From the Heart Read online

  Someone had just stolen Gramps’ beloved and he didn’t even squawk. “Did you see that?” I demanded.

  “Janey, cool your jets. This is Vegas.” The barista handed Gramps a cup of coffee, and a word came out his mouth I’d not heard him say since my buscia, the Polish terms for grandmother, went to be with Jesus. He said, “Dziekuje,” and then added another sentence in Polish. He was speaking Polish, and I could feel my forehead wrinkling. After a day like it had been, those wrinkles would become permanently etched.

  “Jane, are you even listening to me? This is Petra Stanislaw. Petra, I’m pleased to have you finally meet my precious granddaughter, Jane.”

  She said, “Czesc, jak sie masz?”

  Then something even weirder happened as I replied, “Czesc, jak sie masz?” Where had that come from? I had just replied, “Hello, how are you?” in Polish. Truth be told, I could understand quite a bit more thanks to my grandparents using the language of their parents in order to keep things from me.

  “Czesc,” Petra said, with a far better Polish accent than I could muster and then added a long string of something more, but of course I was still searching the crowd for Miss Hussy of the Year.

  My voice caught in my throat, “Can we speak English? Who was—” Yes, I pointed to the young woman “—she and why should I care?”

  “Yes, I do,” Petra said again with that lilting accent and diminutive smile. She was as pint-sized as I am large, and her hair was real blonde. She looked precious in a coffee bar’s apron. I was covered in chalk crumbs that had adhered to my sweaty self.

  Why wasn’t Gramps worried that his lady, um, love of his life, had exited with a stranger? Why did I need to meet a barista? I hadn’t realized these words came from my mouth, until I saw Gramps’ eyes squeeze tight, a sure-fire way to know he was steamed.

  “Janey girl, let’s do this again. Listen up. This is Petra. Jane? Petra.”

  “Yes? Of course I know this is Petra, the real question was, why will I care that this is Petra?”

  “Petra.” He said it slowly, as if I were from another planet. “Petra. Remember? This is the woman I wanted you to meet. We’re going to be seeing lots of her, and I wanted you to have a chance to meet her before we get down to business.”

  This time when I attempted to clutch the coffee cart, I made contact, although it rocked like a kayak in a gale. She didn’t look eighteen. “Scrape off the makeup and you’ll see she’s a baby,” I screamed. Would I have been more pleased if Gramps was about to marry Arnie? “If you’re having Gramps’ baby and I’m going to have a step-grandmother who is decades younger than me, you don’t know what kind of a scene I can make.” The next came out of my mouth in a stifled scream, with a serious dollop of hysteria. “Whatever are you thinking? Are you even thinking?” More screams.

  “You’re a nutcase, Jane. I don’t have to get anyone’s approval for this or even have to think much about it,” Gramps said through gritted teeth.

  I tried to hug him, but he yanked my arms away. I forced a smile at Petra, since I was exhausted and my Polish stinks, especially when I can’t even form sentences in English. “Counseling . . . that’s what you need.”

  “Whoa, now you’ve gone too far. Do you think I’ve got such a warped sense of reality that I need psychological help for what I’m about to do?” His face was getting burgundy with splotches of blue, unpleasant colors on an older white guy, and while I’m far from white, the color was probably close to mine at that second.

  “Yes, I do. It doesn’t have to be a real counseling session, just a friendly chat before you get in over your head, before you take the next step. I always recommend some counseling, some time to talk with others who can help you avoid pitfalls. There are plenty of counselors if you don’t want to talk to your pastor. Why, I bet even here in Las Vegas, and even at Desert Hills Church, why, I bet Pastor Bob could squeeze in a session for you. You really don’t want to jump too quickly, really, this is a huge step . . . ” Would that next step be marriage or birth announcements? Was that apron hiding Petra’s pregnancy? I am very proud to say that by this time my squawks and hysteria had leveled out to something of a squeal. What hadn’t were my arms, which were still flailing around, and my head was shaking of its own volition.

