Bad to the Last Drop (2 page)

Deb frowned. "Cut it out, Pat. The guy's dead, for goodness sake."

Pat nodded agreeably and took another sip of her coffee. Deb shifted in her chair, seeming to shake off the pall that had dropped over them.

"So what's on the agenda for today?" Deb asked.

Suddenly, the door to the coffeehouse pushed open, letting in a rush of cold air, along with five strangers.

Even as a newcomer to Ashland, Pat could tell that these folks were not locals. Dressed in layers of clothes, they looked like they were from another world—a fact that was confirmed when one of them strode up to the counter and said, "Please, am looking for Joe? Is he here?"

Pat and Deb looked at each other, listening to the stranger's words but pretending not to. "Who are these women?" Pat whispered.

"They must not know," Deb whispered back—although it evidently was not enough of a whisper, because the woman turned and looked straight into Deb's eyes.

"You know Joe?" she asked, in a heavily accented voice. "Vhere he is?"

Deb and Pat had inadvertently stepped into the spotlight of the Black Cat—and it was not a spotlight they wanted to be in.

"Well," Pat said, standing up, "why don't you get your cup of coffee and come sit with us?"

And with a pulling up of a few chairs, it all began.

The woman who had asked about Joe smiled hesitantly at Pat and Deb and then turned and spoke rapidly in an oddly lilting language to the other women in her group. They walked together up to the counter, where one small woman pulled out a handmade billfold from her large purse and squinted at a travelers check.

As the women ordered by pointing and smiling at the server, Deb whispered, "The language sounds Slavic—maybe Polish or Russian. What do you think?"

Pat shrugged and then sighed—she knew now that her day would not be filled with watercolors down by the shore. Looking around, Pat realized the regular crowd of professors from Northland College, students, retirees, and farmers were just as intrigued by the women as she and Deb were. But as the women got their coffee, the quiet conversations gradually began again—their Wisconsinite niceties wouldn't allow their eavesdropping to be too obvious.

Pat stood and smiled as the women approached the table. "Hello," she welcomed them. "I'm Pat Kerry, and this is my friend Deb Linberg. And you are?"

The leader of the group pushed off her coat and sat down heavily on the chair; the other four watched and then did the same. "I'm Anastasia, and this is my sister, Helga, and Elizabeth, called Babe, and Katrina, and Sonja. Thank you for letting us sit. Forgive my rudeness, but do you know our Joe? He was supposed to meet us at airport in Minnea ... Minneapolis—that is right way to speak it, yes? But vhen he no come, and ve could not reach him on telephone, ve finally rented automobile and came here. Vhat a trip! This U.S. is big, like Russia!"

Deb kicked Pat under the table, causing Pat to blurt "Ouch!"; then she asked, "Oh, are you from Russia?"

"Yah ... yes, ve come from St. Petersburg, my sister and I. Do you know ... o ... others from Moscow? And so exciting. None of us been to your vonderful country before. But everyone so friendly. Our English not so good, but ..." Anastasia's voice trailed off, and the other women looked at each other anxiously. "Joe," Anastasia continued. "Joe Abramov. You know him, yes? Has something happened to him?"

Pat turned to Deb and nodded for her to take the lead. It always seemed to be on the pastor to share bad news with families, and she was on leave from giving bad news to relations, after all.

"Are you related ... to Joe, I mean?" Deb asked.

"Yes, well, my sister and I are his ... sisters. Not others."

"I'm afraid we don't have good news for you." Deb reached across the table and took Anastasia's hand. "You see, Joe died five days ago."

"Died! Vhat?"

Upon seeing her stricken expression, the other women spoke to her in rapid Russian, and what Deb and Pat assumed to be questions came faster and got louder and louder. Anastasia held up her hands, waving the other women to quiet down, as she said, "Yes, yes, wait, wait ..." They looked at Deb, and Anastasia continued. "Vhat ... happened?"

"I'm afraid we don't actually know what happened," Pat said gently. She pointed to the building across the street. "He was found in his apartment, right there."

Visibly shaken, Anastasia translated and the noise around the table rose again.

"How could this be?" Anastasia's sister, Helga, wailed. "Vhat vill ve do now?"

