Mr. Luray was wrestling me for my coat while my stomach growled at the wondrous aromas that filled the air. No wonder Jolene came home for dinner every night. “I can’t stay.” AAC-FOP was waiting. “I’m sorry.”
“I wish you would.” Mr. Luray’s fingers wrapped around my coat collar as he tried to drag it off my shoulders. He was bald, homely, wore thick glasses and had muscles on muscles. It was obvious he and Arnie had bonded over weights. “Jolene doesn’t bring friends home much.”
“Dad,” Jolene said sharply. “Let Merry alone, for heaven’s sake!”
Mr. Luray nodded pleasantly. “Okay.” His hands fell from my collar.
Mrs. Luray peered first at Jolene, then at me. “You do look pale, Jolene Marie. You do. So do you, Merry, but then maybe you’re always pale. I wouldn’t know, would I?” She smiled vaguely at me, patting my hand.
I smiled vaguely back.
“But are you sure you girls are all right? Have you had a disagreement or something? I know that when I have a fight with Mrs. Samson, Dad can always tell because I look so pale.” She smiled at me again. “Not that we have that many fights, you know. But that’s how it shows when we do. Or maybe—” and her smile faltered as she turned to Jo “—maybe you had a fight with Arnie, dear? You didn’t have another fight with him, did you, Jolene Marie? I can’t stand it when you two fight.” She looked as if she might cry.
Jolene looked at me in helpless frustration.
“Now, Mother,” Mr. Luray said. “Don’t get yourself so worked up. Your heart will start fluttering.”
Oh, boy. A fluttering heart. Just what we needed with the news we were bearing.
“Do you take heart medicine, Mrs. Luray?” I asked.
“Aren’t you sweet to be concerned,” she said. “Yes. I keep it handy all the time in case I need it.”
“Where is it?”
“In the kitchen on the windowsill over the sink. And upstairs both in the bathroom and on my night table.”
“Mr. Luray,” I said, “I think it would be a good idea if you got your wife’s medicine.”
Mr. Luray looked at me with narrowed eyes, saw something in my face, and headed for the kitchen and the windowsill.
“Bring a big plastic bag back with you, Dad,” Jolene called. A muffled assent drifted to us.
“What?” Mrs. Luray seemed confused, which I now suspected was a normal situation. “What’s wrong? Jolene Marie, why do I need my medicine? Oh, I knew it! You and Arnie did fight! You didn’t hit him, did you, dear? Tell me you didn’t hit him! Or throw something at him. It’s so unladylike.”
“Mom!” Jolene shouted fiercely. “Can’t you ever shut up? I can’t stand you when you run on like that!”
Mrs. Luray and I both stared at Jolene. I, in startled disbelief at her tone of voice, her mother with accpetance.
“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to upset you, but then I can see that you’re already upset, aren’t you? Why, dear? Tell Mommy. You’ll feel better if you tell me. Don’t worry. I can take it. Just tell me. You did fight with Arnie, didn’t you?”
Jolene put her hands to her face in aggravation.
Mr. Luray appeared, a pill bottle clutched in his right hand and the plastic bag in his left. Jolene took the bag and handed it to me. As I held the bag open, she stuffed her coat in. “My scarf and gloves are still in the car.”
I nodded, pulling the ties to shut the bag. “I’ll get them.”
“What’s she doing with your coat, Jolene Marie?” Mrs. Luray asked. “It’s a special coat because Arnie gave it to you. What’s she going to do with it?”
“It’s dirty, Mom,” Jolene said through gritted teeth. “She’s taking it to the dry cleaners for me.”
Mrs. Luray’s face lit with joy. “Why, how sweet, June,” she said to me.
I opened my mouth to say “Merry,” but refrained. She wasn’t listening to me anyway.
“Daddy,” Mrs. Luray said, her high voice tinged with sorrow. “Jolene Marie and Arnie had a fight. She’s just going to tell us about it. Isn’t it too sad?”
“What’s wrong, Jo?” Mr. Luray said. His manner was stark and aware.
“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Luray’s hands fluttered with a life of their own, pale butterflies with age spots marking the wings. “Tell us.”
Jolene took a deep breath, then looked steely eyed at her parents. “Arnie’s dead,” she said baldly. “He was shot.”
Mrs. Luray gasped once, twice, three times, clutched her chest, and sank to the floor.
FOUR
I stared at the frail woman lying on the floor. “Should we do CPR? Call 911? Stick that medicine under her tongue or something?”
Jolene and her father looked at each other, then shook their heads in unison.
“Don’t worry,” Jolene said wearily. “She’ll be okay.”
“Jolene!” I fell to my knees beside the unconscious woman. “What if she dies right here on the floor?”
Jo and her father continued to ignore Mrs. Luray in favor of a conversation about Arnie.
“Is he really dead?” Mr. Luray asked.
Jolene nodded.
“Shot?”
She nodded again.
He hugged himself, and a tear slid down his wrinkled cheek. “Oh, Jolene! Why? Who?”
“I have no idea, Daddy.” Jolene went to her father. She held him and rocked him like a mother might comfort a hurting child. His shoulders shook and his breath came raggedly. The man was heartbroken.
I was moved by his grief, but I kept looking at Mrs. Luray, lying there on the floor. I pulled a fuchsia and kelly green afghan off the back of the red sofa, and tucked it around the woman. I searched for her pulse, expecting to find a thready, thin, and erratic rhythm. I blinked. Her pulse was so strong you’d have thought a tympanist was in there whopping out the “wonderful, counselor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” section of last week’s performance of The Messiah at the Community Center.
“She’s fine,” I blurted.
Jolene released her father, and they both looked down at me.
“Always,” Mr. Luray said. He sniffed and swallowed. “Come on, Jo. We’d better get her on the sofa. She’ll be upset if she finds herself on the floor.”
Jolene
