The Happy Hour Choir (10 page)

“I'll have to wear red lace more often.”

He grunted something and lifted me to my feet.

“With a matching thong,” I added as he guided me down the hall.

“Beulah Land, you are a very frustrating woman,” he said as he let go of me long enough to open the door. He was saying something else to me when I started falling backward again.

Chapter 11

I
only lost a second before I came to in Luke's BMW Roadster. He was muttering under his breath about how he should've called 911 whether I liked it or not.

“Tell me, how does a small-town preacher afford a car like this?”

“It was a gift from my father
before
we had our falling-out,” he said through gritted teeth.

When I almost nodded off, he patted my cheeks. “Hey, keep talking to me.”

“Some would say your sports car is a classic example of penis compensation,” I slurred.

He laughed out loud.

“What, no comment on that either?”

“None needed.”

He turned right and I saw he had the good sense not to bother with the doctor's office in Ellery—it would certainly be closed—but he did get lost in the side streets of Jefferson. When he drove the wrong way down a one-way street, he muttered something under his breath that almost sounded like the tiniest of curse words.

I giggled. “Preacher Man, I am shocked. Shocked, I say.”

“Hush, Beulah. I'm only human.”

That sobered me up. Until then I hadn't really thought of him as mortal; he somehow seemed above so much of what went on around him. And that detachment had to explain why he was so lonely.

He found the emergency room and rushed around to help me out the door.

“I don't have my purse,” I said as he put me in a corner seat by a trash can.

“I'll pay for it,” he said. “This is serious.” He walked to the reception desk and pointed back at me. I eyed the trash can, willing myself not to throw up again. I'd had enough of that.

“Been hit on the head before,” I muttered under my breath when he returned with a clipboard.

“Yeah, well, that doesn't mean you should have been.” He put the clipboard in the seat beside me. “I've got to move the car, but I'll fill this out when I get back. Since you aren't bleeding, I'm afraid this is going to take a while.”

Apparently, Luke called Ginger to let her know where we were when he went to move the car. He told her not to come, but she had Tiffany drive her to the hospital anyway. The moment she arrived she hobbled over to the reception desk to see if she could spot any friendly faces to, as she put it, “hurry this process up a little bit.”

Meanwhile Luke made a valiant effort to keep me awake, but I fell asleep against his shoulder while watching Ginger gesticulate wildly at the nurses at the desk. Either her hissy fit didn't do any good or my nap was shorter than I thought because she was sitting in a chair across from me when my eyes flickered open.

And Luke was holding my hand.

I quickly closed my eyes to avoid her shrewd gaze and to let the moment linger. When was the last time a boy had held my hand? So long ago that it was definitely a boy and not a man—that much I knew. Luke's hand was warm and not in the least clammy. His palm had a hint of calluses, which surprised me. Then again, Luke had probably tried out carpentry just to see what it'd been like for Jesus.

“Did you have any luck?” he asked softly.

“I might've asked for a certain nurse who knows me well,” Ginger said.

Beyond me I heard canned laughter from the waiting room televisions.

“Beulah Land?” A nurse with a wheelchair struggled with my name, pronouncing it “Be-you-la.”

“She's right here,” Luke said. He nudged me and gently helped me into the chair. Tiffany offered a hand to Ginger, and we all walked to the nurse.

“I'm sorry, but we don't have enough room for all y'all back there. One of you can come with her.”

Luke stepped back to let Ginger have the honor. She wavered for a second then pushed him forward. “You'd better go, Luke. Neither one of us could pick her up off the floor if she fainted and fell out of the chair.”

He nodded to her solemnly. Tiffany slipped her arm under Ginger's and led her back to the seating area. I felt much better knowing Tiffany was there with Ginger.

I floated down the hall, Luke beside me as long as the corridor would allow. Guilt radiated from him, and I suddenly thought of a fist hitting a jaw. “Luke, you punched Carl, didn't you?”

“Twice.”

“Not so ‘turn the other cheek,' eh?”

“Extenuating circumstances,” he said with a grunt as he hoisted me up on the exam table in a truly tiny room.

