“Oh, Joe...Joe!”
“I know. Baby, I know.”
“But I don't want to get married.”
“I know. It's okay.”
“So what should we do?”
“We've got to do something. Fast.”
“In the bedroom.”
“Will the shower wake the boys?”
“You can shower afterward.”
“No, I have to shower now. Right now.”
Joe bounded off the couch and was heading for the bathroom. Beverly was stunned. Stunned and aching. “Joe! Come back here!”
“Go to bed, Bev. Now.”
“Aren't you going to finish what you started?”
“Not tonight. Later, maybe.”
Beverly simmered. Pretty soon she could hear the shower running. She squirmed more. It stopped. He might be all cooled off, but she was mad as hell. Damn all the self-righteous preachers. Who did this one think he was anyway? What was the great plan here? Get married and find out it was a mistake? No way. Over my dead body, Preach. I've been there, baby. I know what it's like to have it great and I know what it's like to have it lousy, which is the same as not having it, period. God, or no God, it was a basic human need, like eating, and she told him so the minute he came back into the living room.
“I agree.” He laughed. “But I don't steal groceries either.”
“Steal?” she asked him. “Why would you be stealing it? I'm offering it!”
“I know. What are you offering me, exactly, though? Sex? What makes you think that's all I need?”
“Oh!” The nerve. Making her look like the devil facing off with an archangel. She was ready to really have it out with him, but for some reason her anger turned into guilt. She tried to stay mad, but she felt guiltier. So she cried.
Two arms came around her and there was a rather familiar shoulder sopping up the tears. “It's okay, sweetheart. I know it hurts. It hurts me too. It's a very natural thing to want. But it's going to be all right, honey. I love you. You go to bed, get some rest. I'll be here in the morning.”
And he was. Good old dependable Joe.
Chapter Eight
In January Beverly started going to Maple Hills Christian Church regularly, right down to enrolling the boys in Sunday school. She enjoyed listening to Joe. Joe had a good pulpit voice.
In February John and Joe both took the boys to the gym three times. Joe was already there when John came for them, so they made it a foursome. Then Bev and Joe double-dated with John and the nurse he was seeing. Bev suspected that John liked Joe more than he liked his own sister. They were becoming close friends. Chums, in fact.
One Saturday afternoon when Joe brought the boys home he hung around and had a cup of coffee. He stood in front of the patio window and watched Mark and Chuck as they made a fort out of snow. Softly, to his back, Bev said, “I love you, Joe.”
Something like a rocket hit Joe. He turned and looked at her. She met his eyes for a second and then turned around and walked back into the kitchen. When a guy has been waiting for months to hear those words and then she just turns around and walks away, what are you supposed to do? Follow her into the kitchen, or just apologize and go home?
“That's wonderful, Bev, but you don't sound particularly happy about it.”
“I thought you should know.”
“Well, thanks.... I guess.”
“I didn't want to be in love with anyone, Joe.”
“Well, those things happen. Should I apologize?”
“I'm not ready for it. This is going to take some time.”
“You afraid?”
“Sure.”
That should be obvious. When you're talking to someone about love and just keep on chopping carrots instead of kissing him or even looking at him, he should know you're scared to death.
“I won't hurt you, Bev.”
“Not on purpose.” It sounded like an accusation. He turned her around. He made her look at him.
“Bev, death hurts. Love doesn't. Try to relax.”
“I'm trying.”
“Feel it out, honey. Take your time. If you just let yourself, you'll feel good. And I'll be right here, ready to feel good with you.”
“There's something I want to tell you about this and you're going to have to take it like a grown-up, all right?”
“Shoot.”
“One of the reasons—part of the reason I love you—is, I mean, you are terrific, the most terrific man in the world, probably, but I can't stop myself from being in love with you because of the way you feel about me. I mean, you feel about me the way...” She turned away from him briefly, but he wasn't having that. He made her face him. Her eyes were a little moist, but she wasn't going to cry.
“Say it. It's all right.”
“You feel about me the way Bob finally did. I think, anyway. There are a lot of things about me that other men wouldn't put up with.”
“Because they're wimps.”
“And you're not a wimp, huh? You think you're going to get through this in one piece? I am not convinced that I'm the best thing that could have happened to you.”
“That's not really for you to question, now, is it?”
“I would really hate to be the one to—”
“Got some more advice for me, Mom?”
“Hey, come on, I'm thinking only of you.”
“One minute you make me promise to be a grownup, the next minute you're trying to take care of me. Get it together, Beverly. Now, do you love me or not?”
“Yes. I love you.”
“Then kiss me. Hard.”
March came and there was a blizzard. Chuck got strep throat and Joe stayed the night because Bev was worried about the high fever. Bev had a fever too. The other kind. Joe had another shower. Beverly had strep throat. If she weren't so sick, Joe would have laughed. Beverly the temptress... with the real McCoy, strep. But because she was so sick, Joe called the doctor.
