Hope's Corner

by Chris Keniston

  As always Pam sat fascinated as Ms. Abigail spun her story. Listening to the old woman tell her tales of life in Texas decades ago, it was easy for Pam to forget her own troubles. Her own pain.

  “We were getting on in years. Selling out was the only sensible thing, but it nearly broke George’s heart.”

  “And you?” Pam asked.

  Ms. Abigail’s fingers stilled. “Life’s about moving on. It was time to move on.”

  Pam sat watching Ms. Abigail wield the crotchet hook, looping the string, pushing through, pulling back, patiently creating a lovely pattern.

  “Yes, sirree,” Abigail said, tying off the string on the small patch and starting over. “Patience works with so many things. Take this tablecloth. I’ve been working on it since last Christmas. I make my little patches, keep them in that basket over there. When I have enough, I’ll crochet them together. No point assembling it all before I have enough pieces to work with.

  “It was the same way with the horses. No point in teaching them to race if something inside was broken. Mind you, I’m not talking about a bone or an organ. I mean the spirit that drives a horse to shine, to be the best.”

  Pam wondered if Abigail was working with her the way Abigail’s daddy had worked with horses. Except for the moment when she’d sat and Ms. Abigail had briefly looked up, the woman hadn’t taken her eyes off the work in her hands.

  Between thoughts, the old woman focused on her tablecloth. It was almost as if Pam wasn’t in the room. Then when Pam was convinced Ms. Abigail had forgotten Pam was there, Ms. Abigail would start talking about her daddy’s horses again.

  “Sea Wind was one of my favorites. That horse had a bloodline worth its weight in gold. But he was plumb loco. Almost killed his trainer. The owner was told to put him down, but he didn’t have the heart. Out of sheer desperation they drove Sea Wind to my daddy all the way from Kentucky.

  “I was just a little thing, maybe six or seven. First time I saw the horse, he was up on his hind legs, batting his forelegs like a lethal weapon. Sheer madness shone in his eyes, but he was a beautiful animal. His coat a lustrous black like fine ebony. Strong muscles. When he finally stood on all fours, any fool could see the horse was something special. Day after day I’d sit near the corral and watch Daddy work. To me it looked like every time the horse came near, Daddy would shoo him away. I didn’t understand. Then one day, I’d come back from town with my mother, and Daddy was leading the horse around. I couldn’t believe the horse was following him, tame as can be.

  “Daddy said the horse had to trust him first. Only then could they work together. Yep, patience and trust.” Closing off the last stitch, she put her crocheting into the basket and stood. “You must be hungry. Let’s see what’s being served for lunch today.”

  Like a faithful dog, Pam followed after Ms. Abigail. The formal dining room of the old mansion had been converted to a quaint dining area. Square tables with white linens, fresh floral centerpieces, and seating for four were scattered about the room.

  Miss Abigail led the way to a quiet table in the far corner of the room and took a seat with her back to the window leaving Pam with a view of the lovely gardens. On each table was a half sheet of colored paper with the specials of the day.

  “I think I’ll just have the soup,” Abigail said, delicately placing her napkin on her lap.

  The soup of the day was broccoli and cheese, one of Pam’s favorites and probably about all her nervous stomach could handle.

  “Yes. I think I will too.” Pam lifted the fork and inspected it for no good reason. Setting it back down on the table, she flipped the fork over and back, considering the story she’d heard. The words patience and trust rolled around in her head. She fidgeted a moment with the knife. But people weren’t like horses. Were they?

  Her eyes shifted from the silverware to Abigail Clarke. So consumed in her own thoughts, only now did she realize the old woman had been watching her. Wisdom shone in Abigail’s eyes much like madness must have shone in Sea Wind’s—or maybe even her own. “Was the horse okay?” She let go of the knife and dropped her hands into her lap. “I mean did he stay…sane?”

