Chapter 18
Eighteen
aplomb (n.): self-confidence or assurance, especially in a demanding situation
Lucy
Monday morning, I arrive to find Dot has poured herself into a form-fitting dress of multicolored candy stripes cinched with a wide red belt.
Have I mentioned that one reason Dot’s such a stupendous hugger is that she’s pillowy all over?
Today, though, the fabric of her dress gathers more than usual around her ample bosom and middle.
“How do I look?” she asks. “Be honest.”
She looks like a pinata. I tilt my head and open my mouth, hoping something tactful falls out.
“Ugh,” she says, “wouldn’t you know I got suckered into buying something that isn’t machine washable. This isn’t supposed to have ruching!”
“You are adorable as always, Dot.” It isn’t a lie.
“Yeah, well, it’s not fair. Wouldn’t it be amazing if I could throw myself in the dryer and come out wrinkle-free and two sizes smaller? Already Tony has lost six pounds since I stopped baking.” She exhales. “Okay, I’m done. I’m over it. Hey, how was your weekend? How’s Mister Man?”
It’s a nickname Dot adopted for Chase from the time she first met him as a chubby almost-four-year-old with a lingering preference for hand gestures over words and an unusually serious face. These days, given his advanced vocabulary and serious expression, it fits all the more.
“Ooh, I can’t wait to hear what he dreams up for a costume this year!”
We don’t much participate in Halloween festivities—it’s not my favorite holiday or Chase’s. But Chase is fervent about dressing up for the Candy Crawl, when local businesses pass out candy to the steady stream of wannabe princesses, superheroes, and sumo wrestlers.
“Oh, you know Chase,” I say. “He’s got something in mind that’s more obscure than ever. Have you heard of H.J. Andrews? Yeah, didn’t think so. I’ll let you know if it sticks.”
“That kid! I tell you, he is somethin’ else.”
I turn to leave.
“Nothing can top last year, though,” she adds. “When your kiddo came in here dressed as a skunk, I—”
“Badger.”
“Oh, right. Badger!” Dot heaves with laughter. Once she’s exhausted that, she draws a breath so deep her shoulders rise and fall. “Geez, I love that kid. And, you know, Lucy, I haven’t seen him in too long. You guys should really come over for dinner.”
In the past this has been an easy no. If you can believe it, Dot and I rarely socialize outside of the office—unless you count waving at each other as we pass in our cars every Sunday on what locals call church row.
Dot is very involved over at the Episcopalian church, while I’m over at Charity Falls Community.
But while mentally scouring my calendar for obstacles, reasons not to add Dot and Tony to our limited social life, I sense a check in my spirit.
Why don’t we ever hang out? I’m ashamed to recall how often I’ve rejected the invitation.
Is friendship a big fat inconvenience for me?
Is it the age difference? Because honestly, most of the time I forget Dot is old enough to be my mom.
What does it say about me that I’ve agreed to meet Ian for coffee but don’t have time for the bestest, bestest person in Charity Falls?
Let’s face it, I cling to my precious routine every bit as much as Chase does. What a punk I’ve been.
Dot is still talking. “. . . knock out another dish from my Thai cookbook while you diagnose whatever is going on with that beautiful stripey plant you gave me.”
“You mean the white wave philodendron? What’s wrong with it?”
“That’s the question. Maybe it just needs repotting, but really, the pot seems plenty big. It looks super healthy, but the whole thing keeps flopping forward like an eighties hair metal band. I should name it Bon Jovi. Ha!”
It’s cute how she cracks herself up.
“Or Twisted Sister,” I offer, smiling as I move to her windowsill and begin my regular inspection of the jumble of plants there.
Dot blasts another laugh. “That’s it! That’s the one.”
“I’ll bet the flopping has nothing to do with the pot.
” This is something I learned myself through trial and error.
Tempted as I am to bless my houseplants with a shallow drink of water several times a week—because, let’s face it, watering plants is way cheaper than a massage and every bit as therapeutic—most plants prefer to be watered less often but more deeply.
Otherwise, the roots never have reason to travel farther down into the soil to seek nourishment.
Shallow watering equals shallow roots. And top-heavy plants tend to fall on their faces.
And there it is again, the spiritual analogy I’ve been pondering since yesterday’s service. Deeply rooted. Flourishing in any season.
