CHAPTER 54

Esmeralda closed the front door of the shop using the doorknob key. The rain had turned into snow and, even though it would be a slippery mess in the morning, it was beautiful right then.  

Esmeralda snuggled her fox-fur collar closer to her ears, walked out to the curb, and turned to study the new display. 

The three lava-lamps were gorgeous; the two little yellow and red ones on the sides showed off the new winter boots and scarves, while the large green and purple lamp in dead center highlighted a white and blue cowgirl dress with a peek-a-boo décolletage.  

Esmeralda sighed, There are people in Jerkwater who can handle this, she thought.                                        

                                                                        THE END

Thank you to everyone who has been reading Jerkwater: The Town, The Story, especially those of you in Germany (who knew?) There is one chapter that was deleted, it was one of my favorite for  personal reasons but plot progression didn't allow me to add it.  If you would like a PDF copy email me at KRLobelAuthor@krlobelauthor.com and look for the rewritten/novel version TBA. 

Chapter 52

Isobel deftly untangled the mass of straw and crumbling newspaper, revealing the antique nativity scene. What was a man like Jubilation Crawlback doing with a thing like this, stuffed into a small crate that was used as a nightstand?   

The craftwork was, obviously, Italian and at least a hundred years old. A one-piece diorama,  perfect for packing in some small crevice of a covered wagon. But how did an old bachelor come to have something that was so clearly a family item?   

One of the things Isobel loved most about her job was that she would never really know the answer to questions like these. Every new artifact she uncovered led her to imagine what the stories of the past might be.

Isobel smiled and rubbed her rounded belly. “Just three more months, Little Person,” she    murmured. “And pretty soon we’ll be able to go on these adventures together.”  

She picked up a brush and began carefully brushing off the figurine, revealing more of its bright colors and gold leaf. It was just the thing to put in the museum’s front window. Isobel rubbed her belly again. “The Nativity of Jerkwater!” she exclaimed. “Perfect!”

CHAPTER 51

Mort shouldered through the front door of the Crawlback Inn and shook the rain from his Squall hat. 

He gave a satisfied appraisal of the little wind-blocking wall with the restaurant license on display. That led to the new framed doorway and the ten tables beyond it. 

Reservations started at six, but at 4 o’clock, the only activity seemed to come from the kitchen.

Swinging his hip onto his usual barstool, he slapped two rolls of crepe paper onto the bar.

“Unis sent this over,” he said as Rude Crawlback appeared out of the dark. “She said it would look better for the ribbon-cutting than the police tape.” 

“Prob’ly,” Rude said picking up the red and yellow paper. “Prob’ly,” he leaned back over his shoulder. “So, you staying for the shindig or what?” he yelled down to a shadowed figure.

“I said I don’t know” a voice growled.

“Hey Clem,” Mort said, looking at his knuckles.

A mumble that sounded like “Bah” came from the far end of the bar. Mort couldn’t see the floor, but when he called out “Hey Cherrybutt.” The familiar tail thumping confirmed her presence.

Mort turned to study the rain pelting on the window. “This is gonna clear up, you know.” He assured Rude. “By dinner time this will be over and everyone will show up.”

“Sure,” Rude said, screwing his mouth to one side. “Seven and Seven for you?”

“Put it on the tab,” Mort sighed.

Rude Crawlback set Mort’s drink in front of him and went to change the tape on the dining-room door.

Mort took a deep whiff of onions and garlic starting on the grill and began watching his son and Ethyl Esther through the service window to the kitchen. Almost over night EmT had graduated to sous chef. He was chopping onions and seemed to be humming that song about staying alive.

Mort began thinking about the day he and Unis picked EmT up from the VA hospital. The doctors had said that they just didn’t know if his motionless, dull-eyed son would ever be anything other than what he was at that moment.

And now, watching through the window as EmT threw more onions on to cook, Mort felt a sense of wonderment.

So it was a big shock when Kay Kay came through the back door, kissed her mother, and then marched over and kissed EmT too.

Mort was stunned. It was beyond anything he had imagined. He watched in fascination as Kay Kay removed her coat, donned an apron and started preparing to cook.  

“Hey Rude, I’m taking that bottle of Crème de Mint for the frosting, OK?” she called out as she popped through the kitchen door.

“Sure, fine,” came the answer. “I don’t know what else to do with it.”

Mort studied Ethyl Esther’s daughter in awe. Denver had changed her all right, and she was a gem, decked out one of those long Madras hippie skirts and wearing some kind of vest covered with little round mirrors. Her fingers and ears were loaded with rings and her hair was twisted into a green, Madras scarf and seemed to be very uncombed and very neat at the same time.   

She grabbed the bottle of liqueur off the shelf and turned to see Mort staring at her.

