Roberta

By J.W. MINTON

This a simple tale about common people caught up in tragedy, in which the power of prayer is invoked quite successfully. The story then follows the lives of the children of the principal characters in an amusing depiction of young love and young marriage. Beyond the adversity that is overcome, the events prove that dreams deferred are better than dreams denied, more than conqueror over disease and disaster. Prayer changes things.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781449766009

J.W. MINTON

J.W. Minton has had an unusual perspective on life in the human condition, a Californian with family roots in the deep south, and a long career as an attorney and advocate, as a judge, in politics and Christian ministry, raising children and watching them raise the grandchildren.

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chapter 1.

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THE CHAMPION

Once upon a time, there was a grand land of enchantment, a land flowing with milk and honey, a place of great riches. Travelers tell of there finding diamonds, precious gems, just scattered about on the ground. The countryside was covered by green pastures, flora and fauna in abundance. This place was then and is now known as Arkansas, located just south of the Queen City of the Ozarks. The greatest richness to be found in that enchanted place was not gold or precious stones, but that which was and is the most remarkable treasure would be the people. There were then and are now within that place many happy people, humble and uncomplicated folks contented with their lives and their identity one with another. Our story begins with one of the best of the lot, a gentle fella named Bailey Champion.

Bailey Sylvian Champion was born in Arkansas, and was raised around the town of Hot Springs, the County Seat of Garland County. One of the most notable monuments of Hot Springs was the old Opera House, where many great historical events took place, most particularly an historically great convention in 1914. Bailey was the youngest of five children, with two older brothers, and two older sisters. The family lived just down the road from Gramma and Grampa Chambers, the parents of seven children, the youngest of which was Esther, who at age 17 married George B. Champion. Grampa Chambers was a dirt farmer, and raised milkin’ cows. Bailey’s Dad George worked most of his workin’ life for his father-in-law, who owned a whole lot of property around the area, including the house where the Champions lived. All was peaceful throughout the entire family, hardly ever any disputes or disagreements. Bailey’s Mom, being her youngest, was Gramma’s favorite child, and Bailey, being the youngest, was Gramma’s favorite grandchild. This was commonly known, but there was no jealously or family friction. Bailey was born fairly big, and he grew to be about six-three, with a really nice physique, and the farm work kept him trim and healthy. He was not what you’d call a handsome guy. Ruddy complexion, always easily sunburned. But, he did have some imposing features: first, Bailey was the only kid in the family to have his Grampa’s red hair, which he kept cropped short in a traditional crew-cut. Next, you’d notice that Bailey had a wide gap between his two front teeth, very noticeable when he smiled, and he was always smiling. He had bright blue eyes, always sparkling. Then you’d notice his muscular arms and big hands, especially if he was to give you his happy handshake, firm and friendly. He had no hangups, no withdrawn manner, no fears, no doubts, no timidity, but at the same time you’d notice that he was modest, quiet and unassuming, always pleasant but not effusive. He’d patiently listen to everybody and just about everything, and always noticed little details. He was extremely bright, got good grades in school, and his Gramma Chambers wanted him to be a doctor.

Bailey was always loving and kind to animals, and took great delight in little puppies yapping and tiny kittens purring, so gracious and kind to people, little kids, big kids, and old folks, and was always doing things for everyone. He’d climb up the highest tree to carefully replace a little bird’s nest. He’d feed the neighbors’ animals when they went on vacation. He’d check in on the old widder down the block, just to see she was OK, and if she needed for him to get her some stuff at the store just about a mile away. Little favors he’d do that meant nothing to the casual observer, but appreciated by everyone. He was very industrious, and when he had nothing otherwise to do, he’d go looking for someone to help. Grampa Chambers had a big lawn, front and back, and a ridin’ mower, the kind with no steering wheel and no brakes. Bailey mowed that big lawn, then he’d fill up the tank and do the neighbors’ lawns. Then he’d mow the grass along the road, both sides for a mile in each direction. Everybody loved him.

Bailey was a macho kinda guy, the dirt farmer’s version of the Marlboro Man, not so handsome, not so cavalier, and without the dangling cigarette. He was easily the most popular young man about town, and particularly noticed by the mothers of young ladies in the several Assemblies of God churches in the area. He did not smoke, didn’t dabble with drugs or drink beer or any other alcoholic beverages, and he did not have any tattoos, because Gramma Chambers always taught him that these things were bad. He never was heard to utter any profanities, and he would turn aside when others wanted to tell off-color stories. He had a strong Arkansas drawl, and a gracious manner. He was truly a real Southern Gentleman.

