Desperate Measures

by M. Glenn Graves

  My mother didn’t tell me the story of why she hired Ginny Mae. I had to track that one down on my own initiative. It seems that Ginny Mae had three children, one just barely out of diapers, when her husband died of a coronary embolism last fall. She and her husband both had jobs and were doing well financially until his death. She lost her job just after his death because of downsizing in the company where she was one of the office secretaries.

  Short version is that Bertha talked to Sarah about Ginny’s difficulties and Sarah went straight to Rachel Jo. My mother hired Ginny Mae solely on the recommendation of Sarah Jones. Friends forever. Not only that, as Sarah related the story to me, my mother works Ginny Mae twenty hours a week and pays her twenty dollars an hour, a tad more than she was earning as a part-time secretary. Plus, anytime the kids need attention from their mama, Rachel sends her home to take care of them. Bertha has told Sarah that Ginny Mae’s salary is never docked for those hours away from her domestic work for my mother.

  It’s stuff like that which aggravates me to no end. How can I stay angry with a woman who practices such justice? It infuriates me. I mean that in a good way.

  “Wow,” I said as Ginny Mae turned from her work by the sink to greet us as I walked into the dining area of the kitchen. “We having company for dinner?”

  I was halfway joking, knowing that my mother often fixed a feast such as the one presently spread on the table for the few souls who formed our family now.

  “As a matter of fact, we do have some folks comin’ over,” Ginny said.

  “Really?” I said.

  “I neglected to tell you that I invited Reverend and Mrs. Stoddard along with their two children to join us for Sunday lunch,” my mother said as she walked over to the sink.

  She touched Ginny Mae ever so softly on her back, Ginny Mae turned her head slightly to the left and smiled at my mother. An unspoken word between the two of them.

  “Yeah, you forgot to tell me that,” I said.

  “You’ll survive,” Rachel said and laughed a little.

  Ginny looked puzzled.

  “It’s really nice to have the preacher and his family to lunch. In my family it was always an honor to have the minister eat with us anytime,” Ginny said.

  “I’m beside myself with joy,” I said.

  “You’ll be okay. You can talk with the children,” Rachel said.

  “God bless the children,” I said as the doorbell rang.

  I turned to look down the hallway in the direction of the front door. Through the door curtains I could see that a family of four was standing outside on the porch waiting entry into my mother’s hallowed hall.

  “I’ll let them in,” I said and headed in that direction.

  “No, no,” Ginny Mae interrupted and scurried past me. “That’s my job, Miss Evans.”

  “Clancy,” I said without adding anything else by way of correction.

  “Okay, Miss Clancy. Would you keep an eye on the mashed potatoes, please?” she said as she walked quickly to the door.

  I moved to the stove as I heard her greet the good reverend and his brood. I was pretending to know what needed to be done to the mashed potatoes when Ginny Mae brought the family of four by the kitchen area on their way to the dining room. Mother stood and greeted them as they entered awkwardly. The children remained close to each side of their mother with their heads partially hidden behind their mother’s blue dress while Reverend Stoddard looked around the room as if studying a museum’s layout. A large gap existed between Stoddard and his wife guarding the two children. Something awry.

  “I don’t think you have officially met my daughter Clancy, Reverend Stoddard,” Rachel said as she gestured towards me.

  “I’ve seen you in the congregation from time to time,” Reverend Stoddard said to me. In the south when we meet someone for the first time, we generally shake hands, even with men and women meeting. Stoddard didn’t extend his hand to shake mine. I decided to hold onto my hand as well without offering it to him. Something told me that he was not a man who would shake hands with a woman. He probably did not like dogs either. I only wish that Sam could have joined me here for this moment. He was spending the weekend with Rogers and the retired mail carrier down the hall from my apartment whose name was Sparkle. Go figure.

  “I’ve seen you, too,” I said, “from time to time, lurking behind the pulpit.”

  Rachel frowned in my direction.