“Oh, hey Mr. Soapinski,” she said and suddenly seemed to not know where to look.

“Katherine” Mort said quietly.

Kay Kay began a blush that started with her cheeks and rose to the roots of her hair.  “Well,” she said with a little shrug. “Gotta go.” And she ducked back to the kitchen. 

As Mort watched her measuring cream and sugar, he had a feeling of someone close by. He turned to a movement and there, staring from the mirror, in the hole left by the liqueur bottle, was his reflection. It was a middle-aged, slightly spreading man wearing a blue plaid shirt.

“How did you get to be fifty-two years old?” was the first thing Mort imagined the man saying.

Mort noticed all the lines around those brown eyes, but no, those were smile lines. And those eyes had a twinkle in them.

He found himself curious about what that man had to say to him, and the longer he looked the more the man seemed to be saying, “This could all come out alright. Yeah, it could be just fine.”

CHAPTER 50

The Reverend Mr. Cosmo Bostworth packed the picture of his wife, Jean, and their three daughters into his satchel and snapped it shut. Resting his wrists on the latches, he paused  to look around. Forty years. The phrase kept rolling through his mind. Forty years.

He studied the soft green walls, the wooden bookshelves that were old when he was new, and the large oak desk that was no longer his. Well, he thought. It’s the new guy’s now. 

Reverend Bostworth gave a small, involuntary guffaw. Everett Bradley Young. The young reverend will be Reverend Young. It always made him giggle.

He turned off the lights and shut the door one final time. In the small Church garden, the roses had been pruned down and wrapped in straw for the winter, and the red-leaf maples were two-thirds bare.  

He was just pulling up the collar of his jacket when he heard a clatter coming from the rec. room and there, standing with her back to the window, was Charlotte Withholdt. She was pulling around tables and trying to push aside chairs. 

For just a moment, the Reverend’s chivalrous impulses threatened to take over. But his inner voice said: You’re eighty years old, You’ve filled your furniture-moving obligations. And anyway, Charlotte isn’t my problem any more - the new guy can handle it.

Mr. Bostworth turned and walked down the driveway to the back parking lot and the new silver AirStreamer waiting there. Inside, his wife, Jean, was finishing last minute arranging.

“Everything ship-shape and ready to go,” she announced as he walked in.

Mr. Bostworth stowed his jacket in a tiny closet and climbed into the driver’s seat. Jean sat across from him. The engine started with a deeply satisfying rumble.

“Florida,” he sang out. “Here we come.”-   

CHAPTER 49

On one of the last warm days in October, EmT wandered out of the kitchen door, leaned against the warm plywood wall, and closed his eyes. 

For weeks now, things had been rough. At home, every day of the last three weekends had been filled with the noise of building the new, indoor steps to the basement. The banging filled him with apprehension. His nightmares started to return.

And now the construction of the new dining room and kitchen filled the Crawlback Inn with loud disturbance from eight in the morning until almost four o’clock.  But just in that moment, everything was still. 

A breeze that felt like cool silk poured across his face and through his hair. He could hear the boys two blocks over screaming about a gopher ball. Some of them shrieked with cheers of joy while others groaned with disappointment.  

Em T listened for a long time; there were no machine guns or grenades going off, no helicopters, no cries for help; only the sounds of birds and baseball. 

He took a deep breath and then another. The hum that had been ringing in his ears disappeared; somewhere inside, a small part of him that had been gone, came back. EmT took one more breath and the lips that had refused to move for almost five years formed one word over and over, A whisper to himself. 

“Maa-taan-a, Mont-ana, Montana.”

CHAPTER 48

“Stop!” Mort pulled his sedan sideways across the back of Rude’s truck and jumped out. “Unis called me, she heard you two whipping yourselves up. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Hey man,” Rude said sheepishly. He opened the driver-side door and came around to the back, and Ethyl Esther, clutching the flour sack with something heavy at the bottom, came from the opposite side.

“Well Mort,” Rude began, but the short bleep of a siren and an equally short flash of red lights cut him off.

 Sheriff Quincy Ball pulled his cruiser in so that it blocked both Mort and Rude. He hauled his six-foot-three body out of it, slid on his ranger hat, and looked directly at Mort.

“You were driving pretty fast there Mister,” he drawled.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” Mort stammered. “It was kind of urgent.”

”I see,” the sheriff murmured, studying the group to determine its leader. Having done so, he sauntered over to Ethyl Esther. “Mrs. Kennedy,” he said with a doleful sigh.

“You know her?” Mort gasped.

 “I’ve actually been more closely associated with all six of Mrs. Kennedy’s sons.” Sheriff Ball said, looking steadily at Ethyl Esther who was holding the flour-sack with both hands and fidgeting with the top edge. “I guess Robert stopped driving the Mustang after he had to marry that Collins girl, right?” 