Grampa Chambers had an old four-wheel drive Willys Jeep, left over from World War II, which he bought from a Military Surplus Store in Little Rock, ‘way back in 1947, hardly used at all, and gave it a lot of use on the farm, in all kinds of conditions. Bailey learned how to drive with that old clunk, and when Bailey got his Arkansas Driver’s License, Grampa Chambers gave it to him as a gift. The old clunk had the original green paint or what was still left from probably 1940. It had a conspicuous misfire in the engine, it smoked out the back, and every time it misfired, it would poof out little white smoke rings. WWII Jeeps were all open-air, no tops, and no doors. They didn’t have seats that lasted forever either, and these seats had cotton stuffing showing on the two front seats, and the two back seats had been damaged by animals so much that they had to be removed. They did install some seat belts, but passengers had to hold on to a little bar mounted to the dash. There was a glass windshield, but it folded down onto the hood, and that’s where Bailey would leave it. There was no ignition key. Just a switch on the dash. The original Jeep horn sounded like a thousand black crows screeching. The family referred to the Jeep as the Green Limousine or Bailey’s Taxi.

Bailey graduated from Hot Springs High School at age 18, and within two weeks thereafter he enlisted in the United States Navy, and drove the Green Limousine to San Diego, California. By the end of summer he was out of boot camp, then became a medical corpsman assigned to the U.S. Naval Medical Center in San Diego, known as Balboa Hospital. Gramma Chambers gleefully told all her friends and neighbors, and everyone at the Assembly of God Church, that Bailey was training and studying to become a doctor.

When Bailey first started his work at Balboa Hospital, he needed a place to live. One of his co-corpsmen, LeShean Gibbons, lived with his young wife Kanesha in a small apartment near downtown East San Diego, owned by an old retired Army Sergeant by name of Willie Jackson, simply known as Uncle Willie, and his apartment house was known in that neighborhood lovingly as Uncle Willie’s Palace. Bailey was invited to stay at the Gibbons’ apartment ‘til he could find his own digs. Gibbons’ place was one apartment in a complex of eight units, four units each in two buildings set apart by a driveway leading to the back parking area. Uncle Willie was a chubby little cigar-chomping black man of about sixty years of age, who lived on the premises downstairs on the north end of the northernmost building. There were rules against having children in these apartments, no animals of any kind, no fishes, no cats or dogs, no hamsters, etc., with one remarkable exception: Uncle Willie had a big stupid dog that barked incessantly, night and day, with a big deep woof, woof, woof, woof. He kept that big stupid dog tied up on a long hemp rope, just outside his screen door overlooking that back parking lot. The four street level apartments had doors fronting on the street, but nobody used those doors because of the overgrowth of weeds and untended roots. The untended grounds around the front of the buildings had flowers, shrubs, scrubby trees, and some lawn area that Uncle Willie had somebody come to mow the grass about twice a year, usually by Pedro Perez’ Lawn and Garden Service. The Landlord did not own a lawnmower or any kind of garden tools. Uncle Willie drove a White 60’s Chevrolet sedan he inherited from a relative who died in Ohio, and the rusted fenders had suffered from the winter salt they spread on the roads in that place. It was old in years, but it only had less than 50,000 miles on it.

Five of the eight apartments owned by Uncle Willie were rented out to couples with at least one of them that worked at Balboa Hospital. Consistent with the neighborhood, just about all of those tenants were African-American. Bailey had been freeloading for just a couple of days, when one of the tenants got reassigned to some naval facility up in Long Beach, about a hundred miles distant and too far away for a young Seaman 1st Class to commute, and that unit was now available. It happened to be the tiniest little apartment in the entire complex, next to the room where the heating and air conditioning units made such noise, located just above where Uncle Willie lived, and came with a few appliances and some old sticks of furniture. It was really cheap rent, and just right for Bailey’s needs.

Bailey moved in immediately. He found an old orange couch at the Salvation Army or some such furniture rescue store, for $20.00, a couple of old end tables and two chest-of-drawers needing knobs and handles, for a few dollars more. He had to haul the stuff back to the apartment with his Green Limousine, in three trips. The first trip was with the orange couch tied down and sitting side-saddle on the back. About a block away from his new digs, somebody had tossed out onto the sidewalk an old brown recliner chair that had some broken pieces. This pièce de résistance was gleefully rescued and tenderly restored near to whatever might have been its former glory, and placed in the Great Room of Bailey’s apartment. He had pictures of family all over the walls.

Uncle Willie was pretty good on the accordion, and he also had a couple of concertinas, which he liked to play for amusement of the small crowds that would gather by the parking lot for barbecues on warm summer nights. Uncle Willie’s Palace was a happy place. Most of his tenants were all about the same age or within five years or so of one another, and most of them were Christians. Willie was the only one of the crowd that was an imbiber of alcoholic spirits, and he did that in secret. Most of the tenants could sing fairly well, and their singing just attracted more freeloaders to come get some of the barbecue, hamburgers and hot dogs. These happy times lasted to well after dark.