  “Oh, heavens, yes.” Abigail paused a moment. “I never did find out exactly what happened to make him loco in the first place. Though Daddy said he wasn’t really crazy, just scared. I suppose in many ways animals are like people. Fear festers in cold dark places. Once it’s brought out into the light of day, it dies. I heard Daddy say something to the owner on the phone one day about the jockey’s riding crop and damn fool trainers and their idiotic notions. Not sure what it was all about, but the owner must have understood, because Sea Wind went on to set all sorts of racing records. A fine horse he was, yes, mighty fine.”

  Yes, well, Pam picked up the fork again. If only Abigail’s father were still alive, and if only Pam were a horse. But there was no arguing the truth in the old woman’s words. Fear festers, and if Pam wanted to conquer the fear, it was time to bring it into the light of day. No, it was way past time to bring it into the light of day.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Woman, will you stop your fussin’.”

  Jeff watched his mother flitter around her husband like a moth unable to ignore the flame. Seeing his father propped in his favorite recliner blustering at his mother’s attention only two days after spending the night in the hospital was almost enough to lift the heaviness that had settled in Jeff’s heart a few nights before.

  “Don’t you take that tone with me.” Etta Mae gave one more tug on the quilt she’d placed across her husband’s lap.

  His father looked to the ceiling, probably praying for patience, and Jeff covered his mouth to conceal his amusement.

  “Ma,” Carol Ann called from the kitchen. “Mrs. Cahill is on the phone. Shall I tell her to call back later?”

  “No. I’ll be right there.” One more time, Etta Mae fluffed the pillows, tugged on the blanket, and shifted the half-empty glass of lemonade forward on the table. “As soon as I’m done with Mrs. Cahill, I’ll bring you a fresh glass.”

  Not waiting for a response, his mom turned on her heel and marched off to the kitchen. It was a nice feeling knowing some things would never change. Whether it was a twenty-four-hour bug or a massive heart attack, Etta Mae Parker would mother you until you weren’t so sure which was worse, the disease or the cure. But he wouldn’t have it any other way. Neither would his dad.

  “Before your mother comes back, I want to talk to you.” Harlon Parker flung the heavy quilt to one side and leaned forward. “I want you to think about what you’re doing.”

  “Pop.” Jeff grabbed the blanket and spread it out over his father’s legs. “Now isn’t the time. You just got out of the hospital. If Mom walks in on anything other than a conversation on baseball stats, she’ll skin me alive.”

  “This is important. Your whole future is at stake.”

  “I’m more worried about you. We almost lost you the other night. The whole town’s been praying for you.”

  “No one almost lost anything. Except maybe you and your senses. The doc fixed my medication.”

  “Yes, and he also said to take it easy and avoid stress.”

  “You think not talking about this is going to make it any less stressful for me?” His father glowered at him with the same laserlike gaze that could make a lifelong sinner repent.

  Jeff raked his fingers through his hair and carefully considered his options. Lying to his father wasn’t something he’d made a practice of growing up, and he didn’t want to start now. On the other hand, all through college he’d been guilty, and then some, of what the Catholics called a sin of omission.

  But he wasn’t in college anymore, and like it or not, there would be no convincing his father of anything if he didn’t talk to the man. Jeff simply didn’t want to talk now.

  Maybe this time, though, God was on Jeff’s side. The sound of the door chime rang through the house. He was literally saved by the bell. He could almost laugh at the
timing.

  “Oh, dear.” Etta Mae stepped into the hall. Unconsciously she swept a hand at a loose strand of hair laying limp across her cheek, then wiped her hands on the front of her apron. “Looks like we’re going to start receiving company.”

  “I’ll get it, Ma.” Jeff sprang up. Anything to escape having the talk with his father—again.

  “I hope I’m not intruding?” Mrs. Meechum, a longtime parishioner, stood on the front porch with a covered casserole in her hands. “I spoke with Pamela Sue at the church. She said Pastor Harlon was doing well enough to have visitors. I can’t tell you how relieved we all are at the good news. I know Mrs. Cahill is organizing meals, but I thought Miss Etta wouldn’t mind if I went ahead and brought over a little something myself.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Mrs. Meechum.” Jeff waved her into the house, relieved to have someone else for his father to focus on. “I’m sure my mother’ll be real happy to see you.” He certainly was.

