Bad to the Last Drop Read online

  "Stranger things have happened," Pat replied. Then, smiling sheepishly, she continued, "Well, not many, but it could have happened, couldn't it?"

  "Actually, each time the odds are calculated by the numbers in that particular lottery. So it doesn't really matter if he won one before," Mitchell pointed out.

  "Do you want to know what I think?" Marc asked, leaning his elbows on the table. "I think you, Pat, have all this time on your hands because you're on sabbatical, and you, Deb, want to have an adventure with her. So you're imagining this for fun. Let the poor guy rest in peace." Turning, he asked, "What do you think, Mitch?"

  "I think its time for dessert, not 'just deserts.' Who wants ice cream?" he quipped, dodging a spousal bullet.

  They all laughed and settled in, as only old friends can do.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Deb got up at six o'clock, as she usually did, to do yoga stretching and relaxing exercises with her reluctant husband. Ever since she and Marc had hosted Swami Ji, the yoga master from Nepal, in their home for a month, they had continued their practice together. Even though he sometimes tries to get out of it, the goose. Normally, she liked to linger in the aftermath with the feeling of deep relaxation and serenity, but today she couldn't wait to walk up the street to pick up Pat and walk the five blocks to coffee.

  Entering the coffeehouse, Deb threw her coat on the chair and hurried to get her coffee. Kait, an artistic brunette with sparkling eyes and a cute smile, was working today and, as usual, she had two mugs waiting on the counter.

  Deb enjoyed the feeling of living in a place where the service people knew what she wanted when she walked in the door.

  The morning had been like most others for Kait. There were the usual requests for empty mugs from students, housewives, and working folk, eyes glazed over and eager for their morning shot of java to fortify them for the day. Like Deb and Pat, they were the easy ones to wait on—customers who would choose from the four pots of ready-made set out on the coffee bar.

  That morning, the choices were French Roast (dark), Chilean Blend (regular), Mocha (flavored), and French Roast (decaf). One of the most creative aspects of being a barista was being in charge of choosing the flavors for the day. Kait would arrive at work each morning in the wee hours to open up and start the pots brewing.

  The more time-consuming customers were the espresso and latte types who ordered from the numerous selections of handwritten entries on the overhead chalkboard. That morning, a chilly one, had been especially busy with special orders.

  Brrr. It's cold today, Deb thought, as she went for the French Roast. Almost time for the wool socks and mittens. Joining Pat at their table, Deb smiled and started right in.

  "Wait 'til you hear the latest!" She paused for a few seconds for dramatic effect, leaving Pat wondering what Deb was about to say. "I got a call last night from Anastasia. She first thanked me for writing the letter to the editor in the paper. Then she asked me if I would help her and Jacob to tie up Joe's affairs. They need a little legal advice and guidance." She watched Pat's face light up with interest as she shared this information with her. At that moment, it struck her how nice it was to see Pat taking an interest in things once again.

  My best friend, thought Deb, has been struggling with burnout for some time, even though she wouldn't call it that. Though they had lived hours away from each other for the past several years, distance hadn't seemed to affect the closeness they felt. They had been sisters in spirit for most of the past thirty years.

  Deb knew that Pat was a delightful pastor who used her intellect and catalytic personality and charm to bring grace to the lives of her congregations. But she wondered how many times during their careers they had learned the price of healing others' situations at the expense of their own care.

  Before Pat's last interim pastor job began, they had met on Madeline Island, their favorite sacred place, with a few other friends. There, they brainstormed about future life directions and made room for their dreams. They had actually talked about ways they could still save the world while saving themselves. Then, shortly thereafter, Deb watched with disappointment and helplessness as Pat once again accepted an interim position for another year.

  Another year of draining her energy, Deb thought . If she would just allow herself to take some time off, it would be really good for her and really good for the world.

  Deb had watched as Pat's joy of living had steadily shrunk. It was as if Pat's life had become black and white, when it used to be rainbows. And how Deb wished she could take a brush and paint the colors back in for her.