I pinch several yellowing leaves off Dot’s African violet. There is, in fact, a bounty of botanical imagery in Scripture.
“Would you believe the number of references to specific plant names in the Bible is somewhere around one hundred and twenty?” I say, and Dot’s eyes bulge. “Anyway, we’d love to come for dinner.”
Once again today is deadline day—zero hour minus seven to be exact, and I’m inputting the last of the new classified ads when a cacophony of noise and several unsavory words ring out from inside my editor’s office.
This side of the doorknob quakes and clatters.
At long last, the heavy sable door explodes open with a thud and Sam staggers forward, red-faced with the effort.
“Criminy!” he blusters. “What a lousy excuse for a door!”
For a moment, he seems befuddled about why he opened it in the first place. Then his lips return to their usual half-snarl. “Montgomery, can I see you in here, please?”
Hoo boy. I hit the Save button on my computer and hustle my backside past him. Close proximity only serves to verify off-the-chart grouch vibes.
Before I can take my usual seat, Sam stops me with a raised hand. It shakes, and Sam’s hands don’t normally shake. “Nah, don’t bother sitting. This’ll only take a second.” Clearly Sam is more than grouchy. He’s scrambled. “Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?”
This can only mean one thing. Sam needs something significant.
“Now, keep your hair on. I need you to handle things here today.” He snags his keys off the desk and stuffs them into his front pants pocket.
“H-h-handle things?”
“Yes, handle things, Lucy. Take charge. Run the show.” Sam walks in a circle, looking lost. Then he does it again. He seems surprised to find me still standing there. “Well, can you help me find my phone? I’ve gotta go check on Noleen. Her blood pressure is skyrocketing.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” This can’t be good, considering she’s still recovering from last week’s surgery.
“Probably need to run her to the ER.” Sam’s lips quiver, something I’ve never witnessed. “I don’t get it, though. She seemed fine this morning. I should never have left.”
“There it is, Sam,” I say, pointing to his bulging shirt pocket.
“There’s what?”
“Your phone. In your pocket. But—”
“Thank you. I’ll try to check in later.”
“But Sam, I don’t—”
His gaze hardens. “Yes you do, yes you can, and yes you will, Lucy. I’m counting on you. Just get the bloody paper out the door.”
My eyelid spasms like never before. I’m still staring after Sam with my mouth ajar when he turns back.
“And find someone to fix that blasted door!”
***
Ten minutes later, Dot yells out her window at me. “What in the . . . Lucy, what in the world are you doing?”
It’s a fair question. Never before has she seen me lie flat on the grass behind the office, still as a corpse, working through my whole deep breathing sequence. And here’s why: This is a first.
I open my eyes. “Oh, just telling my body that everything is going to be fine.” I rise to my feet with a little wobble and finish with an upward arm stretch.
Dot strides toward me like a woman of singular purpose. She cups my cheeks in her hands and brings her face so close to mine I can smell her fruity gum.
“Listen to me, girl,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You is smart. You is kind. You is important.”
I give her an exaggerated eye roll. “Not funny,” I say, stifling a laugh. I have to hand it to her. She knows my love language is literary references.
“You got this,” she says, marching back inside without a backward glance.
One more intake of breath. Okay. This is as good as it’s going to get.
***
At zero hour minus two, I’ve still got a towering stack of pages to proofread and a new situation I have no option but to handle.
I’m heading down the hall to Brad Vickery’s mole hole to do just that when Dot yanks me into her office.
Sitting open on her oversized monitor is the page one layout, and she’s flipping back and forth between two potential images for the above-the-fold money shot.
Both photos are color saturated and stunning.
“Nice!” I say.
“Okay, but help. Peacocks or Friday Night Lights? Peacocks . . .” She lingers on the image of two glorious luminescent peafowl loitering at the entrance to Sweet Reads, looking for all the world as if they’ve strolled by to order a cup of herbal tea.
This summer, it became a thing among tourists to stalk the famous feathered pair and share images on social media—hashtag #FowlWeatherInCharityFalls.
Then she flips to the second image. “Or Friday Night Lights . . .” This one had to have been taken by a high-flying drone.
The hair rises on my arms. Captured here is a jaw-dropping sunset over Charity Falls High’s first home football game of the season.