The nurse checked all my vitals, then the doctor came in to look at my eyeballs and feel around my head. “Well, you're going to have quite the bruise back there, but at least it's poking out instead of in. I still think you need an MRI.”

“And how much is that going to cost?” I sounded drunk and felt hungover. Luke's warm hand reached for mine and squeezed reassurance.

“Well,” the doctor said as he continued to scribble notes, “it depends. Your insurance should pay for it.”

I slid from the table. “No can do. I don't have insurance.”

“Now, Miss . . . Land.” He flipped back a page on his chart. “A concussion is serious business, and—”

“I said I can't pay for it.” I turned to Luke for help.

“She'll have the MRI,” the traitor said.

“Luke, this is ridiculous. One of those things probably costs thousands of dollars.”

“I said I'm paying for it. The most important thing is to make sure you're all right.” His hand traveled to my cheek, and his thumb massaged my temple. I lost myself in the feeling of being precious to someone.

“You need to listen to your boyfriend,” the doctor said as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “I'll send a nurse to take you back for your MRI.”

He left the room, and I looked up at my “boyfriend,” instinctively leaning my aching head farther into the hand that cupped my cheek. I suppose he did look like a boyfriend to someone who didn't know how impossible that would be.

“Beulah—” He couldn't form the words. Maybe it was because I had been bumped on the head, but I didn't want him to break the spell. For one moment I wanted to pretend I had found a man who cared enough about me to insist on a test neither one of us could pay for, to stick with me even when I puked, and to hold my hand while I waited in the emergency room.

“Miss Land? We're ready for you now.”

A wish temporarily granted.

The nurse who both broke the spell of the moment and helped sustain it led us down a hall to an MRI machine. “Now you're going to have to lie down perfectly still.” She helped me into the bed and stepped behind the machine.

“Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step outside,” she said as she started flipping switches.

He moved into the hallway, and I missed him. Being told I had to be still made me fidgety. My nose developed an unexpected itch; my toes started to cramp. My hand prickled with emptiness from not being held for the first time in over an hour.

Finally, finally, she let me get up and led us back to the exam room. Luke attempted to pace in the six-by-six room made even smaller by the hospital bed, sink, and his presence. He ran his hand through his hair.

“Hey, calm down. I feel better already.” And I did, more or less. The nausea and dizziness had subsided into an immense throbbing ache.

He stopped and took both of my hands. “I am so sorry.”

“Sorry for what? You've agreed to pay this crazy hospital bill that's going to have me working twelve jobs just to pay you back.” If holding one hand was good, holding two was better.

“I shouldn't have left you alone for a minute. I should've been there to stop Carl from throwing your head against the wall.” His hands tightened their grip as though he could somehow squeeze the concussion from me. “It was my pride that kept me from wanting to hear your song. I thought as long as he wasn't there yet, I'd still have time to—”

“Luke, don't blame yourself for that. I never should have stepped outside with the man. I knew he'd hit Tiffany; I just didn't realize he was
that
bat-shit crazy.”

“I should have been there.” His gaze locked with mine. He leaned closer, and I thought, for only a moment, he was going to kiss me. I leaned up to meet his lips, but instead he planted a kiss on my forehead. As I exhaled with a mixture of relief and regret, he cupped my face and pressed his lips on mine gently, so gently, and yet that slight touch sent shock waves through my body. He nipped at my bottom lip—

When the doctor knocked, Luke jerked away from me as if he'd been doing something wrong. Cool air rushed to fill the space where his warm body had been.

“Okay, Miss Beulah Land, you do, indeed, have a concussion,” the doctor said as he consulted my chart. “Fortunately for you, it's a mild one. A few days of rest and no strenuous activity should be enough.”

He put the chart back and took his prescription pad from his coat pocket. “I'm going to write you a prescription for something a little stronger for the first day or so. And remember: only acetaminophen, no aspirin.”

The doctor clapped Luke on the arm. “Keep a close eye on her, son, but I think she's out of the woods.”

“I'll do that. Thank you, sir.”

