CHAPTER 43

“Mom, that’s the weirdest thing you’ve come up with yet.”  Kay Kay stood with the pay phone pressed to her ear and a bewildered look on her face.

“Reading tea leaves is an old and respected science,” Ethyl Esther’s soft voice trembled in defense. “And Madame Borovatski has been doing it for thirty-five years.” 

“Madame … you mean that old witch who lives behind the liquor store?”

“Katie! That’s not nice. Madame Borovatski isn’t a witch. She’s just a little different from everyone else. And besides, she doesn’t live behind the liquor store, she lives OVER it. That’s completely different.”

“Okay Mom, I won’t even ask why that is. My big question is: why do you have to do this now?     I’m gonna be home for spring break in three weeks, can’t you at least wait until I can go with you?”

“No, Katie-poo, I can’t. I’ve been cooking at the Crawlback Inn for almost two years and things have gone missing at least once a month since I began. I could almost understand it when he just took food, but now he stole my entire week’s menu.  That’s just mean.”

“You keep saying ‘he’ like you already know who it is.”

“Oh, Honey, there’s only one person we know who would be cantankerous enough to steal the menu plan and food measurements - just so I had to do it over.  I mean really.”

“Yeah, so if we know who it is, why do you have to go see Madame Whatsis?”

“Because I have to be sure. I can’t get him back if I’m not one-hundred per cent sure.”

“Whatever you say, Mom. Listen, there are other people waiting for the phone so I’ve gotta go.  Love you.”

“Oh I love you too, my Katie-watie.”

CHAPTER 41

“Damn.”  Charlotte Withholdt took a quick look around to make sure nobody had heard her language.  That would be a one-dollar fine in the swear jar at home, but in church?  Even if it was just the recreation hall?   Five dollars at least.

Charlotte took another look at the manicure she had just paid thirty dollars for.  Her Frosted Peach nails were ruined.  “Damn,” she whispered again.

This is all Elizabeth Amanda’s fault, Charlotte thought, brushing back a strand of hair that had come loose from her French roll.  She had to go move to her sister’s house in Des Moines.  She could have worked something out with the bank.  She could have asked her family to pay the mortgage, or at least put up some collateral.  But no, she just had to give up and take off.  Charlotte hauled another chair from the stacks and dragged it over to the tables she had positioned into a triangle.

This isn’t fair, I’m too old for this kind of work.  Elizabeth Amanda knows that, but she just left without a single thought for my wellbeing.  And, come to think of it, this is Martin’s fault too.  I didn’t know she was actually leaving  If he hadn’t of erased her last call, I would have found a place for her to stay in somebody’s spare room. Or our basement.  Or something. 

Charlotte pulled a lace-trimmed hanky out of her purse, reconsidered, and exchanged it for a tissue to wipe the dust off her hands.  Well, this makes me even more determined to keep that Robert Keetone out of the JCBC.  I just have to keep talking louder than anyone who doubts my sense of discrimination.

It was a shame though, that she didn’t have anyone to help her celebrate her upcoming victory.  None of the other ladies seemed to like going out for cocktails after committee meetings.  Elizabeth Amanda was always good for that,  Charlotte thought. Even if she did mooch all the time.  

PART THREE

Chapter 40

On a blustery March day, Mort Soapinski walked through the door of the Crawlback Inn.  He stopped for a few seconds, studying the unadorned wall by the front entrance, and headed toward the TV and Rude leaning against the bar.

“Good Lord, Man,” he said.  “What are you putting into your mouth?”

Rude shrugged and looked mournfully at the salad and cottage cheese on the plate in front of him.  “Isobel wants me to look good in my tux.  She’s got Ethyl Esther in cahoots with her.”

“Well,” Mort said, somewhat reluctantly, “Isobel is a good woman.  That’s what they do.  And the house?”

Rude’s brows lowered.  “Papers go through next week.  She’s gonna live there first.  Fix it up.”

“See, that’s nice. You’re gonna feel okay when you get there.”

“Makes me nervous.  It’s too far away, what if something happens?” 

“But it’s only two blocks,” Mort said in his most reasonable tone “And look, you’ll have a lovely wife and a comfortable place to put your feet up.  You’ll even have a real shower, not just a hose and drain in the bar bathroom.  How much better can it get?”

