Marriage Seasons 03 - Falling for You Again (31 page)

“Dangerous territory,” Charlie intoned. “What about college? If you were in the National Honor Society, you must have a good GPA. I’ll bet you could get financial aid and take some classes. I hear they even offer online computer courses these days.”

“College is for geeks.”

“Is a good salary and a better job for geeks?”

“All I want to do is work construction. You don’t need a college degree for that.”

“Couldn’t hurt. If you were studying for classes in the evenings, I doubt you’d have time to shoot pool at Larry’s bar.”

“I like shooting pool, Mr. Moore. Didn’t you ever want to hang out in a bar and have a few drinks with your friends?”

Charlie gave a mirthless chuckle. “Yes, and I nearly lost my marriage over it. Twice.”

“Twice?”

“Women have long memories, kid. You do something stupid now and you may end up paying for it years down the line.”

“Yeah, but do I care?” Brad stepped down from the ladder. “I thought I loved Ashley. Now … I don’t know.”

“Nothing can beat a long marriage. Let me tell you that for sure. Last night while Esther and I were riding around in our golf cart, all I could think about was how much I love that woman. And how glad I am for our years together. You don’t want to miss out on having that with Ashley, do you?”

Brad shrugged as he stepped out of the room to wash the paint residue from his roller. As Charlie worked his favorite paintbrush around the room, he reflected on that long-ago time when he was about Brad’s age and newly married. Just like Brad and Ashley, the Moores’ romantic love affair had turned into a daily rut with neither meeting the other’s inmost needs.

They could have fallen apart so easily. Too much pressure. Too many strains. Conflicting desires and unspoken pain. How had they made it almost fifty years?

“You and Mrs. Moore had it easy,” Brad said as he stepped back into the room. He knelt and poured paint into the roller tray. “The world is more complicated now than it was in the olden days. People don’t think of things the same way anymore. Some of the guys in my construction crew are on their third or fourth marriages. That’s just how it goes, you know?”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. If things don’t work out, you have to move on. You and Mrs. Moore didn’t have so much coming at you. You were a mailman, and your wife stayed home to raise the kids. Everything was simple and clear-cut. It’s not like that now. Life is a lot harder these days.”

Charlie had to work to hold back a retort. But he knew each generation believed itself to be living in the most difficult age. His father had talked endlessly about the First World War. Charlie himself was born during the Depression, and he had barely missed the Korean conflict. He knew that as soon as a cure was found for one disease, another cropped up. Presidents were assassinated, volcanoes erupted, riots broke out. This old earth—so obviously under Satan’s thumb—hadn’t been a happy place since Adam and Eve left the Garden.

“I hope you realize,” Charlie said finally, “that what’s going on in the outside world isn’t nearly as important as what’s happening in your marriage. You can make this marriage work or let it go.”

“Whoa, Mr. Moore, are you sure this is the right color? It looks yellow to me.” Brad was staring at the paint can.

Charlie rolled his eyes and set his brush on the edge of the can. “It looks yellow because it is yellow. That’s the color Ashley chose.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out the note on which she had written the information. “Buttercream. That’s the shade your wife picked, and that’s what we bought.”

“Man, I thought cream meant white. This is yellow. I don’t want a yellow room. It’ll look like someone’s been smoking cigarettes in here for fifty years.”

“It’s only paint, Brad. Once Ashley decorates the room, you won’t even notice.”

“Nah, this isn’t cream. This is tobacco-stain yellow. I’m not having this color in my house.”

Charlie reached for his jacket. “I’m going to head for home, kid. You and the wife will have to work it out, and I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. Don’t forget we’ve got Thanksgiving this week. That’ll tie up my Thursday at least. Maybe Friday, too.”

“How could I forget about Thanksgiving?” Brad knelt and pushed his roller into the tray of yellow paint. “It’s all Ashley talked about for weeks. Nag, nag, nag. But we worked it out—thanks to Mrs. Moore.”

“What did you decide?”

“We’re having dinner at our house. Ashley’s folks and my mom are coming over here. They’re bringing side dishes, and Ashley thinks she can cook the turkey. Personally, I’m not so sure. She grew up making chili dogs and onion rings in the snack shack, just like her mother. But she says the directions are in her cookbook, and Mrs. Moore is going to teach her how to do some kind of fancy stuffing. So I guess that’s it.”

