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 nodded. She and her father bent in unison and lifted Mrs. Luray, afghan and all, and laid her gently on the sofa. Jolene stuck a fluffy kelly green pillow under her mother’s head. They’d obviously done this many times before.
“I’m sorry if you were scared.” Mr. Luray held out a hand and helped me to my feet. “It’s just Eloise’s way of dealing with things she doesn’t want to think about.” He looked at her affectionately. “She’s very delicate, very sensitive, you know.”
I looked at Mrs. Luray. I wasn’t certain delicate and sensitive were the words I’d have used.
She began to stir. “What happened? Where am I? Alvin?”
Mr. Luray sat on the edge of the sofa and opened the pill bottle. He slid a flat, white disk into his hand. “Shh, Eloise. I’m right here. Put this pill under your tongue, and you’ll be fine in no time.”
Jolene leaned toward me. “It’s a Tums,” she whispered.
I stared at Mrs. Luray. “Does this happen often?”
She shrugged. “Depends on how you define often. She was passing out several times a day when Arnie and I first separated. Now she can talk about it without any trouble. You saw that.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Luray said suddenly and in great distress.
I spun around, expecting her to black out again as she recalled the terrible news about Arnie.
“Smell that!” she said. “Jolene, your dinner’s burning!” She struggled to her feet and moved quickly to the kitchen. “I’ll save it!”
Jolene watched her mother leave the room, then went to her father. “Are you all right, Dad?”
“Not really.” He put his arm around her waist and they leaned into each other, sorrow etched on both faces.
I collected Jolene’s coat and let myself out as Eloise Luray called, “Everything’s all right, Jolene Marie. I saved your dinner for you.”
Bone-weary, I wanted to go home and climb into a hot tub and soak away the traumas of the day. Instead, dutiful employee that I was, I drove to the Community Center.
I was over an hour late, and I hadn’t had time or opportunity to do anything about cleaning myself up. I raced into the AAC-FOP meeting room, hoping the blood on my coat didn’t show and that no one noticed my fingernails and knees. At least the blood on my shoes was long dried or worn off.
I found the committee huddled around a table, faces focused in concentration, papers strewn in organized chaos. A barrel-chested