  I couldn’t seem to stop the arms or the head until Gramps carefully put his right palm over my mouth and said, “Jane, you’re taking this awfully hard. Petra understands.”

  “Well, goody-goody-gobble-’em-up gumdrops for Petra,” I said. “This is a life-changing decision, Grandfather. Are you unclear about that? How many fingers am I holding up?” Yes, I did do this and added, “If you don’t see the pickle, peanut butter, and tuna sandwich you’re about to bite into, I will take control. You haven’t even thought this through, have you? And stop glaring at me like that. You’re not the first man your age to go through a time when cognition becomes less than crystal. You’ve just had some shocks with the stroke.” I took his arm, but his feet were cemented to the floor because no matter how I pulled, he didn’t budge. I used my quiet voice. “We’ll just take you home now, maybe have some cocoa and talk about this quietly.”

  He cocked his head, and his steely blue eyes burnt into me. “I am not going home. You’re not going home. I certainly hope I know what I’m doing. I could use some life changes in my rusty old body, but what bad could come of this?”

  I sputtered, I stumbled, with spittle flying like the fountains at the Bellagio. It wasn’t one of my proudest moments so I’ll spare you more graphics. Okay, given five more seconds, I could have listed about two million reasons as to why it was wrong to romance, marry, and father a child at his age, with a woman who could have been my own daughter. Maybe not my own daughter, but something like a much younger sister. Heck, a daughter, who was I kidding?

  Most of my reasons, I had a sinking and stinking feeling, should not be spouting from the mouth of a minister. But it was all true.

  For a man who was no spring or summer chicken, the guy was strong. He snatched my arm and nearly pulled me up and that should have gotten my attention. Yet I was in scold mode so the words kept spewing forth, of which, thank heaven, I have no memory. Mind you, at this time I simultaneously reached for the coffee on the counter and attempted to balance. I slipped and blinked as coffee rained on my parade, I mean shirt. And I didn’t feel a thing. I tossed back a sizzling sip that hadn’t gotten over me as Gramps manhandled my arm and the rest of me past a row of gray-hairs making whoopee to slot machines. Not one head turned, even as I hollered, “Stop it. Take your bloomin’ fingers off me.” Yeah, the ads are right, whatever happens here stays here.

  “What has gotten into you?” His eyes were mere slits now as he grumbled, “How dare you get on your old high and mighty Biblical horse with me, madam.”

  “Madam? Are you blind? I’m the one who’s about to be ten years older than my new step-grandmother.”

  “Your what?”

  “That’s what she’ll be. Or don’t you actually plan to make it legal? Just going to live in sin?”

  “What planet are you from? I’ve never seen you like this, even when you’ve over-consumed coffee or chocolate. Petra is a fine young lady. A hard-working young woman who has had a tough life, and I don’t even know the half of it yet. There’s a terrible trouble in her, in her gut. I thought better of you and now that I’m thinking of it, how dare you treat her like that? You, Jane, of all people, and a minister, too.”

  It felt as if my face had been slapped, but of course he didn’t touch me. His words sunk in with the speed of cold butter on colder toast, that is, slowly. I gulped and said, “Do you have to get married? Do you, um, know her as in the Biblical sense of the word? Oh, Gramps, Petra seems like a darling little girl, but don’t you see? She’s a child. I thought better of you, too.”

  Ever heard the expression, “Bust a gut”? Okay, then you’
ve got the picture of my grandfather as I blurted out the above. He weaved back and forth and roared, holding his middle, rocking with laughter. Not just a little tinkling kind of laugh, but the kind that makes you think you’re going to have to fall on the floor or run to the restroom. I thought he was going to do the former. When he caught his breath, he looked at me and burst out laughing again. I stood mute.

  “Marry? Janey, you’re a piece of work. Petra and I are friends—at least I hope so—but marrying her is about as far from my mind as running around this casino jaybird naked. And that certainly won’t happen.”

  “But you said I would love her.”

  “Yeah? I hope you will.”

  “You brought me here because you said she’s special.”

  “She is.” The laughter slowed and he scratched his bristly chin. Gramps had given up shaving, too, along with God, other acts of personal hygiene, and a normal style of clothing.

