Julia's Chocolates

by Cathy Lamb

Aunt Lydia and Caroline looked like they were going to explode.

  “It doesn’t matter, Julia! Breathe in, and capture your woman’s strength and grace as you will need both for this situation. Go, go, go.”

  Caroline handed me the bread, then grabbed my elbow and started leading me to Aunt Lydia’s truck. She did not stop when two of the bread slices fell to the ground.

  “I must have missed something,” I said to Caroline and Aunt Lydia, even as I was being hauled away. “I couldn’t quite understand your English!”

  “Go see Lara,” Caroline said, her voice high-pitched and tight. “Go to Lara’s house.”

  I looked into Caroline’s eyes. My stomach clenched.

  “Go, Julia. Now.”

  I went.

  Lara was in that sad place all of us get to in our lives when we’re sobbing and hiccupping and gasping all at the same time. Her eyes were swollen like two miniature grapefruits, her cheeks red.

  “You’re leaving for New York? Today?” I asked. I deposited the plate of sandwich bread on the counter. Lara had stared at it for a moment, perplexed, then apparently decided not to deal with it. She hiccupped and walked to her bedroom.

  The bedroom was as neat and tidy as the rest of the house. Blue flowered bedspread. Two crosses. Another portrait of Jesus. Old brown dresser and desk. Tired-looking blue flowered curtains that matched the bedspread. No dust anywhere. It was so devoid of Lara’s personality, I felt like I was in a hotel, and a not so nice one at that. She opened another suitcase, tossed in socks, underwear. She pulled out a red negligee.

  Now, the red negligee was more like the Lara I knew—fun and daring and lively.

  Then she took that fun, daring negligee, wadded it into a ball, and cried her eyes out. I rushed over, put my arms around her.

  “Lara, tell me, please—”

  “I can’t live like this.” She brought the red negligee up to her face. “I’m trapped. Every day I feel like I’m acting the part of someone I’m not. Do you know what my schedule was like yesterday?” she demanded. She stood up, paced the room, hitting the wadded red negligee with one hand.

  “At seven o’clock I led a prayer group for working women at the church. At eight-thirty I brought out the tables and made lemonade for the women’s ministry group. At nine I led a Bible study for another group of women which lasted until eleven. While the ladies ate lunch, I went to the church office and did paperwork, ran to the bank to deposit money, came back and did three counseling sessions, one right after another with parishioners. One couple is on the verge of divorce because the woman is gay and has a girlfriend in the city. Her husband thought she was going to a twice-a-month Christian Women’s Workshop.

  “Another woman was in because she just can’t seem to stop herself from stealing licorice from the local pharmacy.” Lara tossed the red negligee into the trash can, then yanked a dresser drawer open and pulled out two other negligees. I saw lace and satin go flying right over my head to the trash can.

  “And another woman was in because she doesn’t think she believes in God. She’s been going to church her whole life, she told me, and believes in God because that’s what her parents believed, it’s what her husband believes, but she says that in her mind there is either no God, or God is someone who is powerless, or God is someone who doesn’t care about the suffering that goes on all the time. She says she has little faith in a God that doesn’t step in and help those who are in huge need, and she’s beginning to think that people believe in God because they need a crutch.”

  “She came to you, a minister’s wife, and told you that?” I was aghast. This did not seem like the type of thing to admit to a minister’s wife.

  “She did. And you know what, Julia? All I could do was cry. I related to what she was saying too much. I couldn’t even counsel her. To tell her to open her Bible to find her answers sounded pathetic. She ended up comforting me.”

  She grabbed a couple of sweaters, one beige and one gray, from her closet, dropped them into the suitcase, then said, “I hate these ugly things,” and tossed them back into the closet. She did this with five other sweaters, four pairs of slacks, and two pairs of shoes.

  “I don’t even know if I believe in God, Julia,” she whispered, finally collapsing beside me on the bed. “Look at Lydia and what’s happening to her. Why her? She has helped more people in this town than I can count. Do you know how many people she gives free eggs and garlic to? How many times she has given me bouquets of her cut flowers to give to people in town who are having troubles? She doesn’t deserve it. And she’s not the only one. Look at the whole world. It’s falling apart. Look what happened to Shawn and Carrie Lynn. Why didn’t God intervene there? Of all things, why doesn’t God at least protect the children?”

