Chin Up, Honey. Curtiss Matlock Ann
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number two, topped only by the ever-popular author Nora Roberts. The station was run by Jim Rainwater, the only paid employee, who oversaw a staff of volunteer disc jockeys putting forth an eclectic format, everything from classic jazz to automotive discussion to French lessons on Fridays.
Each mid-morning, all over town and within a twenty-five-mile radius, radios in kitchens and barns, shops and vehicles were tuned to Brother Winston’s Home Folks Show at 1550 AM on the radio dial. People loved Winston Valentine, and he loved them back.
Over at Blaine’s Drugstore, Vella Blaine was working behind the soda-fountain counter. She called to her niece’s boy, Arlo, who was entertaining three teenage-girl admirers by flexing his immense muscles as he served up ice-cream cones. “Break loose from those girls and turn up the radio,” Vella told him.
She wanted to hear the birthday announcements. Specifically, she wanted to see if Winston remembered that today was her birthday. He was her best friend, mostly by being her oldest friend. They had what could be called tenure, which she felt gave her every right to certain expectations.
It was silly at her age to want to hear a happy birthday on the radio. Sillier still not to tell anyone it was her birthday if she wanted birthday wishes. She thought of all this as she halved lemons for the fresh lemonade—the Wednesday summer special—and kept an ear tuned to the radio, unconsciously swaying her hips to the good old country-western music.
Her sultry hip movements were noticed by Jaydee Mayhall, who sat at the counter and happened to look up from his cup of latte. He blinked in surprise at the sight, and also at feeling a stirring of manly response. As he sipped from his cup, he did some calculating. He had to be younger than Vella by what…? Ten or twelve years, at least.
This thought brought Jaydee’s eyes to his image reflected in the mirrored wall behind the sundae dishes. Jaydee was fifty-six, but he didn’t look it. Everyone said so. He had used that Just For Men on his hair until the past few months, when he couldn’t seem to keep up with it. He wondered if he might be letting himself go.
He removed his glasses and dropped them inside his coat pocket.
Vella looked into the mirror, too. It was right in front of her face, as it had been for the better part of her life. Mature? Old. She closed her eyes. Her husband of nearly forty-eight years had finally died, and her boyfriend, who had seemed so promising, had gone off with another, younger, woman, something she was sad or glad about, depending on the moment. Right then, she experienced a slice of fury at the desertion and sent the knife in a swift chop through a lemon.
The next instant she had the clear imagination of Winston’s voice, announcing her true age out over the air waves.
She grabbed a towel and, wiping her hands, found the telephone number for the radio station on the card beneath the phone. It’s my birthday, Winston…just say happy birthday. I will never speak to you again if you say my age.
Buzz, buzz, buzz, came the busy signal.
Over the radio, Winston started in with the birthday announcements. Vella tried the phone number again.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
Plunking down the phone, she returned to making the lemonade. With each of Winston’s celebratory announcements, she threw a half a lemon into the manual juicer and brought the handle down, hard.
At the very last, when she had thought Winston was finished and without mentioning her, and she was both disappointed and relieved, here he came out with, “There’s one more birthday that wasn’t called in, but I happen to know it. Ever’ body go by and wish my good friend and neighbor Miss Vella Blaine a happy birthday.”
Vella paused with her hand on the thick handle of the juicer.
“I have known Miss Vella all of her life, and I happen to know that she is sixty-five today. Happy birthday, Miss Vella!”
Oh, Winston, you dear old friend!
Vella, heart full and eyes misty, smiled while happy birthday wishes rang out all around the soda fountain. Vella found herself near tears. Jaydee Mayhall even lifted his cup and said gallantly that she was a fine-looking woman, for her age. He was a pompous ass, but she appreciated the backhanded compliment.
“I didn’t know today was your birthday, Aunt Vella,” Arlo said. “I woulda’ baked you a cake.”
“Oh, sugar, that’s sweet, but I don’t need any cake.” Vella was again rapidly punching numbers for the radio station into the phone. This time the call went right through, and when she got Winston on the line, she said in her most sultry voice, “Thank you for my birthday present.”
“You’re more than welcome, darlin’.”
When she hung up, she turned to see little old Minnie Oakes approaching from over at the pharmacy, her purse swinging on one arm, while her opposite hand swung a bottle of Milk of Magnesia. Minnie was a childhood girlfriend who was actually two years younger than Vella but had always seemed twenty years older.
Minnie came up to Vella and shook the blue bottle at her. “You are not no sixty-five years old!”
And Vella replied, “I know it’s hard to believe, sugar, but I am. You heard it on the radio.”
“That was Randy Travis, singin’ ‘Satisfied Mind’ right here at 1550.” Winston pressed the left earphone tight against his ear. His hearing, like other parts of his body, let him down on occasion. “We got Wynona Yardell on the line, to tell us about a right absurd sign. Go ahead, Miss Wynona.”
“Hi, ever’ body…I’m callin’ about the sign on the highway goin’ east. It says…” She started giggling. “…well, you may not think it is funny, but it seems funny to me. It says…Caution, Wet Pavement When It Rains.”
She went into gales of laughter, and everyone listening to the radio laughed as much at her laughter as at what she’d said.
Out on the highway heading into town, Belinda Blaine turned up the volume of the radio in her champagne-colored Cadillac, saying, “My word, one thing about Winston’s show—it is a never-ending source of entertainment.”
Receiving no comment from her passenger, Belinda glanced over at the woman. Emma had seemed distracted all morning. A little pale, actually, when usually Emma Berry was one of the most bright and shining women in town.
Then Winston drew Belinda’s attention again, with an advertisement for the Merry Male Maid Service, which was offering a special all month.
Belinda’s thoughts went from musing about hiring the Merry Males to the fact of her mother having six years shaved off her life right on the radio, which put Belinda back in her early thirties, and because it was on the radio, everyone was going to believe it.
“We can get you interviewed on Winston’s show,” Belinda said, the idea coming suddenly. “He loves to do that, and then we’ll be gettin’ advertising for free.”
Belinda and Emma Berry were on their way back from a gift shop up in Lawton, where Belinda had placed Emma’s greeting cards and framed calligraphy on consignment. Emma’s cards had sold so well at the drugstore that Belinda had decided to branch out. She was having energetic fantasies of a line of cards, calendars and framed prints, then on to tea towels and teacups and T-shirts. Marketing was the key, and that, Belinda knew, was her own specific and golden talent.
Her rapid thoughts caused her foot to press on the accelerator. She whipped around vehicles as she came to them. Basically, Belinda drove with the attitude that no one would dare challenge her.
“And there’s the Fire Department Auxiliary’s summer craft fair comin’ up. I’ll check the dates on that. We’ll have to stock up for it.”
Realizing Emma had still not said a word, Belinda glanced over to see her looking out the side window.
“Sugar, did you hear me?”