  Thinking about her friend, Deb felt a sudden dull pain in her heart. She remembered her daughter Brenda's unexpected death several years ago now. Deb had taken a year off from work afterwards. Some people might think it was just a phrase—"having your heart broken—"—but Deb knew it was true. Deb's heart still felt a little broken when she thought of her oldest daughter, despite all the years of healing.

  That wasn't the only time she had taken extended time off from work. She had also taken a year off during the first year she had moved to Ashland. She and Marc had decided that it was important to the family to have one of them at home while they all made the transition. That was a magical year of discovery of the sights and people in her new home.

  Both times were times of transformation for me, remembered Deb. I got to do anything I wanted and mostly just focus on my own needs. It was like taking the weight of the world off my shoulders and setting it down. Strangely, they were two of my best years.

  Deb reverie was broken by Pat's persistent questions. "So, are the Russian women coming to your office? What did they learn about Joe's death? Is there going to be a service?"

  Deb smiled and leaned back in her chair. Her friend Pat was definitely back. "Now, you know I can't tell you anything that's confidential, but Anastasia did say to thank you, too, and said she would like to get together with us sometime. She had only met her sister-in-law once before, you know, and I think she really wants someone else to talk to. Those poor women, coming all this way." She tipped her cup to get another sip of the French Roast and then said, "Don't you wonder where Joe got the money to send for all of them?"

  Pat looked at Deb in astonishment. "You mean to say that Joe sent the money for all five of them to come to America? That must have cost a fortune! I can't believe that he could possibly have had that much money—he didn't even buy his own coffee most of the time, He always wore the same clothes, and he lived in that crummy little apartment across the street. Why would he do that if he had money? He didn't have a job. Mmm, I wonder where that money came from."

  Before Deb could respond, a middle-aged woman came through the door. She pulled a scarf off her curly auburn hair and, glancing around, smiled at Deb; then went to get her coffee. "Who's that?" Pat asked.

  "It's one of the nurses from the clinic," Deb replied. "Actually, I think she's someone you'll probably want to meet."

  "Oh? Why?"

  "Because she is not just any nurse," Deb said. "She's the county coroner and also a neighbor of ours. She's the one who sent Joe's body to St. Paul for the autopsy."

  "Well, in that case, invite her to sit with us."

  Joe's death was common knowledge all over town, so when Deb asked Ashland's coroner when the body would be released, Ruth Epstein felt she wasn't breaking any confidences by discussing minor details. "I think it will be done by the end of the week," she said as she bit into a caramel roll.

  "I'm representing Joe's family," Deb explained. "They're wondering about the cause of death."

  Taking a sip of her coffee, Ruth sighed. "It was most likely a heart attack, I expect. Poor guy. Maybe it'll be a comfort for his family to know that he probably didn't know what hit him."

  "I'm just curious," Pat said. "How can you tell a thing like that?"

  "Well, in this case," Ruth explained, her mouth full of caramel roll, "it looks like he was sitting in his chair when it happened. He ha
d a look of surprise on his face. No trying to get to the phone or anything." Turning to Deb, she said, "How is it that the family contacted you?"

  "Well, we met the sisters in here when they came into town. We helped them contact their brother, Jacob."

  "Can I get Anastasia's phone number from you? I'll have my assistant call the family as soon as the body is released. I'll try to give them all the details I can then. But in the meantime," she said with a stern look, "I would appreciate it if you wouldn't talk about it too much. There is a proper order to things, you know, even in a small town."

  "Thank you," Deb said, relieved to learn that Joe hadn't suffered. Still, it made her a little sad. It was a lonely and undignified way to go. But at least he wasn't really aware of it.

  Ten minutes later, Ruth was on her second cup of coffee when she glanced at her watch. "Look at the time. I've got a 9:00." Picking up her cup, she turned to Pat. "Nice meeting you," she smiled sincerely as she put her cup in the cleanup bin. Then, retying her scarf over her curls, she walked out the door.

