CHAPTER 48

We’d made it through the appetizers and, much to my surprise, I hadn’t spilled a drink or knocked a plate off the table. Things were going much better than expected. It had to be the new clothes.

I’ve never been what you would call a “clothes hound.” At my size, I was always fortunate to find a shirt with sleeves that didn’t end halfway down my forearms and pants that didn’t ride high above my ankles. It didn’t matter much, because I found out that, as a reporter, it was always better to look as casual as possible, like a regular person, because people tended to be overly suspicious and withdrawn, as it was when I started asking questions. Look too sharply dressed, and I’d create an even greater distance between us. Basically, I’d shopped at used clothing shops and only made out if some guy of my approximate size had died recently and his family had decided to clear out his closet.

Of course, things changed a bit when I met Jan. Women have that way of looking at every piece of clothing a man holds dearest like it carries a plague. Whenever we went clothes shopping, I often felt like one of those cardboard cut-outs dolls of a man who has an assortment of paper outfits that can be attached and removed at will. I just stood there while Jan held shirts, pants, and jackets, still in their wrapping or on their hangers, up against me while she decided what I would buy. I had no say in the matter. Well, actually, I did in that if I thought something looked good it would immediately go back on the rack, and we’d move on to the next selection.

I’d only splurged once on a really nice suit and that was when Jan insisted I buy one for our wedding ceremony so that I’d look good in the photos in our wedding album. I wore it only on that day and the day she was buried. It was so painful to see it hanging in my closet that a week after her funeral I burned it in a barrel in our back yard.

Shopping for a suit with Ronald was a lot like shopping with Jan. He looked at me, whenever I pointed to a jacket or tie that I liked, with the disappointed expression of an art teacher with a student who insisted on drawing rainbows but was color blind. I really had no choice but to give in to his style choices, but, as usual, I had to admit that Sue Ellen was right. The man did know how to pick out an outfit. We, and I use that word very loosely, ended up with a tan, herringbone tropical blend linen/silk two button sport coat, navy blue Clarendon twill trousers, white cotton shirt and maroon basket weave tie. The only real point of contention was the yellow and gray stacked argyle socks he selected. I thought they were a bit too flashy, but he insisted socks were the one item a man could wear to make a bit of a fashion statement. I gave in. We finished things off with a pair of black moc-toe tassel slip-on loafers. I looked good and felt poised and confident, in spite of my initial nervousness.

Of course, Sue Ellen was also right about getting out. It was really nice to share an evening with a smart, attractive woman like Jackie to get my mind off things. She looked wonderful, but if she noticed, as I did, the admiring glances she was getting from the other restaurant patrons, she didn’t let on. Her hair was swept into a loose updo, tear drop chandelier earrings with lapis stones dangled from her ears, a simple lapis-beaded cylindrical necklace encircled her neck, and a sleeveless white/black floral print sheath dress provided just the right touch of elegance without being overly formal.

Over appetizers, we had talked mostly about Sue Ellen. Each of us knew her in different aspects of her life and, at least for me, it was interesting to hear what the adult Sue Ellen had accomplished, about her children, and the contributions she had made to the community.

Jackie laughed at my stories of the tom-boy Sue Ellen, beating up boys and protecting both Stevie and me against bullies.

When the waiter took away our plates, we both grew quiet, each a bit unsure about where to go next.

This was the part I dreaded. I played around with my napkin for a couple seconds, smiled awkwardly at her, took a drink of my wine, smiled awkwardly at her again. She smiled back.

“So,” she stated, filling the quiet. “Other than the arrests, deaths, beatings, and threats, are you glad you came back to East Hastings?”

I laughed. She laughed back.

“You know, I never really thought I would come back, but now that I have, well, it has changed a lot, but it has its charms and...I don’t know...maybe there is something to that sense of place where the rhythm of life just seems a part of a person. What about you? Do you like living here?”

“Oh, yeah, very much. It is really so beautiful, so different from where I grew up,” she answered.

“That was somewhere in Delaware, I think Sue Ellen told me,” I said.

“Yeah, Middletown. It was nice--don’t get me wrong--but it was kinda flat and there weren’t a lot of trees or streams or old farms like there are around here. Plus I’ve made some very nice friends.”

“Well, people say very nice things about you. Doc Livingston, for one. I felt he was sizing me up as if I was taking his daughter out for a date when he heard we were going to have dinner.”

“He is sweet. He took me under his wing when I took over from Doc McClaren. He seemed to know it wasn’t going to be easy for a female vet--introduced me to the right people, encouraged me to get out.”

“Was it that tough, being a female vet?” I asked.

“Not really. The toughest part was getting into vet school. The competition is fierce and there aren’t a lot of them around,” she answered.

“So what made you decide to become a vet?”

“Well, when I was a little girl, like a lot of little girls, I wanted a horse. We couldn’t afford one, so as soon I was old enough, I volunteered to work at a local horse farm in exchange for the chance to ride--clearing out stalls, feeding and brushing the horses, things like that. I loved it.”

Our waiter came over. He was wearing black pants, a crisply pressed white shirt, and a clip-on black tie. His attire suited the place perfectly. The restaurant was unpretentious, with clean white tablecloths and just a few prints of works by French artists hanging on the wall and medium light provided by several French Empire crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. It was the kind of place that let its food do the talking, and, based on the appetizers, I liked what it had to say.

“Your meal should be out any minute,” he said. “Would you like another glass of wine?” he asked me. Jackie’s wine glass was still half full.

Actually, I could have killed for a Powers with two ice cubes, but both Doc Livingston and Ronald made me promise to be on my best behavior. “I think I’ll wait and order more when the meal comes,” I said. They both would have been proud of me. The waiter left and I turned my attention back to Jackie. “Still,” it’s a long way from mucking out stalls to becoming a vet,” I said to her.

“Mucking out stalls? So you know something about horses? I’m impressed,” she said with a smile.

“It’s hard to grow up in East Hastings and not learn a little of the horsey lingo,” I answered, surprisingly happy that I could impress her.

“Do you ride?” she asked.

“Um, no,” I said emphatically. “I’ve only been on a horse once in my life, and I spent the entire time ducking down to avoid the low tree branches the animal seemed intent on taking me under. I actually think it was disappointed I managed to stay on for the entire ride.”

Jackie laughed. “Well, most of them do have a mind of their own. The horse was probably just testing you.”

“Yeah? Well, I flunked miserably--but back to you and your journey to vet-dom.”

“Well, I hadn’t really planned on becoming a vet, but one day one of my favorite horses developed a bow tendon.” She must have noticed my puzzled look. “It’s an inflammation of the flexor tendon, on the back of the lower part of the horse’s leg, sort of where we have the Achilles tendon and lower calf.”

“Oh, okay. Is that serious?”

“Can be quite serious, and costly. In this case, the horse’s owner was considering putting it down. I couldn’t stand the thought of that and volunteered to care for the horse. The owner was reluctant at first but I guess I was pretty convincing. I moved into the barn and stayed with the horse around the clock. The most important factor is care--applying lotions, short exercise regimens, making sure the horse didn’t do anything to reinjure the tendon. The horse improved, completely healed, and I loved caring for that animal so much, right then and there I made up my mind that’s what I was going to do with my life.”

There was no doubt she had made the right decision, the way she seemed to glow as she told me the story. Once again, I was struck by the way a person who finds the right calling seems so at peace with themselves. Was I ever like that with my newspaper work? If I was, it was in another lifetime.