November 19, 2004
Priestly stood at the grill, bopping to the music in his head as he flipped cheesesteaks for the construction crew while also listening for the laptop to beep. Jen was off. It was unusually cold and windy out and close to Thanksgiving, so a lot of the crowds were either huddled at home or out preparing. Business was on the slower edge of normal due mostly to the regulars.
Trucker grabbed yesterday's receipts and retreated to his booth at the back. Priestly continued grooving out to the song in his head. He thought Trucker might let Sally leave early. When either he or Jen was out, Sally typically stayed past her normal shift until they could determine whether or not they were in the weeds.
He glanced up as he saw her coming out of the corner of his eye. She stopped short.
"Sal?" he asked, spatula hovering over the steaks.
Her face drained of color. Priestly tossed the spatula down and lunged at her to grab the tray she carried as it wobbled, and then he hurriedly tossed it in the general direction of the front counter to catch Sally as she fell forward.
"TRUCKER!" he shouted in utter panic, cradling the tiny woman in his arms, turning her gently so she was face up instead of facedown. He tried to find a pulse at her neck. "Sal? C'mon, Sal," he begged as Trucker skidded around the counter, took in the situation, and nearly tore the phone off the wall.
"Is she breathing?"
Priestly ducked his head down close to her face, then looked back at Trucker, nodding. "Yeah." He reached down for her wrist, unable to find a pulse at her neck.
"I need an ambulance at Beach City Grill," Trucker said, rattling off the address. "I've got an employee that just passed out."
"Sal?" Priestly asked again. Her eyelids fluttered. "Sally?"
Trucker edged past him to save the cheesesteaks, which were starting to smoke a little.
Nothing. Just the eyelids and then nothing. Priestly swore softly. "C'mon, Sal," he urged again, stroking the wrist he still held, comforted by the faint beat he detected. Her eyelids fluttered again. "Sally?"
Trucker hurried the sandwiches to the construction guys. Spooked, they didn't even protest the fact that he'd packed them to go instead of for dining in. Priestly heard them chorus things like, "Man, I hope she's ok." and "Tell her to get well soon." as they shuffled out.
"I'm sorry," he heard Trucker say. "We've got a family emergency here. I'm closing now. Please try us again another day."
The wail of a siren covered anything else. In another moment, the siren cut off and doors slammed. Trucker said, "She's back here behind the counter."
Two EMTs with a gurney and a crash kit appeared, took in Priestly holding Sally and got to work. "What's her name?"
"Sally," he rasped, looking up at Trucker.
"Sally? Hon?" one of the EMTs said. "Did she hit her head?"
"No," Priestly replied softly. "I caught her."
"Sally?" the EMT asked again as the other wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her arm and clipped a pulse oximeter to her finger. Her eyelids fluttered again. "Sally? C'mon, sweetheart…" The EMT looked at him. "What happened before she lost consciousness? Was she stumbling? Was her face drooping? Was she slurring?"
"She didn't say anything or stumble," Priestly replied numbly, absently rubbing his thumb over the wrist he still held. "She just stopped, got really pale and started to drop the tray she was carrying. And then she just passed out."
The two EMTs gabbled numbers back and forth like baseball scores and one of them eased Sally away from Priestly. "Count of three," he told his partner. "One, two, three…" The two EMTs lifted her onto the gurney and buckled her down as the other one radioed Dominican.
Priestly looked up at Trucker helplessly for a minute. Trucker darted back against the window by the register counter to let them by. He grabbed the phone again, probably to call Scooter. Priestly stood and watched the ambulance swallow Sally up, doors closing with a crushing finality he didn't like. And then the ambulance wailed away again.
He looked around. Trucker had flipped the sign over earlier, signaling the grill was closed. Priestly turned off the grill and hurriedly packed away the cold sub fixings in the subzero, listening to Trucker's soft voice but not making out the words. He picked up the spatula he'd dropped on the floor and the spare Trucker pulled to save the construction order and put them in the sink.
The tray he'd hastily thrown sat dejectedly on the front counter, broken glass in a pool of watered down remnants of beverages that swam just at the lip of the tray, punctuated by soggy crumpled napkin islands and silverware reefs. He used a spare bar towel to suck up some of the excess liquid, then carried the still swimming tray to the sink, pulling the unbroken glasses and the silverware off before dumping the tray over the trash bin. When it was empty, he put it in the sink with the other things.
Trucker hung up the phone. They did a hasty closing cleanup, cutting corners that could be left until opening the next day. "You coming to Dominican?" Trucker asked as he locked the front door.
Priestly nodded and tugged off his apron, tossing it in a heap on the shelf in the back room. He grabbed his army jacket from the peg by the door, waiting for Trucker to lock the back door behind him.
They were silent on the ride to Dominican. Priestly fidgeted in the passenger seat, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans, his knee bouncing until Trucker reached out and stilled it. "Sorry," he mumbled. Trucker said nothing.
Scooter was already there, looking disheveled and pale, standing at the window in the waiting area. When Trucker quietly said his name, his head whipped around. Trucker gently embraced the man. Scooter was a big guy, but he looked frail somehow.