“I just keep getting the shakes,” Rude rumbled.  “Seven and Seven?”

“Sure thing.  You’ve just got wedding jitters, she does too, and she probably has better reasons.”  Rude gave Mort a dirty look, but he laughed.  

“Sooo,”  Mort said, letting out a deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about this wall here. Got any plans?”  Rude turned his eyes away from the television.  “You know, I get itchy when you act like you’re starting to think too much.”

“Well, isn’t Jube’s old room behind there?  What’s happening with all his stuff?”  

“You know good-and-well that Isobel is excavating everything down to the bare dirt, maybe even     

lower.  You’ve seen her working.  Just - tell me what’s on your mind - spit it out.”

The smile-lines at Mort’s temples crinkled even deeper than usual and he gave a little chuckle. “Well my friend …” he began. 

Author's Interlude

This is the end of Part Two of Jerkwater: the Town, The Story.  We will start Part Three next week, but I would like to take a moment to check in with you.

As some of you know, I started Jerkwater about three years ago with my writing partner, Pitter Fox.  But Pitter has been out of the country for the last two-and-a-half years, and I had some - but not all -  of her notes.  So Part One was 30% Pitter and 60% me, Part Two was 10% Pitter and 90% me, and in Part Three - you’ll get just me.

I should tell you also, that as I drew close to filling in the stories’ holes, I realized that some chapters in Part One actually belonged in Part Three.  I have already moved them so I apologize if you seem to recognize little pieces here and there.  Then again, it means that there could be new chapters in Part One.  You’ll just have to wait and see.

There are thirteen chapters in Part Three, most of them less than two pages.  After they have been posted, I will leave this blog up for six weeks and then it will be taken down and reworked for publication.  If you have any feedback, I would love to hear it before then.

In Part Three, I am also challenging myself to have a chapter prepared for publication every Monday.  And since writing IS rewriting, at least for me, that is actually a task.

Writing Jerkwater has been a thrill. I’ve loved every struggle, in fact sometimes the places where I was most stuck are the places I feel proudest of.

K.R.Lobel

CHAPTER 39

Esmeralda sighed contentedly as she turned the door sign to “closed.”  It had been another successful Saturday, twelve giggling teens and ‘tweens defying tradition and dressing like it actually was nineteen-seventy-five.  Her trips to the Denver fabric sales were paying off and her designs were the talk of Jerkwater.

Even her social life was blooming.  There was, of course, the dreamy Chad Sparrow who had won her heart when he saved her from that false-alarm fire.  And Edger Hofflemyer, a sweet, awkward man, who had built her a partition between the feed and tack section of the building and her store; even though he wasn’t a talented carpenter, and was actually the owner of the largest auto-repair shop in town. 

It had worked out pretty well so far.  Every third Thursday the Downtown Association had a mixer at the Gold Bar, and afterward she and Edgar usually had dinner in the Yellow Room, where Edgar always insisted on paying. Then he would walk her to her car, kiss her on the cheek, and stumble away.  It pulled at her heartstrings, but she thought of her heroine, Jane Withersteen, and that first awkward romance that was doomed to nothing.  Jane had gotten through that breezily enough.  What was meant to be, and all that.

And then there was Chad. He was only in town on Saturday nights, and they played it the fullest.  Chad had a special liking for the Crawlback Inn, where the food was always great, and she insisted on sharing the bill.  And of course there were more than two bars in Jerkwater.  The Elk’s Lodge had a full bar that was open from four pm to ten-thirty pm weekdays, and three pm to eleven-thirty pm Fridays and Saturdays.  And then there was alwaysThe Moose.  Somebody would be having a dance two or three weekends a month, Chad was smooth and graceful and could always have his way with her on a dance floor.

Esmeralda was not indifferent to her suitor’s attentions; She didn’t feel she was misusing her feminine whiles when she batted her eyes or flashed a smile at them; that was just her personality showing through, and they did seem to appreciate the attention.  

She  truly enjoyed each of their company, but she was a woman of the seventies and dedicated to developing her business.  But now, with Chad being in town all the time, things were going to be different.  She wasn’t certain that was going to be as enjoyable.

