While Others Sleep, Next Year in Jerusalem, Rumors, Where The Best Began, The Circumstances, First Stone, Stoned Too, Stone Cold Christmas, The Saguaro Murders, There is a Season
While Others Sleep, Next Year in Jerusalem, Rumors, Where The Best Began, The Circumstances, First Stone, Stoned Too, Stone Cold Christmas, The Saguaro Murders, There is a Season
“I’m afraid the time has come for Jolly to go. I’ve been with that man for thirty-three years. I’ve stayed by his side, loyal as a woman could be but now it’s time for me to be free … to play the field again,” Joy said with pale thin hands wrapped around the porcelain coffee cup.
I was more than a little surprised by Joy’s serious proclamation. I have known Jolly and Joy for years and had to agree with her assessment; she had indeed been superbly loyal to Jolly. I was certain her faithfulness had been a challenge given his problem with the bottle. Jolly was a regular down at the Antler, Pelican Falls’ raucous tavern and second home for many thirsty townsfolk. Not that the Antler was filled with drunks and ne’er-do’-wells. The bar was more of a social gathering point where tales and gossip were traded among the silent witnesses … large mouth bass and ten-point bucks suspended from knotty pine walls. At the bar, the men shook dice to determine who would pay the tab and in the tap room full of kegs, a guy could normally join a game of gin rummy with a few dollars trading hands. Of course, the local hockey team sold pull-tabs from a lit booth beneath the large screen television, Pelican Falls’ largest.
Joy was left to raise three lovely daughters, two mischievous grandchildren, and an abandoned niece confined to a wheelchair. Joy wasn’t one to forsake her commitments. If those responsibilities where not enough, she volunteered at the local thrift store, in part to have first dibs, and the nursing home.
“Are you sure you are ready for this?” I asked gauging her warrants.
“As serious as a heart attack!” She pursed her lips and nodded slowly. She looked away from my eyes, down to the white saucer where three empty sugar bags lay next to a spoon. Her brown eyes darted about trying to find a place to settle. Joy was a pretty woman even without makeup although she looked tired … tired of life at least as she knew it. Her mousey brown hair was cut short and mostly hidden under a Twins baseball cap. She wore a man’s flannel shirt and baggy jeans held up by a royal blue nylon belt. Beside her lay one of those nylon parkas with the faux fur-lined hood. The parka wore a number of mending patches that attested to its age and Joy’s frugal nature.
Amidst the wonderful aroma of fresh baked caramel rolls I sipped my coffee and pondered why she was disclosing this to me. I mean it was only a few days before Christmas and hardly the time for such a grim endeavor. I glanced outside through the steamy windows of the Pelican Inn. Yesterday’s snow was blowing sideways across Main Street. A new storm was about to bury us. Inside, Barry Manilow sang Because It’s Christmas. I imagined Joy’s bungalow down on Pine Avenue all decorated for the holidays. That was Jolly’s biggest accomplishment each year … to adorn the house with sufficient lights to double the electric bill for the month. Maybe it wasn’t much of a lifetime achievement but it meant everything to Jolly.
After several moments of uncomfortable silence, I asked, “So do you have a plan?”
Joy shifted in the booth’s bench seat making unwelcomed sounds on the red Naugahyde cushion that always clung to a gal’s hind end. Joy nodded solemnly. “I am going to throw him out of my cousin’s airplane!”
“No!” I exclaimed.
She held both hands up to defend her position. “Yes, I’ve made up my mind and I want your help.”
Before I could respond or object, Connie, the chirpy owner of the Pelican Inn was at my side wearing a look of distress on her rosy face. “Pastor Kathy, I need you to come with me. Right Now!” Without further explanation, she grasped my arm and yanked me sideways from the booth. That woman had strength Wonder Woman would envy from lugging those trays of Blue Plate Specials to the hungry customers. I nearly fell to my knees, recovered, and followed her towards the rear of the noisy café. “Joy, I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything rash,” I shouted over my shoulder.
We whisked past gawking noon time customers, past the restroom doors festooned with wreaths, and through the swinging doors into the cold storeroom stacked to the ceiling with boxes of canned cream soups, condiments and the like. Digging in my heels I tried to slow Connie only to trip and fall into a box of damp lettuce.
“I’m not kidding girl this is an emergency!” Connie said more stern than I’d ever heard her speak. She jerked me up by my arm and dragged me to the back end of the dimly lit room. Huddled in the far corner was a young woman. She straddled a wooden box of oranges from Argentina. Long stringy blonde hair draped over her face partially concealing her identity. If she had entered from the rear door, which was never locked, she was ill dressed for the season − worn sneakers, jeans missing the knees, and a sleeveless red tank top. Her bare arms had goose bumps and her body shivered. Her fingers covered with assorted and mismatched rings wrapped around a can of Diet Coke. She didn’t look up at our arrival. Despondent would be an adequate description of her appearance.