Priestly stood nearby, nodding at Scooter when he glanced his way. Scooter reached out touched his sleeve by way of greeting.
And then they waited. Interminably, or so it felt. Just when Priestly thought he would scream, a man in blue scrubs called out, "Scooter Dailey?"
Scooter moved so fast you'd think he was on fire. He disappeared with the man in the scrubs. Priestly and Trucker looked at each other nervously. The look on his face was one he'd never seen before. A shiver coursed through him, and he put his arm around Trucker's shoulder and squeezed. There weren't words to make it better. Priestly knew Sally had worked for him for a long, long time and that they were good friends.
Scooter came back wiping his eyes, his spectacles dangling limply from one hand. He looked at them with sad eyes. "Heart attack," he said. "She's resting," he added immediately as he saw their faces.
Priestly rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands as Trucker embraced Scooter again, murmuring something to him that made him nod.
They weren't allowed to see her that night, but Trucker and Priestly stood talking softly with Scooter for a few more minutes. Scooter assured them he'd be alright there by himself. They were going to let him see her again as soon as she had a room secured in the ICU.
Back in the Causemobile, Trucker asked quietly, "Can you work doubles for a while until we can figure things out at the grill?"
He nodded. "Yeah, man. Whatever you need."
November 24th, 2004
They invaded Sally's house at just after ten in the morning with bags of ingredients. She was home resting. Scooter had told them she seemed a little sad over Thanksgiving, so Trucker asked Priestly and Jen, who was a little depressed over not being able to make it home again that year, if they would mind helping him keep the tradition alive. Both readily accepted the challenge. When Scooter let them in, Sally'd padded to the front door behind him to see who was there. Her delighted smile had Priestly breaking into a wide grin beside him. Trucker knew the kid had a soft spot for her.
"Skipping Thanksgiving," Trucker told her, "is out of the question." Not to mention no good at all for a woman who loved to cook and gather her friends close. Family, really.
After a round of hand washing, they set to work. Sally sat at the little breakfast nook table looking a little tired but otherwise her vibrant self. Trucker had already prepped the turkey, but he explained his secret was to brine it for 24 hours and then shove butter and spices up under the skin, which sealed them into the meat and kept the bird moist. Sally was intrigued by that and teased him that he was making her mouth water.
It was a little bit of magic finding a place for it in the fridge until it was time to put it in the oven, but they did it. Priestly did food prep, slicing what needed slicing and dicing what needed dicing and measuring out dry ingredients while Jen assembled the side dishes. In between there was the usual chatter. Jetta watched mournfully from her post on the deck, nose to the arcadia door. People began to arrive as they were putting the final touches on, starting with Mel Shipley, who was always early.
"Mel," Trucker greeted him with a handshake. He glanced at Trucker and then away, as usual.
"Hi, Trucker," he said, staring at the table Jen helped Sally set. "Happy Thanksgiving."
"You too, man. Why don't you take the back corner like usual?"
He nodded moved to his seat.
Soon, they were all assembled around the table, joining hands and dipping their heads for Sally's yearly blessing.
"Lord," she said, "I'm ever thankful for my dear, sweet, hovering Scoot, and for Trucker for being my dear friend and cooking the turkey this year. Thank you for Davis, who still fixes the computer for us. Thank you for our good neighbors, Simon and Jean, who recently stepped up with a flood of delicious casseroles and tender loving care. Thanks for Priestly, who caught me so I didn't smash my face on the floor and who chopped and prepped his little heart out this afternoon. Thanks for Jen, who made the lovely side dishes we're about to receive. And last but never least, thank you for Mel. Tell him that the answer to 9 down is 'replicate'. Keep watch over these people I love, Lord, and bless this table. Amen."
"Amen," they chorused, chuckling appreciatively.
Trucker listened to Priestly and Mel discuss the Red Sox winning their first World Series in 86 years which led to Simon and Jean waxing nostalgic on baseball as they knew it as kids which somehow led to a lively discussion about how ridiculously overpaid athletes and celebrities were.
"At least with sports you can make the argument that an athlete's career is usually far shorter than the average career," Jen said thoughtfully. "And if they get injured, their career might end much earlier than intended. But even if you do the math, they're still paid way too much."
Davis nodded. "At least you recognize that aspect. But it's all supply and demand. If we didn't buy what they were selling, they wouldn't get paid what they get paid."
Priestly nodded. "This country's priorities suck. We pay sports stars millions a year and we pay most teachers under fifty thousand." He snorted and rolled his eyes.
"Teachers are much better paid in Asia and in the UK," Mel remarked. "And more respected."
"Police officers…they risk their lives for people and they get paid about the same as teachers," Scooter said.
"Doctors," Trucker offered. "You think they make buckets of money, but at least in the beginning, most of them are so deep in debt with student loans and paying such high premiums for malpractice insurance that their take home is actually pretty modest."
Trucker instantly regretted his words when Mel asked Sally if she was okay. He hadn't meant to put the focus on her health. He knew she wanted a carefree Thanksgiving because that's just who she was…more interested in focusing on others than herself. Luckily, however, after a few brief moments of discussion, Jen took advantage of a miniscule pause in their conversation to ask,
"Mel, would you like some more turkey?"