In truth, Bailey’s apartment was sparse to start with, with that old cheap furniture and furnishings, but he did splurge on one particularly nice addition: the apartment came furnished with an old double-size bed, without a mattress. Bailey shopped about through the economy shops and the mattress merchants of East San Diego and North Park, until he found on special sale a mattress he just could not resist, and the price was right. This was his only real luxury, a brand-new Simmons Beautyrest. You know the kind with that super soft and spiffy top side, silky and soooo comfy. He never ever had seen one like this except in magazines. The mattress people delivered it that very day. Bailey was so pleased with that magnificent mattress. He carefully covered it with a quilted bedspread that his Gramma Chambers had made for him. After another couple of paydays, he even invested in a television set which he placed in the corner on one of those second-hand tables, right next to a picture of Gramma and Grampa Chambers.

Another thing about Bailey: he was a neat freak. Everything had to be kept in order, with a place for everything and everything in its place. He kept his apartment very clean and shipshape. Never any dirty dishes in the sink, never a spot on the counter tops or stove. The little breakfast table had an empty napkin holder, and little salt and pepper shakers neatly arranged beside it. His refrigerator was not always bulging with food, but what little was in there was arranged in orderly fashion. Lotsa cans of sody pop.

At the time of the Amazing Day, Bailey was almost twenty-five years old. He was up a couple of pay grades, had frugally salted away a few bucks at the Credit Union, and regularly sent money home for his mom to help meet her needs. His work assignment at Balboa Hospital had eventuated to the job of supervising other young naval corpsmen in training at the facility, and since he was their first real point of contact, he usually ended up acting almost as an ombudsman for all their problems. He was given a little office down by Central Supply, and even had his own little desk and personal telephone. From that spot, he met everyone, he did favors for everyone, and he listened to everyone. He ran errands and did little acts of kindness and compassion for the patients throughout the facility, officers, nurses, Navy doctors, private doctors, visitors. Everybody knew him, and by the time he had been there for close to seven years, he knew everyone on site, plus so many that had moved on. Most Navy people do not stay long at such an assignment, but Bailey really liked San Diego, and he knew enough assignments people that his continuing requests to stay on there were never denied. He knew his job and did it well, and was occasionally recruited to work in orientation and initial training programs at other facilities, seldom ever being gone for more than a month or two. He didn’t have to surrender his palatial apartment. Bailey was regular in attendance at Faith Chapel, an Assemblies of God church located in Eastern San Diego County, where Pastor George Gregg was the leader. George Kayo Gregg was one of my most favorite buddies.

chapter 2.

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FOUNDATIONS OF DESTINY

The Law Offices of Jan & Jan Attorneys were located on the ground floor corner of Fourth and Laurel Streets, in the Fifth Avenue Financial Center, also known as Mr. A’s Building. The Jan & Jan duo consisted of the father and son team of Allen Jan (that’s me, the father) and Kendrick M. Jan (that’s the eldest of my three sons). The father was admitted to practice law in California when he was in his early 20’s and Drick just twenty years later. We handled legal matters of just about every stripe and kind, but Drick dealt mostly with personal injury matters and entertainment law, and in my waning years of old age, I usually handled nonprofit and commercial stock corporations, and twice each week sat as Judge Pro Tem in the courts of San Diego, wearing my impressive black robe and swinging the gavel, parceling out justice to the hapless citizens whose problems were assigned to my courtroom.

Arriving at the office one warm early March day, a Monday, which I now refer to as the Amazing Day, I parked my car in the downstairs parking lot with the entrance just a few steps from our street level office front door. As I entered the office, I immediately spotted Bailey sitting there, twiddling his thumbs, and a young lady seated several chairs away from him, eyes downcast and silently staring at the floor. My secretary informed me that both of these folks were waiting to see me. Bailey said that Pastor Gregg told him to speak with me about some petty problem that one of his underlings was having with the San Diego Municipal Court. Likewise, the young lady, whom I had never seen before, had specifically asked to speak with me. I inquired of her if she might be willing to talk to my son, and she nodded in response. I asked Drick to take care of her, then invited Bailey into my office. I noticed that the young lady had with her a medium sized piece of red-colored luggage on little black wheels, with a pull handle.