  “Gramps, before you say anything else, please tell me yes or no. Is she your girlfriend? Are you romantic at all?” I could not, would not, absolutely ever get the word “intimate” out of my mouth regarding this woman and Gramps. Although I probably had in the previous bursts.

  Those familiar blue eyes smiled. He put a hand over his mouth in a futile attempt to stop more laughter. “Oh, Jane, switch to decaf.”

  “What is this about?”

  “Petra is my ballroom dance instructor.” He did a little bow and wiggled his hips, with only a slight frown when his hip headed to the left side, the side of his stroke.

  I tossed the overly curvy crone clutching a walker her huge purse that was plopped on an adjoining stool and balanced on it as the words finally penetrated my muddled brain. “Dance instructor?”

  “Let’s clear this all up. You got a clue how tragic this could have been, how mortifying for Petra?” He said the words with nearly a straight face and then shook all over like a wet dog. “Oh, boy, how I will enjoy sharing this with the band, but, then again—” He looked down at the sequined shirt and the silver tips of his cowboy boots. “—if either of us ever decides to grow up properly, I have a feeling we should keep this to ourselves.”

  Call the Guinness Book of World Records or Channel 10 News. I was speechless two days in a row. Not only that, but I’d been dead-in-the-water wrong. I had egg all over me, mixed with coffee and colored chalk. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Start with an apology, young lady.” He wrinkled his forehead. “Maybe to me and, without a doubt, unless I’m very mistaken, to Petra.”

  “I am sorry, Gramps. But you still don’t understand.”

  “Spit it out, girl.”

  I inhaled as if I’d just finished a marathon and said, “In the last twenty-four hours you’ve given me more than enough shocks to make this, my naturally fabulous hair, streaked with gray.”

  “Given a few minutes, I know I could recall every one of your stunts that produced gray. You were a trial, child. Turnabout should be fair play.” He pulled me into his arms, and I was ten years old. “Now, let’s get this straight. I told you this yesterday. I am going to get my body back in shape.” He held me at arm’s length. “Petra is a dance instructor for the program that’s held at the Las Vegas Senior Center. She works here a few hours a week. This is where I met her, actually. Then I signed up for the class.”

  As we walked back to the coffee cart, he said, “And where you come in, Jane, is that you’re going to be my partner. Everyone else has partners. I need one.”

  “We went over this last night.” Okay, there was an edge, if voices can have edges, because I can’t dance.

  He wiggled a finger in front of my face, but his eyes were serious. “I don’t have Alzheimer’s. Time you learned. Besides, if you don’t, I’ll limp around your condo all summer and pretend I’m suffering from dementia. I promise to make your life wretched and depressing. Either help me get this rickety body back in working order or else.” His eyes got the size of a spaniel’s and twice as pathetic.

  He was right. However, two things were stopping me from agreeing, and they were my feet. I’d never been comfortable dancing, never had any desire to get on the dance floor, other than fantasizing with Dancing with the Stars. “Are you sure?”

  “Come on, Janey. Class is in an hour. We don’t have much time to get to the center.”

  Within an hour, I was being instructed to hold my arms in a certain way, wiggle my hips to loosen them up, and bend a bit at my knobby knees. Imagine this vision of grace and poise. Don’t even bother. There I was at the senior center, shaking my booty and, surprisingly for those who know me and have seen me in jeans, even with my bountiful backside, booty shaking doesn’t come naturally for yours truly.

  “Please, Madam, Miss Pastor Jane, relax.” This was Petra. “Feel the music. In your bones. Don’t look at your feet. Your muscles will work better if you count.”

  At break time, when everyone else was getting coffee or a soft drink, Gramps pulled me aside. “Talk with Petra, will you? She needs some girl talk, honey. Something’s troubling her.”

  “I just met the woman, Gramps. As you may recall, especially when you stare at the coffee all over this shirt, my actions spoke louder than my words. Forget the sterling first impression, because she knows I’m a screwball. And I have principles. I usually wait at least two hours before I meddle in someone’s business.”