  The preacher gave no intention that he would smile at my attempt at humor. He merely stared at me as if I had uttered something blasphemous. He sat down without being invited to do so. He also failed to introduce me to his wife and children. I thought that was tacky. I gave my mother an open-eyed look and a head gesture towards the woman and her two kids, as if to say, who are these people? Mama was quick on the uptake.

  “Clancy,” she began in that slow, Southern style as if time meant nothing at all, “this is Barbara Jean, Reverend Stoddard’s wife, and their two children, Mary Jane and Paul Lee.”

  “Pleased to meet all of you,” I said and smiled. “Won’t you be seated?”

  Ginny Mae took my spot at the stove and I willingly handed her the wooden spoon for the potatoes. Mother and I sat down.

  I immediately noticed that there were seven places set at the table. Six people were now sitting. In the past, our good friend and former helper, Sarah Jones, would never sit down and eat with the family. Despite our constant begging and pleading with her, she would sit on a stool at the bar and eat her food. She had been raised in the deep South for too many years to cross that line. At least that’s what she said when I was growing up. Years later, after Scott and I had left and Daddy was long gone, when it was only Mama and Sarah alone in the house, she would sit at the table and eat with Rachel Jo. Some grand old traditions finally succumb.

  “Ginny, come join us while Reverend Stoddard offers a blessing,” Mama said after a minute or so of uncomfortable silence.

  I kept waiting for the good reverend to become human and provide his given name so that the ambience of the room would permit us all to breathe once more. It never happened.

  Ginny lingered a bit too long for my curiosity.

  “Is that your given name?” I said to Reverend Stoddard.

  He looked puzzled.

  “Beg your pardon?” he said.

  “Reverend? Is that your name?”

  “I should say not,” he answered and shook his head. I think he failed to recognize my gift of humor. At any rate, I saw no signs from him that he was amused by my remark. Perhaps he was entirely humorless. I would stay alert in case I was mistaken about that.

  I noted that my mother’s frown clearly indicated that she did not find me amusing either. My remark also failed to cause the good reverend to offer his given name. Perhaps he had some unusual name like Bartholomew or Icabod or Jephthah. Or worse. Maybe he was embarrassed by his given name and simply preferred to use the title reverend. To each his own.

  Ginny sat down and Reverend Stoddard stood up. I had a bad feeling about this.

  He began his prayer as if the church was full and he felt the need to project his voice to the back of the sanctuary. Our kitchen/dining area is sufficient in size to seat a large gathering of twenty or more comfortably, but not sufficient for oratorical prayers. At least those who had dined here through the years had never heard oratorical prayers prior to this occasion.

  When I thought the prayer should have ended, I retrieved my cell phone from my pocket to see if time had stood still like it did for Joshua. Ten minutes had passed. Are you kidding me? I nudged Ginny with my knee and she opened her eyes. I gestured to the stove with my head and she turned slowly to look in that direction. She looked back at me as if to say, “What?” I gestured again and this time she got up to check the food.

  The guest minister droned on.

  I noticed that the kids were restless but didn’t move much. Their eyes were open like mine. Paul Lee’s caught mine and I smiled at him. He smiled back an
d then returned to his position of piety, hands touching and fingers pointing upward, as if praying. Mary Jane kept her gaze directed towards her lap, never allowing herself to look around. Must be a venal sin to open one’s eyes in prayer. I couldn’t think of the mortal angle that would suffice. Does God require us to close our eyes and bow our heads? For the life of me I could not think of a positive reason for this. I had a deep suspicion that God did not really care that much about our posture while praying, but what do I know? I’m a reprobate by my mother’s standard.

  The prayer ended and the rapture had not come. Merciful God, I thought to myself. Does this man pray at home like this? I try to be thankful for the food I eat, but I don’t do my daily devotions with other people waiting on me. I wondered if God ever fell asleep listening to some of us drone on and on seeking to impress the Deity with our words.

