by Lynne Hinton
Charlotte got up from her desk, stared at her friend, then sat back down.
“I don’t know what to say, Margaret.”
“There isn’t anything to say,” Margaret replied. “It’s not a big deal.” She paused. “I’m fine. Lots of women go to level two.”
Charlotte was confused. “Level two?”
“You know, mammogram, level one, ultrasound, level two.”
“Oh,” Charlotte said. Then she added, “What’s level three?”
Margaret hadn’t really thought this far. She said softly, “A biopsy, I suppose.”
She seemed upset and Charlotte wished she hadn’t asked.
“You told anybody else?” Charlotte questioned, remembering that the committee was meeting in just a couple of days.
Margaret shook her head. She lifted her eyes to the bookshelf behind Charlotte’s desk. She realized the preacher had changed her office around, moved things a bit.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Margaret added, trying to sound convincing.
“Yes,” Charlotte replied, unsure of why Margaret had brought her the news. Why wouldn’t she tell Jessie or Louise? Charlotte was honored to be invited into such intimacy, but it also rattled her a bit.
“And now you.” Margaret had Charlotte in a corner. “What’s going on with you?”
Charlotte’s face flushed and she started shuffling papers on her desk.
“I’m going to see somebody. To talk to.” She felt obligated to tell Margaret since the older woman had shared so openly; but Charlotte was sure she was breaking some sort of rule for ministers. Rule number 14: Don’t tell your parishioners if you’ve got emotional troubles. Or something like that.
Margaret nodded. “You tell anybody else?”
Charlotte shook her head and thought about the enormity of what they both carried, the next place they had gone in their relationship. She stood up and began putting books on their shelves. She had been studying for her sermon.
“What you preaching on Sunday?”
Margaret knew Charlotte’s routine: the preacher read the scripture on Mondays, read books about the scripture on Tuesdays, thought about it on Wednesdays, and wrote the sermon on Thursdays. She knew this because she had asked her once how long it took her to write a sermon and Charlotte had given her the weekly schedule.
“It’s from Hebrews,” she answered. “The passage about conviction, faith, the middle part.” She put up the last book from her desk.
“I was supposed to preach on it a couple of Sundays ago. But we had that guy from the retirement home here.”
Margaret remembered the man. He was brash and saucy, a good preacher.
“I started working on it but then put it aside when I knew he was going to be here.” She walked around her desk. “But then I figured I’d come back to it.” She dropped into her chair.
“You needing to think about faith?” It was a logical question from a parishioner.
“Yeah.” She hesitated then asked, “You?”
Margaret fidgeted a bit and smiled. She only nodded.
“Why don’t you read me the passage?”
Charlotte slid the Bible from over at her side and flipped to the book of Hebrews. “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. For by it the men of old received divine approval. By faith we understand that the world was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was made out of things which do not appear.”
She closed the Bible.
There was a pause and then Charlotte asked, “So what do you think?”
“I think it should make for a good sermon.” Margaret leaned back comfortably in her chair. “What do you think?”
Charlotte shrugged her shoulders and thought about what she had learned so far in her studies. That the book of Hebrews was written for an audience of Jewish Christians who were thinking about giving up their newly found faith and going back to their lives as practicing Jews. That scholars thought that the letter was written sometime before the fall of Jerusalem and the ruination of the Temple in A.D. 70. That it was meant to emphasize the superiority of Jesus and to buoy up a confused and lost people’s faith. It was a rallying cry to demoralized troops to hold the fort and stay in the fight. And Charlotte thought it was a message she needed to hear but wasn’t sure that it was one that she could preach.
“I figure that every once in a while we need to be reminded that we are people of promise.” Then Charlotte stopped, put her elbows on the desk, and relaxed her chin into her hands. “Sometimes I have trouble myself remembering what that means.”
Margaret studied her pastor and thought how old she seemed to be so young. What was it that had aged her soul so much? What had left her so wanting? The older woman knew about her mother’s drinking and her sister’s death. Most everyone in the church knew. The family was from around the community and people tended to remember things like alcoholic mothers and young women who die of overdoses. It had, of course, never been discussed. But Margaret wondered if there was something else, something deep in Charlotte’s past that, like a parasite in a plant’s root system, kept the things she needed to grow from moving up through the channels of her heart.
She wondered if it was merely the preacher’s nature to be grievous as she was, burdened. Some people, Margaret knew, were just that way. They just never grew as full or fulfilled as others. And as she considered this, she wasn’t sure how people like that ever know if it’s just that way for them or if there might be something better in this life.
Margaret was glad that Charlotte was seeking help. And she knew that it had taken a lot on her part to call for a counselor. She hoped that having shared this information with a church member wouldn’t discourage her from carrying through with her plans for therapy.
“When’s your ultrasound?” Charlotte did not look at Margaret.
“Thursday,” she replied.
“Can I come with you?” She knew Margaret wasn’t comfortable with this kind of care, but she also knew that she wanted to be with her. She waited for an answer.
