Something Has to Change

The call came the next day. Right around eight thirty, before we climbed into our trucks and went out for the morning.

            “Just let the machine pick it up,” Mark told Mom O. from the doorway. “I’ll deal with it later.”

            Because it sounded so very strange, we all paused when we heard the tinny voice of an automated operator.

            “This is a text to land line message,” the artificial woman intoned.

            We’d agree later how thankful we were for Jason’s sweet tooth. He was hovering over the candy dish when Mom O. collapsed after hearing the operator’s staccato words: “I’m going to kill you.”

            “What the—” Mark lunged to grab the phone but the nasal dial tone was already filling the office.

            Jason caught Mom O. as her knees buckled. Staggered under the weight of her until Charlie hurried to help him ease her onto her chair. He used his big hands to cradle Mom's head so it wouldn’t loll forward. Adam fetched a damp paper towel and pressed it to Mom's grave-colored forehead.

            Mark stared at the handset in his palm. “Dang it! Blocked call.”

            Jason snapped his fingers to get Mark’s attention. “Does Mom have some little pill to take? Like on TV? Should you call 911?”

            “What do I know?” Mark said as he punched numbers into his cell. “Let me ask my sister.” He swept us with his glare, as if Mom O.’s condition was our fault. “See, this is why I didn’t want her to come in today.” Suddenly, with his eyes narrowed and the bones of his face set, he focused on Charlie. We’d never seen Mark that mad, that mean, ever.

            “You need to get that . . . that . . . wife of yours under control, Charlie," he said as his pointer finger sliced at the air.  "And just so you know, the police are involved. I swear, if anything . . .” His voice trailed off as he observed Charlie’s face. Noticed how his soft, brown eyes possessed no anger. Only embarrassment and a deep sadness.

~~~~~~~

The next Monday, on Mom O.’s first day back to work, Charlie quit.

            “The fracking outfit finally made me an offer,” he told us at the end of the day. “Only thing is, the job’s not local. The boss man had hoped to set up shop here, but the folks protesting in front of the courthouse every Wednesday freaked him out. So for now, I’ll be working in Colorado for three weeks, then home for one.”

            On his side of the desk, Mark grimaced. “Charlie, I hope this isn’t because—”

            Charlie shook his head. “No worries, Mark,” he said. “This has been in the works for awhile now.”

            Mark smiled but it was a sad smile. “We’ll sure miss you, man.” He glanced at the rest of us. “No offense to these guys, but you’re about the best worker Mom O. and I ever had.”

            We huffed in unison but no one paid us any mind.

            Charlie rubbed his hands on his jeans. “Thanks for that, Mark,” he said. “The cool thing is, I won’t have to pay for hotel and meals every day. My brother and his wife live out there. Said I could stay with them.”

            He turned to face Mom O. when he heard her sniffling. “And Mom . . . Gosh, I hate to go. Really I do. With the busy season coming and all. But the money’s too good to pass up. We should be able to dig ourselves out of the red within a year or two. Only thing is . . . I’m going to miss Jeremiah and Hannah something awful.”

            Our eyes collided as we acknowledged the name he didn’t say.

            “Oh,” Charlie said, “and Vandalia of course.”

            Our eyebrows rose and fell together before we glanced away.

            Mark stood. Walked over to Charlie and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I can check on them from time to time, if you want.”

            Charlie gazed up at him. Drew a long, shaggy breath. “That’d be great, Mark. Actually, I’d like to ask a favor. You can say no if you want. Can you deposit my last paycheck for me? I'll get you a bank slip.”

            Mark’s eyes widened but then he relaxed them. Nodded. “Sure, man. I can do that. And you have vacation pay coming too since you all didn't go anywhere this year or last. I can deposit that check the week after.”

            Charlie nodded then turned to us. Extended his hand. “Nice knowing you guys and working with you, for what? Five years now?”

            Adam drew Charlie into a hug.  Slapped him on the back. “At least five,” he said. “Good luck, buddy. Colorado? Really? Bet it’s beautiful out there.”

            Charlie moved toward Mom O.’s desk. Grabbed her wrists and gently heaved her to standing. Encircled her in his burly arms and carefully hoisted her  an inch off the ground.

            Mom O. giggled. “Easy does it, Charlie.” When he let her feet touch ground she cupped his scruffy cheek. “I hear their mountains are bigger than ours,” she said. “I don't believe it. Send me a post card, won’t you?”

            “Sure thing, Mom,” Charlie said after he used his handkerchief to dab at her tears.

            She sniffed again and flipped her hands at him. “Go on now. And you take care, Charlie. Make good choices, you hear? That’s what I always tell Mark. Don’t I, Mark?”

            Mark nodded and smiled his sad smile again. “She does indeed. All the time.”

(You're almost to the end of this short story. If you wanna start at the beginning, click here: "Vandalia and Charlie.")

Vandalia Arrives Bearing Gifts

The next day Vandalia paid us a surprise visit. She stood outside the screen door to the office and kicked it lightly. Jason hustled to let her in. Van entered bearing a gift. A shiny silver cake pan draped in a pretty checked cloth. She kept her eyes on the fabric as she walked over to Mom O.’s side of the desk and deposited the baked good on top of her phone message pad.

            “This is for you, Mom O’Dell,” she said. She still didn’t make eye contact. Instead, she caressed the perimeter of the pan with a lacquered fingernail.

            It was hard to tell who was more surprised, Mom O. or us. Mom seemed to sag all of a sudden. Become slightly smaller. The flesh under her eyes resembled tiny chalk-colored hammocks.

            As we awaited Mom O.’s response, we studied Van. Noted with substantial regret and some astonishment the high neckline of Van’s shirt. We found comfort though in its snugness. Discussed later how mystery has its own appeal.

            “I made these for you myself,” Van said, her voice smooth. “They’re brownies ‘cause I’ve heard how you’re partial to sweets. I wanted to let you know again how much I value the concern you showed me yesterday.”

            Mom O. finally found some words to say. “I thank you, Van. This is very sweet of you. It wasn’t necessary, but I appreciate it all the same.”

            Jason wheeled his chair backward toward the shelving unit where the coffeemaker sat. Located a plastic knife. Rolled in the direction of the treat pan. Van wagged her pointer finger at him, its dark shine flashing like air-brushed blood.

            “Keep your mitts off, Jason,” Van said. “Those are for Mom and Mom alone. She’s earned them, indeed she has. Putting up with you boys and all.” As she finally regarded Mom O., her scarlet-slicked lips slid back to reveal her very white but in need of orthodontia smile. “Honestly, I don’t know how you do it.”

