Flabbergasted: A Novel Page 2

  "Perhaps you met my daughter, Allie?"

  "I don't think so, sir."

  "She attends that class," he said. "Whenever she's in town, that is."

  I was certain he had some homely daughter with whom he'd try to set me up. I was not interested. "Sir, I'm sure your daughter is a nice girl, but my dinner is on the grill and ..."

  "I understand, Jay. We'll talk more later. But when you do visit us again, please say hello to my Allie. She's easy to recognize-she has dark hair and a year-round tan."

  I dropped the spatula on my picnic table. "You say she has dark hair and a nice tan?"

  "Yes. She's been working near the equator."

  My chicken began to blacken. "Elder Kyle, what kind of car does your daughter drive?"

  "An old VW."

  I was back at 9:30 sharp the following Sunday. After the church service, after another uninspiring sermon, and after I had dropped two twenties and a five in the brass plate, I made my way across the parking lot in a drizzle, using my just-found Good Book for an umbrella.

  I suspect there are various reasons for sticking the singles class across the parking lot, in a building by itself: The married-adult classes may be discussing sex from a spiritual point of view and worry we might overhear them, or the elders may think our single minds are cluttered with sex and believe we should meet alone to repent, or the parents may worry that we're hung up on sex, and fear a bad influence on their children. Whatever the answer, it's got something to do with sex.

  Entering the mecca of half circles, I wiped off my Bible and said hello to Lydia, and to Wade, who stood at the podium in the same gray suit. From the coffee crowd, mingled nods welcomed me back.

  I'd nearly finished my orange juice when we were called to our seats, though I decided against a refill because I did not want to walk back in and have to sit by Stanley.

  I sat at the opposite end of the row from my first visit and looked around for the elusive Allie Kyle.

  She was not in the room.

  I didn't know what had happened to Galatians either. For now Wade was speaking on inheritance and lineage and begating.

  Obed begat Jesse. Jesse begat David. No notes were taken because all the lesson contained was three thousand years of begating, and I supposed if an Old Testament man did not begat he'd get banished to the singles class, which met by itself, in a tent, out across a wheat field from the temple courts.

  "The trip to Myrtle Beach is scheduled for Memorial Weekend," announced Stanley, back in the role of emcee as our lesson ended. "Rooms are already reserved, but we need four volunteers to serve on the planning committee."

  He tugged at a cuff link, ran two fingers through his perfect hair, and scanned the room.

  Raising his hand was a stocky fellow named Steve, the only other guy in the class who forgot to wear a tie. Didn't shave much, either, and from the way he was leaning back in his chair, I could tell he was a singlesclass veteran.

  Lydia took the last bite of a donut, coughed, and said she could help.

  "That gives us two," said Stanley. "No, make that three. Allie's not here but said she'd volunteer. There'll be a meeting Wednesday night ... anyone else?"

  The class was silent. I sensed opportunity.

  Suddenly my hand pulled away from my side and rose into the air. "I can help."

  Heads turned toward me. Polite smiles all around.

  "Thanks, Jay." I missed the meeting. No Wednesday night with tiny steeples, powdered donuts, or the Beetle-driving daughter of Elder Kyle.

  A gray-haired client had insisted on talking with me. I was a stockbroker, firmly entrenched in the world's largest paper shuffle, turning cash into shares and shares back into cash, as many times per week as possible.

  Buying low and selling high, but occasionally buying high and selling low, it was always with other people's accounts, so I got paid regardless. The pace was frantic, but a day passed quickly. The firm liked my tenacity; I liked the money.

  Glenda, our secretary, liked to do her nails and say "Mr. Franklin Gruber on the phone, sir."

  "Mr. Franklin Gruber on the phone, sir."

  "Thank you, Glenda.... You can't sell now, Mr. Gruber, at a loss. Just buy some more and be patient. Yessir, that fund was up 40 percent last year, but that was last year. Ever go to a party after all the guests are walking out and the punch bowl has nothing but foam and crumbs floating around the bottom? That's what you're doing when you buy last year's winner. Be early to the next party, Mr. Gruber. You gotta buy into panics and sell euphoria, not buy euphoria and sell into panics."