  Deb picked up her coat. "Well, I'd like to sit some more, but I'm meeting Anastasia and her sister at my office."

  After waving good-bye to Deb, Pat got up and put her seventy-five cents on the counter for a refill, then picked up the paper, looking for the article about Joe. What a good job! Pat thought, as she read:

  Friend, neighbor, veteran

  Chapple Avenue character remembered

  By Karen Hollish

  Staff writer

  Chapple Avenue residents often noticed eye-patched Joe Abramov, who passed away unexpectedly last week at age fifty-seven, pacing in front of the area's bakery and coffee shop, giving passersby an enthusiastic morning greeting, espousing his dreams of winning the lottery, and darting into the food co-op to ask and answer one of his own favorite questions: "Who am I? I'm Harry Potter!"

  Ashland local Rico Lopez remembered of Abramov, "He smoked, and he would always offer me a cigarette. He would try to speak to me in Spanish and say 'Fumar, senor?' I don't smoke cigarettes, and I always refused, but he always offered me one, and always showed that sense of humor with that saying. I came to enjoy it, and of course if he wouldn't do it, I'd be disappointed. But he never disappointed me."

  At first glance, Abramov appeared to be a colorful character with a penchant for sharing his escapist fantasies and a fear of the government that seemed to verge on paranoia, but he also served two tours during the Vietnam War and earned three bronze stars. He was a regular fixture of downtown Ashland, especially at the Daily Bread, Black Cat Coffeehouse, and Chequamegon Food Co-op businesses near his Chapple Avenue home. When Abramov wasn't seen for several days, a concerned Black Cat barista called the police, who visited Abramov's apartment and found him dead.

  News of his death quickly spread through the community, and neighbors and friends built an impromptu memorial next to his home. There, one can see a handmade sign reading "Joe: rest in peace—friend, neighbor, veteran," around which friends have placed candles, flowers, artwork, lottery tickets—and cigarettes.

  Abramov might have been best known for his perpetually discussed dream of winning the lottery. He planned to use the money to buy an island, where deer and alligators would be the only animals and brandy was omnipresent and where he'd wed and bed several Russian women.

  But those who made more time to listen to Abramov were privy to another side of him, which was kind, compassionate, and highly intelligent, albeit scarred by his two tours in Vietnam.

  "I know he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder [PTSD], and I know it firsthand, because I do, too," said Lopez, also a Vietnam veteran. "This is a mechanism that he used to escape reality. He would speak a couple of sentences that were really very intelligent and compassionate, and then he'd go back into that odd character. I understood why he did what he did, and I accepted it as what he had to do to survive."

  Inescapable past pain

  Though Abramov made references to previous major life events—such as his military service and his run for Ashland mayor—many of his life details were shrouded in mystery. Only after his death have his Chapple Avenue friends learned more about him.

  A graduate of Bayfield High School and later a sociology student at Ohio State University, Abramov was an American whose family believed strongly in military service, said his sister-in-law, Alice Abramov of Hurley. Alice Abramov's husband, Jacob, also served in the military, like his brother, Joe.

  "It was a family that believed in patriotism, a family of engineers and military men, even in Russia," she said. "So their history of being in the military is very firmly entrenched."

  Alice Abramov remembers that when her husband was called to go to combat in Vietnam, brothers weren't allowed to simultaneously serve in combat situations. Seeing that his brother had a wife and child who would be affected by his going, Joe Abramov decided to volunteer, rendering his brother ineligible.

  "That did interfere with their relationship for many years, because Jacob thought it was his duty to go," Alice Abramov said.

  Joe Abramov distinguished himself as a friend on the battlefield. "He was one of those people they referred to as a 'soldier's soldier,' which meant that if you were in any kind of combat situation, that's who you wanted next to you, because that was the person who could help you stay alive," Mrs. Abramov said.

  When Abramov returned, he suffered from PTSD-related dissociation and could have qualified for 100 percent service-connected disability status, but he refused, denying that anything was wrong.