I started chatting with Bailey for just a few minutes, then thought to ask if he would like to have a cup of coffee, and retrieved a cup for each of us. As I came back, not yet again seated in my plush executive office chair, Drick’s door opened and he motioned for me to come into his room. I told Bailey not to disappear, that I’d be right back, leaving the door open, entered Drick’s room, and he smilingly said Dad. You know how you have for years complained that your name Allen Jan was being confused with some girl named Jan Allen, and how you’ve said that when you meet her you hope she’s cute? Well Dad, I just found her. Here she is. Let me introduce you to Jan Allen. And there she was, and she really was cute. She was seated just a few feet away from where I stood, and she reached out to shake my hand. In just a moment’s time, I noted a number of striking features. This young thing was actually the most beautiful girl I have ever seen, with long dark brown hair, pulled back in a lengthy ponytail that had a little flip up at the end. She had the shiniest sparkling blue eyes, surrounded by the best makeup job ever, perfectly arched eyebrows, and a most symmetrically perfect face. Her cute little ears were exquisitely fashioned and planted on the sides of her head just right, her nose was faultlessly formed, cheekbones so excellent. Her lips were admirably sculpted, drawn back in a broad fetching smile, to betray those splendid white teeth, supremely designed and impeccably aligned. Her complexion was flawless. She was dressed in a very nice red outfit, with matching high heel shoes. Yes, indeed, Jan Allen was really, really cute.

I told Jan Allen how pleased I was to meet her, and delighted that with her loveliness she was a tribute to our mutual names, then excused myself to go take care of the other client, and to guzzle that coffee before it got cold. Bailey and I talked and gossiped together for about fifteen minutes, when Drick knocked at the door, and upon entering the room motioned again for me to come close, and he in a muffled voice told me that the young lady had problems that maybe I would be better able to address. I told Bailey to sit still, don’t leave, and I’d be back in a minute. I followed Drick back into his office, he said nothing, but motioned for me to sit across from the young lady. I then noticed that she was crying. Tears were pouring down from those pretty blue eyes, and her carefully applied mascara was streaming in lines down those lovely cheeks, falling on her white blouse. I tried to be as tender and diplomatic as possible, asking how can I help.

She sat quietly weeping and sniffling, as Drick told me the basics of her story. Jan Allen was a dancer from Las Vegas, where she had worked two different shows over five years, but that most recent show had closed, and she had not worked in that occupation for more than six months. She had not auditioned again for any dancing work. Shortly after her most recent dancing contract had ended, she became terribly ill, with various pains and unusual symptoms. She had no insurance at the time, and exhausted all her savings on doctors and diagnostics. Drick continued to supply her with tissues from a Kleenex dispenser on the bookcase. She was clutching a large brown envelope, which she said contained X-Rays and other documentation showing the extent of her several diseases, as she handed it to me. I told her that I was not really qualified to draw any sort of professional opinion from looking at X-Rays, but I did quickly scan the numerous doctors’ letters and laboratory reports. She told me that the doctors had said her entire system was riddled with several different kinds of cancer, and terribly weakened, and that at least three of those doctors had suggested she had just a couple of months to live. As she was saying these things, I continued to peruse the documentation, which seemed to coldly confirm what she was saying. This young lady was in a most desperate situation. Her shoulders were now drooping, her arms were shaking, the tears continued to flow. She was looking down at the floor, but I could see that her lips were pursing, and little dimples could be seen developing on her quivering chin.

Our conversation with this helpless little girl went on for another twenty minutes or so. I asked how it is that she came to this office rather than some medical building. She told us that she had left Las Vegas the previous day, by Greyhound Bus, and had spent most all of her remaining money on a bus ticket to San Diego. She said the lady at the bus station told me to come here. I couldn’t remember knowing anyone that worked for Greyhound. She said No, the lady was not working for Greyhound. She was pushing a grocery cart and going through the trash can near where I was seated. Oh, yes. Was her name Doris? She nodded. That’s Doris Hadley. She’s a street person. She lives in the trees just over there in Balboa Park. I took her and her boyfriend out to breakfast just last week. She fell out of her tree, or got into a fight, or somehow got smacked in the mouth, and had a huge chip broken off her front tooth. There’s a Dentist in La Mesa that goes to our church, and he owed me a favor, so I took Doris there to get a freebie crown and some other dental work. Doris loves me. Did Doris ask your name? Yes, and when I told her Jan Allen, she thought I must be related to Allen Jan. We sat and talked on the Greyhound bench for a few minutes, and I told her I had some serious problems. She was emphatic that Allen Jan had a solution for any problem, and insisted that I come here to see you. She even gave me a Greyhound map of San Diego and showed me how to find this place. That was about 5:30 this morning, and I just towed my baggage up the hill, sat on the bus bench across the street until somebody showed up, and here I am. Looks like you’re travelin’ light, with just one suitcase. Everything I own in this world is in this suitcase. I owed my part of the apartment rent in Vegas to my three girlfriends, and didn’t have the money to pay, so I just gave them all my clothes and jewelry, collection of shoes and the like, for them to divide up. I figured that if the doctors were right, I wouldn’t have any use for those things, anyway. Then they drove me to the Greyhound station. I slept on the bus into Los Angeles, and slept on the Bus into San Diego, and was ready to sleep on the bench at the Greyhound station when I met your friend Doris. I further inquired Why did you choose to come to San Diego?, and she glibly replied I don’t really know. It’s just the end of the line, and that’s where I seem now to be. I continued to ask little questions, and she continued to give what seemed honest little answers.

