Slim Pickens: A Glass of Wine

By H.P. Price

SLIM PICKENS is a light hearted romance. Mary-Beth Dearing, career woman, was raised by her widowed grandfather who thought the only two extracurricular activities worth pursuit, was golf and chess. Golf because it was good exercise and one could take ones frustrations out on a little white ball. And chess because it exercised ones mind. Mary-Beths grandfather, Jake, at his passing left her with one last chess game. The board was preset there was no realistic way she could win. Unless she cheated. The game; Matrimony or Nothing. The quest; find a husband within sixty days. The spirit of the quest; a husband to take care of her and complete her. The letter of the quest a husband for two years. To win, Mary-Beth would have to foil the spirit of the quest. Thus turning a lose/ win to a win/win. She thought to take out an advertisement that read; White female looking for a husband for lease. Two year lease required. In her quest to foil, Mary-Beth found several potential lessor, a rich man, a poor man, a beggar man, a thief, a doctor, a lawyer, an Indian chief, a butcher, a baker and a candlestick maker. Not that these where all bad apples, it just seam that if they werent wormy they were sour or overripe. Whatever! For Mary-Beth it was Slim Pickens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479756810

H.P. Price

Mary K. Price, was born Mary Katherine Hyatt, April 10, 1917 to Francis and Anna Mae Hyatt in Cynthiana, Kentucky. People my age feel uncomfortable calling their parents by their given name, so I shall refer to Mary as mother or mom. Mom had seven siblings, one brother and six sisters. At press time she has two sisters still with us. At the age of sixteen she came down with typhoid fever. That same year she lost her mother, to what, she is not sure. Mother married Harry P. Price in 1938, I, H. Preston,the elder was born in 1940, my brother Richard was born in 1947. In between my brother and I mother gave birth to twin girls that were only on this earth a short while, for which she grieved, from the day of her loss. My brother and I grew up with some relative or other staying with us for an extended time. Our house was always open, all were welcome. The memories of growing up with a rather harsh father, brought her years of painful memories. Mother started writing poetry at the age fifty-two. She would memorize scripture to replace unwelcome memories of her youth and the lose of the twins. She told me that as she walked out in the field next to our house quoting scripture to herself when God gave her, her first poem. She went back to the house and wrote it down. At ninety-six her memory, as one might expect, is a bit sketchy, but she thinks ‘Neighbors’ was her first poem. Mother said God inspired each and every poem and she gets a blessing out of rereading them. I think you will too. It has been my pleasure to, sort, type and edit mother’s handwritten work. ‘God’s Roses’ is a collection of God inspired poems by our mother Mary K. Price.

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Copyright © 2012 by H. P. Price.

Library of Congress Control Number:            2012922501

ISBN:            Hardcover            978-1-4797-5680-3

Softcover            978-1-4797-5679-7

Ebook            978-1-4797-5681-0

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 03/21/2013

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER I

January in Kentucky seldom afforded a day in the upper fifties like this one. Not that it was necessary for this foursome. Anything above thirty was adequate for a game of golf. It was fifty-seven degrees today, but the weatherman had said the next cold front would be coming in later that night. They got an early start. Jake was sure the course would be crowded. Jake Whitmore, Dr. Forbes Steinmetz (whom everyone called Doc), and George Oats (Jake’s attorney) played together on a somewhat regular basis. Scotty McDevin had played with Jake on a number of occasions through the years but not more than a couple of times with the other two. This was the first time all four had played together as part of a foursome.

Scotty held the flag and waited for Jake to chip. His ball lay just off the green on the eighth hole. If Jake could sink this chip, he would be two strokes up on Scotty and three if Scotty missed his six-foot putt. To beat Scotty would not only make Jake’s day, it would make his year. Scotty was always the target, a target none of these three had ever hit. In fact very few at the club had taken the measure of the Scotsman. Jake was thinking, If I can hold on for one more hole, I will have him through the front nine. This just might be my day! as he took a couple of practice swings. Maybe I could come up with an excuse to quit after nine.

The ball seemed to have the right speed, and Jake applied a bit of body english, which may have helped because the ball took a hook to the right and dropped into the cup.

Yes! Jake shouted and speared the air with his club as if it were a sword. And as if life could offer no more, Jake grabbed his chest and dropped to his knees, holding himself up with his seven iron.

All right, George called, sounding less than sincere.

Great shot. Scotty sounded a bit more sincere.

Then Jake fell over, facedown.

Jake, are you all right? Scotty timidly asked, realizing he may not get an answer.

The three stopped in their tracks for a moment, and then Forbes rushed over to the prostrate figure. Turning Jake over, he felt for a pulse.

Is he dead? George asked.

Without answering, Forbes began to push with both hands on Jake’s chest. He checked again for a pulse. He took Jake’s glasses off and put them under the motionless man’s nose. The glasses fogged up lightly. Doc felt again for a pulse. I have a pulse. Doc pulled Jake’s eyelids up then pried his mouth open. I would say he has had another heart attack. Let’s get him into the cart.

What are you going to do? George asked.