  That wasn’t entirely honest. I have been nosey quicker than that and he knew it, so after getting a grandfatherly shove I trotted over toward the woman I’d recently insulted.

  I smiled, stayed a few feet away in case she hadn’t forgiven me and said, “Hey, Petra. Thank you for getting Gramps to come here. This is good for him.”

  “Dancing is good for us all.” She nodded, like a delicate bobble head, and slipped the paper she’d been reading into the pocket of her electric blue crinkly peasant skirt, which would have made me look as big as Texas.

  I replied, “I’m a good listener if you ever want to talk. Gramps thinks you might have something weighing on your heart.”

  “It is a big thing, Pastor. Too big for you.” She inhaled sharply and then straightened her shoulders. “It’s too big for me.”

  “It’s not too big for our God, Petra. Call me Jane. Our God is a specialist in really big problems. I don’t have any more of a direct connection with Him than you do, but I’ve solved some huge problems in my day, in and out of the ministry, and maybe I can help you find some answers.” I didn’t tell her that I’d created colossal quandaries single-handedly; no need right then for full disclosure.

  She looked down her feet, which by the way were in the sweetest, softest taupe pumps, beyond adorable with a tiny strap across the top. It was enough to make me sick since I lusted for the shoes, and feet that size. We both looked up at the same time. “With permission, may I call you later?” she said.

  “That works for me.” I patted her hand. In 120 minutes or less, I’d gone from making horrid, spoken accusations that Petra was a gold digger to attempting to console her.

  To add a bit more drama to whatever had stirred her up she wiped a tear from her eye and patted her pocket where she’d hidden the paper I’d seen her reading. She flicked a switch on the portable CD player, and we went back to attempt the foxtrot with “You Make Me Feel So Young” crooned by Frank Sinatra pouring over the crowd.

  Gramps didn’t wince more than twenty times as I crushed his toes, amazing through those alligator-skin boots he was sporting. Everything was rosy, until Petra called out, “Now everyone, it’s time to twinkle.”

  That did it. I stopped dead. “Tinkle? Gramps I never have and never will tinkle in public.”

  “A twinkle. It’s a twisting side step, a running in motion dance move,” he said and called across the room. “Petra, I can’t handle this.”

  As if they had a secret
code, she rushed over and replaced Gramps in the man’s position. The music got louder.

  I’m a preacher and in the miracle business, which is a preachy line I use, but this had to be an honest-to-goodness one.

  You see, as Petra took my partner’s position, I was transformed into a swirling, gazelle-like ballroom dancing professional. Twirling, twisting, and twinkling, it didn’t matter one whit that I was dancing with a girl, who happened to be a trained dancer. In all my born days, I never ever thought I’d feel light as a feather, feel the music to my marrow. It coursed in my veins. I was as free as a butterfly, free as falling leaves in an autumn breeze, light as Cool Whip on Jell-O and nary a toe came between my size eight feet and the dance floor. It was heaven. It was sublime. It was what my body was made for. I was going to throw off the preacher’s garb to scoot straight for Broadway. Look out chorus girls, look out Rockettes, and look out for Jane Angieski. I spun, smiled, and wiggled in all the right places, since I do have an abundance of those “places” to wiggle. The music turned to a polka, and my Polish blood surged. I let go of Petra’s hands. I was born to dance and dance I would, with nothing to stop me.

  For a good ten seconds.

  What happened next was not my fault. As I shouted, “I’m twinkling.” I took to the air. I flew straight at, not into the arms of, one of the handsomest hunks of manhood I’d seen in a good long while.

  Chapter 3

  Carl Lipca. That name seemed to erupt from every other mouth in Las Vegas. I heard about him first in a gushingly, girlish, dishy kind of conversation between Vera and one of the teens. I swear Vera had to wipe drool from her mouth as she ogled Carl’s photo, which appeared next to his editorial in the newspaper. Vera has a crush on Carl, I wanted to taunt, but I was too mature for that, even though I sang it in my mind. He was young enough to be her grandson. Oh, yuck.