  "Another call for you, sir."

  My headset slipped off. I held the mouthpiece to my lips. "Yes, ma'am, Microsoft is down eighteen points, but let's buy some more and be patient. No, ma'am, there are no do-overs in the stock market. It's sorta like dating-just look forward to a new day."

  "Mr. Gruber on the phone again, sir."

  "Buy Toys `R' Us? You buy that before Christmas, Mr. Gruber, not in May. You heard they're coming out with a remote G. I. Joe? Buy a G. I. Joe for your grandson, Mr. Gruber; now let's you and me talk about Microsoft. It's down another three points from yesterday, a real bargain."

  This was the most entertaining aspect of the brokerage business-the old people. I mean the really old people. Best of all was the widow Dean. Beatrice Dean.

  I was given her account early on, after one of our older brokers retired. Like Mr. Gruber, she called me often, and sometimes just to chat.

  That Wednesday night, her high-pitched voice crackled over the phone, and I was ready for anything.

  "Hellooo, Mr. Jarvis?"

  "Yes, Beatrice?" I said, propping my feet on the desk.

  "I ... I saw on the news that Atheon is way down. I don't like it when my stocks go down."

  "You don't own Atheon, Beatrice. You own AT&T."

  "Oh, well, good for me. What's the stock symbol for AT&T?"

  "T

  "What?"

  "The symbol is T."

  "Sweeten my tea? No, dear, I can't drink tea anymore. Makes me have to go too often."

  "I said the symbol for AT&T is T, Beatrice."

  "Of course, it is, dear.... Now, how many shares do I own?"

  "Same as last week. Nine thousand, four hundred shares."

  "I've owned it a long time, haven't I?"

  "According to the firm's records, you've held the stock since 1961."

  "Oh, my. How much is it worth?"

  I checked the quote screen for a price. "Multiplying the current price times the amount of shares gives you about 160,000 dollars. But that doesn't include your larger holdings of Wal-Mart, Ford, and Procter & Gamble stock."

  She paused for a moment, then asked, "Do you think I should sell some, dear?"

  "To be honest, Beatrice, if I was near eighty and in your good health, I would grab my three craziest friends, a wad of cash, and travel the world."

  "Travel ... hmmm, never thought about that."

  "Isn't there something you'd like to spend money on?"

  "Well, there are some new daylilies in fabulous colors at the nursery. I thought I had all the colors, but you should see these, just radiant! He wants a dollar too much, though, and when you buy a half dozen at a time, like me, well, that really adds up."

  "Yes, ma'am, a half dozen daylilies would add up to two whole shares of AT&T."

  "Okay, then sell two shares, Jay. You are so sweet to spend all this time with me."

  "But Beatrice, the commission on selling two shares is more than the proceeds."

  "Do you have to charge me a commission?"

  "Well, ma'am, I'm supposed to. I mean, the firm would prefer-"

  "I'll bring you some snapdragons."

  "What are snapdragons?"

  "I grow them in my garden, dear. Would you prefer the primrose yellow or the deep crimson?"

  I glanced down the hallway and lowered my voice. "I'll go with the crimson."

  "You'll have to water them daily."

 
; "I will, I promise. Every day. Anything else, Beatrice?"

  "Enjoy your tea, dear."

  As I hung up with Beatrice, line two glowed red. The voice said he was from North Hills Presbyterian Church, that his name was Steve, did I want to share a ride to the beach, and could I please get Friday off.

  I put him on hold as Glenda beeped in. "Mr. Franklin Gruber on the phone again, sir."

  "No, sir, Mr. Gruber, I do not know what time Toys `R' Us closes."

  Two thoughts dominated my drive home that afternoon: Me and my sunblock are definitely taking Friday off, and I might've just found religion.

  That first thought had me smiling; it was the second one that felt ominous.

  Steve Cole didn't say much, just scratched the dark stubble on his chin and checked his rearview for the police. He had said a travel prayer in my driveway, so maybe that gave him license to speed. I scooted the passenger seat back one notch and tried to hear the music, but the music was muted from the wind rushing over the half doors of his Jeep. We merged onto 1-385, the sun reflecting off the driver's side while I sat content in the shade.

