The Potluck Club (14 page)

A few days later, Joe received his enrollment package from Cherry Creek College. He jumped into the process of reapplying for the following semester, but the very next afternoon the mailman delivered a letter of “greetings” from ol’ LBJ himself. Joe had just been drafted.

I took the news hard. “Joe, Vietnam? Isn’t there something we can do to stop this?”

It was too late. Joe would soon be off at boot camp, then war. When the reality of our impending separation hit us, our discreet romance ended in a quick marriage before a justice of the peace and an all-too-short honeymoon in the elegant Boulderado Hotel in Boulder.

It had been easy to arrange. The Friday afternoon we were married, Evie thought I had driven back home to see my folks, and of course my parents thought I was at the school cramming for a test. Instead, Joe and I were saying our vows at the Boulder County Courthouse. From there, it was only a short walk to the Boulderado. Once Joe carried me up the cherry staircase and into our bedroom suite, we were not seen until checkout Sunday morning. Only room service knew where we were for sure. For me, our honeymoon was a time of both joy and despair. We laughed, we cried, we made love. We celebrated each other and our lives as one.

Sunday afternoon was our final day together. In silence, I drove Joe to the Denver train station in my gray Volkswagen bug. Once there, Joe pulled himself out of my arms. “I’ll write every day. I love you, Vonnie. Don’t worry. I’ll be back, you’ll see,” he called to me as he climbed onboard the late afternoon train that was to whisk him away. He turned to wave, but I could no longer see him through the haze of my tears.

The day Joe left for war, he left a part of himself behind. For all too soon I discovered Joseph Ray Jewel was going to be a father.

I had kept the entire romance and marriage a secret, even from Evie. Mainly because I knew Evie couldn’t keep a secret and also because I knew just how my overbearing parents would react. That’s why I worked so hard to keep up with my schoolwork. With my good grades and baggy sweaters and uniforms, no one suspected a thing. That is, no one suspected until I arrived home for Christmas break. Try as I might, I just couldn’t hide the fact I was with child.

After dinner one night, Daddy asked, “Vonnie, your mother and I are concerned. You’re gaining weight and you never feel well in the mornings. Is there something you want to tell us?”

I cleared my throat. “My baby, I mean, our baby is due in May.”

Daddy jumped from the table, almost knocking over his chair. Mom dropped her water glass. “What?” she cried.

“It’s okay. I’m married, Mama. Daddy, I’m married. I’m Mrs. Joseph Ray Jewel.”

“Then where is this husband of yours?” Mother asked. “I don’t see him. What kind of man would leave you this way?”

“A nice man, a kind man, the son of a doctor. He was drafted, Mama. He’s serving our country in Vietnam.”

“This son of a doctor got you pregnant, then left town?” Mom challenged.

“No, Mama,” I said, desperate to make them understand so they could share my joy. I sprinted to my room and pulled out a large envelope and came back downstairs. “Look, here’s our marriage license.”

I pulled out the gold chain that held my wedding band close to my heart. “See, here’s his ring.”

But Mom could not be consoled, especially when she saw our wedding photo. There I was, dressed in a white miniskirt topped with a soft white peasant blouse with puffed sleeves and a scooped neck etched in colorful embroidery. My long, straight blond hair cascaded over my shoulders and down to my waist. I stood smiling, clutching a bouquet of tiger lilies and Joseph’s arm. Joe was dressed in a blue polyester suit with a white shirt and maroon tie.

Instead of smiling at the camera, the camera caught Joe smiling at me. Seeing the love in his eyes brought tears to my own.

“Mama, see how handsome he is?”

“His color isn’t right, Vonnie. What kind of man is he?”

“What do you mean, Mama?”

“He’s too dark to be American.”

“Of course he’s American. His father was English, and his mother’s from Mexico.”

That’s when the bomb exploded. My pure-blooded Swedish mother cried, “You are carrying the child of a Mexican? Vonnie! How could you disgrace yourself, your family in this way?”

“Mama, I love him. He’s my husband. Don’t you understand?” But my parents couldn’t understand. The next day, the Monday before Christmas, I’d boarded a bus and headed for the Los Angeles home of Maria Jewel, Joseph’s Mexican mother.

