Passing Through Midnight (24 page)

With sparkling eyes they listened to the exchange beyond
the curtain. Gil was as confused as Laverne and was defending Dorie's
honor as civilly and politely as he could to three old people he
innately respected but found annoying as hell.

"… And I'll tell you why I want to marry her,"
Gil was saying, snapping the strings around his temper one by one. "She
makes me happy."

"In bed." That was Ms. Half-Glasses' guess.

"Sure. But she makes me happy just to watch her, to listen
to her talk, to sit and look at stars with her too. Her mind is a
sponge that's always thirsty for new things. For answers. To know why
and how things work and what they're for. She's a strong woman who
knows who she is and what she is and what she wants, and, God knows,
she's taken her share of beatings and she's had her doubts, but she
never gave up. She's loving and giving and gentle with my kids
and…"

"Oh, dear," said the gentleman. "You have children? Does
she know you have children?"

"She knows I have children, yes. They're nuts about her."

The three holy ones looked at one another, seeming to come
to a common consensus.

"She'll never marry you," the gentleman said gently.
"She's not very fond of children."

"She loves my kids. You can tell when she looks at them."

"That's all an act," said the ball-woman with disdain.
"Last Christmas she chased two little carolers around the dayroom with
Isaac Shorenburger's cane. We all saw it."

"I'm sorry. I don't believe that," Gil said, on the verge
of telling these plainly disoriented people where to go.

A raspy, cackling noise came from behind the curtain, then
a softer giggling sound.

"Believe it," Dorie said, laughing softly as she started
to push the curtain back into place. "I wouldn't put anything past this
woman. Are you going to live another fifty years or what, Leroy?" The
old man on the stretcher nodded repeatedly. "Turn him loose. The
party's over. It's rime for all these clowns to go home."

Gil observed in quiet confusion as Leroy removed the
oxygen from his nose and started to button up the front of his shirt.
The little blond nurse turned off the oxygen and lowered the railing on
the stretcher, then waited to assist him to the floor. The female
patient on the other stretcher, an orange-haired creature with big blue
eyes behind huge rose-colored bifocals, rattled the bars on her cage
insistently, stating, "I want to get a closer look at him."

And the Blessed Trinity rocked to their feet.

"And you, Mr. Howlett, are in big, big trouble," Dorie declared, pointing a finger at him from across the
room.

"I am? Why? What have I done now?"

"You cannot come in here and ask me to marry you and then
turn around and tell these sweet, old people that you want to marry
Flora," she said, indicating with her hand the would-be bride-to-be. "I
just won't stand for it. And I think you should know that
I'm
the one who loves you,
I'm
the one who loves your
sons"—she started walking toward him—"
I'm
the one who loves your uncle Matthew and your wheat fields and your
dumb cows and the stupid way you look when you've been bamboozled.
I'm
the one who's going to marry you and nag you every day to pick up your
dirty socks, and back your machines into ditches and fuss over Fletcher
because he's too young to get involved with girls like Flora over there
and encourage Baxter to roll in the mud with pigs because he's too
fastidious, and bug you about your novel and beat you at pool and take
care of you when you're sick, and grow old with you. Not Flora," she
finished, stopping in front of him.

"No. Not Flora," he said, looking into her eyes, his
expression as serious and profound as Peter's when he received the keys
to the kingdom of Heaven.

She smiled at him, seeing him frightened and grateful;
hopeful and deeply pleased all at once. She closed the space between
them, looped her arms around his neck, and asked, "Do they have sick
people in Kansas?"

"A couple," he said, his manner relaxing now that he had
her in his arms. He leaned close and muttered, "Not near as sick as
this bunch, but they'll keep you busy enough."

"Cover your eyes if you can reach 'em, Laverne," Flora
said, needling her arch rival. "I think he's going to kiss her."

They spent the next two weeks alone in Chicago—
Dorie working off her two-week notice at the hospital, Gil browsing
through the libraries and museums. Together they packed boxes in the
evenings and called the boys every night.

"Two more days," Baxter said, announcing the countdown to
their arrival with every phone call. "Uncle Matt put it on the
calendar. How long will it take for you to be my mom?"

"In my heart, I already am. But after we all get married,
we're going to have a big party, and the judge will come and show us
how to adopt each other, and then I'll be your legal mom, forever and
always."

"Then I can call you Mom."

"You bet."

"Will that be before Emily cat has her kittens, do you
think?"

"I hope so. Have you decided on names yet?"

"Yep. Since you won't be using your name anymore, we'll
call them all Dorie."

"Great."

On the first day of September, Dorie's mother kissed her
daughter and future son-in-law good-bye on the curb in front of Dorie's
apartment building.

"Now, you call me when you get there, Gil," she said with
big tears clinging to her eyelashes. "Be sure to stop somewhere for
lunch so you don't get a headache while you're driving, and when you
park, be sure to give yourself plenty of room. It takes a degree in
engineering to back up when you're pulling something on a trailer
hitch."

"I'll remember," he said, nodding, catching Dorie's eye
across the bench seat in the front of his big black and silver truck.
He gave her a your-mother-knows-so-how-come-you-didn't look, and then
he grinned the way men do when it's them and the rest of the world
against you. He kissed "Mom" Devries on the cheek. "We'll see you in
two weeks. You can look over the house and let us know then if you've
changed your mind about moving to Colby. It's a nice little house. Less
than a mile away."

"It's an easy walk, Mother. Gil can do it in the dark."

"We'll see. We'll see. You two run along now and be
careful. Watch out for those truckers. They think the roads were made
for them."

Dorie fell asleep about twenty-five miles west of Topeka.
The sun was setting over the horizon—and in her eyes. She
only closed them for a second, to ease the tired burning sensation. The
cab was warm; the rhythm of the road was monotonous and soothing; she
was in love; the country music on the radio was slow and sad. The next
thing she heard was Gil's voice, soft and deep like a subterranean
river.

"Dorie, we're home." She felt his lips at her ear. "Wake
up, Dorothy, you're back in Kansas."

"Ugh."