Chad pulled at more than her heartstrings. He had a wind-swept feeling about him, but           Esmeralda wasn’t quite ready to be swept up.  True, her heart began to throb whenever she thought of him.  She dreamed of going WAY beyond the long and passionate make-out sessions that ushered in sunrise.  But what then?  Jane hadn’t ever gotten that far.     

CHAPTER 38

“I don’t understand it,” Ethyl Esther mumbled, rummaging through a kitchen drawer.  “I’ll never understand it.” she wailed shaking the drawer upside down.

Cooking spoons and forks tumbled all over the counter and onto the floor while Ethyl Esther plowed her way through shelves of skillets and soup pots.

“HAY!” Rude stuck his head through the swinging door.  “What the hell is going on out here?”

Ethyl Esther ran her hands across her temples, leaving her hair standing at angles to her face.  “Oh, I’m just loosing my mind,” she cried.

“That happened a long time ago, Ethyl. You got nothing to worry about.”

Ethyl Esther put her hands on her hips.  “That’s just mean,” she said with a frown.  

“Yeah, okay. Sorry or whatever.”

In her own way, Ethyl Esther ruled the world around her. After raising nine children she         considered any person under sixty as potential descendent.  She had clear standards and           expectations as to behavior, and she had begun to ingrain Rude with the, as yet not fully             accepted, idea of apologies.

“So what’s with all the racket?” he said.

“It’s my measuring cups, the ones I just got when I went to Whitefish last month.  THEY’RE GONE!  They were here and now they’re not!”

“Okay, look, you probably just put them somewhere and forgot.  Did you check in that suitcase you call a purse?  Or maybe you took them home by mistake.”

“No, no, none of that.  They were here when I went home and now they’ve disappeared.”  

“Well stuff doesn’t just disappear on its own, there’s got to be some kind of explanation, or  reason, or something.” 

Ethyl Esther took in a shuddering breath, but straightened her spine in resolution.  “Yes,” she grumbled.  “There’s some explanation, and I’m gonna find out what it is.”  

CHAPTER 37

If  the Reverend Mr. Cosmo Bentworth had ever imagined the Ladies of the Church as small birds, delicately moving tiny pieces of straw, it was an image that disintegrated with each new encounter he and Charlotte Witholdt had.  

“Look, Reverend,” Charlotte was saying, hands on hips.  “The JCBC is a church, for goodness sakes.  My church.  And there was Robert Keetone, that oaf of a man, thinking he could just come in here without a suite or tie on; just because he’s married to the Collins girl.”

“Well, Charlotte,” The Reverend said steepling his fingers and pressing them to his lips.  “It’s just that it doesn't seem one-hundred per cent Christian to bar entry to anyone who wants to enter the Sanctuary just because of what they wear.”

“But you can’t be that friendly to just anybody.” Charlotte insisted. “Especially not any of the Keetone boys.  And we need to raise our moral standards for the sake of the parishioners. Being well-dressed will lift everyone’s spirits.  Uplifting is good.  Right?”

It wasn’t that the Reverend Mr. Bostworth wanted to refute anything Charlotte said, it was more that he knew trying would be futile.  Like trying to change the wind by simplely shouting down a well.  Charlotte was her own force of nature.

“And you know who is responsible for all this,” Charlotte had attained momentum.  “Is that woman at the boutique. I think we ought to shut her down, or ban her store, or something.  I’m bringing it up at the next meeting and I’m just letting you know so you can agree with me.”

Reverend Bentworth wasn’t sure if Dress Code was actually a part of Church Edict (in his mind he secretly suspected that this was more a question of Charlotte’s tendency to create dogma where none had existed before.)  Nonetheless, he was not in favor of the new mini skirts that were beginning to be in fashion, and there were some ladies of a certain age that he sincerely prayed no one would ever have to see in a short skirt.

 Charlotte was a mother cat and they were her kittens, being lugged around by their scruffs; that was the problem.  Charlotte just expected the Board to fall in line and, after all, why wouldn’t they?  Especially he, himself, could see the value in stopping little hussies like Vanessa Mangenelli from flaunting their seventeen-year-old thighs in front of every man and boy in Church. It was just that the idea of telling people what to wear made him, well – uncomfortable. 