The doctor that Joe called wouldn't come out to the house, and he wanted Bev to go to the emergency room. Then Joe called John, but John couldn't leave the hospital. So, Joe called Carl, the friendly neighborhood ob-gyn. Carl would come out to the house. Carl wouldn't miss it for the world. He would come out and give Bev a shot and she could see John later for a throat culture.
Carl was thrilled to see that it was Joe who was nursing Beverly. Very thrilled.
“Stop smiling, Carl. I'm dying.”
“You're not dying. Open up. Wider.”
“What do you see?”
“Not what I'm used to seeing. I much prefer the other end.”
“Carl, don't be a smart-ass. I'm dying.”
“Okay, so turn up the other end and I'll save your life. This is a big dose, Bev. You're going to have to stay in bed for a couple of days. What's Joe doing here?”
“Probably praying... again.”
“Maybe he ought to call your mother or Terry. You're going to need some help around here.”
“Isn't this contagious?”
“Yes, have you infected Joe yet?”
“I tried. Boy, did I try. He's too pure to get strep throat.”
“Well, he ought to have a throat culture anyway, just in case you sullied his purity.”
“Oh, shut up, Carl.”
“Okay, okay, just stay in bed. Alone.”
“Get out of here, you monster.”
Shortly after the blizzard, when Beverly's strep throat was all gone and the streets were getting sloppy again, Joe was trying very hard to catch up on his paperwork. People did not realize how much paperwork was involved in being a preacher. He was a little irritated when the phone rang because it rang often. Someone always had a problem, and half the time they were little, minor, irritating problems.
“Hi, Joe, it's Bev.”
“Yeah, honey. What?”
“You must be in the middle of something.”
“Sorry—no. Well, yes, but it's only paperwork, enough paperwork to sink the Titanic. I don't mean to sou
nd impatient.”
“You're not in a meeting or anything?”
“Nope. All alone. Why? You want me to talk dirty or something?”
“I'm at the hospital, Joe. My dad had a heart attack. Will you come?”
“Sure. Right away. Where?”
“County General. Fifth floor ICU. And Joe? I don't think it's too bad, but Mother's a little rattled, though John is here already, and I had to bring the boys with me. Please go ahead and pray all you want on the way over.”
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Sure. But this is a little scary. Charlie's only fifty-nine. He has a birthday coming up, but he's only fifty-nine.”
He asked himself all the way to the hospital which voice she'd been using—her strong voice, her terrified voice, her pitiful voice, or her bossy voice. He couldn't quite remember. Joe was really worried about Charlie, but he couldn't help but wonder how this whole ordeal was going to affect Bev.
The ICU is an interesting place. Joe remembered May's ICU. There is a large care center full of white-uniformed people that is cordoned off like an experimental laboratory, outside of which there is a waiting room with furniture comfortable to sleep on, since quite a few people sleep there. They don't let you hang around in ICU, not ever. You get to sneak in about once an hour, take a look at this fully tubed person who doesn't seem to have any life left in them at all, then you have to quickly return to the little fake living room and sit, watching each person that goes in and out, wondering if they're doing anything to your person.
Beside the waiting room, there is always another room. In every hospital, everywhere. In that other room, which is like an office, with a desk, some chairs, and a phone, they talk to you. First to tell you how it stands, next to tell you what they're going to do, sometimes to tell you it's over.
Charlie Clinton's clan was gathered in the waiting room. Delores was twisting a handkerchief. Terry had a look of unbelievable terror widening her pretty eyes, Mark and Chuck were abnormally quiet and still, each holding a can of soda, only Chuck's feet swinging a little. Very little.
“Oh, Joe,” Delores said, rising and filling his embrace as naturally as Beverly would. She began to weep instantly. He looked over her shoulder toward Terry. Terry was immobilized.
“Have you been in to see him?” Joe asked.
“Yes.” She wept harder. “Oh, he looks so terrible. Oh, Joe. What am I going to do?”
“What did the doctor say?”
“They don't know the extent of the damage yet. He was at work. That work is too hard. He's a foreman, but he gets right in there with the men and works the drill press and the—”
“Okay, Delores, don't jump the gun here. Where's Bev?”
“Oh, she went to get something for—”
At that very moment Bev came around the corner with wings on her feet. She was carrying a small basin and a glass of something. She said a quick “Hi-Joe-thanks-for-coming” on her way toward Terry. She knelt before Terry. Terry leaned her head forward, over the basin, and with one hand Beverly pushed the hair back from her face, wrapping it around Terry's ear so it wouldn't canopy the basin, and with another hand she reached over and squeezed Mark's knee. Joe was transfixed by her caretaking.
On her way over toward Joe and Delores, she stopped and whispered to Chuck, tousled his hair, and pulled something out of her pocket. “These are smelling salts, Mother. Now, you come and sit down and hold on to these. If you start to feel faint again, put your head down, and if that doesn't work, break one of these open, like this. Come on.”
She took her mother over to a chair, beside Terry, and sat her down. Then she went back to Joe.
“Terry's nauseated. Mother's faint. John is in there with the cardiologist. Dad wanted you to come; he asked for you specifically. I'll go in there with you.”