Charlie didn’t want to tell Brad that Esther’s stuffing was not one of her best dishes. She was sensitive enough about her cooking. All the same, the thought of everyone in the Haneses’ house biting into a mouthful of that dry, bland dressing was not pleasant.

“I’m sure Esther will do all she can to help,” Charlie said. “Besides, I’ll bet there are plenty of good stuffing recipes out there. Your mom might even have one she likes.”

“Hers is dry. It tastes like sand.” Brad was rolling yellow paint across the new wall. “I’m not a big dressing fan anyhow. So, whatever …”

“Yep. Whatever.”

Muttering to himself about turkey stuffing and yellow paint and bullheaded young men, Charlie said good-bye to Brad for the evening and got into his golf cart. He probably should have taken a little snooze after church. The parade and weenie roast had been a lot of fun the night before, but he was tired now. He just didn’t have the energy to listen to Brad spouting off nonsense about the “olden days” and how good they supposedly were.

Winter was coming on fast, Charlie realized as he motored along the street toward his house. Missouri always ushered in the seasons with a flair. Esther had a cousin who lived in west Texas. He said spring and fall lasted a week at the most. But summer went on and on.

Not here by the lake. Autumn had unfurled in a slow revelation of glory. Golds, reds, browns. Mums and asters. Shocks of ripe corn. Pumpkins.

Now the chill was beginning to peek around the corner. Icy wind whipped at the fallen leaves. The ground hardened and went cold. Charlie knew that winter would play hide-and-seek with autumn for a while longer—maybe as much as a month. And then the humid cold would blast in with a vengeance. A Missouri wind could knife right through a wool coat. Ponds would freeze and ice storms would snap branches off trees. Cattle would huddle miserably together while cardinals and squirrels scurried around in search of something to eat.

Charlie pulled the golf cart under the protective roof of his carport. He couldn’t look at the support posts without remembering Esther’s wild ride through the backyard. That had been the start of a difficult season, and Charlie was eager to put it behind him. He and his wife would enjoy their dinner on Thursday. Talk to the kids and grandkids by phone. Get a good night’s sleep. And then head for Springfield and Esther’s procedure. Both of them would be glad when it was over and done. Life could return to normal.

Esther’s idea of the two of them going to California or Florida for Christmas sat well with Charlie. The family hadn’t been together for months now, and he was long overdue for a hug from Charles Jr. and a kiss on the cheek from Ellie. As he pushed open the door, Charlie could see Esther in the kitchen.

“Hi-ho!” she called. “How’s the new room coming along, sugar bear?”

“It’s yellow.” Charlie took off his hat and jacket. Then he rubbed the lenses of his glasses on his shirt to clear the mist that always clouded them when he walked into a warm house. “Brad doesn’t like the color much. Says it looks like the room has tobacco stains.”

“For pete’s sake.” Esther carried her recipe file into the living room, where Charlie was searching for the television’s remote control. “That color is buttercream, and it’s a perfectly gorgeous shade. Ashley showed me a sample of it yesterday, and I told her it was beautiful. Can you help me find my stuffing recipe, Charlie? It’s always been here, and suddenly I can’t locate it.”

As Esther leaned against his shoulder, Charlie took the small metal box. “Did you file it under
S
or
D
?” he asked.

“Well, it’s stuffing, silly. Why would I file it under
D
?”

“
D
for
dressing
.”

Esther looked up at him in surprise. “Oh,” she said. Then she sank down into Charlie’s favorite television-watching chair.

“Oh.” She spoke the word again in a slight gasp.

Charlie had begun to flip through the alphabetized dividers when he noticed that Esther’s head had sagged to one side as if she’d fallen asleep. Her legs, always so carefully tucked into a ladylike position, stuck out in different directions.

“Esther?” Charlie set the recipe box down on the side table. “Are you feeling okay, honey?”

When she didn’t answer, he dropped to one knee. Eyes closed, Esther’s face was unmoving, and her pink cheeks had gone an ashy white. Charlie took her hand, expecting her fingers to tighten on his as always. They were limp.

“Esther? Esther, what’s wrong?” He took her shoulders in his hands and raised his voice a little. “Esther, sweetie. Esther!”

Nothing.

He placed his palm on her cheek and tried to jiggle her awake. She didn’t move. And then he realized she wasn’t breathing.

