Forever Friday (31 page)

Deeper.

More severe.

“How many New Year’s Eves do we have left?” she whispered.

She supposed Mister Jack knew. But would he walk though the dressing room door and reveal how many more years she had with her soul mate? No. It wasn’t his way. And since only God was all-knowing, maybe Mister Jack was doing the best he could.

“Ma’am,” the saleslady called. “Is everything all right?”

“For now,” Huck replied.

January 1974

Houston, Texas

Huck glanced out her kitchen window, hoping to see the swirl of snowflakes falling from the steel-gray afternoon clouds. The weatherman on channel 13 had said there was a fifty percent chance, but any kind of frozen precipitation in Houston, even in the dead of winter, was about as likely as a heat wave at the North Pole.

After spooning tea leaves into a blue china teapot, she poured in boiling water. When the brew had steeped, she filled two cups, adding
extra honey and lemon to Gabe’s. It had been a good day, his breathing easy. Also, the tea seemed to help him breathe more freely.

She sighed.

There was no predicting what kind of day he would have. Emphysema was like that. If Gabe had only known the danger, he would have never smoked, especially after the cough he’d developed in Texas City. Since his diagnosis three years ago, he’d only suffered one really bad spell. However, unless a cure was found, his lungs would eventually lose all their elasticity and function.

But thank the good Lord, they’d been lucky so far. Progression had been slow. The only things that had changed significantly were his not being able to travel as much and limiting all strenuous activity. “It’s darn frustrating how I run out of breath,” he’d said one morning at breakfast. “And I’m not talking about mowing the yard!”

After placing the tea on a serving tray, she walked toward Gabe’s study. The tap and ring of his old manual typewriter met her ears. Emphysema may have slowed his body but not his mind. A day didn’t pass in which he was not typing something. A grocery list. Letter. Poem.

She smiled. He’d written her hundreds of lovely poems on postcards through the years. And as soon as some of her obligations with the Texas Retired Teachers Association ended, she’d sort the cards by year and put them into albums. They’d always kept them hidden. Secret. Even from Priscilla. So if she camouflaged the albums among their collection of photographs, no one would be the wiser, at least until they were both deceased.

“Ready for tea?” Huck entered the study.

Gabe nodded, deep in thought.

Smiling, she set a cup and saucer on his desk, stood behind him,
and ran her fingers through his hair. There were still a good many curls, all silver, but his sea-sky eyes remained as true as the day they’d met.

“Ah … that feels good.” Gabe quit typing. “After a week, you have to stop.”

“That’s what you say now, but by then, you’ll think of a reason for me to keep going.” She began massaging his shoulders. “So what are you writing?”

“I was just answering Charlie’s letter. Haven’t communicated with him since we met him and Chloe for breakfast at Benny’s Diner, just before they moved to their retirement community. He wants to know every detail about what happened last year in La Grange with the infamous Chicken Ranch. Guess there aren’t any such establishments to pick on down in Florida.”

“Gabe Alexander!” She thumped his head with her finger. “That is not a very polite subject.”

“Nor a polite predicate.”

She thumped him again. “What if Chloe or one of their grandchildren reads your letter?”

“They’d think I was writing about poultry.” He laughed. “Remember Charlie’s oldest son who fought in the D-Day invasion of Normandy?”

Huck nodded.

“Well,” Gabe continued, “I’d forgotten he served on the battleship
Texas
. He told Charlie that there were plans in the works to refurbish that fine old Texas gal. She was first commissioned in 1914.”

“Then she probably needs a face-lift,” Huck said.

They laughed.

“In a week or so,” Gabe continued, “the weather is supposed to
warm. What say let’s take Blue Norther on a little day trip over to where she’s moored and pay our respects?”

“I like that idea.” Huck stopped massaging and kissed him on the cheek. “Just don’t get excited and try to join the navy.”

“Not a chance. They turned me down after Pearl Harbor was hit, and I’m still mad about it.”

“So did all the other branches, dear. Gulf needed you more.” She picked up the tray and retreated to their private parlor. Sitting on the love seat, she sipped her tea and glanced out the window.

She could hear Gabe’s typewriter again. It had been hard for him when he’d tried to reenlist and couldn’t. Even though he’d served in World War I, the War Department felt that at age forty-three, he’d serve the country better staying with Gulf.

Huck sipped her tea as a familiar emptiness punched her stomach. Cutter was five years younger than Gabe, and extremely athletic, so he’d been able to enlist. After basic training, he’d excelled in flight navigation, so he shipped out to join the Eighth Air Force stationed in southern England. In 1943, his entire B-17 squadron lost their lives when they were shot down behind German lines. Since Cutter was her twin, Huck felt as if part of
her
had died. Both she and Gabe had grieved for months. Every night of the endless war they’d held each other close, and she knew on most of those nights, Gabe felt guilty to be alive. Along with the rest of the nation, they prayed for the safety of the troops and an expedient conclusion to the madness. But Huck especially prayed for Gabe, who relived the horrors he’d suffered in the trenches. He’d awaken drenched in sweat, then shiver uncontrollably for hours. She’d wrap her arms around him and recite some of his favorite psalms. Psalms about God’s protection, comfort, and strength.

Glancing out the window, Huck chose to focus her thoughts on happier times.

Still no snow.