The depth of field is dreamy, from the uniformed players lined up in starting formation in the foreground, to the warm honey and apricot clouds and glowing mountains beyond.
This image drips with Americana and small-town pride.
It’s the kind of thing that puts the unity in community.
“This one,” I say.
“Friday Night Lights?”
Second-guessing may be my forte, but there’s no time for it. “Definitely.”
“Good call,” she says, and I pray Sam agrees.
Moving on, I knock softly on Brad’s open door. “Hey, Brad?” I say.
He doesn’t look up, just keeps working the bright-green toothpick in his mouth while staring at his computer screen.
I clear my throat. “Brad, could I trouble you to . . .” Wait.
That’s a floss pick! Ew, ew, double ew! Also, I’m right here; the man has to hear me.
“Brad,” I say again, fighting the quaver in my voice, “I just got a call from Beverly over at The Rusty Bucket. She says there’s a picket line forming in front of city hall. ”
He cracks his neck side to side.
It isn’t the first time a man has thrown down a wordless gauntlet at my feet. Daring me to do something other than acquiesce. Fully believing I won’t.
“You mean you plan to keep . . . seeing her?” I asked.
Across the dining table, Devin mopped up steak sauce with a hunk of my homemade sourdough. Washed it down with beer.
Dead air hung between us, holding a thousand hateful words, ones he’d increasingly hurled at me over the past year.
His need to seek attention from other women?
He’d have me believe it was a direct result of my choosing the needs of a “weird kid” over his.
How many times had he threatened that if I didn’t make Chase “snap out of it,” he would?
Recently he’d followed through.
There’d been early red flags, of course.
Signs that Devin’s controlling nature didn’t bode well for parenthood, let alone the demands of parenting a child with special needs.
Looking back, I could easily pinpoint the moment he checked out on our family—the first time Chase stimmed in public.
And now, not only was I expected to stand by as my husband’s unregulated anger aggravated Chase’s symptoms and left him cowering in fear, I was to turn a blind eye to his infidelity?
I watched the man chew. Then wipe his lips with one of the napkins Nana embroidered for a wedding gift.
A single question rose hot beneath my sternum: You believe I broke him, don’t you? Except that when I opened my mouth to speak, nothing came out.
The girl who loved words had no more.
And as much as she never wanted divorce to be part of her story, the moment Devin left for work the next morning, she left her wedding set on the kitchen counter, loaded the car, and began driving.
To this day the smell of steak sauce turns my stomach.
I square my shoulders. “Apparently downtown business owners have organized a protest.”
Brad emits a grunt that hardly passes as human communication.
“About the proposed bypass.”
At last he turns my way. “And . . . ?” Stroking his goatee, which appears extra pointy today, he draws out the one-word challenge. Okay, so this is how he wants to play it. From the moment Brad got wind that Sam left me in charge, he’s been wearing that juvenile scowl.
Guess I’ll have to state the obvious. If we miss this story, it will be old and stagnant news by next week.
I swallow hard. “And . . .” I say, keeping my tone light but drawing out my own response, “we need to cover it. If you can get the shot and an estimate of how many are in attendance, I’ll take it from there.
We need to get this in, stat. You can send it to Sam’s email.
I’ll watch for it.” I make a move to head back down the hall to work at Sam’s desk.
“Wait, what?” he says, ripping the floss pick out of his mouth. “You think I’m going to go? Who authorized this? Where’s Meg?”
“Actually, Brad, it’s me. I’m authorizing this. Meg’s got her hands full editing the op-eds. I’d go myself, but I figured you wouldn’t be too keen on taking over the proofreading.”
Brad smirks. “Proofreading is so not my gift.”
And all the people said amen.
Sam, Sam, Sam, what were you thinking? Fine. I just . . . I need to be more commanding. Strengthen my core muscles, if I can find them, and lean into my spine.
“In that case,” I say, crossing my arms, “we’re all counting on you to head over to city hall. So please take a clean shot. This is front page.”
I can’t recall a time when Brad gawked at anyone the way he’s gawking at me now. Is it possible to repurpose a toothpick as a weapon? This standoff could go either way.
“Brad!” Meg shouts, appearing in the hall behind me. “Stop being an impudent child and do what Lucy says, you moron!”
Well. Couldn’t have said it better myself. Here, however, I must air a confession.
I wish I had.