  He hides his given name and he prays forever. Two strikes and we had not even begun to eat.

  4

  Ginny Mae somehow managed to keep the food warm while the minister and God communed for nearly fifteen minutes duration. I think it was a world’s record in the Evans’ house for Sunday lunch blessings. Scott and I used to see who could pray the shortest, most meaningful prayer without catching the ire of our mother. Daddy never got upset over our practice of brevity. He was as inclined as we were towards being thankful while we ate hot food.

  Ginny and Mama had prepared a feast fit for anyone of any station in life. Kings, queens, fools, and preachers. No limitations whatever. It was good to be home again, even if I had to share the moment with clergy of a peculiar stripe.

  My mother tried to be civil, polite and Southern in her hospitality towards our guests. I give her credit for that. She could mince words with the best of them.

  “Mrs. Stoddard,” Rachel Jo said at one point during the meal, “I certainly hope you and your family have enjoyed moving to our little village here in Virginia.”

  “Call me Barbara,” she said softly. “Clancyville is nice.”

  “You’ve been here about three years, is that correct?” Rachel said.

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s been much longer than that,” Barbara Jean Stoddard said. “How long has it been, Reverend Stoddard?”

  I dropped my fork on my plate and it clanged loudly. Ginny looked up and then down at her food quickly. The two children continued eating without noting anything unusual. My mother was speechless. She knew me well enough to know the dropped fork was no accident.

  I had heard of older couples being formal with each other, but I had never actually witnessed it myself. My daddy used to tell me about a preacher and his wife when he was a little boy who referred to each other as Reverend Smith and Mrs. Smith. They never used first names, even when alone in their home. One can only imagine the fun they had in the bedroom.

  “Mrs. Evans is correct, Barbara Jean,” he said.

  “I guess it just feels like we have lived her for a long time. Everyone is so … friendly.”

  “Mary Jane, Paul, do you both like living here in Clancyville?” I said trying to engage the children with some attention.

  Mary Jane kept her eyes on her plate and continued eating.

  “She doesn’t talk much,” Barbara Stoddard said as if revealing something the rest of us had not noticed at all during the meal.

  “I hate this place,” Paul said without looking up. He continued to eat while his words fell on the table like a hammer hitting a nail. Finally, some honesty. Must have been the delicious mashed potatoes that brought out such frankness. I noticed that Paul had eaten all of his by this point.

  Unfortunately, Paul Lee Stoddard was sitting next to his father. The blow of his father’s left hand struck the child across the top of his head more like a glancing one than a full fist to the face. Despite the lack of a full frontal assault, the solid hit caused the child to fall backward, chair and all, into the floor.

  I stood immediately and moved rapidly towards Paul to assist him. Ginny was up as quickly as I and we both helped him right his chair and be seated again. He was crying softly. It was a good thing that my handgun was in my room upstairs. Mind you, I am not really a violent person, but when it comes to abusing children, I have some rules.

  “You will keep your opinions to yourself,” Reverend Stoddard said to his son.

  “And you’ll keep your hands to yourself,” I said to Stoddard.

  Mama gave me a frown that would have caused rain to fall on most days.

  “I beg your pardon,” Reverend Stoddard said to me.

  “There’s no cause for hitting a child when he offers an opinion. If he doesn’t like a place, he doesn’t like a place. I asked him the question. I wanted his opinion. It appears that he was trying to be honest.”

  “My son will mind me, not you, Miss Evans,” he said sternly.

  “He was talking to me, Rev’rend,” I said and slurred his title on purpose.

  Mama stood and looked at Ginny.

  “I think it’s time for some dessert,” she said. “Do you children like cake and ice cream?”

  “We don’t allow the children to eat cake and ice cream,” Barbara Stoddard said.

  My mother was speechless again. Twice in one day. Another world record.

  “How about some fruit?” Ginny said trying to be amenable in the current climate.