Take him to the hospital. What do you think? Forbes replied.

Wouldn’t it be safer if we called an ambulance? Scotty interjected.

That makes sense to me, George agreed.

Where is your cell phone? Doc asked George.

Use Jake’s, he keeps it in his bag. I’m low on minutes, George answered.

Scotty retrieved the phone from Jake’s bag and handed it to Forbes. Forbes punched in 911 and got a busy signal. On his next try, it rang.

Yes! We have an emergency, we need an ambulance at the Lexington Country Club.

A male, Caucasian, seventy-seven, suffered an apparent heart attack.

His name is Jake Whitmore, and I am Dr. Forbes Steinmetz.

The three of them picked up Jake and carried him to the cart. Doc put the phone on speaker and placed it in one of the cart cup holders.

It makes no sense to quit the game and go to the clubhouse and wait for the ambulance when the ninth hole is between us and the clubhouse, George said. We can keep going until we hear the siren. I’m sure that is what Jake would do. George looked to Scotty for support.

What do you think, Doc? Scotty asked A game of golf isn’t worth a man’s life, he added.

Scotty! You know what George says makes sense, Doc broke in. We can make a beeline for the clubhouse when we hear the siren. And the ninth hole is between us and the clubhouse, Doc reasoned.

Jake took up the whole seat, so Doc drove the cart to the tee standing. When he stopped, he went to the back of the cart and unfastened Jake’s golf bag and sat it beside the cart. He lifted Jake’s feet and sat them down on the clubs. Jake’s feet fell to the side, and the bag fell over. George came to lend a hand. This time they removed all the clubs in the middle of the bag and put Jake’s feet in between the remaining clubs. That seemed to get the job done.

Doc picked up the phone. Yes, I’m holding.

Yes! I have checked him the best I can without my bag. I would say he is stable. After hearing the response from the other end, Doc sat the phone back in the cup holder.

As the threesome stood on the tee, there came a groan from behind them. They all three turned to see Jake try to get up. He got no further than to turn over the bag again. They all rushed to Jake’s side.

Keep still and stay down. I believe you have had a heart attack, Doc said. There is an ambulance on its way. Doc adjusted the rolled-up sweater under Jake’s head. Jake tried to speak. The three gathered close in an effort to hear. Don’t try to talk, save your strength, Doc said.

I want the three of you to play for me.

Sure! We’ll pray for you, Scotty responded quickly.

I said play for me, you idiot, Jake labored, and in a weak voice, he continued, George, you drive. Scotty, you play the fairway. Doc, you putt. With that Jake shut his eyes and seemed to drift off to sleep.

Jake’s feet stuck over the side of the cart a good two feet. Forbes removed Jake’s shoelaces and tied them together for length. With one end fastened to Jake’s shoes, he tied the other end off to the structure of the cart’s roof.

Jake has the honors. So I will drive for him first, George said.

George got off a pretty good drive for Jake.

As the ball rolled to a stop, the threesome heard a thud from the cart parked next to the ball wash. Jake’s knees had buckled, and he had rolled off the seat and ointo the floor of the cart. And there he lay, his head under the brake pedal and his feet elevated, thanks to the shoestrings. They heard a groan as they rushed to the cart.

Well, at least he was alive, no need to check his pulse, George said.

After repositioning Jake in the seat again, they decided to have one man at the ready near the cart to make sure Jake’s legs stayed elevated and he stayed on the seat.

George drove his own ball into the trees. He thought to exchange lies with Jake’s. He thought, if caught, I just made an honest mistake. But then he knew Doc would not buy it so chickened out.

Man, I hope he doesn’t remember any of this, George said. The thought made him grimace. George’s one-attorney-and-a-secretary law firm could ill afford to lose any clients, especially this one.

They were determined to finish the ninth before the ambulance arrived. Forbes was at a standing squat as he steered down the fairway with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the windshield post. The rise was on Forbes before he could get his foot off the accelerator, which was unfortunate because all three, Jake, Doc, and the cart became airborne for a brief moment. Forbes instinctively sat down on poor old Jake to keep him from taking flight. After Forbes gained control again, he looked down at Jake’s bloody nose.

My word! I believe I’ve broken the ol’ boy’s nose. He looked to see if the other two had seen what had just happened. The incident so unnerved the good doctor that he flubbed his next shot, wasting a rather good drive.

Scotty had taken Jake’s fairway shot and put it on the green about twelve feet from the hole, but his own ball ended up in the trap on the far side of the green.

George’s third shot flew the green and landed in the trap five feet from Scotty’s ball

Forbes, normally a good putter, was having a hard time shaking the cart thing. One does not just sit on a man’s face. Couple this thought with the sound of an ever-nearing siren would have made the twelve-foot putt tough for anyone, which I guess would somewhat explain sliding by the cup sixteen feet. It really didn’t get any better. After five more volleys, Scotty picked up the ball and pitched it to Forbes. Thank goodness for a eight-stroke-per-hole limit, Forbes thought.

You will be the one to tell Jake you six putted and the Scotsman beat him by two strokes. George frowned.

