CHAPTER THREE Chip
To prove my point, seventy-five-year-old Bertie and her rusty pickup truck were already in the parking lot, beating me to the store as usual.
Snow didn’t deter the self-proclaimed queen of Missile.
I used to tease John that he, not Bertie, was the real queen.
Which was funny because he couldn’t have been more opposite of a queen.
John, like me, was country. All man and built hardy.
Growing up in these parts contributed to being masculine.
That was generally the only acceptable trait for the men around here.
Our small community wasn’t bad, though. People here believed in the old adage of live and let live.
No one asked the serious questions, and no one shared what happened behind closed doors.
John and I weren’t out, but we weren’t in either.
No flags were waved. No attended parades made us feel proud to be gay.
We just lived who we were. We assumed they knew, and they assumed we knew they knew. With five hundred people spread over twenty or more miles around the town, and only sixty actually living in town, no one seemed to give a shit.
Kicking snow off my boots, I pushed the front door of the mercantile open.
A pair of bells dangling from a small chain gave my arrival away.
I raised a hand to Bertie, who was on the phone arguing with the beer driver about whether he could get through the pass coming out of Idaho.
I heard her call him a wuss and then hang up on him.
“Jesus!” she exclaimed. “When did men become such pussies?”
“And good morning to you, too, grumpy.”
“Screw that!” she declared, waving me off. “Glad you could make it in, bossman.”
“I’m no bossman.”
“That’s a fact, but the deed says you own this joint now, and I’m just being respectful,” she stated.
“Since when?” I asked. “You’re as old as the dirt this place sits on, lady. Why start now?”
Bertie laughed and began refilling the cigarettes behind the counter. Truth be told, I never would’ve made it without her knowledge and experience of the day-to-day operations around here. The woman was getting long in the tooth, but she was tireless.
She’d been here with Grampa first. Then he retired.
Bertie stayed. Then she worked with Mom and Dad.
They were killed. Bertie stayed. Grampa came back after my folks died, and I helped out during the summers.
Grampa died. Bertie stayed. She was the backbone of the store, and frankly, I was amazed she was still with me.
“We open on Christmas?” she asked, knowing damn well we were. “Cuz I sure as shit ain’t coming in on Jesus’s birthday.”
“It’s my birthday, too,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, but you ain’t Jesus.”
“I’m gonna be here,” I said, squatting below the counter, nudging her out of the way, and opening the safe so we could restock the petty cash. “I got nothing else going on,” I mumbled.
My love of Christmas died a year ago when John left.
I’d been the king of Christmas in this town before that, and took my duty of being born on the actual holiday very seriously.
Now I hated Christmas. Actually, I hated every holiday.
And if I heard Mariah and that fucking song one more time, I was blasting the sound system, or my brain, with my shotgun.
Bertie huffed her disappointment, turning toward me, hands on her hips.
“Can you at least try to get out of this funk?” she began.
“John left ya, boy. He obviously ain’t coming back as it would appear.
Hell, even his folks don’t talk to him,” she added, twisting her mouth into a disgusted frown.
“He’s embarrassed by what he did, is what it is,” she stated.
“Don’t matter,” I replied, standing up and opening the cash register. “I never liked Christmas anyway.”
“Bullshit!” she said, waving me off with a dismissive snarl. “I never met a boy who loved Christmas the way you did. Birthday and all, you loved this time of year.”
“Well, I changed my mind.”
“What you need to change is that attitude, young man,” she said. “Ain’t no new boy gonna want someone as sullen as you are these days.”
I knew she was correct, but I couldn’t seem to move forward. “I had my one shot at happiness, Bertie. I lost him, and that’s the way it goes. I don’t give a shit anymore,” I admitted.
She inched closer and rested her hand on my shoulder while I leaned over the cash register, pretending to be busy. But my shuddering shoulders while I stifled a sob gave me away.
“Shhhh,” she whispered. “You’re too good a man to be alone, Junior.”
“What do you know?” I griped, slamming the register door shut.