  "He refused, I think, because he did not want to take anything from the government; he was so paranoid and so distrustful of the military," Alice Abramov said.

  "Like a brother"

  Though Abramov spent some of his post-service time homeless in Florida, his home, for the most part, was Ashland. He strayed from his regular Chapple Avenue spots to visit with Heike Clausen and Gabriele Schmitt, of Heike's Blumen Garden and Gabriele's German Cookies & Chocolates on Main Street, who were charmed by him.

  "He stopped at least three to four times a day at the flower shop, and he bought chocolates, and he wanted to win the lottery and buy an island," Clausen remembered. "And I was supposed to be the lady who took care of the flowers on the island."

  Beyond his expressed fantasies, Schmitt remembers that Abramov was very well-spoken about classic pieces of literature, like Anna Karenina or Doctor Zhivago.

  Clausen also remembers him as a lonely man—she visited his apartment when he spent Christmas alone—and as a man who discouraged others from joining the military.

  "My daughter, Anne—she's—thirteen—and he told her, 'Anne, you're too smart to go into the military. ... Don't go into the military,'" Clausen said.

  Sometimes Abramov's persistent questioning or his insistence upon early morning conversations with people waiting in the coffee line could be bothersome to Chapple Avenue-goers, who'd try to ignore him.

  Luanne Johnson, a cook at the Black Cat, called Abramov a great friend, but she also remembered how his energy could become unmanageable in public situations. When rumors circulated of an impending Iraq War draft, Abramov overheard Ashland former Mayor Carl Johnson talking of how he was afraid his son could be drafted. Startled by the conversation, Abramov abruptly suggested a way that Johnson could keep that from happening.

  "Joe flew off the handle and said, 'Just take his hand and smash it with a hammer. Smash it with a hammer!'" Johnson recalled. "When people heard that, everyone fled the building."

  Abramov showed his friends he cared about them by weaving them into his fantasies. He promised many people posts on his island: Johnson was to be his cook, Schmitt was to feed him and his wives chocolate in bed, and Lopez would be his security guard.

  Alice Abramov said she thinks her brother-in-law would be pleasantly surprised by the feelings expressed in the memorial. "I think sometimes Joe felt that no one ever really cared or noticed, and I think he would've been surprised to know how much pe
ople really did," she said.

  Lopez said Abramov will be a much-missed part of the Chapple Avenue landscape. He plans on raising his veteran's flag at an upcoming ceremony and has distributed buttons that read "Remember Joe." ..." He plans to maintain his memorial through Abramov's Tuesday funeral service. "This is the least I can do for a fellow veteran. I consider people like Joe my brother," Lopez said. "We gave something of ourselves by doing what society asks of us as warriors. And I look at Joe as being one of those kinds of people and a brother in that respect."

  Chapter Eight

  There was definitely a winter chill in the air for Joe's memorial service. The two women stood by the open grave, and as she looked up at the overcast sky, Pat could almost feel the snow in the air. When it comes, we could be in for ten or twelve inches, she thought.

  Tall, stately oaks graced the small cemetery on the edge of town. Pat imagined that in summer, wild flowers would grow in the grass near Joe's grave—he might like that. Of course, Pat chided herself; I really don't know what Joe would like. Still, he might be pleased at this turnout.

  As the rent-a-preacher droned on about a Joe she didn't recognize, Pat let her eyes move around the crowd. She was surprised at the number of mourners, most of whom jiggled from foot to foot in the cold. She noticed the Russian women—the three friends—Babe, Katrina, and Sonja, who stood bundled together with their arms around each other. Joe's sisters, Anastasia and Helga, were there, too, of course, huddled sadly together. Pat noticed for the first time that Anastasia was shorter and heavier than her sister, although both women had inherited the traditional stocky Russian build that their brothers had. Anastasia had penetrating brown eyes, high cheekbones, and—under less trying circumstances—a ready smile. She was clearly more outgoing than Helga. Now, however, she appeared to be visibly shaking.