  Lara sobbed again, hiccupped, then slid to the floor, her arms wrapped around her legs as she rocked. I slid down next to her.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say that would help her. It would sound trite and sanctimonious, and she sure wasn’t in a place where she wanted to listen.

  “All I do all day, seven days a week, except for Psychic Nights, is talk to people about God, about trying to pattern their lives after Jesus, about living a life of servitude for God. I pray all the time, with others, with my husband, and yet I don’t even feel God in my own heart anymore. There was a time when I did, but not now. Not for so long. Is there a God, or did people invent God because we want to believe in heaven, want to believe that someone can make things right? Do we simply, desperately, stupidly want to believe that some other being is in control because if we don’t, we won’t be able to stand living on this planet any longer?”

  I put my arm around her as her voice crescendoed again. “I can’t stand this any longer. I can’t stand the hypocrisy, the constant work. I can’t stand not being me.”

  “You’re not just going on a trip, are you, Lara?” Why did I ask such a dumb question? I already knew the answer.

  “No. I’m not going on a trip.” She got to her feet, took a coat and two pairs of jeans out of the closet, put them in the suitcase, and snapped it shut. “I’m leaving.”

  She pointed to a pair of boots next to the bed, and I handed them to her. She wiggled her feet into them.

  “You’re leaving? Does Jerry know?”

  She cried then, made great, gasping, choking sounds, then shook her head.

  “No? Aren’t you going to tell him?”

  “I can’t stand it,” she choked out, barely able to talk. “I can’t stand the thought of what his face will look like. I don’t want to hurt him.”

  “I’ve always thought you loved Jerry.” Heck, if I had met Jerry before her, I would’ve loved him and if he wanted me teaching Bible lessons all day long while doing cartwheels and tossing around crosses, I would. The man was good-looking and smart and kind and funny. The whole town loved him.

  “I do, I do love him, but look at me, Julia, I’m a nervous wreck. I can’t live like this any longer. I work all the time, I handle people’s problems, teach Sunday school, run Bible studies, organize the teenagers’ activities, and I’m the choir director. I can’t do it anymore.”

  She stared at the lingerie in the trash can as if she couldn’t quite remember how it had gotten there.

  Oh God, please don’t pack that, I thought. Who would you wear it for? For a moment I wondered if there was someone else Lara was running off to, but dismissed the idea. Lara was not the type to cheat on her husband.

  Then again, Lara was not the type to leave her husband, either.

  “The worst of it, after Jerry, is that I feel awful, just sick about leaving Lydia! I can’t believe what a horrible person I am!” She sat down on the bed, burying her head in her hands. “I’ll send her cards and gifts and, oh, stuff!”

  “Lara, you need a break, that’s all. Time off. You’re completely burned out. I read once that ministers have the highest burnout rate of anyone because they’re always taking care of other people. Maybe you and Jerry should
get away.” I sounded so inane, so shallow that I wanted to kick my own shins.

  “No, no.” She curled up in the fetal position on the bed. “That isn’t going to do it. He wants to be a minister. I don’t. There’s nothing else to work out. Weeks ago, Julia, I was in church in a women’s Bible study class and I thought that I didn’t want to live anymore.”

  Oh God. Please, no.

  “And I wouldn’t hurt myself,” she gasped between more broken sobs. “But I don’t want to live—does that make sense? I told God that if anybody else had to die, it would be okay with me if it was me, because I am so tired and so depressed, and I am so tired of being tired and depressed. I am so tired of living like this.”

  “I’m sorry, Lara, I am so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” Hiccup, hiccup. “A few days ago I was talking to my brother in New York, and I told him how I felt, and he told me to come and stay with him and his partner, so I am. They had another roommate, but he moved out, so I’ll have my own room, and he says mine even has a window for light for my painting. Can you help me with something?” she squeaked.