Ethyl Esther made a small sound, somewhere between a mumble and a burp.

“So what’s going on here, Ma’am?” the sheriff lifted one eyebrow. “A little bird told me some things have gone missing. That’s my kind of business you know.”

Ethyl Esther, whose fingers were now bunching the cloth bag double-time, explained the thefts and the likely suspect. 

“Those were expensive items,” she squeaked. “Top of the line.”

“Yes Ma’am, I see, and what’s in the bag?”

Ethyl Esther’s fingers were working even faster than before.  “I have a right to protect myself,” she protested meekly.“He’s a big man.”

“Mrs. Kennedy,” Sheriff Ball was officially stern now, “The bag.”

Ethyl Esther slowly unfurled the material and the bottom of the bag dropped.  She held it open for inspection with her arms outstretched and her face averted.

Sheriff Ball looked in and stood frozen for a moment. Then he looked up at the sky and let out a long breath. Bringing his gaze back down to Ethyl Esther, he took out a business card and stuffed it into her cloth-filled fingers.

“You probably have a lot of these already,” he said. “But go over to the office and tell Bernice you want to make a formal complaint. I’ll get you back your … utensils.”

He started toward his car but then stopped and turned around. “And no more vigilante nonsense, understand?” he shouted pointing a finger at Ethyl Esther, but with his eyes directed toward Rude.

Sheriff Quincy Ball drove away thinking how much he missed watching Jack Webb on Friday nights. Why had they canceled Dragnet anyway? It was his favorite show.  

The truth was that the sheriff didn’t give a damn about the small-time crooks and swindlers in and around Jerkwater. Q Ball longed for the big stuff, the stuff that ended up with newspaper reporters and the executioner.

The three in the parking lot watched him go with EmT and Unis peeking out the back door.  Then Mort walked over to where Ethyl Esther stood by the truck, hooked his index finger over the edge of the bag and looked in. Mort gave a deep sigh and then got into his car and drove away too.

Somewhere in the neighborhood a bird chirped, kids played sandlot baseball, and a gas motor started up. But in the rough-dirt parking lot of the Crawlback Inn, all was silent for several seconds.  

Finally, Rude turned to Ethyl Esther. “Ya know, E,” he said in an attempt at a conversational tone, “We don’t exactly have a permit for this here eating establishment.”

Ethyl Esther’s mouth quivered.

“It was always on a trial basis,” Rude continued. “So it makes me uneasy-like, seeing the sheriff pull up and all.”

Ethyl Esther gave a small, shaky laugh.

“Lemme see it.” Rude walked over holding out his hands and curving his fingers open and closed.  

Ethyl Esther pulled away, mumbling, “Protect myself.” But Rude kept his hands outstretched until she relented and opened the bag so he could see its contents.

Like those before him, Rude Crawlback stood a moment in disbelief and then a snort of outrage exploded from his nose. “A meat tenderizer? This is your secret weapon? A meat tenderizer?”

“Well, it’s heavy,” Ethyl Esther justified in her soft, breathy voice.

“Seven pounds tops! TOPS! ETHYL ESTHER … GO” Rude ran his hands through his ragged hair, trying to control the timbre of his voice.  “Go cook something.”  

CHAPTER 47

Ethyl Esther let out a screech that made Rude Crawlback’s eyes tear up and his shoulders jump to his ears. 

“What’s going on out there?” he yelled, thundering through the door. 

Ethyl Esther’s head was buried in her hands. When she looked up, her face was white and blotchy. Her eyes bugged out so far that Rude felt his stomach lurch. 

“It’s gone,” Ethyl Esther’s voice was so high pitched, it was almost inhuman. “My Grandma’s French whisk. The one she brought from Chicago. The one I use EVERY day!”  

She had ransacked the kitchen utility drawers, and once again utensils were scattered everywhere. She looked even more light-headed than usual. Flighty even. She had to grab onto a drawer handle and hold on for dear life.

“You’ve got to stop this nonsense.” Rude said, trying to even-out his voice. “it’s just got put somewhere.”

“No!” Ethyl Esther stamped her foot. “You know exactly who’s doing this.  At least twice a month he comes cruising through the back lot, right after two o’clock. He thinks because he doesn’t see my car, I’m not here. But I walk most mornings and I see him. I just slip out the back when he comes in the front.”

“Whoa, you’re talking about Hoolahan? Are you sure?”

“I have it on good authority.  Besides, that man’s been hounding me since three days after my Hubert died, and I’m sick of it. You’re the boss, it should be up to you to stop this, you’re just too lazy to do anything. But I’m ready to go out there and give him what for.”