  “I meant to bring it by sooner, but my Joshua was having a hard day.”

  “Oh, look at that.” Etta hurried in from the kitchen and beamed at the woman still standing in the front entry. “Now isn’t this a blessing.”

  Mrs. Meechum’s cheeks spotted with a tinge of pink. “It’s my beef stew. Heats up real easy. Freezes even easier.”

  “Please come in.” Etta relieved the woman of the dish. “I’ll take this into the kitchen. May I get you something to drink? I just made some fresh lemonade for Harlon.”

  “No need to put yourself to any trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. Two glasses of lemonade coming right up.”

  Forty minutes later Jeff wondered if someone had shot off a starting pistol. Every ten minutes the doorbell rang, and another concerned parishioner came bearing gifts. So far his favorite was Mrs. Bixby’s offering of double chocolate chip cookies. On days like today he thought perhaps the Lord might have had Mrs. B’s cookies in mind when He said man did not live by bread alone.

  Five women, two with husbands, two more with children in tow, sat scattered around the living room chatting up a storm. For all the fright his father had given the family the other night, this afternoon he looked to be healthy as a horse. One that had just won the Triple Crown and was reveling in the post-race attention.

  His father was definitely in his element. So why couldn’t the man see he was too young to retire? How could he not recognize how much he was loved and how badly he was needed? But more importantly, how could Jeff make his father understand he, not his son, was the one born to pastor the church?

  “My, look at the time.” Mrs. Bixby stood. “I’d best be heading home. I’ve got another batch of cookies waiting to go in the oven.” When his mom moved to stand up, Mrs. Bixby waved her off. “Don’t get up. I can see myself out. Let me know if you need anything. We have to get Pastor Harlon back in that pulpit. No one delivers a sermon the way he does.”

  Bless you, Mrs. Bixby. Before Jeff could get down on bended knees and worship at the older woman’s feet, her eyes popped open wide, a rush of bright red flooded to her cheeks and she gawked at Jeff, stumbling over her own words. “Oh, dear. I didn’t mean, that is, well, I meant no offense.”

  “None taken.” He smiled. If his father wouldn’t believe him, maybe he’d believe someone else.

  “I’m not so sure about that, but it’s nice to hear anyway.” His dad smiled sweetly, and Jeff’s momentary euphoria evaporated.

  He’d seen that grin too often at church board meetings. It was the one that said Thank you for your valued opinion. Now get out of my way while I do what I want.

  It didn’t take long for the parade of well-wishers to follow Mrs. Bixby’s lead. As the last person made her way down the walk lugging her overeager three-year-old beside her, Pam pulled into her driveway, grabbed her purse, and dashed across both yards.

  “Afternoon, Miss Etta.”

  “Don’t you look pretty as a picture.” Etta held open the front door.

  “Is this a good time to visit?”

  “Absolutely. I was just getting ready to serve supper.”

  “Oh.” Pam paused on the porch. “I can come back a little later.”

  “Pamela Sue Wharton, don’t make me mad. I’ve got my hands full with one curmudgeonly old man. I don’t have time to straighten you out too.” She waved Pam into the living room. The twinkle in her eye trumped any attempt at a stern expression. “You keep the men company while I go fetch Harlon’s supper.”

  “No.” His dad shoved the blanket aside with gusto and pushed easily to his feet. “I’m eating dinner at the table with the rest of the family.”

  His mother dropped her hands on her hips. Her elbows sticking out like chicken wings, she rolled her eyes and blew out an exasperated sigh. But there was no missing the relief glittering in her eyes. She wasn’t going to lose the man she loved. Not yet.

  “Wasn’t it nice of Pam to come by?” Etta Mae ran the brass-handled brush through her hair one more time before setting it down on the mirrored tray her grandmother had given her as a child. She treasured all the memories of her grandmother. Sitting at the vanity after doing the dinner dishes, rubbing cream into her hands. The same vanity she sat at now. She didn’t understand how folks with no history, no roots, no family found the strength to push through their days.