  “I think we need to be going,” Reverend Stoddard said as he stood up and gestured with his right hand to his wife for her to stand. “Gather the children, Mrs. Stoddard. It’s time we go.”

  “Well, don’t rush off, Reverend,” Mama said. “We could sit in the living area and talk some.”

  “I don’t think that would be productive, Mrs. Evans. Thank you for the invitation and the dinner. Perhaps if you could control your own children, then our families would have more in common than just food,” Reverend Stoddard said as he walked past my mother.

  Boy oh boy. Never have my unspoken prayers been answered so quickly. Stoddard had crossed the line, much to my delight. He affronted my mother. Goodie, goodie.

  Ginny Mae was stunned. I was stunned. I am seldom stunned by anything. In my world, I deal with all manner of folks with anti-social behaviors – misfits, miscreants, mongrels, some monsters, and murderers. My clientele are oftentimes the worst imaginable people in the world. Seldom do they say or do anything that stuns me. So when someone outside of my professional circle stuns me, well, let’s just say that this was a rare moment in my world. I knew that the volcano was about to erupt. Go ahead, Mother, make my day.

  My mother was not stunned, however. Nor was she about to enter into a mode of mincing words with the good clergyman. He crossed way-over the line.

  “I will say this once for you, John Stoddard and if I were you, I would listen carefully. You might even want to take notes. If you ever set foot in this house again, it will be a cold day in hell. Now, as far as my children are concerned, you don’t know my son Scott. For that matter you don’t even know my daughter, Clancy. But both of them are grown. Adults. And even when they were children growing up in this home, Sam and I taught our children right from wrong, but we did not control them with violence as you demonstrated so clearly here today. And speaking of that, if I ever hear so much as a peep out of anyone that you are hitting these children, I will have Social Services down on you like white on rice. Do you understand me, Reverend Stoddard?”

  “You need to mind your own business,” he said as he closed the front door behind him on exit. The children and Mrs. Stoddard had left before his final word to my mother.

  My mother was vibrating in the hallway. I don’t recall ever seeing her that angry, at least not in recent years. As a precocious child I had the knack of causing some eruptions now and then, but nothing like I was witnessing.

  She was muttering to herself as she returned to the kitchen table and sat down. Ginny poured her some sweet tea and began clearing the food and the dirty dishes from the table. I said nothing, knowing that silence was the best survival strategy
at present.

  “I want some cake and ice cream,” Mama said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ginny said as she carried two more serving dishes away from the table.

  I helped Ginny move the food to the kitchen counter. I picked up the chocolate pound cake that my mother had made for our Sunday lunch and started towards the table with it. Ginny caught my arm and stopped me.

  “You want me to heat up a slice of the cake, Miss Rachel?”

  “There’s enough heat over here around me to heat that whole damn cake. I’m so mad right now that I think I could start a forest fire. No need to waste energy. Just set the cake down right here in front of me, Ginny. It’ll be warm in no time.”

  I couldn’t contain myself. My sudden burst of laughter was too much for Ginny. Contagious, it was. We were laughing so hard that my mother began laughing as well. Three crazy women laughing out loud in the midst of the embers from our little crisis.

  Laughter is still pretty good medicine after all is said and done. And the cake really was scrumptious and warm.

  5

  I was still pondering my mother’s diatribe against the good clergyman and her confession that her daughter was an adult not under parental control when my reflection was broken by the sound of further ranting from Mother Rachel.

  “He’s a fool,” my mother said as she was heading towards bed.

  “Probably,” I said.

  “He’s too young to act like that. Where on earth did he learn that crap?”

  “Hard to say. I don’t think age has anything to do with it. Stupidity knows no limitations of age.”

  “Preachers are supposed to know better.”

  “Preachers are no better or no worse than the rest of us.”

  “Begs the question, though, doesn’t it?”

  “What question would that be?” I said.

  “Why didn’t we see this in him three years back when we hired him?”

  “Were you on the selection committee?”