“But Ethyl, the guy outweighs you by at least ninety pounds, and he’s almost seven inches taller. What’re you gonna do?” 

“I’m ready! I’ve been ready for a while” Ethyl Esther reached way under the lowest  kitchen shelf and pulled out a cloth sack with something weighty at the bottom. “I’ve never been this mad at anybody, I never wanted to be, but I want to make him hurt.” 

Rudolph Crawlback was not a violent man. In his opinion, confrontation was a waste of physical energy. Still, he had always been that boy without a mother and, though he would never admit it, Ethyl Esther filled an empty niche. Besides, business had been slow of late, and Rude knew that any kind of ruckus would bring people flocking to hear the details.

“Okay,” he said grabbing the largest cast iron skillet he could see. “Okay, let’s go teach him a lesion.”

 They had just worked themselves into a frenzy and were marching to Rude’s pick-up when Mort screeched into the parking lot.

CHAPTER 46

Clem Hoolahan hated seeing anybody do better than he was. It irked him that Rude Crawlback seemed to be making money hand-over-fist and helping Ethyl Esther at the same time.  

It was three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon when Clem snuck through the back door of the Crawlback Inn’s add-on kitchen. 

There they were: the flaky, lighter-than-air biscuits left over from lunch; Clem knew that Ethyl Esther was counting on them for the chicken and biscuit casserole advertised on the chalkboard out by the front. 

Quickly he grabbed the whole plate and slid the biscuits into his greasy coat pocket.  

Then he took a furtive look around and his heart skipped a beat. He wouldn’t just take the product; he would take the means of providing the product. 

That’ll teach her he thought.  Ethyl Esther could have had a real nice life out on my ranch, cooking for me and the hands but no, she had to go and work for this jerk.

CHAPTER 45

It wasn’t that Unis didn’t love Mort, that was a given, she had loved Mort since sixth grade. They had been walking home from school, as they had since kindergarten, and had taken a detour to explore a small creek. But above the gargle of the spring waters, came a distressed, high-pitched cheep. Unis couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but Mort went to the featherless robin as if he had radar. 

In the moment that Mort gently cupped the tiny bird in his hands, Unis knew that she would love him for the rest of her life. It was just that she hated uncertainty, and sometimes Mort took spontaneous actions that left her feeling like laundry forgotten on a clothesline. It drove her crazy.

And of course Mort loved Unis, it was just that he always felt so rushed (except when he was at the Crawlback Inn) and he didn’t want to make her feel like she was in second place, so          declarations and gestures came only when he felt they were appropriate – and that wasn’t very often.

Unis understood this, although it was difficult for her since she had written a paper on poetics in her junior year of high school, and it had led her to a life-long yearning to be swept off her feet.

This longing aside, Unis was not completely surprised to find that Mort’s idea of a  Valentine’s Day treat, was to reserve five hours on a motor cycle, with a side-car for her, on the day after she had gone to Larissa’s House of Beauty for a new perm and set. 

She could recognize his attempts of romance. But, when it came to their son, she just wished he would put a little more thought into matters of safety and cleanliness.

CHAPTER 44

“I just don’t know how I feel about this.” Unis waved her hand in the air as if to brush away an upsetting thought. 

Mort sighed again. “But EmT’s come such a long way, and Ethyl Esther says she thinks he could handle at least chopping onions.”  

“Mort, do you remember what happened last year when you gave him that whittling set?  Ten stitches, Mort: ten.”    

“But this is different, Unis, really.” 

“And who told you to give him that knife?” Unis continued as if he had said nothing at all. “Honestly, Mort, sometimes I think you only use half your brain,” her voice softened a bit, “I know you want him to be challenged, but use a little sense for goodness sakes.”  

Mort hung his head and pinched the bridge of his nose; the memory of the emergency waiting room was unforgettable. Sometimes just thinking about about the smell left him struggling to breathe. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat. But he felt sure about his son.

“Now Mamma Eagle,” he said wrapping his arms around her. “It’s time to let your baby leave the nest. You mustn’t get so upset about every little setback, Sweetheart. It will be different this time, I promise.”

Unis rested her face against Mort’s shoulder for a moment and he stroked her hair. “Don’t cry, Honey, EmT’s ready, I know it.” But Unis raised an amazingly dry-eyed face to look at him.

“And that’s another thing,” Unis said, tapping her forefinger on his breast bone. For a moment Mort held his breath.

 “My son’s name is Emmet Tyler, and I think you should stop calling him that stupid nickname. You keep saying that I’m the one who has to let him change, but you need to change that.”

Mort pulled her into another hug. “Yeah,, you’re right.” he sighed. “It’s just gotten to be a habit.” Unis kissed him softly on the lips. 

“Well stop it,” she said