Margaret was thinking. She had not considered that her pastor might want to be with her when the next exam was being done. She wasn’t sure that she approved of such a thing. She had assumed that she would be alone for this test and for any other test that might follow. What would it mean, she wondered, to have this young woman with her when she got final results?
“I don’t know,” she replied and then went silent.
Charlotte didn’t push. She understood what it was to want to do things on your own. She knew her own streak of independence and wasn’t sure herself if she would want someone with her in a doctor’s office hearing bad news. It gives people an unfair advantage in a relationship when they know more about things in your life than you know about theirs.
The phone rang and Margaret was glad. She would have a few more minutes to figure out how to respond to the offer.
“Hope Springs Community Church,” Charlotte answered professionally.
“Speaking,” she said.
The pastor listened to the voice on the other end, wrote down a name on a pad near the phone, and thanked the caller. She said good-bye and hung up.
“Well, I have a name,” she said to Margaret. “Marion Gordon,” she added.
Margaret didn’t know what she meant.
“A therapist,” Charlotte said. “They’ve given me the name of a woman therapist.” She stared at the name on the piece of paper.
“You want me to go with you?” Margaret asked, and she didn’t mean it as a joke.
Charlotte smiled. “No, I think I can manage this one alone.”
There was a pause as a car pulled into the church driveway. Both women followed it with their eyes as it went through to the street behind them.
“It’s not the same with your appointment.” Charlotte turned the conversation back to Margaret’s situation.
Margaret nodded. “I know. I’ve just not ever done anything like this b
efore. I hadn’t thought about having anyone with me.” She turned away.
Charlotte knew Margaret’s fierceness. She knew that this had unsettled everything for her; and she knew that she wasn’t sure what she needed from her pastor at this moment. Maybe she was being intrusive to ask to go along. She wasn’t sure of her pastoral impulses anymore, if she ever had been.
“Yes, okay. I’d like you to be there.” She took a breath. “But let’s not tell anyone just yet.”
Charlotte nodded.
“I need to sit with it awhile myself.”
Charlotte agreed and did not ask for confidentiality regarding her own circumstances. She knew that was understood.
Margaret got up from her chair. “It’s at 8:30 on Thursday morning.” She dug her keys from her purse. “That’s not too early for you, is it?”
Charlotte shook her head. “You want to meet me here, or should I come to your house?”
“No,” Margaret walked toward the door. “Here is good. I’ll meet you at 8:00.”
She reached for the doorknob, then added, “Thank you.”
“Margaret,” Charlotte replied, “thank you.”
The two women said good-bye and Charlotte sat again in the chair behind the desk. She flipped open her Bible and read once more the words from the book of Hebrews.
Then she pushed the Bible away from her and leaned back in her chair.
“I don’t know,” she said to God or herself or to whoever she thought might be listening. “How is there assurance of something when you don’t even know what you need to be assured of?”
She put her hands behind her head and stretched her feet far under the desk. The only sounds she heard were Margaret’s car pulling away from the church and the lonely way the office settled after someone had left.
She stared at the ceiling, the light brown stain where water had puddled and dried just above her head, and then dropped her eyes to the plant by the door. It was tough, she thought. It had withstood moves and climate changes and not enough sun. It was pot-bound, roots drawing up over the edges. And even though the person selling the plant to her had told her that it was meant to grow that way, it still seemed abnormal to Charlotte. It was bottom-heavy, tangled, pushed within itself so that it was stunted, kept from growing as tall, as full as it could be.
The leaves were bright green and wide, but many were wilting and falling. A small spider crawled along a stem. Charlotte stared at the plant and then closed her eyes. How does a person lift herself above the sadness? she thought. What can pull a heart straight beyond itself?
She picked up the receiver and dialed the number she had only recently received. Her first appointment was scheduled for the following week.
VOLUME 1, NUMBER 3
Hope Springs Community Garden Club Newsletter
BEA’S BOTANICAL BITS
A Dirty Subject
Girls, let’s talk dirty. Have you checked the soil in your garden lately? Are your tomatoes getting dry rot, or are your pepper plants not as sturdy as last year? Then maybe you need to put a few strips of newspaper around the roots or buy a little fertilizer. Check the nitrogen level and add a bit of lime.
Soil content affects the nature of your produce. My cousin, who lives near the coast, swears that watermelon is sweeter there because the sandy soil is more sugary than our claylike dirt here. But I wouldn’t know about that.
You can always spice up your dirt with what is delicately referred to as “cow tea.” I’m talking manure, sisters. And don’t act offended. You know a little dung goes a long way.
Good soil is the most important key to growing a bountiful and healthy garden.
3
“As the president of the Women’s Guild…” Beatrice wanted to get the meeting started so that she could show her honeymoon pictures.
“Beatrice Newgarden Witherspoon, if you don’t shut up with that call to order, I’m going to announce to the church that you had sex before you got married.” Louise pushed her way onto the sofa and flopped down next to Jessie.
Charlotte laughed.
Beatrice rolled her eyes and opened up the box that held her pictures. She began sorting the small albums so that she could keep the trip in photographic sequence.