Maria was wonderful. She was shorter than me, and I stand all of five foot two. She welcomed me into her home and treated me like one of her own daughters. She taught me how to make warm corn tortillas and mouth-watering tamales, still one of my most sought-after specialties.

But as my belly grew, I longed for my mother. Even though I wrote her a steady stream of letters, they came back to me marked “Return to Sender.”

I had quite the lifestyle change that spring. I had given up my nursing career to live on the poor east side of L.A. But I didn’t mind a bit. I was in love and waiting for my baby’s father—my husband—to return from war, all the while living the incredible stories of warmth and laughter, the stories Joe had told me on our walks on the hill.

I, with a tummy swollen to full-term, was no longer able to work at the nearby dry cleaner’s shop. That’s why I happened to be home the day the United States army chaplain stopped by. When his black Ford LTD pulled into our driveway, I raced to Maria. Together we’d opened the door at the chaplain’s knock. “Mrs. Jewel?” he’d asked, another man standing by his side.

We both stared. “Yes?” we answered in unison.

Maria and I leaned on each other for support.

The officer continued. “I’m Chaplain Rodger Walters from the U.S. army,” he said, showing us his credentials. First he looked at me as he handed me a telegram. “I’m sorry to inform you that your husband,” then he turned to the elder Mrs. Jewel, “and your son, Joseph Ray Jewel, has been killed . . .”

I never heard the rest of his announcement. A blood-curdling scream filled the air. The scream and the others that followed seemed to belong to someone other than me. I fell to the ground, twisting in agony. The last thing I remember was Maria bending over me, calling my name, pressing a cold cloth to my forehead. Then I felt the wetness. My water had broken. My time had come.

The difficult labor lasted forty-six hours. During those hours, I slipped in and out of consciousness. There were times I couldn’t tell if my screams were from the pain of giving birth or the pain of my broken heart. Finally, it was all too much. My mind gave way to blackness, and I remember nothing more.

It was another two full days before I awoke. Maria was gone. In her place was my own mother, who gently patted my hand. “Vonnie. Vonnie, dear?”

I opened my eyes.

Mom’s face leaned over me. “Dear, you’re better off,” she whispered.

My head pounded. My voice croaked through parched lips. “Mama? What do you mean?”

“The baby.” Mother stroked my hair. “The baby’s gone. But don’t worry, dear, it’s all for the best. Now you can come home.”

When Chucky suddenly jumped into my lap, I realized I was back in my recliner, holding—okay, gripping—baby Amanda Jewel to my chest. Well, a couple of teardrops probably won’t ruin her gown. Even so, I had no business rehashing the past. It’s between me and God, and no one else needs to know. Even my dear Fred’s never dreamed I’ve been married before, much less had a baby, albeit stillborn.

I wish I could have seen my child, or at least had the opportunity to say good-bye. But I was still sleeping when they laid him to rest. Mother said he’d been a boy with dark curls, like his dad. How precious. At least I know that Joe and his son are together, and that brings me a bit of peace.

But baby Joe’s birth had deeper consequences. Some time after I married Fred, my gynecologist in Denver said the birth had caused too much trauma to my uterus. “Yvonne,” he said as he stared at the latest diagnostic report, “I hate to say this, but I don’t think you’ll ever conceive again. That is unless you believe in miracles.”

I did believe. I just knew God would heal my womb. For he was a God of love, and he alone knew just how much I wanted to be a mom. But my miracle never came. My baby would never be.

Eventually I had a hysterectomy, and that was that. It’s all quite sad, I suppose. But life does go on.

When I left California, Mom talked me into breaking ties with Maria Jewel and her family and heading back to Cherry Creek College to finish my RN. I’m sorry to say, I walked away from the Jewels and never looked back. My mother even invented a cover story to explain my time in California. She told all our friends I had temporarily transferred to Berkeley until I got homesick. After graduation from Cherry Creek, I worked in Denver for a while, then headed right back to Summit View, just like a homing pigeon. Evie and Ruth Ann were already enjoying life as best friends, and I didn’t want to be a third wheel. I was the odd man out. At least in those days.

I lived at home and worked for Doctor Billings, our town’s only M.D. In fact, that’s how I reconnected with Fred. Being an auto mechanic, he came in to see the doc after he broke his finger when it got caught in a tire jack. It was sort of a fortunate accident—the injury healed beautifully, plus it got the two of us back together. If there were ever two people who needed each other, it was Fred and me.

