Remembering Christmas (21 page)

When he heard her come back, he figured it was safe to come out and talk this over. He walked around the counter and sat on the little stool. He looked at her, his anger quickly muted by the look on her face. It was pure kindness.

“Before you say anything, Rick, let me explain.”

She was so beautiful.

“I was just so happy last night after we got your mom’s call. After being worried sick all day that we were going to lose Art, the way God brought him back . . . I don’t know. For the first time, I was sure he was going to make it.”

Rick didn’t see how this connected to Egg McMuffins. “I was happy too,” he said.

“Well, after we locked up, I was driving through town toward my apartment when I saw poor JD walking by himself down by the park. I just remembered how much Art cared about JD, all the effort he made to reach out to him, and I just felt bad.”

“Bad that I’ve pushed him out?”

She looked away from him. “Yes. I know you think it’s the right thing to do.”

“Andrea, it’s just . . . the guy is homeless. He smells. He lives in a box. He talks to himself.”

“I know. And Art knew that, but he didn’t care. I don’t care.”

“That homeless guy broke into the store, stole everything. If that cop hadn’t caught him before he left town, where would we be right now?”

“I know,” she said. “But that wasn’t JD. Not all homeless people are the same. Just like other people. Some are nice, some are cruel. Some work hard, some steal. That thief wasn’t even from around here. Don’t you remember what the officer said? He knew right off that a local guy wasn’t responsible.”

“But if you let guys like JD hang around here, people aren’t going to feel safe coming to the store. How many customers do you think we’ve lost because of him or guys like him hanging around?”

Andrea looked down. “I know. I’ve thought about that. I don’t always feel safe bringing Amy down here.” She looked back in his eyes. “But Rick, Art sees something in JD, and I really think Art’s going to make it now. You don’t have to do anything with him. When I saw JD last night I told him this would just be for today, because I’m here. That he’d have to wait for Art to get better before he could start coming around during the week.”

Rick was relieved to hear that.

There was a brief pause. “So, are you still mad?”

“No, I’m all right. I don’t know what it is, but the guy just gives me the creeps. But I understand your thinking. And this really is Art’s place, not mine.”

Andrea smiled at him. How could he stay mad at her?

The rest of the day they stayed extremely busy. They had even more sales than the first Saturday after Thanksgiving. And of course, the constant topic at the counter had been Art’s miraculous recovery yesterday from the brink of death.

To hear the reaction of the customers in the store, you’d think Art had risen from the dead then walked on water.
Praise the Lord. Thank you, Jesus. Hallelujah, Jesus
. Over and over again. He let Andrea do all the talking. He just provided head nods and smiles. Several congratulated Rick as if he’d played some kind of role. He was glad to hear that Andrea’s version of the story contained no hype or exaggeration. He hated when people did that.

Rick had to admit, though, it really was a great story, and it challenged his mind in a good way each time she retold it. But after a day of it, Rick was ready to retire the subject.

Now it was almost quitting time, and the store was empty. What Rick had enjoyed most about the day was all the time he got to spend with Andrea. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but she seemed to treat him differently since their talk this morning. Nothing close to romantic interest, as far as he could tell. But there was a certain warmth in her tone and eyes. In those moments between customers, they talked and chatted not unlike a couple on a first date. Short get-to-know-you conversations.

In the last conversation, which, like all the others, had been interrupted by a customer, she started to open up about Amy’s father a little. Rick didn’t want to lose the momentum. She came back to the counter after cleaning out the coffeepot. “So, Andrea, I know we’ve got to start wrapping up, but you were talking about Amy’s father a few minutes ago—I think you said his name was Greg—and what happened there. Did you want to finish what you were saying, or am I being too nosy?”

“You’re not being nosy. There’s really not a whole lot more to say. The whole thing is like some sad cliché, the same story that’s happened to a thousand high school girls.”

“Not ever being a high school girl,” Rick said, “afraid I don’t know any of the sad clichés.”

“You know, shy girl falls in love with the popular guy, doesn’t get that he’s popular for all the wrong reasons. She gets talked into doing way more than she feels comfortable doing. All kinds of promises exchanged about how much they love each other, will always be together. She gets pregnant. He’s not ready to be a parent. Then she finds out what a loser he really is. All he offered was to pay for the abortion. We broke up. I left town and came down here to start over. End of story.”

“So he’s never helped you out?”

“Not a dime, and I don’t want it. I turned to God through the crisis and my whole life got turned around. It’s been real hard on us financially. Real hard. But I wouldn’t want him involved in Amy’s life. He’s never tried to contact us, and that’s just fine with me.”

Rick tried not to show any reaction on his face, but he was aware of how happy he was to hear all this. And also aware of how foolish it was to think it mattered.

Over the next few days, Art’s condition at Shands continued to stabilize.