  Whipping into the fast lane, we were vehicle five in a nine-car convoy, the midsection of a metallic snake, weaving from fast lane to slow lane and back again. The breeze felt warm and humid, but it was welcome relief from stale air, fluorescent lights, and the twelve calls per day from Franklin Gruber.

  Twenty miles passed in silence, and there was little to see from the highway. Pine trees begat pine trees begat kudzu vines. Kudzu, if edible, would do for South Carolina what oil did for Texas.

  "Steve?"

  He checked his speed. "Yeah?"

  "How'd ya end up at North Hills Presbyterian?"

  "Honest truth?"

  "Honest truth."

  He weaved back to the slow lane. "More females there than at Baptist or Lutheran."

  "Sounds logical." I pulled a map from his glove box.

  Back in the fast lane, he steered with one hand. "Down there is where the money's at," he said, pointing at the map.

  I held it closer, scanning the Carolina coast. "Hilton Head?"

  "Lotsa money there. Ahead of us is Columbia. That's the state furnace."

  I asked about Myrtle Beach, but Steve only wrinkled the edge of his mouth and said to let Myrtle surprise me. The convoy split up, and we eased down to eighty.

  I stuffed the map back in the glove box. "Concrete and neon?"

  "Be there in three hours," he said, weaving again.

  Blue lights snuck up behind us and reflected in the jeep even before we heard the siren. Braking hard, Steve gave me an I-can't-believe-this look and pulled to the shoulder. Through my mirror I watched the officer approach, and there was no swinging nightstick or mirrored shades, just a side-to-side swagger, wrapped in navy, that suggested he did this forty times a day and drowned it all in barbeque.

  "Slowly, son." He stood to the side, leaning over; I could only see his chin.

  "Yessir, just gettin' my wallet," said Steve, bending forward in his seat.

  `Just pull it out slowly."

  "Here's my license, sir."

  Thick fingers took the license. "You boys headin' for the beach?"

  "Yessir."

  "Did ya know, Mr. Cole, that you were doing eighty-six in a sixty-five zone?"

  Steve sighed and said, "No sir, but I was probably going a bit fast."

  The officer peered through the window. First at me, then back at Steve. "Can you explain your hurry, Mr. Cole?"

  "To be honest, sir, thirty-two single women from our church are gonna be on the beach in about three hours."

  "Aww, son," he said. "You drive like that and you attend church?"

  "Yessir, sorry," said Steve, wincing through his words.

  The officer frowned. "I gotta give you a ticket."

  "Yessir."

  For ten minutes Steve and I sat motionless, the cop returning to his car to write the ticket, his lights flashing out blue reminders of our sin. With traffic rushing past, I wondered what would be expected of me over the course of the weekend. Would I have to look up obscure verses of which I had no knowledge? Would there be, unbelievably, a curfew?

  All I knew was that my new olive beach shorts with the palm-tree print were not much use as long as we were parked on the side of a sweltering interstate.

  Hurry up, officer.

  The officer returned and asked Steve to sign the ticket. Steve dropped the pen. As he recovered, a Mercedes passed and honked her horn. At first we thought she was flirting, but Mercedes rarely flirt with Jeeps. Steve was signing his name when a minivan rubbed it in with another honk. The cop looked over his shoulder and smirked.

  "How many women gonna be at this beach?" he asked.

  "Thirty-two at last count," I said.

  "And how many guys?"

  "Nineteen," Steve muttered.

  The officer folded his copy of the ticket, his lips straining to hold back a smile. "You boys have a safe trip."

  `Jesus is my copilot," said Steve, setting the ticket on the console.

  The officer, with his back turned, hesitated then slowly turned around. "Don't believe Jesus would drive an orange jeep with whitewalls."

  "So what would he drive?" asked Steve.

  "I'd figure on a big Lincoln."

  I had no idea what the Almighty would tool around in but was willing to give it a shot. "You don't think he'd drive some old jalopy and pick up hitchhikers?"

  "Nah, I don't think so," said Steve.

  "Me either," said the officer, leaning one arm against the roof. "Lemme tell you something, boys. I been in church for most of my forty-eight years, and I think Jesus would either drive the Lincoln, or if pressed for time, maybe one of those muscle cars. You know, the power and the glory."

