Page 23 of Too Old for This
We are the hit of Thursday night bingo. Sheila with her kebabs on fancy sticks, Bonnie and two dozen of her caramel cupcakes, and me with my stuffed chicken roll. Most of our food disappears during the first break.
Even Pastor Doug has something to say, and he tries not to play favorites—especially when it comes to food. That can be a touchy topic at church, where people like Glenda take food too seriously.
Tonight he walks up to me with an empty plate in his hand. “Your chicken is amazing.”
“Thank you. I’m so happy you enjoyed it.”
“And these kebabs!”
“Sheila made those.”
“They’re fantastic.”
Glenda, who is wearing a new orange-and-green floral dress, sidles up to us and places her hand on Doug’s arm. I take note of that, though her clingy behavior isn’t new. Everyone knows about Glenda’s obsession with Pastor Doug.
He is never going to marry her. Everybody knows Doug is still in love with his late wife and he is not going to replace her with Glenda. Nevertheless, it gives me something to talk about when I return to my seat.
“She’s hanging all over our pastor again.”
“We should bet on how long it takes her to give up,” Bonnie says. “Like a sports pool.”
“I pick never,” Sheila says.
“The real bet is who will live longest,” I say. “Us or Glenda’s obsession.”
“I’d bet on us every time,” Sheila says.
“Really? You don’t think most people would rather we just die off and get out of the way?”
Sheila stares at me.
“Of course everybody wants us dead,” Bonnie says. “You know my kids do. They still think they’re getting an inheritance.”
We all laugh at that. None of us have much money. Our houses are mortgaged or, in my case, in need of serious work.
Sheila changes the subject and starts naming all the people who have complimented our food tonight. The list is long. Like I said, it’s the little things that can really make your day.
But I don’t feel as happy about it as I expected. The little thrill that comes with praise is barely a spark. Lots of people stop by the table to compliment the food, including Hector and his wife, but that spark doesn’t grow any bigger.
There’s only one thing giving me a little spark tonight:
Jax.
I’ve been thinking about him all day. The way he spoke, the horrible things he said. And I wonder if his calls are recorded.
CHAPTER 13
Fairhaven is a regional bank headquartered down in Eugene. But Jax wasn’t calling from the bank. He’s employed by a call center. The only information I have is the toll-free number on my phone. When I dial it, an automated system picks up and routes me to another system. The messages cut off and on at weird times, and the background noise sounds like a whirring fan. Not a high-end operation. If they can’t make a decent hold message, it’s hard to imagine they have enough money to record their calls.
It takes thirty minutes for me to get a live person.
“Someone named Jaxon called me yesterday from this number,” I say. “Is there any way I can talk to him again?”
“Umm…hang on.”
I am rerouted back to the automated system. Once again, I hang on until a live person picks up.
“Please don’t transfer me,” I say. “I am trying to find someone who called me from this number yesterday.”