~~~~~~~

None of us could remember Mom O’Dell missing a day’s work ever but when we arrived at the office the next day her seat was empty.

            “Had to call 911 last night,” Mark told us. “Mom had a terrible bout of diarrhea. They’ll discharge her later today. Remind me to pick up Gatorade.”

            Jason positioned himself in front of Mom O.’s candy dish. His eyes fairly gleamed, probably at the thought of a day without Mom limiting his sweet intake.

            “That’s awful,” he said, as he ferreted through the confections. “Do they know what caused it? Is it—”

            Mark didn’t glance up. “No, Jason. It is not contagious,” he said. He twisted in his chair to rummage in the trash can. It was an effort to catch his next sentence. “Seems it may have been something she ate last night.”

            In concert, our mouths gaped. Adam spoke first.

            “It was them brownies, wasn’t it?”

            Charlie moaned. “Aw, man,” he said. “I should’ve known.”

            As one, we turned to face him. Waited.

            Charlie reached in his back pocket, produced a granola bar and a tube of salted mixed nuts. Ripped the bar's packaging with his teeth.

            “Van’s a horrible cook,” he said. “Can’t think of anyone worse.” He wrestled with the slit on the bag of nuts. Spoke again once he got it open. “Her mother died when she was young so she never really learned her way around a kitchen.”

            Mark smacked the desk and we all jumped. “Why the heck didn’t you warn me, Charlie? Mom could’ve dumped ‘em and pretended to like ‘em. No one’d be the wiser.”

            Charlie waited to speak until his mouth wasn’t full. “She told me she found the recipe on the Internet. Said it had five stars. I figured . . . figured they’d probably be okay.” His probably sounded weak.

            Mark’s exhale made his lips flap. “Well, at least some good came of it. They found out Mom’s heart’s terrible.”

            Our chins all stuck forward at the same time.  Adam spoke first. “I'm sorry to hear that, Mark. Will she be okay?”

            “Lord willing, she will," Mark said. "They put her on a half dozen drugs. Hopefully one of ‘em’ll do the job. But let’s make an effort not to rile her up, okay?”

            (To read the first part of this story, click here.)