  The abrupt change in conversation startled me. I wanted to say no, I will not help you to leave that dear husband of yours, who probably got great joy knowing Lara had peed and her bladder was more comfortable, and yet Lara had always seemed unhappy to me, and she looked like she was one step away from completely snapping.

  “Yes, I will, of course.”

  “Give this to Jerry.” She handed me a letter.

  “Oh, no, please, Lara.” Not that one. I didn’t want to see that poor man’s face, either.

  “Julia, give him the letter,” she pleaded. “Tell him I love him, tell him what I told you….”

  “Oh, Lara, please talk to him. This isn’t fair to him.”

  “No, it’s not fair.” She took a deep breath, ran her hands through her hair, grabbed the suitcase and her purse, and headed for the stairs. “It’s not fair at all, but this is the way it is. I love you, Julia.” She stopped in the entry, where I had followed her, and gave me a hug.

  I locked and closed the door to her sterile house as I watched her drive away. Her car kind of hiccupped, blew a little smoke out of its tail, and was gone.

  I looked at the letter in my hand.

  God help me, I thought.

  When Jerry saw my face at the church, he immediately excused himself from the group of people he was talking to, crossed the small atrium, and led me to his office. We sat down across from each other at a table. I grabbed his hand and held it. His face paled. I saw a pulse leaping in his temple, his jaw tight.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I blinked rapidly. I was so sick of crying.

  He nodded. I saw that hard jaw of his quiver.

  I didn’t want to, but I pulled my hand away and handed him the letter.

  He didn’t open it for a while, simply flipped the pink letter forward and back, from one hand to another.

  “Is she coming back?”

  I swallowed hard and told the truth. “I don’t know.”

  He nodded.

  He bowed his head, not in prayer, but in defeat. I got up and patted his shoulder as I left.

  Men don’t like women to see them cry.

  After I told Lydia and Stash what happened, Stash, not a churchgoer, took it upon himself to call Jerry that night, whom he had always liked, even though “the man won’t play poker. He’s got a great poker face, too.”

  Jerry arrived at the house almost immediately, and he, Aunt Lydia, Stash, and I gathered around the table for eight-layer lasagna (to conquer the layered complications in our lives), green salad with a few raspberries (raspberries caused miracles, Aunt Lydia believed), and bratwurst (I don’t know why we had bratwurst, too. I don’t question Aunt Lydia).

  Aunt Lydia had lit eight candles representing hope and love, she told me. “Hope and love are the great saviors. They save the soul from shriveling up and dying like a dried prune, and Jerry needs to feel this hope and love. Damn Lara,” she muttered. “Now, don’t take that wrong, I don’t blame her, but I love that boy, even though he’s so insanely religious.”

  Aunt Lydia offered Jerry apple pie, but he wouldn’t eat it.

  Stash offered him a little Scotch, but he wouldn’t drink it.

  The kids colored him pictures. He hugged them, then looked like he was going to cry as he watched them march off to bed.

  Aunt Lydia then offered him a little pot.

  He smiled at that, refused politely, thanked her for offering.

  “I knew she was unhappy and stressed. I knew she was tired,” he said, rubbing his shaking hands over his face. For a calm man of steel, as Jerry was, this trembling was truly heartbreaking to see. “I tried to get her to cut back on some of the things she was doing at church, but she wouldn’t do it. She’d smile at me and laugh, give me a hug, tell me everything was fine.” He stood up and paced the room. “I knew everything wasn’t fine, but she wouldn’t talk to me about any of it. I always encouraged her to paint, to show people her work, but she refused.”

  “She thought her artwork would embarrass you, embarrass the church.”

  Jerry shook his head. “Nothing Lara could ever do would embarrass me. Nothing. Not even this. I just want her back. I don’t care how long I have to wait. I don’t care what she does in New York. I want her back. I’m leaving in the morning.”

  No one spoke around the table for several minutes.

  “Don’t go after her, Jerry,” Aunt Lydia said, drinking her mint tea, which she had told me was good for the ovaries. I don’t know how she knew that. “Give Lara time. She needs to become her own person. She needs to paint. She needs to be an artist. When she’s ready—”

  “If she’s ready,” Jerry interrupted, his voice bitter, defeated.