Grabbing Kleenex from her purse, Pat passed tissues to the women. She couldn't even imagine their situation—coming to a strange country and learning that your loved one had died. "Is there someone else we can call for you?" she asked kindly.

Anastasia slumped in her chair dejectedly. "He sent for us. Assured us of new life. I so vanted to see him again. Now ..." Shakily, she picked up her cup and took a drink of coffee. The others watched her, silently now, and Helga with tears streaming down her face.

Pat felt a nudge under the table. Deb was giving that "Help me out, here" look.

Anastasia slumped in her chair, obviously upset and exhausted. "He offered us new life. He promised," she mumbled, as tears ran down her face. "Vhere vill ve go?"

She looked around, as if for an answer. The other women held each other as they wept, but Anastasia sat alone. In sympathy, Pat patted her hand.

Deb, in her take-charge attorney voice said, "Don't worry. We will help you."

Pat shot her a dirty look.
You must have someone else in mind,
she thought, regretting the inevitable loss of her cherished free time.

"Joe had a brother—well, he must be your brother, too, Anastasia—nearby in Hurley. Jacob."

"Yah," Anastasia said, blowing her nose. "We do have Jacob. But he no at home. Ve no could get him on telephone."

"Well, let's just take this one step at a time," Deb soothed. She whipped out her cell phone and asked firmly, "Now, what was that number?" As she waited for Jacob to answer her call, Deb's thoughts wandered to her daughter, Julia, who was spending her high school senior year studying in Madrid as a foreign exchange student. Saying good-bye to Julia in September had been tough; Deb realized wistfully that although Julia was to be gone just ten months, she would return just in time to pack up and go to college.

Julia was Deb's youngest daughter, and Deb was proud to have "survived" the teenage years of Julia—and her two sisters before her—relatively unscathed. The last few years with Julia had been hard on both of them. Now, the distance had provided a new perspective that helped them appreciate each other. If Julia were here, she likely would be impatient with her mother's efforts to help these women.
"Oh, Mom,"
Deb could hear her saying,
"you're always taking everyone else's side"

She was brought back from her reverie by the sound of a woman's voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello. My name is Deb Linberg; I'm calling from Ashland.

May I speak with Jacob Abramov?"

"He's not here right now," the woman responded, "but I expect him back in a few days. May I take a message? I am his wife, Alice."

"I'm calling from the Black Cat Coffeehouse here in Ashland," Deb explained. "Please accept my sympathy on the loss of your brother-in-law. I'm actually sitting here with two of your sisters-in-law, Anastasia and Helga, who've just arrived in town. They came looking for Joe, not knowing of his death. They will need to find out about the funeral plans."

"Jacob's sisters are here in this country? In Ashland? I can't believe it!" Alice responded incredulously.

They say they are his sisters from Russia," Deb replied calmly. "We don't know them, but here they are, and we don't actually know what to do."

"Tell them to stay put, and I'll be there in half an hour!" Alice responded excitedly.

Deb grinned, her smile clearly showing her relief. "That would be just great. My friend, Pat, and I will wait here with them until you arrive."

Pat touched Deb's arm to get her attention and said softly, "Tell her they've brought three others with them."

"Do you happen to have a van?" Deb said into the phone. "Because I think you're going to need it."

After hanging up the phone, Deb walked up to the counter and handed three dollars to Sam, the barista, to cover the refills on the mugs. Seeing that fresh goodies had just arrived from the Ashland Baking Company across the street, she ordered a tray with an assortment of cranberry-cinnamon muffins, lemon poppy-seed scones, and onion bagels (her personal favorite) with a side of cream cheese.
While I'm waiting.

Deb looked back at the table as she waited for her order. The two sisters, Anastasia and Helga, appeared to be about her own age.
Fiftyish,
she thought. She wondered if Anastasia was the older of the two, as Helga seemed to look to her sister for guidance. Slight of stature like their brother, Joe, they had dark hair and dark eyes. Both women had wonderfully strong facial features: high cheekbones, strong noses, and wide lips. Deb thought such features went together better on Helga.
I wouldn't exactly call her pretty, but she's beautiful—yes, a classic Russian woman.
The other three—she'd forgotten their names already—were definitely younger. Although not obviously in their twenties, they weren't forty either.
Hard to tell much about them,
she thought, as they sat quietly talking to each other in Russian.