He looked down at his plate as if astonished to notice it was nearly empty. "I think I would, Jen," he said. "It's not Sally's turkey, but it's pretty good."
Trucker smiled, taking no offense. He still suspected Mel was afflicted by some sort of social cognitive disorder. Asperger's was his suspicion, but it wasn't like you could just ask someone if they had it. Mel seldom realized when his words might offend or hurt someone, though he was more than capable of becoming offended or hurt by someone else's words. Added to his dislike of anything out of routine and his lack of eye contact, Trucker thought Asperger's was a pretty good bet.
When Jen and Priestly began to clear the table against Sally's protests that she and Scooter could do it, Trucker waved her off. "Queen for a day, Sally," he said. "Let's go out and visit with Jetta before she figures out how to open the door."
Sally smiled at his running joke. Scooter nodded at them. "You guys go on. I'll be out in a minute…"
Once they were seated outside, Sally smiled sadly at him. "Trucker, I hate to tell you this today, but my doctor is strongly recommending that I retire." Her eyes brimmed with tears.
He leaned forward and took her hands. "Angel," he said, "the important thing is that you take care of yourself. You've done your time. It's time to smell some roses."
She nodded. "I'm going to miss you all so much," she said, squeezing his hands in return before releasing them to wipe at her eyes.
"Don't miss us," he said. "Visit us."
She nodded again. "Of course. But Scooter and I are going to make good on those threats of mine."
"Florida?" Trucker smiled wistfully.
Sally smiled in agreement. "We'll be listing the house early next year."
He made a face and put his hand over his heart. "I'm going to miss you, Angel. But you have to do it. You've wanted it for a long time, and you deserve to get what you want."
Sally's eyes watered again. "Stop," she said, dabbing at them. "You're too much, Trucker."
He turned his attention to Jetta, taking the tennis ball she offered with hopeful eyes and wagging tail and tossing it deep into the yard.
The others filtered out slowly, with Jen and Priestly bringing up the rear after packing away the leftovers into take home portions and rinsing the dishes and loading them into the dishwasher. Jetta bounded toward Priestly instantly with a gleeful bark. He dropped to one knee, equally delighted, and dug his fingers into her fur, scratching vigorously.
"Oh, there's my girl," he cooed, giving the table a slightly abashed look and a small shrug. "You missed me, didn't you?"
Sally giggled. "She sure loves you, Priestly."
He gave her a sheepish grin. "What's not to love?"
Trucker watched him with the dog, amused. He'd been back to his old self mostly, with the exception of a few days after Sally's emergency. If there was anything good about Sally's health scare, it was the doubles Priestly was working. Trucker thought it pulled the kid out of himself, kept him from focusing too much attention on the many things that troubled him. Latimer hadn't reared its ugly head in a while, and Priestly seemed to be slowly making peace with his breakup with Jude. He was nearing an even keel if he wasn't quite there yet.
If there was a dark cloud, it was the friction between him and Joe. The double shifts Priestly worked put them in the same space for longer periods of time, and with the increased exposure to one another, their tempers grew shorter with each passing day. Since he was back to his old self, Priestly was no longer backing down as readily as he had been, and Joe clearly didn't like that. Joe seemed to provoke him sometimes, Trucker thought, deliberately poking at any tender spots. Like Jude. Like his father. Trucker wasn't often surprised by the hatred people could show toward one another. In the dark days he preferred not to think about, he'd seen plenty of evidence. But he was shocked by a reminder of it when the topic of Priestly's appearance came up one day.
"The topic of the day is religious zealots who tell total strangers they're going to Hell for tattoing and piercing themselves," Priestly griped, ducking into the grill as thunder rolled outside.
Trucker saw Joe roll his eyes. He glanced at Priestly and saw he'd noticed it.
"Well," Mel said thoughtfully, his sub frozen inches from his mouth, "the Bible under Leviticus 19:28 says 'Do not cut your bodies for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the LORD'"
"That was the Old Testament," Priestly told him. "If you subscribe to the Bible's teachings like these so-called Christians do, you know that Jesus died for our sins and wiped the Old Testament laws off the board. The old rules ceased to apply. The New Testament doesn't even mention tattoos or body piercings."
Mel appeared to think his words over. Trucker wondered if he had the Bible memorized because a few seconds later, he nodded. "That's true," he said.
"You think God thinks it's okay for you to do that stuff?" Joe snapped. "Doesn't the Bible talk about the body being a temple or something like that? You think that's any way to treat a temple? Punching yourself full of holes and wearing ridiculous crap like that?" Joe gestured his way. "You should have listened to your dad. He was only trying to protect you, keep you from turning into a total freak."
Trucker's mouth nearly dropped open. He made no move to stop Priestly from getting right up in Joe's face.
"Don't talk about things you know nothing about," Priestly warned, his voice low but dangerous. Joe looked at him with a smirk. "You say anything about my father again, I will put you on the floor. I'm not fucking kidding."
Trucker sighed. If he didn't find someone to fill Sally's spot soon, he'd be wiping up blood from the grill floor. And he wouldn't blame Priestly a bit.