  “That’s right, if she’s ready, she’ll come back to you.” Aunt Lydia patted his hand. “I know she loves you, son, she really does. She talks about you all the time.”

  “But she didn’t love me enough to stay.”

  “No, that’s not quite it. Lara doesn’t love herself enough to stay. She has to find Lara. She has to find out what she likes, what she doesn’t like, what she believes in and what she doesn’t. She has to take time to be the artist she has longed to be.”

  I stared at Aunt Lydia. A speech like that—without talk about a woman’s secretions and libido and hormones—was so unlike her that it made it all the more heartfelt.

  Even Jerry sensed it, and he started to cry then, burying his face in his hands. Aunt Lydia held on to him on the right, I got the left. Stash awkwardly patted his back, kept telling him that a little Scotch would help, maybe a lot of Scotch? In fact, was Jerry wanting to get drunk, by any chance?

  By the end, we were all crying. For Lara. For Jerry. For Aunt Lydia, who was going in for radiation tomorrow. For the chemo that would follow. For Stash’s worry about Lydia. And me, I cried because I had gotten five blank letters from Robert today, which scared me to death.

  We all certainly had a lot to cry about, and hot tears feel good sometimes.

  As long as you know that after a good, hot cry, you’ve got to buck up and tackle life once again.

  22

  The great thing about a small town is that people will, truly, look after each other if someone needs help. They notice if an elderly neighbor hasn’t been outside. They notice if someone breaks an arm or a leg. They notice if someone is suffering from a broken heart. And they help out, even if they don’t like the person.

  But gossip flies. Hard and fast. And mean. Within hours everyone knew that Lara Keene had left Jerry, the minister. A neighbor had seen her walking out with a suitcase. Jerry had cancelled all of his appointments for that day and the next. His secretary’s sister’s best friend, who happened to be at church for some meeting or other, reported that he looked upset.

  And the rumor mill started to grind.

  The gossip about Lara was relentless. Some said she had a lover. Some said she was gay.
Some said they had always known that she had a wild, uncontrollable side.

  Some questioned whether or not she was a “real” Christian and said she would now be damned to hell if she didn’t repent. Of course, that one set me off no end, and when I heard two women talking about her in the grocery store I felt like pelting grapefruits at their faces. Instead, I smiled and asked them what made them think that Lara wasn’t a real Christian?

  The two women looked shocked. One was in her mid-forties and had that hard-core mommy look to her. Very short brownish, gray hair, about fifty extra pounds, a light blue blouse and stretchy black pants. The other looked about the same, only she had a giant cross around her neck, a sour expression on her face.

  Perhaps they thought Lara wasn’t a “real Christian” because of all the time she spent teaching Sunday School class? I asked. Perhaps it was all the Bible studies she ran? Perhaps it was all the time she spent with several elderly parishioners? Perhaps it was the way she made home-cooked meals for people when they were ill? Perhaps it was the way she had recently planned the fall chorus presentation?

  True Christians walk the walk, they don’t just talk the talk, I told the women and could they please tell me who they had recently helped in this community? Whose lives they had made better? No? They couldn’t think of a single good deed they had done for anyone? Since they were such good Christians it was really a shame that they weren’t more involved with helping the needy or desperate, as we are here to serve the Lord. I smiled sweetly. By the time I was done I could tell that the women wanted to disappear into the tomatoes.

  “And please don’t tell anyone else you think Lara is going to hell. I know you think you have the lock on heaven, but it’s Jesus who decides all that, not two housewives clutching coupons in the grocery store, making judgments against the minister’s wife.”

  I knew those two would never acknowledge my presence again, but I was okay with that. Mean people suck, as the bumper sticker says.

  I missed Lara. Aunt Lydia missed her, but Lara was true to her word. Every week something arrived for Aunt Lydia. A card, a little present, paintings and sketches that she had made. A bouquet arrived when Aunt Lydia got home from her operation.