  The mirrored shades were on now; he put two fingers to his cap and said, "Drive careful, boys."

  The next thirty miles passed in silence, except for the music, now resembling a funeral dirge. The white dashes on the highway, formerly a continuous blur, had become dashes once again. I glanced at the speedometer; Steve was doing sixty-three on a seventy-mile-per-hour interstate and was getting passed by the elderly in gray Oldsmobiles and migrant workers in the backs of pickups.

  I offered to drive. He shook his head.

  I offered to pay half the ticket. He said that cop wouldn't know Jesus from Aunt Jemima.

  "Now, Aunt Jemima," I said, "there's someone who'd need a big Lincoln."

  "Stifle it, Jay," he said. "I just blew my vacation money on that ticket."

  "Aww, get over it," I countered, opening a bag of pretzels. "Think of whatsername."

  "Who?"

  "The one you were talking to after church ... the tall, willowy, blondehaired whatsername."

  He glanced in his rearview. "Oh. Darcy."

  I decided to dig into both the pretzels and his personal life. "Anything up with her?"

  "Smart girl. Looks good in that of Cadillac. You seen it?"

  "Nope."

  "A '75 Cadillac convertible. Parents gave it to her after she got her master's."

  "But is anything between you two?"

  "She painted that car lime green; everyone calls it Lime Sherbet. She's driving it down today."

  "Was that a no?"

  "Okay, we went out once."

  "Cool."

  We passed Columbia, the state furnace, inhaling hot garnet air as if straight from Aunt Bea's oven. I kept looking in my passenger mirror for some approaching lime sherbet, but only eighteen-wheelers, SUVs, and minivans dotted the highway.

  I stuck a towel behind my head and reclined the seat. The pavement sent heat through the bottom of the jeep, and I was back in the fuzzy place between sleep and awake, the breeze lulling me off, then bringing me back.

  "Hey," said Steve.

  "Yeah?"

  "You daydreamin'?"

  Not interested in talking, I flopped the towel over my head. "Sorta."

  "Gotta question for ya."
<
br />   "Not till after my daydream."

  He jerked the wheel, jarring me from slumber. "I was gonna ask which of those single women have you been talking to?"

  I spoke beneath blue terry cloth. "Tried to meet that one named Allie."

  "So," he said, "you've been to our little church twice and already spied Allie, eh?"

  "Yeah, during the prayer thing, between all the reverence and that glare through the curtains, I might've caught her eye."

  "That's about all you're likely to catch, bro."

  "Why you say that?"

  He weaved right, cut his speed. "Independent, self-sufficient-she's always gone. Right before you came to church, she'd come back from South America. Some sorta mission thing. Just quit her job and went."

  I jerked the towel from my head. "So what's she doing now?"

  "Who knows? ... Maybe working on her tan. Both she and Lydia are riding with Darcy, so I reckon you can ask her soon enough."

  Below the steering wheel, his legs twitched. And I suppose, for two single males, we'd just had what amounts to deep conversation.

  "Rest stop?" he asked.

  "Sure."

  Five minutes later Steve pulled into a rest stop and jumped from his jeep. He took quick steps toward a rest room overflowing with the Memorial weekend crowd. The air smelled of Cheetos and warm cola. I lingered on the sidewalk until he came out, then decided that 1, too, had better have a go.

  "You're wasting beach time, Jarvis," said Steve, pointing at his watch.

  "I'll hurry."

  While waiting for an opening in a crowded men's room, I thought of the Atlantic Ocean and would it be warm, of the Carolina shore and would it be white, and why so many more girls had signed up than guys. This latter point was not an issue; in fact, it was quite a pleasant thought. I was still in line when behind me a southern drawl rung familiar.

  "Lincoln or muscle car?" he asked.

  I turned and got an eyeful of navy. "Officer, you following us?"

  He frowned, tossed a candy wrapper in the trash. "Nah, middle of my route. Where is of Whitewall?"

  "Out in the jeep, stewing over the two hundred bucks you cost him."

  "I gave him a break," he said. "Shoulda been three-twenty and four points."