“How are you holding up?”
“Me? Fine. Do you know that Terry has never been in a hospital before? Never? Kind of unbelievable, isn't it?”
“Does anyone know how bad it is?”
“I think it's going to be all right, Joe. He didn't lose consciousness. Isn't that a good sign?”
“I don't know—is it?”
The big swinging doors to the intensive care unit slowly opened and John came out with the doctor. They were still chatting quietly. Part of what was so unnerving about these places was the quiet, intense way everyone talked.
“It's going to be all right,” John said. “There doesn't appear to be too much damage. He's been sedated and there will have to be more tests, but so far I think we're in good shape.”
“Thank God. John, see about Mother and Terry.”
“Dad wants to see Joe.”
“Can I go in too? I haven't seen him yet.”
“Yeah, sure. Five minutes. He should sleep.”
“Fine. Would you tell Mark and Chuck that Grandpa's going to be okay? He is, isn't he, John?”
“Yep. He's going to be all right. I'll call Barbara and Stephanie when we know something more.”
Beverly took Joe toward the doors. She was whispering something to him, but he was not quite hearing it. She was saying something about Charlie wanting to pray, but Joe shouldn't do anything fancy, and he felt a strange urge to laugh. She was always telling him what to do. But something that had never happened to Joe began to happen to him. Everything seemed very distant and unreal. He felt like he was in a tunnel. He heard himself say “Hey, Charlie, heard you had quite a scare.”
Beverly kissed her dad's brow. He had green tubes in his nostrils, an IV, and a catheter. His eyes were teared in the corners and his breathing was a little labored, but all things considered, he didn't look too bad. She told him that the doctor said he would be fine, and while she was talking, Joe started talking. She looked at Joe. She knew something was wrong.
Joe spoke too loudly, for one thing. For another thing, his face was positively white and there was sweat on his forehead. His hands were locked around the bed rail and his knuckles were bleached white. She walked around the bed to Joe's side and put her hand over one of his. He was clammy. “Joe?” she whispered.
“Don't you worry about anything, Charlie. Everything is going to be fine now. You just relax, okay?”
His voice was loud and someone from the nurse's station shushed him up in just as loud of a voice. “Come on, Joe,” she said, and to her father, “I'll be just outside, Daddy. I'll be back as soon as I can. Come on, Joe.”
He let her lead him away like an invalid. He walked like a robot. “What is it, Joe?”
“My head. My ears are ringing. I have to sit... sit down.”
“What is it?” she asked him again.
But Joe couldn't answer. He didn't know what it was. He had visited hospital rooms a million times; often he had gone into ICU. He had never had a problem before, yet he had never felt so terrible.
Fifteen minutes later Beverly stood with John just on the other side of the potted plants that divided the waiting area from the elevators and hallway just outside ICU. They both looked into the little U-shaped arrangement of couches and chairs.
“I have never seen anything like it,” she said.
Joe held an ice pack on the back of his neck. Terry's head was leaned back against the wall, the basin still firm in her hands on her lap. Delores had her head down, clutching her ammonia capsules in a trembling hand, her crunched-up handkerchief in the other.
“Chain reaction,” John said. “Happens all the time. One of them goes and they all go.”
Mark and Chuck were totally still, watching. They weren't even that quiet when they were asleep, Beverly thought.
“Come on,” she said to John.
“No kidding. Dad's doing better than the rest of them.”
“What do you think I ought to do with them?”
“Well, I think you ought to get them out of here.”
“One at a time, or as a group?”
“Maybe you can get them to all hold hands or something. Come on,
I'll help you.”
Once they were all out of the hospital, in the crisp March air, recovery was almost instantaneous. Terry shook off the nausea and said she was hungry. Delores cried a little, but wanted to go home to call her other daughters. And Joe was a little embarrassed; he had had a flashback of some kind—something that had never happened to him before. He went with Beverly to her house, accepted a shot of brandy and a shoulder rub. Mark and Chuck started yelling again. By 7:00 p.m. things were nearly normal. Beverly wanted to go back to the hospital, so Joe baby-sat.
Charlie looked a little grayish. His breathing, however, had a normal sound. She touched his hand and he awoke.
“Hi, honey,” he said weakly.
She kissed him gently. “Don't talk, Dad. Just rest.”
“How's Mother?”
“Mother's fine. Hush now.”
“Joe?”
How could he have noticed? He should be too sick to notice. “He's fine, Dad.”
“Did you... did you get everyone settled?”
“Everyone is fine.” She laughed softly. “Well, actually, you're doing better than everyone else. But you're not supposed to exert yourself. You'd better be quiet, or they'll throw me out.”
“It's only the medicine. They're giving my heart a rest, but my heart is going to be fine. I'm probably going to have a bypass operation. John says it works real good.”
“Good, Dad. That's good.”
“Are you okay, honey?”
“Sure, Dad. I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me.
“I never did, honey. I never worried about you. Mother does all the worrying in our family.”
“Yes.” She laughed. “Yes, she does, doesn't she?”