As a child, she’d often dreamed of riding on a sled, flying down a powdery white slope. The only time it had ever snowed enough for that to happen was the winter before she’d discovered her secret glen.

Her father had rented out some of their land to a sharecropper named Colonel Blue. He wasn’t a real colonel, and Blue was only a nickname, but he had been a drummer boy in the War Between the States. Huck loved to hear his exciting tales of adventure, so spent many a chilly afternoon beside a rusty pot-bellied wood stove, drinking hot-water-tea with Blue and his wife, Stella. Since children weren’t allowed to have coffee, Stella stirred cream and sugar into hot water, adding just enough coffee to give it a caramel color.

One frigid afternoon just before Christmas, she sat enraptured by one of Blue’s stories. By the time he finished, large fluffy flakes were falling from the sky. In no time, the snow had piled several inches deep. With a twinkle in his eye, Blue instructed Huck and Stella to put on their coats and follow him outside. On the back porch was a little homemade sled. For the rest of the day, they all took turns sliding down a nearby hill. After the first of the year, Blue and Stella moved on. But Huck never forgot how a married couple well past retirement age had frolicked like carefree children.

That’s why she loved the snow. Remembering Blue and Stella made growing old much more palatable.

Huck took a slow sip, savoring the sweet tart flavor. So much had changed since her childhood. Professional baseball could now be played indoors, and a man had actually walked on the moon. In fact, the
Astrodome and NASA were only short drives from their home. And she’d never forget overhearing one of Priscilla’s friends say that if man had really stepped upon the lunar surface, on a clear night, we’d be able to look up and see his footprints without a telescope.

Priscilla.

Such a complicated woman.

And as of two months ago, a mother.

Huck shook her head at the memory. Priscilla was a mess, but they loved her like a daughter. Her child would be like a granddaughter.

Yevette Galloway.

The most beautiful baby Huck had ever seen.

Finishing her tea, she could still hear Gabe’s typewriter. Over the course of their marriage, especially when they were young, they’d talked about adopting a child, but never did. And now, especially since Gabe’s illness, they wished they’d pursued the idea harder. Huck’s worst fear, of course, was losing him. After that was the nightmare of her ending up alone in some wretched nursing home.

Huck could feel her emotions spiraling downward. “I refuse to be discouraged,” she said aloud. “Not today.” Mister Jack had talked about a person playing the hand she’d been dealt. And it was clear to her that he’d always hidden a few cards up his sleeve, sliding one under the table to her when it was most needed. Perhaps when it came to Gabe’s emphysema, he’d slip her another ace.

“Sweetheart?” Gabe walked into the parlor. “Just heard the weather. All next week will be in the seventies, so we can look forward to our trip.” He turned his attention toward the window. “Now would you look at that … Snow!”

March 1986

Houston, Texas

A television in the intensive care waiting room at Hermann Hospital blared the six p.m. news. Huck checked her wristwatch. In fifteen minutes it would be time to visit Gabe again. Glancing up at the screen, she wished someone taller would turn off the noise. Sometime in her late seventies, she’d begun to shrink.

Huck yawned.

Even though ICU visiting hours were over at ten thirty, she felt it important to be there around the clock. Of course Priscilla had insisted on relieving her a little each day, but as far as Huck was concerned, dozing nights in a drafty hospital waiting room was better than no sleep at home alone in their bed. Sometimes the nurses would let her sit with him for an hour or so during the wee hours if things were quiet. Being near Gabe was all that mattered.

A news anchor’s polished baritone voice caught her attention. “This afternoon, a different kind of St. Patrick’s Day event was held at Houston’s Shamrock Hotel. Revelers celebrated the fortieth anniversary of its official groundbreaking with a demonstration. Instead of the traditional
‘green gala,’ demonstrators carried signs protesting the hotel’s proposed demolition.”

“Demolition?” Huck mouthed. “That will never happen.” She’d been so overwhelmed with Gabe’s failing health the past few months, she’d had no desire to read the papers. What she did read were his weekly postcards. Loving and witty as ever, the cards were her most cherished possessions.

Her stomach tightened.

It had been sad, almost devastating, not to receive a postcard last week, the first Friday he’d missed in sixty years of marriage. But the man was in intensive care! She could not expect him to do the impossible.

She sighed. Their lives were changing whether they liked it or not.

The biggest change happened a little over a year ago when Gabe’s emphysema caused him to constantly be on oxygen. Because of the large cumbersome tanks, they’d stopped traveling, except for a short trip or two when he’d used smaller portable units. And now most of his days were spent just trying to fill his lungs with enough air for him to walk from the dinner table to his study. Even typing required more energy than he could usually muster.

Huck glanced up at the television as the anchor handed off the Shamrock story to a field reporter. “This now famous landmark,” the reporter said, “opened on St. Patrick’s Day in 1949, bringing truth to the old adage: Everything
is
bigger in the Lone Star State.”

Gabe would chuckle at this report
, Huck thought. When the Shamrock was built, it had been the talk of the Bayou City for months, so they had attended all the grand opening festivities. Thousands crowded inside and out to get a firsthand look at the opulent, almost gaudy high-rise. Along with its lavishly landscaped grounds, there was a
swimming pool big enough for exhibition waterskiing. Dozens of glamorous Hollywood stars attended the event with Los Angeles film executives and an army of journalists. Actress Dorothy Lamour had to cancel a live radio broadcast because of the ruckus.