At just before 3:00 p.m. on Tuesday, Rick was hanging up the phone after talking a few minutes with his mom. She’d said they were pulling Art out of the induced coma. He was supposed to wake up soon. She’d asked Rick if he wouldn’t mind asking folks who came into the store to pray that he would. And that, when he did, he would still be Art.

At the moment, Rick’s attention was on a newspaper headline. He couldn’t believe what it said.

JOHN LENNON SHOT DEAD

Someone had brought the paper in to show him. Everyone who came in the store was talking about it. It had happened last night in New York City, right outside the entrance to the Dakota, an upscale apartment building where Lennon lived. Some crazy guy named Chapman had been waiting there and, according to witnesses, just stepped out and shot him four or five times in the back. Then he sat down on the sidewalk, waiting for the police to show up and arrest him.

It was hard to fathom. John Lennon dead. One customer said the story had spread like wildfire all over the world. Since arriving in Florida, Rick had completely lost touch with the news, but he didn’t mind. It had been nice not to hear the constant drumbeat about hostages and the election.

But now Rick wished he had a television or a radio to hear the latest on the story. The brass bell rang. He looked up. It was Andrea. There was a chill in the air. She took off her coat and hung it on the rack.

“You hear about John Lennon?” she asked.

“I was just reading about it. It’s crazy. Why would someone shoot John Lennon?”

“They’re saying the guy might be insane.” She put her purse under the counter. “They’ve got the television on at the diner, been covering it all morning. You should see the people, huge crowds gathering in New York and other cities. People are crying, bringing flowers.”

“Lennon’s huge,” Rick said. “I mean . . . we’re talking the Beatles.”

“I can’t believe he’s dead. I’ve been hoping someday they might get back together.”

“You like the Beatles?”

“Of course I like the Beatles. Well, some of their stuff, anyway.”

“Let me guess, the early years? ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand.’ ‘She Loves You’ . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, half-singing. “All the early sixties stuff. I wasn’t that into them when all the drug and Eastern religion stuff started coming out.”

“We got into all that too,” said Rick. “My friends and I used to sit around and read the lyrics on the cover, trying to figure out the secret meanings.”

“Here’s the secret,” she said. “They were stoned out of their minds. C’mon, joo-joo eyeballs? Toe-jam football? Not exactly their best work.”

Rick laughed.

The Christmas cassette ended. She got up to change it. “I think they got a kick out of all the morons who hung on every word they said. They probably just tossed things in there to play with their heads.”

“So I’m a moron?”

“Not you, Rick. I’m talking about the other morons.”

Rick smiled. He was enjoying this. “So what other songs were your favorites?”

“I don’t know. ‘Yesterday’ is incredible. I think people will be singing that fifty years from now. Oh, ‘And I Love Her.’ I love that song. I like ‘Blackbird’ . . . ‘The Long and Winding Road.’ And I love ‘The Fool on the Hill.’”

“You don’t love the Beatles, you love Paul McCartney,” Rick said.

“Maybe I do then. You don’t think someone’s going to try to kill him next, do you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Rick shook his head. The shooting made no sense. But he was surprised and happy to learn Andrea liked the Beatles. The little bell rang. It was the surfer, Mack, and two of his friends.

“Dude,” he said. “You hear they shot Lennon?”

Leanne couldn’t help it; she was nervous. Art had been off heavy sedation for almost two hours now. Over the last few days, the nurses had helped her understand the different monitors. His numbers all seemed to be okay. His blood pressure had remained steady ever since Charlie had prayed.

She got out of her chair and walked to his bed, took his hand. All she’d had since the day after Thanksgiving was that one glorious conversation before his surgery.

She wanted more, years more.
Lord, please let him wake up
.

One of the machines beeped loudly, startling her. She didn’t know which one it was, but it did that every so often. She was told it was nothing to worry about.

“Leanne?”

Her eyes darted from the machine to Art’s face. “I’m here, Art.”
He knows my name
. She squeezed his hand. “You feel that?”

“Yes.” He squeezed back. “Is it over?”

“Is what over?”

“The surgery.”

“Goodness, yes. Five days ago.”
He’s remembering things.

“Five days. What day is it?”

“Tuesday. They had to keep you under till the swelling from the surgery went down. I’m so glad you’re awake. I’ve missed you so much.” She laid her head gently on his chest and cried. She felt his hand patting her head.

“Have I missed Christmas?” he asked.

She lifted her head. “No, darlin’. Still got two more weeks.”

“Where are we?”

“Still at Shands in Gainesville. But the doctors said if you woke up today and things looked good, they might drive you back to Seabreeze tomorrow.”

“Home?”

“Not yet. Just back to our hospital. They’ve got to keep a close eye on you for at least another week or so. Run a bunch more tests to see if the surgery affected anything they weren’t planning on.”