He walked out of the room before either of us could betray our secret of not being boyfriend and girlfriend—not that either of us seemed particularly inclined to do so.

“Let's get you home.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

He pushed me down the hall and back to Ginger. He ran down the prognosis with her while I ran my fingers over my tingling lips. “Miss Ginger, if you and Tiffany will take her home, I'll settle up here.”

Ginger nodded, and Luke helped me from the chair before he walked back to the desk. Tiffany got on my other side. The past, the present, and the woman bearing the future all walked through automatic doors to the parking lot beyond.

Chapter 12

I
slept most of the night and into the next day, but I was cranky because either Ginger or Tiffany woke me up every two hours. It was supposed to be every two to three hours. When I pointed out the discrepancy to Ginger, she informed me she wanted to be on the safe side and that I was lucky she hadn't decided to wake me up every hour on the hour.

“I don't know why you two are fussing over me so much,” I said while I fidgeted. They had me sitting in the recliner. Hovering like benevolent hummingbirds, they brought magazines and Cokes instead of sipping nectar and transferring pollen.

Ginger took my pillow and fluffed it before putting it back behind my head.

“Really, guys, the doctor said I'm perfectly fine. When he said you needed to watch me, I don't think he intended for you to hover.”

“Hey, remember to wake her up every two to three hours if she goes to sleep.” Ginger gave Tiffany the penciled-in eyebrow of doom.

“Ginger, I'm right here, and I can hear you.”

She ignored me. “And don't let her do anything strenuous. Oh, and call Bill and tell him she needs a night or two off.”

“Miss Ginger, you should really let me go instead.” If Tiffany kept wringing her hands like that, she was going to end up with nubs, which would be rather problematic when it came time to change a diaper.

“Nonsense,” Ginger said as she put on a rain bonnet to face the drizzle that pattered outside. “Luke and I need to run an errand or two. He'll be here any minute, and I don't want to keep him waiting.”

“Chill out, you two. I'm sitting right here. I can get up when I need an Advil or two.”

She turned on me, and I got the eyebrow. “No Advil, no aspirin, nothing in the aspirin family. You can have Tylenol and nothing else unless you want to have some kind of brain hemorrhage.”

I couldn't sink myself into the recliner any more. “Sorry.”

She pointed a bony finger at me. “And that's why you need people to look after you. Never been one to look after yourself, but you're going to have to fix that before—”

“Don't.”

She scowled, shook her finger at me, then picked up her beige Aigner pocketbook, circa 1978, and headed for the door. “You watch that stubborn heifer, Tiffany.”

Tiffany's eyes bugged out, but I managed not to snicker until the door closed with force. Not slammed, Ginger would say, just closed with force.

“She called you a heifer.” Tiffany put her hands on her hips. “I can't believe Miss Ginger called you a heifer.”

“Yes, yes, she did.” I couldn't help but grin. In my first few weeks with Ginger she'd called me a heifer so many times it would've made a great drinking game. I'd gladly take the comparison to a stubborn maiden cow if it meant Ginger was feeling better than usual.

Tiffany took a seat on the sofa then popped up and looked to make sure Ginger was really gone before slumping back down. “I hate cows. Jesse Crawford's cows get out every other day and make an unholy mess of the garden in our backyard. Once they even knocked the clothes down from the line and trampled them so bad I couldn't get the stains out.”

Tiffany's story twisted my gut. I had known she was poor in an abstract sort of way. I knew Carl got by on disability and wasted most of the money on booze and cigarettes. I knew they lived in the dingiest trailer park on the other side of Harlowe Bottom, but I hadn't thought about what that meant. Tiffany grew her own vegetables—probably out of necessity. She also had no dryer, at least not a dryer that worked.

“I know. I'm poor white trash.”

I snapped my head toward her so fast I got dizzy and felt a stabbing pain behind my left eye. “People can be poor and any number of colors, but not having money doesn't mean you're trash. No person is trash.”

Tiffany looked down at her nails, pushing each cuticle back with one of her other fingernails. “That's not what Daddy says.”