George pulled up near the rear of the ambulance but didn’t get out of the cart. If you guys will bring me a coke and a hot dog, I will go on over to the tenth tee to keep anybody from cutting in.

Heavens to Betsy, lad. Yar mate’s about to croak and you’re worried about someone cutting in front of ya, Scotty lashed. There will be no more golf for this lad today. Ye can count me out.

Hospital and Home

It was two days before Jake became conscious again. The ICU was buzzing with activity. There was a choir of voices blending into static. The sound seemed so far away and yet at his ear. As he opened his eyes, everything was a blur. As his senses cleared, Jake became more and more aware of his surroundings. The static was divided into tones, then words, and then distinct voices, one of which he recognized, the others he did not. The blurs started to take forms. He quickly became aware of the tube down his throat and the IV in his arm. Everything in the small room was all too familiar, the machines, the monitors, the pumps, and especially the bells.

He is coming around, Doctor, said a voice Jake did not recognize.

Mr. Whitmore, can you hear me? It’s Dr. Carter, you remember me?

Jake nodded slightly and batted his eyes.

Good! You know where you are?

Jake knew too well where he was. This wasn’t his first time in ICU. It had only been a couple years since he had had bypass surgery here in this very hospital.

A few days later with Mary-Beth, his granddaughter, at the side of his gurney, Jake was wheeled to a private room. The room was filled with flowers, cards, and balloons. Most were from business acquaintances who knew Jake would not appreciate the waste of money but thought it good business.

Well, Mr. Whitmore, the nose seems to be healing nicely. Most of the swelling has gone down, not as much puffiness under your eyes. Dr. Carter stepped back after the close examination. I think Dr. Rosen did a pretty good job. How is your breathing?

About the same as ever, maybe a little better. They said I fell straight forward on my face. I must have hit a rock was Jake’s reply.

Over the next several days, Dr. Carter tried to convince Jake to consent to surgery. Dr. Carter didn’t sound too hopeful with or without the surgery.

I’ll tell you what I really want, Jake said weakly, I want to go home. All I need is some bed rest, and I’ll have a private doctor to pester me for a while and for a lot less money, then added with all the strength he could muster, You doctors would operate on a man for the flu if you could get by with it.

It’s your life. Then Dr. Carter added, I would rather you stayed here and have the surgery, but that is up to you. I can’t make you. Dr. Carter put his hand on Jake’s shoulder. You are one stubborn old fart. You might as well go home, and added, I feel sorry for that granddaughter and that private doctor.

CHAPTER II

Jake, now at home, felt it would only be a matter of days before he would be back at full speed, but for now, however, sitting in his favorite wing-back with his feet on an ottoman, soaking up the sun through the windows of the atrium, was about full throttle.

When days turned to weeks and his strength diminished even more, he knew he had misjudged the situation. When he finally went back to the doctor, Dr. Carter told him his greatest window of opportunity had passed and now his heart was too weak to survive an operation. A transplant would be the only solution, and Jake would be way down on the waiting list. At these words, Beth began to grieve as if her grandfather was already gone.

As a semiretired doctor, Forbes Steinmetz spent many afternoons and early evenings playing chess with Jake. When Beth came home from work, she would grab a Sprite and take over the board in whatever condition the good doctor had it. Seldom was she left with a realistic chance of winning.

Beth as always paused outside the door to gather herself. She didn’t want her grandfather to see the fear and despair she felt. She then went strolling into the room in her typical manner. A board was set up next to Jake’s pillow, but not a move was taken. Her glance went from the board to her grandfather then to the ever-strange Dr. Steinmetz. She gave Dr. Steinmetz a cordial but questioning nod and got a nonrevealing-like gesture in return. She looked over at her grandfather then back at Dr. Steinmetz in the hope of some response as to the present condition without asking. The untouched board more than likely meant her grandfather was not having a good day. How are you doing, Jake? Beth asked as she plopped down at the foot of the bed.

Beth! Why don’t you sit more ladylike? I swear, girl, if you don’t try to be a little more feminine, you will never catch a husband.

Beth sat with her legs crossed Indian style. Jake, I’m not looking for a husband, he would just get in my way. I have plenty of time.

You’re almost forty, don’t you think—? Jake paused, coughed a couple of times, the last seeming painful. Don’t you think it is about time to start looking?

Now see! Jake, you’re getting upset about nothing. I’ll get married in due time. How do you know I’m not looking now? Dr. Carter said you should not get too excited. Beth paused, softening her voice. I’m just in my thirties, Grandpa. Early thirties, very early thirties.

The room was dark. The massive four-poster bed where Jake lay blended into the walls that were paneled with a rich mahogany. The hardwood floor was decorated with a dark floral Indian rug. Even the thick quilt that covered Jake’s bed was a deep burgundy. The only break was the off-white ceiling that held the gold chandelier, which cast a soft glow.

I don’t know why you are so stubborn. He paused briefly. "I’ve taken care of you all by myself, all these years. Ever since, forgive me for saying it,