“Esther!”

Charlie grabbed the phone from the side table and dialed the emergency code. When the dispatcher answered, he blurted out their address. “Send someone!” he shouted. “Something’s gone wrong here. Hurry up now; you hear me? I need an ambulance!”

Though the dispatcher asked him to stay on the line, Charlie knew he couldn’t do that. Esther was lying there on the chair like a discarded coat. He bent over and scooped her up into his arms.

“Esther,” he said, surprised that she didn’t weigh more. He began to tremble. “Esther, don’t do this. Wake up, honey!”

For a moment, Charlie stood paralyzed in the living room, unable to move or form cohesive thoughts. What was happening? What should he do?

Then he realized he ought to lay his wife out on the carpet. CPR—that was the thing. He felt for a pulse. Nothing in her wrist. His fingers pressed against her neck.

“No.” He shook her shoulders in frustration at the lack of a heart-beat at her throat. “Esther, no! Stop this, now. We’re going to the doctor on Friday. Come back here!”

She lay still and quiet, so unlike herself. Charlie shook his head in disbelief. This couldn’t happen. No. Not this.

Wasn’t she breathing? Maybe just a little? He leaned over and laid his cheek near her lips. Not even the whisper of a breath tickled his skin.

Trying to remember what he had learned about CPR while coaching his son’s Little League baseball team, Charlie fumbled with the top button on Esther’s blouse.
Press on the chest,
he thought. But where? Wasn’t the heart on the left side? Or was it in the middle?
And breathe through the mouth.
But how many times?

Who would know this? How could he get help? Where was the ambulance?

“Derek,” he murmured. Leaving Esther’s side, he jerked open the drawer on the side table.
Derek, Derek.
What was his last name?
Finley
. Charlie flipped through the pages. As he ran his finger down the list of names beginning with the letter
F
, he could hear a siren in the distance.

“Esther, they’re coming,” he told his wife. “The ambulance is on its way. Just breathe for me, sweet pea. Breathe all you can. We’ll get your heart going again in a minute.”

Charlie punched in Derek Finley’s telephone number and began to speak even while it was still ringing. “Hello? Hello? Derek?”

“Hello?” a woman’s voice said. “Hello? Who’s there?”

“I need Derek! This is Charlie. Charlie Moore. Send Derek over here. It’s Esther. She’s … she …”

The doorbell rang and Charlie dropped the phone. Figures in blue uniforms entered the house. Bags. Needles. Stethoscopes. People hovered over Esther. Then Derek Finley burst into the living room. And Kim. Miranda, too.

Charlie tried to get close to Esther, but hands pushed him back. He stood by the fireplace, watching the huddle around his wife.

“Esther,” he called out. “Esther, I’m right here, honey. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

Someone put an arm around him. Kim Finley. She lowered him onto the sofa. And then Brenda Hansen’s face appeared in front of Charlie. Other people moved around, talking, discussing. Two of them brought a gurney into the room and began to move his wife.

“Esther!” Charlie tried to stand. “Where are they taking her?”

“She’s going to the hospital, Charlie.”

It was Derek Finley. He pressed two fingers against Charlie’s neck. “How are you feeling, Mr. Moore? Are you faint?”

“Not me. I’m fine, but I need to talk to Esther. She’ll be confused about all this, Derek. These past few days she’s been a little mixed up.” Charlie again tried to rise. “I think it’s that artery, like you said.”

“Was she on the floor when you found her?” Derek asked.

“No, we were talking. We were looking for stuffing.” He gestured vaguely at the recipe box on the side table. “Dressing. We’re having Thanksgiving dinner this Thursday.”

“All right,” Derek said. His eyes intense, he was nodding at Charlie. “And what happened next? What happened while you were talking?”

“She said
oh
. Like that—
oh
. And then she sat in my chair. She might have fainted. It was kind of a sag the way she went down. I tried to wake her, but she wouldn’t open her eyes. That’s when I called 9 11. It didn’t seem like she was breathing right, you know. And then I picked her up and put her on the floor because I thought I would do CPR. But it’s been a long time and … and … and . . .”

“It’s okay, Charlie.” Derek laid a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “They’re putting her in the ambulance. How about if I drive you to the hospital?”

“I’d better sit with her in the ambulance. She’ll be upset when she comes to. In fact, she’ll be embarrassed at the hubbub.”