We learned that Jan Allen was almost 27 years old, born in Maine, where her father has been for his lifetime in the lumbering business. She was an only child, and her mother gave her tap-dancing lessons for a number of years, ballet lessons for seven years, piano lessons for seven years, gymnastic and tumbling lessons for many years, and was a cheerleader at her high school. She was about 5’7 tall, but looked taller because of her slender frame. She did not smoke, booze made her sick, and she had never used illegal drugs, and had no tattoos. She had never been married, never had been engaged, never had a steady boyfriend, and seemed personally offended when I asked how the Vegas Talent Scouts had treated her. After High School graduation, she attended Bryn Mawr College in Pennsylvania, for two and a half years, where she became interested in little theater, and was the best dancer in the cast. Her dancing skills were noticed somehow by one of those Las Vegas Show Troupe recruiters, who promised her that if she could make it all the way to Nevada, he was sure she could get a dancing job. Without consulting her parents, she withdrew from college, got on a plane and ended up in Vegas, where she was recruited by a show that was in training to start at one of the bigger and flashier hotels. When that show folded two years later, she auditioned for and was hired immediately to another troupe that was practicing for a similar contract in another place on the Las Vegas Strip, and that is the show that had folded six months ago. That was her last income-producing work. She had no insurance. Her parents were angry that she had left school, and in rage had disowned her when she became a Cheap Las Vegas Showgirl. Her numerous letters to her mom were not answered for the nearly five years since she left school, and in the phone calls she made to her childhood home, her mother was cold and distant. The parents were not told of the cancer conditions, and did not know that she had left Las Vegas, and did not know she was in California (at the end of the road!"). She had a total of less than seven dollars left to her name.

chapter 3.

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NAIVE RESOLUTIONS

We really felt deeply touched by her story, and we also felt very helpless, trying to think of any doctor in Southern California that would be able to help her, and could not think of any medicine man (or woman) that would want to be involved in such a losing situation without even a little bit of funding for laboratory and related expenses. I called Drick into the hallway, and whispered I just don’t know what we can do for her. I guess we could take her to County University Hospital, and they can probably put her into some treatment program, at least make her more comfortable. She should apply for unemployment and disability Benefits, but that kind of money won’t even touch the expenses she’s looking at. No response, just a mutual shrugging of shoulders. So, we went back in and sat down again, he behind his desk, and me in that chair just opposite the precious little girl still crying and dabbing her eyes, soaking more tissues. Then, as I was about to suggest that she might throw herself on the mercy of County Social Services, I became aware of someone standing in the open doorway, and I heard a voice say I think I have a solution.

It was Bailey. He had heard almost everything, and was looking over me and then into the tear filled blue eyes of the little weeping maiden. Ya know, if you were to marry a Sailor, you could have all your doctors and medicines paid for by the Navy. She looked at him woefully, pitched her head to one side, and said I don’t even know anyone in the Navy. Then he smiled that peculiar grinning smile, showing that gap between his two front teeth, and said I’m in the Navy. Would you marry me?

Immediately she stopped her crying. Her face was completely without expression. And she strongly spouted two words: Marry you? (As a question with a strong emphasis on the second word). All was silent as the two of them stared at each other. The smile left his face, and for about half a minute they were both with blank expressions. My son and I probably had the same blank look for the whole half minute. I had my eyes on her, and Drick was quietly looking at Bailey. Then she said several times Marry you! (Emphasis on the first syllable word, not as a question, and not even as a pensive reflection, and particularly not in a way that suggested she was even considering such a thought). She muttered these words several times, with a long pause between the mutterings. I stood up and maneuvered about so that I could see both their faces. It was a scene of contrasts. Here was this lovely young girl, dressed in a stylish red outfit, shiny red high heel shoes, in all her elegance. There was this tall ruddy looking young man in a baseball cap, wearing blue jeans and a tight fitting white T-shirt, and those funny looking shower shoes, or zombies, or go-aheads, thongs, whatever you call ‘em, without any socks. She had a most engaging smile, when she wasn’t crying. He had a boyish grin that showed the gap between his teeth. She spoke with a measure of eloquence. He had that Southern Drawl.