"Deb, here's your order," Sam called to her, breaking into her reverie.

"Oh, thanks." She scrambled through her pockets for her billfold.
Now where did I put that darn thing?
Finding it back on the table, she smiled at Sam and paid for the food.
Am I going to have to get a beeper on that billfold, just to keep from losing it?
Deb carried the pastry-laden tray back to the table.

Just as they were finishing the goodies, a harried-looking woman walked swiftly into the Black Cat and looked around until she spotted the Russian women.

"I just can't believe it!" she exclaimed as she hurried over and hugged the sisters.

"You're really here. When I had that call from." She looked around, questioningly. "Deb, is it? I thought, what kind of crank call is this? But here you are—and how on earth?" She hugged each sister again, and tears sprang up in all their eyes. "But never mind that," she said, "I'm just glad you're here. And these women came with you?" she added, smiling at Babe, Katrina, and Sonja.

"These are good friends from back home, Babe, Katrina, and Sonja," Anastasia said politely, pointing in turn at the women around the table.

"Let's get your stuff," Alice said. She turned to Deb. "Thank you for watching out for my sisters-in-law. Can I pay you for the treats?"

"Not at all," Deb replied, heartened by the warmth of family ties. "Just let us know when Joe's funeral service is, and if there is anything we can do to help." She wrote down her phone number and gave it to Alice. Then the women noisily gathered up their belongings and left together, a gaggle of shared grief and relief.

The two women sat in the quiet of a regular coffeehouse morning for a moment. Deb turned to Pat. "So what's on your agenda for today?"

Pat just smiled, amused by her friend's insistence that she maintain focus even during a sabbatical.

While Deb and Pat waited a moment to let themselves enjoy the quiet of the moment, Pat's thoughts went back to how she found herself in this coffeehouse in the first place.

Several weeks prior to that morning in the Black Cat, the bishop's secretary walked out of her boss's office, quietly closing the door behind her. Pat looked at the bishop from across his desk. This office was comfortable yet functional, the kind of room Pat would have loved for her own office, complete with antique rugs and books stacked on shelves and piled on the floor.

Bishop Peter Anderson was a good-looking middle-aged man, with a full head of white hair and a trim body, courtesy of his going to the gym three times a week.

"Pat, I don't know how you do it," he started pleasantly, picking up and playing with his rimless glasses, "but once again you've turned around a church council, hired a new secretary, and managed to get them to like you while doing it. I congratulate you. I think Pastor Steve will now have a good chance of keeping that congregation healthy."

"Ah," Pat said, and then as the bishop glanced up from his glasses with a knowing look, she smiled ruefully, surprised at how restless she felt upon hearing his praise. "Thanks."

He returned the smile and put down his glasses. "So that brings us, once again, to reassigning you to a new parish. But Pat, I must say, although your work has been excellent, you're not your usual enthusiastic, let-me-at-them self. You're not the same Pat I saw a year ago." Leaning forward, he asked, "Anything you want to talk about?"

She paused for a moment, wondering if this kind man could possibly understand what she was feeling—this man who, in all his life, seemed to know what he wanted to do ... and had done it. Pat didn't even understand her feelings herself. She liked what she did, and she was good at it. What was she thinking?

"I'm sensing that not only are you glad to be done with this call, but you have been avoiding this meeting about starting another," the bishop added gently.

Pat looked up from her hands; her expression was guarded. "How could you possibly know that?" she asked.

"Well, you did cancel out on me two times already. It doesn't take a prophet to figure out something is going on with you. Where's the Pat I know, the one who can't stop talking about what she's been doing, what she's dreaming of next?"

Abashed, Pat looked down at her hands. "I do go on some, don't I?" She paused for a moment, letting the silence drift around them, and then added, "I know it sounds silly when there are pastors, especially women, who wait and pray for a parish. But I can't help feeling I've been there, done that."
So there,
Pat thought, mentally nodding her head.
I said it.
The words were out. And to her great relief at her honesty with the bishop, they filled the small room like a cool breeze.