Even though the cookbook had been completed months ago, the committee continued to meet. Working on the cookbook, Beatrice had discovered that she enjoyed writing. And since she had always loved to garden, the Garden Club newsletter seemed like the next perfect project. But she couldn’t seem to say good-bye to the women from the committee.
Beatrice kept calling her friends together even after the cookbook manuscript was finished and sent to the printer. She manufactured reasons why they had to meet until finally Jessie recognized what she was doing and suggested that they simply come together once a month, just to talk, stay connected. It was a welcomed idea, and Beatrice was only too glad not to have to make up reasons to keep calling everyone.
They met at each woman’s house, rotating the schedule. The hostess was in charge of refreshments, though they didn’t expect or desire anything too elaborate. Tonight they were at Jessie’s. She had some leftover pound cake and a few strawberries, coffee and lemonade. It was quiet in the house since Lana and Wallace had gone out to dinner, the baby was sleeping, and James Senior was out back working on his car. Everyone had arrived, and Beatrice was getting impatient. She decided to go ahead and show her pictures even though the women were still talking to each other.
“This set is from Miami,” she began, clearing her throat. She handed the little plastic album to Charlotte. The women settled down. “We stayed the first night here and then got on the boat the following morning.”
There were pictures of the desk clerk smiling, standing behind a tall wooden counter. A blue fish hung above her head. There were pictures of the lobby, wide and tropical with palm trees and tall, lacy ferns. There were shots of Dick unpacking in the room, the room service table with breakfast, Beatrice shopping for suntan lotion in the hotel sundries shop, and a couple of pictures of the bathtub, which was big enough for four people.
Charlotte then passed them on to Louise, who was not at all interested. Here were twenty-four pictures of a hotel and the first night. It was going to be a long meeting. She finished and passed the album to Jessie, who passed it on to Margaret, sitting in the chair beside the sofa.
“Now these are from the boat before we sailed.” Beatrice had been waiting for this opportunity for more than two weeks. She had taken two cameras, one that took wide-angle shots and the other just a simple point-and-shoot. She was pleased with how the pictures had turned out and excited to share her photographic adventures.
“There are two different pictures of each shot.” She proudly passed them to her pastor.
Charlotte turned quickly through the pages, passing them to Louise, who now didn’t even bother to look. She sat near Jessie so that it appeared they were seeing the photographs together.
There were pictures of people waving from the port up to the passengers on the ship, pictures of Dick and Beatrice arm in arm, pictures of seagulls and the pool and the ocean, and lots of shots of Dick studying things, the itinerary, the instruments on the front end of the ship, the menu in the dining room, and the list of costs of services. He seemed particularly engrossed in this piece of literature. His brow was crossed and he was chewing on his lip.
Beatrice rambled on as she handed the albums to Charlotte, who quickly flipped through the pictures and gave them to Louise.
“What are you doing here, Bea?” Jessie was more polite than Louise.
It was a photograph of Beatrice standing behind the captain, one hand waving to Dick, who was obviously taking the picture, and the other hand hidden behind the man’s body. She had a strange smile on her face as she stood against the side of the ship.
“Oh, that’s Captain Mike. He was greeting the other passengers.” She fumbled through the albums. “He had the cutest butt.” She went on. “I mean, the way his whi
te jacket fell right at the rounded part. And his uniform pants were kind of tight.” She motioned with her hands the line of the man’s body. “It was real sexy, and Dick bet me that I wouldn’t touch it.”
Margaret turned to Jessie, surprised. But it was Louise who asked, as she pulled the album back toward her so that she could see the picture for herself, “You grabbed a man’s ass?”
“Well, not grab exactly, just handled.” Beatrice couldn’t see why the women appeared so shocked.
Jessie and Margaret shook their heads. Charlotte got up from her seat to peer over Louise’s shoulder at the picture.
“Beatrice, you actually touched the captain’s rear end?” After Charlotte sat down, Jessie passed the album on to Margaret so that she could see the photograph for herself.
Beatrice sighed. She took a sip of her coffee and put down the cup. “I don’t see what the fuss is all about. I handle dead people’s butts all the time. And besides, there were a lot of folks around. I hardly think he figured out that I was intentionally rubbing him.”
She saw no reason for this conversation and wished she had removed that particular shot from the little album. She hadn’t thought anyone else would notice that she wasn’t just smiling and waving at the camera.
Jessie reached for a bit of her cake. “Girl, you are something.”
“Beatrice, did the captain know you fondled him?” Charlotte couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Beatrice, it doesn’t seem so crowded to me.” Margaret was studying the picture. “Are you sure he didn’t realize what you were doing?” She handed the album to Beatrice, who had passed another one to Charlotte, who was waiting for the answer to Margaret’s question.
She held the album in her hand, thinking, then replied, “Well, he did seem a little, oh, I don’t know, nervous around me for the rest of the cruise.”
She examined the picture again, remembering the occasion. “We never got asked to sit at the captain’s table for dinner.”