I whispered to Bailey, Why don’t you go sit in my office. I’ll be right there. He exited, I closed the door. I moved my chair a little closer to the girl sitting there with the blank stare. She looked up at me, still without facial expression, and said timidly That man wants me to marry him. Who is he? I told her about Bailey and his history in one of those 45 second capsulations, and I doubt that she was even listening to what I said. I asked if she had any other good offers lately. She just looked at me blankly. I told her that little adage that when you have no reasonable alternative, you can’t make a mistake. Then I simply told her to weigh her options: Compare- County Social Services or be a Sailor’s wife. Married to the County or married to the Navy. To be or not to be, that is the question, whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune as the anonymous ward of the County, or be married to a Sailor.

There may be myriad alternatives, but these two were on the table now. This really classy little lassie was confronted with choices. When she rode into town this morning, she was desperate, feeling that she had no resort, no way of escape, no succor, no choices. It was now hers to choose if she thought either of these two immediate options was reasonable for her. Would it help to employ that which is known as the Rule of Propinquity (choosing that which is nearest)? But I don’t even know this guy. I can’t marry him.

It was then about 11:30 in the morning. I thought up a bright notion: Why don’t you two go out to lunch together, and you can get acquainted by asking each other whatever you want to know. Bailey has a reputation for honesty and integrity, and I’m sure he will not deceive you in any way. She sat pensive for about a minute. After that extended silence, I asked her Well, do you want to go to lunch? She nodded and whispered I guess so.

I hurried to my adjoining office, and told Bailey he had a date for lunch with the pretty little girl he had just met. He was really pleased. Then he said Mr. Jan, I don’t have any money. No problem. Ol’ Diamond Jim Jan pulled out some $20.00 bills, and counted out a hundred dollars, which would be about enough to have a Reuben Sandwich and a couple of cokes, maybe even some dessert, at the super fancy Mr. A’s restaurant atop the Fifth Avenue Financial Center Building where we were located. The garage elevator takes you right up to the front door of that swanky penthouse eatery. Bailey would look out of place among the San Diego Elite dining there, but so did all those Balboa Park Tree Dwellers that I often took to lunch there.

The happy couple started to exit our office at the front door, the little lady first, and as she was about through that door, Bailey reached out, as a gentleman should, to guide her through, and gently touched her elbow. She stopped, glared at him, stomped her foot, and loudly screeched Don’t touch me!!! He quickly withdrew his hand, turned and smiled and rolled his bright blue eyes toward the ceiling. It was apparent that she was not at all happy, while he was beside himself with glee. For the first time, I noticed that there was a hole in the back of his tee shirt, up near the shoulder.

The happy couple returned from their first date to our office about 2:00 or so that same afternoon. They were both about as cold and expressionless as could be. This is one of the few times I ever saw Bailey that way. The precious little girl sat down next to her red suitcase in a reception office chair. Bailey stood about ten feet away facing her. Nobody was saying anything. All was strangely quiet. After what seemed a silent eternity, I broke in with my little question: Well, have you two decided to become friends? My cute little inquiry met with a further and deeper silence. It was indeed an awkward situation, and I really did not have anything to offer as a remedy. There were five of us in that room. Drick and I, and our office secretary-receptionist made up the Committee of Concerned Citizens, plus the two people that had become objects of our community of concern.

Bailey broke the eerie silence, and I’ll never forget the gentle manner he showed in his face and his voice, as he stepped closer to the frail little girl that was staring at the floor, he removed his baseball cap, placed it under his left arm snugged up to his ribs, showing his close-cropped bright red hair, and he said Miss Jan Allen, will you marry me? No answer. Just silence. He waited through another eternity of silence, then said If you will marry me, you’ll have all the medical care you need, doctors and nurses, medicines and all that stuff, and I’ll provide you with free room and board. When you get well, you can get a divorce, and go your way. I promise I will not do anything to stop you. She then looked up woefully and said You want me to live with you? He nodded his head. She gritted her teeth and responded You want me to jump in the sack with you, well I am not gonna do it. I’m a Virgin! I will not go to bed with you or anyone else. He was staggered by the volatility of her response, and quickly brought up his hands, palms extended to her in a gesture of placation, and said Oh no. I promise I will not try to be intimate with you. I will let you have the bedroom, and I can sleep on the couch. I will honor your privacy. You will be safe and comfortable. I will always treat you with respect and hospitality. You can even drive my car. She gave a muffled and almost unintelligible response I don’t even have a Driver’s License. I never learned to drive a car Well, all of us of the Committee of Concerned Citizens were really impressed with Bailey’s little speech, and amused with the response about the lack of Driver’s License. Then she looked at him quizzically, asking Then what’s in it for you? Why would you do this for me? His response was immediate, suggesting that he had already thought it out: All I ask is that you let me send your picture to my family. Maybe we can go to the portrait studio and have a nice picture made. Would you be willing to do that? No answer.