CHAPTER 36

Clem Hoolahan always knew his mother was a whore, his grandfather, Ezeriah, couldn’t go a day without bringing it up.  But it’s real significance was lost to him until, one day when he was nine, the Jerkwater Truant Officer came to say that there would be hell to pay if Clem didn’t start attending school.  At least on days when there wasn’t a blizzard.  

As the oldest kindergartener in the one-room Jerkwater Elementary School, Clem learned what the word Whore really meant, both socially and politically.  True to the Hoolahan code, he took revenge on his unsuspecting tormentors by stealing food or possessions from their lunch boxes and coat pockets, then making sure these things showed up in the custody of other students.  He was in fifth grade before he was caught out by his peers.  But by then he was brawny from ranch work, and none of the students or teachers were brave enough to confront him. 

Watching people react in fear created new vistas for Clem.  All his life he had seen how the cowhands venerated his grandfather and then his father, but the hands had always treated him like a child, dismissing him to play with the dogs or forcing him into menial labor. Once Clem grasped the power of fear, he became a tyrant; suddenly violent and unpredictable.  In his rebellion he even had the audacity to challenge Ezeriah and Horace.   

By his freshman year of high school, Clem was permanently expelled for selling moonshine to his classmates.  He was also punished at home, partly because he had stolen the stuff from Ezeriah’s still, but mostly because he had neglected to share the profits.  

He had, long since, inherited the family ranch but adopted a practice of non-development that left most of the buildings and fences in forlorn condition.  At the age of seventy-four, he still got a kick from stealing the property of those for whom he held a grudge, and Ethyl Esther Keetone was a prime candidate.

CHAPTER 35

“You ingrate!” Rancher Clem Hoolahan slammed his big fist on the oak desk in his office.  “I picked you up out-a the dirt.  I gave you food and a place to put your sorry head.” 

“Yes, Sir, you did that,” Chad Sparrow said, looking straight ahead.  “But Sheriff Ball has offered me a good paying job, and it could have some kind of future.  Now, you can’t blame me for wanting that, can you?”

“Ha, you just want to lallygag around town.”  Clem raised his voice in a high falsetto.  “Just wanna hang around the ladies.  You think you’re some kind of ladies man.  I seen you, making moony eyes at that dress-making gal.  You mark my words, Boy, she’s  gonna turn out tho be a whore like all the rest of ‘em.” 

“Mr. Hoolahan, Sir, you don’t have any call to talk about her like that.  I’ll just take my pay and go.”

“Take your pay?  Why I gave you room and board for nigh on to three months.  What makes you think I owe you anything more?”

Chad Sparrow took a deep breath.  “Well, Sir, we had an agreement …”

“Oh yeah, well I don’t see no contract.  You can’t prove nothing, so what’re you gonna do, Mr. Big-shot? “

The corner of Chad’s mouth tightened, and a cold gleam shone in his eyes.  “Well Sir, as the newly-hired Deputy Sheriff, I would strongly recommend you not try to find out.”  

CHAPTER 34

“Hello?  Hello?  Charlotte, this Elizabeth Amanda, I guess you’ve gotten one of those new answering  machines.  I don’t think those are going to catch on.  Anyway, I really need to talk to you. I’m afraid things are starting to get bad.  I haven’t seen or heard from Clive in almost three weeks and the bank is threatening to put the house on auction next week if he doesn’t show up and make a payment on the  mortgage.    

“Oh Charlotte, I just don’t know what to do.  I’m ashamed to even walk into the Hinky-Dinky, I feel like all the checkout ladies are laughing at me.  The power company is threatening to shut off my lights, and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep my phone. 

“I  wish I could get ahold of you, it would mean so much if we could just go out to lunch like we used to.  Have you and Martin gone out of town?  Well, I guess I’ll try again tomorrow.  I miss you, Charlotte,  please give me a call when you get home.  Bye.”

Charlotte Withholt pressed the delete button on her new machine, careful not to chip her Orange Cream nails.  It was a good thing Martin had agreed to have one of the new-fangled things.  It was easier to avoid people with unsavory circumstances.