I have bad days when I just feel sorry for myself.” There. She’d shared a basic truth with the new doctor, who, upon hearing her words, broke out in the widest smile yet.
“That’s a healthy answer that lets me know you are in touch with not only reality but your own emotions.” He stunned her by whipping a tape recorder out of his pocket and jabbering into it about his findings. It felt odd to hear herself described in terms such as “white, healthy . . . female coming to me with symptoms of . . . pregnant . . . asked patient to return in one month . . . will be starting her on. . . .” He clicked off the recorder, rifled it back in his pocket, looked at his watch and then at her. “Any questions?”
“Kind of,” she said, wishing she hadn’t.
“And they are?”
“Do you talk into a tape recorder about everyone you see?”
“Yes, ma’am. Then I pay a medical transcriber to type it up and put the notes in your file. That way everyone, including me, can read my findings, since my writing tends to verge on scribble when I’m working to stay on schedule.” He took another quick look at his wristwatch just to make sure he was on task. “Anything else?” She shook her head. “I’d like to see you back in a month.”
“Yes, I heard you tell that to your recorder.”
“Right.” He extracted his prescription pad from his pocket and neatly printed on it. “These are for . . .”
“I heard it when you talked to the recorder. Take one a day. Vitamin plus iron.”
“Do you have a problem with me talking to my recorder, Mrs. Joy?” Although he didn’t have a stern tone to his voice, it held an authoritative note.
“Not at all,” Jessica said apologetically. “I’m . . . I’m just used to Doc Streator talking to me.”
It was a statement the young Doctor Nielson needed to hear. He couldn’t stop thinking about it the rest of the day. Maybe that was the secret to gaining the trust and acceptance of his new patients here in Partonville.
Throughout most of Jacob’s plane ride to Chicago, then on the puddle jumper to Hethrow, and again during the brief rental car ride to Vine Street, he fought a subtle grief about his family’s first-ever Thanksgiving away from Crooked Creek Farm. But he was glad he could come in a day early and had, since his last conversation with his mom, worked hard to clear the decks. If he had any luck at all, he’d be able to stay a whole week after Thanksgiving; it all depended on Monday’s phone call from his secretary. He hadn’t mentioned this possibility to his mom so she wouldn’t be disappointed if it didn’t come to pass. His mind wandered from one thing to the next as memories of Thanksgivings past paraded by. He recalled how his father carved the turkey, always beginning with V slices to the breast with the bone-handled knife, which he hoped hadn’t gone in the auction. He smiled at the crisp vision of him and his brother racing around the house as cowboys, each straddling an arm of the couch when it was time to ride, their baby sister whining she didn’t have a horse—their father bouncing her up and down on his leg. I still miss you, Sis. He’d loved the way that first taste of pumpkin pie slid down his throat when dessert was finally served, which was not until his dad finally said he thought everything had gone down the hatch far enough to make room. He smiled remembering the day he’d first tasted May Belle’s pumpkin pie and realized his mom’s had really been awful. But nonetheless, his dad always said, “A little slice of heaven, honey.” Yes, he was anxious to see his brother and mother, to dwell in the land of shared memories, if only for a little while.
Visions of his mom downing those nitroglycerin tablets during his last visit appeared like annoying pop-up screens on his computer.
She was eighty-seven, almost eighty-eight. She had already outlived the national averages. He needed to spend more time with her while he could. On the plane ride, he’d come to grips with the reality that he was lonesome for family, if not just lonesome, period—something he didn’t like thinking about. He’d looked out the airplane window at the top of the billowing clouds and wondered, was it his age? Is fifty-five making me sentimental, sappy or . . . smart? Was he lonesome because he’d lived a half-country and more away from his family? Or maybe it was his last in a long string of failed loves, most women not living up to his expectations in the end, the one who did having crushed his heart to bits.
WELCOME TO PARTONVILLE, the familiar old road sign read. In a few short minutes, his mother was opening her front door. He wrapped his arms around her waist and picked her up off the floor as he hugged her. “Jacob Henry,” Dorothy said into his ear, “don’t you go throwing your back out now. That’s all we’d need!” Jacob gently lowered his mom to the floor and backed up a step to take a good look at her. More creases in her neck, he thought. A little less hair than three months ago maybe. Definitely more age spots on the hands he gripped tightly in his own. But his mom’s eyes still twinkled with mischief and spunk, which had always been one of his favorite things about her.
Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?! Page 27