Then Bailey stepped closer to where she was seated, towering over her, looking down at the top of her head, and he once again entreated her in such a charming way: Miss Jan Allen, will you marry me? She looked up at him, again without facial expression, stared at him for about a minute in silence, and whimpered quietly OK. Then she began to cry again. Bailey stepped back, his shoulders slumped, and after another period of silence, he stepped forward again, and quietly asked Are you sure? Miss Jan Allen, will you marry me? Once again, there came that muffled OK as she took another tissue and managed with a snort to blow her nose. Bailey said firmly You just sit there for a minute, I’ll be right back. Don’t leave. Her response was to blow her nose again. Bailey motioned to me to huddle with him back by the coffee desk. Mr. Jan, how do I go about getting married? I spent your $100.00 on the lunch at Mr. A’s, and I’m broke again. No problem. Ol’ Diamond Jim Jan withdrew another sheaf of five $20.00 bills and shoved them into Bailey’s palm, then gave directions on how to get the San Diego County Courthouse Marriage License Clerk down near the bay, and since there is no medical exam or waiting period in California, to get the license and have the clerk perform the ceremony immediately right then and there, before the little lady has a chance to change her mind. If they give ya’ any flak about needing an appointment, tell ‘em Allen Jan sent you. If that doesn’t work, have the supervising clerk there give me a call, and I’’ll beg and plead with her. I know that lovely lady very well, and I know she’ll expedite this one for me.

Bailey went out to the front office waiting room where the precious creature was still obediently waiting, strode over to her again, and said Look at me. Now, I don’t want you to change your mind at the last minute. I don’t want any misunderstandings. I ask you again, yes or no, Miss Jan Allen, will you marry me? She looked at him again, with a grim consternation, not just a look of resignation or disconsolate defeat, took a deep breath, wiggled her eyebrows, and just a little more firmly said Yes. He said Let’s go. Drick helped her to her feet, and reminded the happy couple that they will probably need some photograph ID, and if she did not have a Driver’s License, what did she have? She had a Picture on her ID card from the State of Nevada, and an outdated ATM Card with her picture on it. She retrieved her Social Security Card and a copy of her birth certificate from her red suitcase. They left through the front door, she staring straight ahead, and he turning behind her back, tossed the Committee of Concerned Citizens a most devilish grin, gap showing, and rolled his eyes again toward the ceiling. They walked about eighteen inches apart, not touching, not chatting or saying anything to anyone or each other, disappeared into the ground floor parking garage and away. I stood just outside the door, on the sidewalk, and sure enough, out of the garage door and across the sidewalk, Bailey behind the wheel of the Green Limousine, with Arkansas plates, as it was popping and blowing smoke rings out the back, he pulled up opposite where I was standing, and stopped at the red light. He was looking at her and apparently saying something inaudible. She was clutching with white knuckles the handle that was bolted to the dashboard, sitting straight up with her gaze fixed straight ahead. The light turned green, and the Green Limousine proceeded slowly straight ahead across the Laurel Avenue intersection, and disappeared down Fourth. It was then about 3:00 in the afternoon.

REFLECTIONS ON THE MEANING

OF THE AMAZING DAY

I did not see either the princess or Bailey for some time after they later left on the Amazing Day, but my thoughts many, many times were drawn to consider myriad features related to those events. What had really happened? This stuff could never have been scripted, planned, arranged. After giving all these things some thought, I sorta cringed to know that I had even a remote promotional part in the whole affair. Romance on an hour’s notice, and marriage between two young people that did not know each other? Well, they arrange good marriages in India that are not much different, don’t they? Marriages for convenience like this, can they really be justified?