“Your daddy is far closer to trash than you'll ever be,” I muttered.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, and I wondered if I'd said too much yet again. I'd read enough subtitles on daytime TV to know all the experts talked about how you can't insult an abuser to the abusee. Montel once spent an hour on something like a milder form of Stockholm syndrome. Apparently, you had to remember Carl was still Tiffany's daddy even if he was a class-A jerk for hitting his own daughter.

“Tiffany, I'm sorry I said that—”

“Don't be. I think I want a sandwich.” She hopped to her feet but stopped and turned at the doorway. “Are you ready to eat anything?”

“No, but you're not feeling sick?”

She thought about it for a moment. Her eyes rolled to the ceiling as she did an interior check for nausea. She looked back at me with an ear-to-ear grin. “No, I'm not sick. I'm not sick!”

“There's a twenty in the desk drawer if you want to order something,” I said with a yawn.

Her eyes lit up. “In fact, I think I want a pizza. Do you want a pizza? No, wait, maybe I'll order Chinese. I've never had Chinese before. Do you think you would be okay if I ran over to Burger Paradise? Or maybe . . .”

I chuckled while she thought. Maybe Ginger and I had created a monster by introducing the poor child to the glory of takeout. We certainly weren't setting the best fiscal example.

“Tiffany,” I said. “Let's stick with the pizza for now. If your nausea isn't completely gone then it has to be on the way out. You can make a list of what you want to eat while we wait for the pizza, then we'll check off each item one by one.”

“Great idea! I'll order a pizza and go look for a pen.”

She left with rosy cheeks, and I smiled after her before I realized what I was doing. Obviously, the hit to the head had damaged the common sense area of my brain. I couldn't afford this swell of pride because she had made it past morning sickness. I couldn't allow myself to get excited about Tiffany's baby. After all, I had said good-bye to morning sickness and then made a list of things to eat before diligently checking off each item. I had done everything the doctor said to do—even made those nasty applesauce cookies instead of eating the Oreos I wanted—but I still lost Hunter.

But what good would it do to tell Tiffany that? What good would it do to make her miserable and paranoid for the rest of her pregnancy? I closed my eyes.
Please help her not to do whatever it was that I did wrong. Please—

Tiffany shook my shoulders.

“Beulah, are you awake?”

My face blanched. I had prayed. No, wait. I hadn't prayed. I addressed no one. It was just sending good vibes out into the universe. Then why did I feel like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar? “I am now.”

“Good. The pizza's going to be here in thirty minutes, and I'm ready to start on my list.”

That girl talked about barbecue, steaks, Chinese food, burgers, and catfish from over at Lacy's. I was so, so happy to hear Ginger and Luke arrive. I couldn't hear what Luke said as they came in the front door—it was a low rumble that matched the distant thunder. My pulse raced and I had a hard time getting enough oxygen to my injured brain. I hadn't seen him since he'd kissed me. Was I stupid to want something more? Would he act like nothing had happened?

For the next few minutes, he moved things around while Ginger and Tiffany directed traffic and I battled the urge to get out of the chair and demand to know his intentions. Just when I reached for the lever that would put the footrest down he appeared at the arm of my chair.

“How's the patient?”

“Fine. I still don't know what all of the fuss is about,” I said.

“The fuss is that you got yourself injured and, while you seem to think of yourself as either invincible or disposable, you are neither. We kinda like having you around.” He reached to push back a strand of my hair, remembered we had an audience, and settled for a chaste pat on the hand.

“That's what I've been trying to tell her all day. Maybe she'll listen to you.” Ginger threw her hands up in the air then hobbled off to the kitchen.

But I wasn't listening to what Ginger was saying.
Luke liked having me around?

“Since when?” My voice came out way huskier than I had intended, and I felt the hot crimson flood my cheeks.

“I don't know. You tend to grow on people. An acquired taste, I guess.” Those blue eyes twinkled.

“Like caviar?” I grinned at him like an idiot.

“I was thinking something sweeter.”