“More than you think, wiseass,” she began. “I grew up with your granddaddy. He was a good man. Your daddy was his spittin’ image and just as good. But you? You’re the best of the lot, boy.”
I turned away, about to walk off, tears welling in my eyes. “Thanks, Bert,” I muttered.
She pulled me around by my shoulder and placed her hands on them both, forcing me to face her. Her hand lifted my chin. “It’s been nearly a year, son. You’re stronger than this.”
I wanted to crumble. To drop to my knees and pound on the concrete floor as hard as I possibly could. Anything to hide the rush of tears cascading down my cheeks like a mountain creek in the springtime.
“It’s all too much, Bert,” I gasped, slobbering as I spoke. “Mom and Dad. Then Grampa. Then John up and leaves town. I got no one left.”
“You got me, dontcha? I ain’t going nowhere,” she soothed, keeping my chin firmly in her hand. “And I love you like my own kin. I’m here for you.”
The dam in my eyes released the backup, and I fell into her arms. Bertie was barely five feet tall, but she was a strong woman. “I’m not doing well, Bert,” I confessed.
“Think I don’t know that, son?” she asked. She wiped my tears. “How old are you, Chip?”
“You know I’m twenty-four,” I stated. “Twenty-five in two weeks.”
“Yep! I do know that fact,” she agreed. “But lemme give you some advice. You’re still so young. Painful stuff happens during one’s life. And I’ll certainly admit this, son. You’ve had an unfair amount already, and I’m certain losing John feels like the last straw.”
“You could say that,” I agreed.
Her mouth pinched in warning. “You aren’t going to like this, son, but there will be more heartache. You can count on it,” she lectured. “But there’s the good stuff in between that you don’t wanna miss out on.”
“After a year of hell. I’m not sure good stuff has my address.”
Bertie chuckled. “You’re too pretty to be alone for long, son. You have your daddy’s physique and your momma’s pretty face.”
“Uh… thanks. I think,” I said.
“Men who look like you,” she began, holding her fingers up.
“Men who have your work ethic. Men who have your heart,” she continued, peeling a finger back each time.
“Let’s just say they don’t stay on the market very long,” she pointed out.
“Most women in this town would kick their men to the curb for a shot at you.”
“But what about the guys?” I wisecracked.
“Between you and me, now that you’re available, I think there are a couple of boys in town questioning their preferences.”
I smiled through my tears and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Bert.”
She touched my face. “There’s that handsome smile,” she said. “He’s out there, Chip. And I bet he’s looking for someone just like you as we’re talkin’ ’bout him. Whatcha think?”
“Do you think he knows where Missile, Montana, is?” I asked, watching as the first gas customer pulled up to the pumps outside.
“Well, that is the million-dollar question,” she answered. “Do you believe in Christmas miracles?”
“I used to,” I admitted. “I used to.”
My voice trailed off as I thought about John, Grampa, and my folks. And as if she could read my mind, Bertie spoke.
“They’re not here with us, but I bet they’d want you to be happy.
If I had to admit some truth about that boy, even John wants that for you,” she ruminated.
“John was a good person, son, but sometimes two people aren’t meant to be a forever sorta thing.
How about you look for your good boy? Your forever boy. ”
I drew my lips together in contemplation. “Ya think?” I asked. “Christmas miracle, you say?”
Bertie leaned closer just as Buster Simmons strode in the front door. “Just remember this, though,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling like I’d never witnessed. “With Christmas miracles, you have to believe, and you have to have an open heart that’s ready to be filled again.”
I grinned at her. “You’re a wise old broad.”
“Careful calling me old, punk. I’m all you got right this moment.”
“Love you, Bert.”
“I know you do, son,” she replied. “I’m rooting for you. Now get your ass out in the garage. Mrs. Hatfield is coming in for new tires in fifteen minutes. I sold her the expensive ones, so you can give me a raise.”
I turned around, shaking my head as I headed toward the service garage. Bertie was otherworldly wise. She knew stuff. So, I figured she could be right. Maybe there was a Christmas miracle out there for me.