Fred loves me; I know that. He’s loved me since grade school. He stole his first kiss from me in second grade. And though I’ve never felt passionately in love with him, I appreciate him more each day. It’s hard to believe we’ve been together for thirty-five years. But I must confess, though Fred has been a good husband, faithful, and a good provider, he’ll never hold a candle to my Joe.

Mom always liked Fred. He’s a medium-built Swede with bright blue eyes and a fine crop of platinum hair; that is, when he had hair. And after all these years, he’s still not a bad-looking man, though he’s a bit on the paunchy side. But that’s only because he so loves my tamales. It breaks my heart to think I never made him a dad. He’d have been a good one. He’d have taught our children about God, the secret life of car engines, and how to fish. In fact, fishing is one of Fred’s favorite pastimes. Lately he’s been going out with Lisa Leann’s husband, Henry.

All in all, Fred’s and my time together has been pleasant and sweet. However, I’ve always wondered: if Fred knew of my past, how would he react? Would he feel angry or hurt or even prejudiced against Joe—like my mother? To even think of it causes me to feel a bit lightheaded. I’ve betrayed him all these years with my secret love for another man. And as a consequence, my previous marriage stole our ability to have children. If Fred found out the reason or that I never confided in him about my past . . . I can’t even imagine.

I looked down at my watch.
Goodness, look at the time.
It was almost noon, and all I had to show for it was a few tearstains on my favorite doll.
Let’s see, I promised Lisa Leann I’d make some dish
for the Potluck. My famous fruit salad? Probably. I’ve already picked
up the ingredients for that.

I walked to the kitchen with Chucky at my heels. That dog follows me everywhere, just like a little white shadow. I pulled out the bread for a sandwich and trimmed the crust. As was our routine, Chucky sat at attention while I tossed him bread bits. That dog’s amazing. He could catch those bits in midair, unless they bounced off his nose. Then he goes sliding across the slick linoleum to chase them down. I always get a chuckle out of that.

The phone rang, and my caller ID announced Evangeline Benson. Evie was probably calling to make sure I was cooking something for the Potluck. Now, don’t get me wrong; I love Evie, I really do. She relies on me for everything. But I suspect she thinks I’m not capable of brushing my teeth unless she directs the event. Evie hasn’t always been so bossy, however. Why, back in college, she was so consumed with her failed “romance” to Vernon, not to mention her studies, she never noticed how love had turned my usually grounded self into a woman whose feet never touched the ground.

Once, after I floated in late from one of my secret dates, she gave me a strange look. I merely explained that I had been studying at the library, though I never said what or whom I was studying. And Evie, being all about honesty and practicality, believed me.

We really weren’t close back then. I wasn’t her best friend. That title still belonged to Ruth Ann, who had headed for the Great Lakes naval base with her new husband, Arnold. However, Evie found that I was a comfortable second choice, not to mention a first-rate sorority sister. Even so, Evie and I didn’t become best friends until decades later, some time after Ruth Ann’s passing. And in truth, Evie’s never quite gotten over Ruthie’s death. How could she? Without Ruth Ann, she had no one. Well, except for me. I think the thing that makes us so close now is that we share a bond so secret even Evie doesn’t know—we share the bond of loss.

We may be best friends today, but sometimes Evie drives me batty. It seems to me that her number-one goal has been to organize my life. She thinks she’s pretty accomplished at it too. But that’s okay. I keep my secrets, and I stand up to Evie whenever necessary. A feat I’ve accomplished on several occasions, especially when it comes to her treatment of Donna Vesey.

Amazingly, whenever I make my stand on the subject of Donna, Evie straightens up. She’s never been mean-spirited, only bitterly alone. Despite her hard side, in many ways, she’s still that lost little girl wondering how Doreen Roberts stole her boyfriend with just a kiss.

I picked up the phone. “Hi, Evie. How’s it going with Leigh?” “Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do with that girl. She’s planning to come to the Potluck Club.”

“And?”

“I don’t think I can bear any more questions about her condition.”

I chuckled. “Evie, just like Lisa Leann says, this is no secret.”

I could hear an exasperated huff on Evie’s end of the line. “What else did Lisa Leann say?”