Tiffany dropped a glass, and it shattered on the floor just inside the kitchen. “I wondered what you wanted to drink,” she mumbled as she bent to pick up the broken glass.

“Let me help you with that.” Luke jumped up from the chair arm and bent over to gather the shards. I wasn't above admiring the view. It was nice to have someone around to help pick up the pieces.

And I wasn't the only one to notice.

 

After our pizza, Luke went home and Ginger went to bed. Tiffany decided to stay up with me for a while. I wasn't sleepy for a couple of reasons. First, I was used to staying up until the wee hours of the morning, thanks to working at The Fountain. Second, I'd slept too much during the day and was suffering from that hazy over-rested yet under-rested feeling.

“Beulah, do you like Reverend Daniels?”

I thought of his lips pressed against my forehead and then against my lips, his callused hand in mine.
Like
didn't begin to tell the half of it.

I looked over to where Tiffany leaned against the armrest, her chin in her hand as she watched an infomercial for some kind of miracle dicer. She was trying hard not to betray any sort of emotion, a surefire indicator she was feeling strong emotions and lots of them. I needed to tread with more care than I had during the discussion about her father.

“Of course I like him.”

“No, I mean do you
like
him, like him?”

“Tiff, what is this? Fifth grade?”

She turned those big, brown Bambi eyes on me. “Do you think there'd ever be a chance someone like him would want to go out with a girl like me?”

I wanted to laugh. There was no chance a preacher would ever want to go out with a girl like either of us. Otherwise he surely would've said something to me before he left, wouldn't he? Any feelings I had for Luke had to be a sad example of how opposites attract. “Well, there's always a chance, but you're eighteen, and he's closer to my age.”

“Four or five years isn't that much.” She sat up straight and crossed her arms. The action reminded me of a toddler—not exactly the maturity level she was going for.

“You're a sweetheart, but try seven or eight.” I needed to proceed with caution. “Tiffany, you might want to look for someone your own age.”

“You're only saying that because you
do
like him.”

She toyed with the edges of an afghan Ginger had finished right after I moved in. “I think I'll wait until you're feeling a little better. Then, maybe I'll ask him out if he doesn't ask me out first.”

She stared into space, oblivious to the fact I was still listening to her. “Imagine, being the preacher's wife. I would always have a parsonage—no more musty trailers for me or my baby. The ladies in town wouldn't be able to look down their noses at me anymore. Or we could move to a new church. I could start all over again far away from here.”

I wasn't about to remind her that ministers typically did not date young, unwed mothers to be. Obviously, this was Tiffany's pipe dream. After my run-in with Carl, I couldn't fault her for having dreams that involved a kind and handsome husband with a secure job and a nice home. And didn't we all want to start over?

Normally, I was one of the first people to pop someone's bubble, to point out the pitfalls of any undertaking in the name of being realistic. For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to tell Tiffany she was reaching, but I
could
tell her she didn't need Luke Daniels to get all of those things she wanted. She could move to another town, get a job, buy a house, settle down with a nice man who wasn't Luke.

Then why didn't I do all those things?

And what traitorous part of me wanted to live out Tiffany's dream, too?

“I think I'm going to go to bed, if that's okay with you.” Tiffany patted her belly even though she was barely showing.

“That's fine. My sleep schedule is still off so I'll watch TV for a while.”

Tiffany paused at the bottom of the stairs and yawned as she looked back at me with a mischievous smirk. “Wake yourself up every two to three hours, now, you hear?”

“Every three hours. I don't see the need for this two-hour business.”

“Fine, every three hours.” Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Promise?”

“I promise.” I made an imaginary cross over my heart, and she grinned as she climbed the stairs.

I listened to her footsteps go up the staircase and down the hall to her room. I should have told her she didn't need a man to change her life. I should have told her she could move out and start over on her own. But those were all things I could tell her later.

Her footsteps disappeared, but the door to the nursery creaked open, and my heart skipped a beat as the tip of a beam of light from the door shone at the top of the stairs. Funny how the one room I avoided was the one to draw her in. Her room full of promise was my room of tragedy.