  “She’s a nice girl.” Harlon nodded without looking up. “Jeff says she’s been a blessing with Ellen gone.”

  Etta’s mouth turned up in a knowing smile. “Did you also notice the way Jeff watched her at dinner?”

  “Now, Etta. Don’t go getting any of those harebrained matchmaking ideas. Jeff’s got a lot on his plate right now. John Haskell is already champing at the bit to make something of the rumors about town. Your son doesn’t need you complicating things.”

  “I’m just saying how nicely she fits in with the family is all. And you know as well as I do there’s something more to the way he kept his eyes on her tonight than just being pastorly.”

  “Mmm.” Harlon closed the Bible he’d been reading and set it on the nightstand. “Maybe.” He folded his glasses and placed them atop the Bible. “I’ve been thinking. Jo Beth Meechum’s worried about her boy Joshua.”

  “What’s Joshua got to do with Jeff and Pamela Sue?”

  “I’m not talking about Pamela Sue. You know Bert’s passing wasn’t easy on any of the Meechum boys, but it had to be hardest on young Josh, him being so much younger than the others.”

  Etta nodded. Listening, she spread some lotion on her hands the way her grandma had taught her.

  “Seems he’s a bit awkward. Not real social like the rest of the family. Tends to keep to himself. Jo Beth’s at a loss about what to do to make things better. David and Andrew had each other.

  “And their dad.” Etta made her way across the bedroom. “I seem to remember Bert and those boys always off fishin’ or camping or something.”

  “Yeah, but Joshua being a later-in-life baby, Bert didn’t have much time to do any of those things with him. And by the time Josh was old enough to learn from his brothers, they were taking off for college.”

  Etta slipped under the covers beside her husband. “All right. I’ll bite. Where are you heading with this?”

  “Jo Beth says the boy seems to have some interest in baseball, but not a lot of talent.”

  “Harlon?”

  “Jeff’s real good at baseball. Always was. Could be the boy just needs someone to toss the ball around a bit with him. Show him some pointers, seeing as how his daddy never got the chance.”

  “Harlon.”

  “It would be good for Jeff to work with the young boy. Help Joshua build his confidence, self-esteem, bring him out of his shell a bit. Sports are a good thing for young men.”

  “Harlon Parker. Why don’t you quit beating around the bush and just sit down and talk to Jeff?”

  “Are you telling me you don’t think sports would be a good thing for little Joshua?”

  “Of
course not.” She waved a finger at her husband. “I’m saying maybe it’s time to tell Jeff that you know what’s botherin’ him and just talk to him instead of using little Joshua Meechum as a means to show Jeff his value to the community. Talk to Jeff. Remind him of all the good he’s done for this church. Let him know what things were really like for you when you first started out. Make him see Jenny Buckner’s dying wasn’t his fault.”

  “I wish it were that easy. I tried to talk to him earlier, but a man like Jeff has to come to the truth in his own time, his own way.” Harlon shifted sideways to face his wife. “He told me yesterday he’s planning on leaving the church, going back to a business career.”

  Etta’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “See why it’s time to take some action? I need to make him see for himself. Talking to Jeff would just be words. His whole life we knew this was his gift. Tried to bring him up prepared for it. And yet he chose to run loose in the world for more years than I’d have expected before accepting what he should have known all along—the church was his true calling. This is where he belongs. Words weren’t enough then. They won’t be enough now. But there isn’t the time I thought.”

  “Oh, Harlon. He’s older. More mature. Maybe now, if you try again, someplace quiet, tell him how hard it was for you. Tell him why you know what he’s feeling—”

  Harlon shook his head. “The hurt is too deep. The guilt of Jenny’s death too strong. I see it in his eyes every time he looks at me. Words won’t work, but maybe, maybe Joshua Meechum is the Lord’s answer to my prayers.”