What about conventional dreams? For instance, consider that from the earliest days of a little girls life, she plays with dolls and has all those little girl experiences of playing jacks and jumprope, giggling and twitching with friends and relatives in a family community, sharing identities and little girl dreams. Then consider that little girl growing older, having all those experiences of pre-teens and then adolescence, the proms and other social gatherings of teenagers and young adults, the hopes and dreams, and realistic expectations of a young lady, including a plan somewhere in the dreams, to someday have a lovely white wedding dress with a long white train dragging behind, a knight in shining armor, all the plans for the families to gather, the bridesmaids and Flower Girl, the Matron of Honor, the tuxedo garbed ushers and groomsmen, the preacher and the church, the candles and the music, the white veil, the exchange of rings, the kissing of the bride, the reception with all its music and mingling, the lovely white cake topped with little ceramic images of the bride and groom, and all that mushy stuff that might be included in the dreams of young girls. I am sure that Miss Jan Allen had such dreams, and that in better times those dreams stoked her heart and mind. It was her right, her heritage, her reasonable expectation. I wonder if and when it was that she surrendered those particular plans? Was it while she was quiet and pondering as she sat in our office? Was it during lunch, while munching on that Reuben Sandwich after two days without eating anything? Maybe it was in just that brief moment as she exited the office door to leave for the clerk’s office, or as she was a passenger in that old Green Limousine slowly maneuvering through San Diego traffic to get to the courthouse? Could it be that somewhere in her little girl’s heart she harbored some hope that angels would miraculously appear and rescue her? How about those moments just before the clerk said I now pronounce you man and wife? Ya know it could have been when those doctors showed her the X-rays, the lab reports and other documentation, finally convincing her that she had but a few weeks or so to live, those words of despair might have initiated a surrender of dreams. Well, somewhere along the way she must have abandoned all hope of realizing some notions. But girls have a great storehouse of dreams, other and different dreams, and sometimes those durable dreams can take on different design and dimension.

Looking back over time and events, I’d expect that the lovely betrothed one had many misgivings crowding her mind as they putt-putted along on the way to the courthouse, and that the thought of throwing herself onto the mercy of County Social Services became ever more appealing with each moment’s passing. In our human condition, we probably witness many miracles, and fail to recognize them as such, with a shrug to see them as merely coincidental, little freakish episodes of nature, accidental confluence of event and circumstance. But with an accumulation of such incidents over a period of time, looking back over history, we have to marvel at what Christians describe as God’s plan for our lives.

Now, if in fact this little lady was hoping for an angel to suddenly appear to rescue her from this situation, as she was riding along through traffic feeling almost like a captive passenger in that old green jeep, she surely did not recognize the miracle that was taking place before her very eyes, as her own specially assigned angel was piloting that old clunk down to the San Diego County Marriage License clerk. She was not just a witness, but was participant in a miracle. I don’t recall that anyone ever told me much about all the events that took place at the Marriage License place, nothing much was said about the details and procedures for obtaining the marriage license, the clerk didn’t insist on an appointment, so they issued the marriage license on the spot, and performed the ceremony immediately. But, I understand that when the clerk instructed the love-birds to hold hands for the ceremony, the blushing bride did not respond, whereupon Bailey leaned over and whispered to the clerk it’s a marriage of convenience, and the clerk answered sheepishly Oh. I understand. Then, when the clerk proclaimed You may kiss the bride, Bailey winked and repeated in a whisper Remember, a marriage of convenience, and the clerk rolled her eyes.

A couple of weeks later, Bailey dropped by the office unannounced. He showed me copies of the pictures he had sent to his family, including a really nice studio rendering of the two of them together. Bailey and his bride had only been married about two weeks when that portrait was made, and the Little Princess looked genuinely happy in that picture. He said that his Gramma Chambers was so, so happy because of the marriage and so, so proud to show that picture to everybody, and even had it published in several newspapers around the Hot Springs area. I asked about the events (the adventures) following their departure together on the afternoon of that Amazing Day. He told me a number of things, and I learned some history from Kanesha and LaKeisha, and a whole lot from the Little Princess herself, and many things from others, folks that lived in and around that apartment house, who were near to the scene and watched so much of the drama unfold.

In gathering information from all these sources, I asked the Little Princess to drop by the office when she had a little time to chit-chat. It was about five or six weeks after the Amazing Day when she finally showed up. Kanesha Gibbons drove her there. She was looking even better than when I first met her, and feeling a lot better. Such a pleasant person. Remarkably beautiful, with lovely manners, fetching personality, and just did not look sick at all. I had already seen the portraits that were sent to Bailey’s family, but she brought another one to show me, and she seemed to be so pleased and so proud of that picture. It was obvious that she no longer had those apprehensions that were so evident that morning of the first Amazing Day, and she sprinkled her conversation with observations and explanations where she referred to we, Me ‘n Bailey, and our things, where it appeared that she felt part of that two-person team, and she took peculiar delight in describing all the attention he gave her, all the little things he would say and do to make her comfortable and happy. She really enjoyed being the center of his universe.

There seems to be such a remarkable contrast. I vividly recall that about 4:30 that same afternoon of the first Amazing Day, the newlyweds returned to the office to pick up the little lady’s red luggage. The Green Limousine pulled up and parked illegally at the painted curb just in front of the office. Bailey hopped out over the side of the car, skipped happily through the office door, retrieved the luggage, and turned to greet me. I boldly asked what had happened. He smiled and cheerily answered It’s done. Me and the Little Princess are married. He looked at me sheepishly, then said Mr. Jan, there is one more thing. I have just about spent all the $200.00 you loaned me.... I stopped