by Janet Walker
Chapter Fifty
MATERNITY WAR
Madge Porter sat in the Queen Anne armchair in the den, dressed in an outfit she would normally wear to the Kingdom Hall—a sheath with a necklace of beads. The TV set was off, the stereo on. Kingdom Melodies, the Watch Tower Bible & Tract Society’s soft orchestrated versions of the songs congregations sang at Kingdom Halls, set a soothing tone in the house. Soothing, because Madge needed to allay her worry as she waited for the arrival of Tracy and Miss Grace. The coach had been vague in her request that morning, saying merely that there was “something” she wanted to discuss about Tracy. Obviously, Tracy had told the woman she could no longer spend weekends at the woman’s home, but Madge worried if that were all Tracy had disclosed. Had the child, in her frank way, told the woman the full reason for the prohibition? Madge’s face warmed at the possibility. It was possible—Tracy could be so naïve, at times. But—no. Not even Tracy would be that foolish. Would she?
Madge looked around the den, inspecting it for neatness. Adjusted a pillow on the sofa so that it sat just so. But would they talk in here, or in the living room? She still hadn’t decided. She thought a moment. The living room, perhaps, since it was prettier. Yes, the living room, with its elegant furniture and lush carpet. That would be the proper place to entertain a former Olympic athlete and a woman who lived in a mansion.
But if Tracy had told the woman the truth, what would Madge say when the woman got there? How do you stand behind an accusation like that, with only suspicion as proof? How do you look the accused in the face? And what if what she and Diane suspected were untrue? After all, she hadn’t thought Miss Grace to be a perverse woman, even though, admittedly, she did become disappointed when Tracy started spending so much time with her. Still, she hadn’t ventured to think that Grace Gresham was abnormal. The idea had been Diane’s. Diane! Why had she even listened to Diane? A bitter little person who always saw the worst in people? Well—mostly because Diane was Diane. Not just worldly but deeply worldly, steeped in wrongdoing and Satanic thinking, and so Madge figured if anybody could spot perversion in another person, Diane should be able to do so. And so she had let Diane convince her that Miss Grace had unnatural affection for Tracy. Had let Diane persuade her to believe that Tracy bore all the signs of a child who was being groomed by a molester. And it hadn’t helped when Tracy stepped into the house last night, beautifully made over and laden with yet more gifts from the older woman.
Madge got up, peeked through the blinds of the den, looked into the blackness of the winter evening. No white car in the driveway, no car moving along the street. She turned off the lights in the den but kept the stereo on and liked the fact that the soft strains of the classical music, the uplifting spiritual music, her people’s music, would emanate from the darkness. As much as she dreaded Grace Gresham’s visit, still she hoped the woman would inquire about the music so that Madge could explain its origin and possibly give a witness. Even someone like Amazing Grace Gresham, even if what Diane suspected about the woman were true—even someone like her would appreciate the Truth, if she heard it and had a good heart.
In the living room, Madge switched on the elegant lamps that rested on the end tables, then sat in the armchair and glanced at her watch. Ten minutes to seven. Grace Gresham had said they would arrive shortly after practice, which ended at six-fifteen. So, any minute now. Madge got up, strode to the kitchen, eyed again the tray of snacks that sat on the kitchen table. On Ritz and wheat crackers, drops of whipped cheese and pieces of mini sausage—the sausage was for Tracy, since the child had said Miss Grace did not eat meat. A tray with cubes of pepperjack and cheddar and rolled slices of turkey and ham. A circular arrangement of eight deviled eggs, the yellow thick filling sprinkled red with paprika. A small vegetable tray of baby carrots, broccoli, celery sticks and cucumber slices, with ranch dipping sauce. A small platter of seedless green grapes, strawberries, and cut cantaloupe. The only hors d’oeuvres she could muster in an emergency. She wished Grace Gresham had given her more of a notice. The woman had called while Madge was on her way out the door to spend a day in field service with Ann Sterling, who was a full-time pioneer and constantly in need of a ministry partner to help her fulfill her monthly quota of 90 hours of witnessing service. Madge herself was auxiliary pioneering this month and so needed 60 hours. So at the end of a seven-hour day of door-to-door work, return visits and home Bible studies, she’d had just enough time to zip to Kroger and back home, where she vacuumed and dusted and prepared the snacks and boiled a pot of tea that now chilled in a pitcher in the freezer, and showered and donned another dress and made up her face with more care than usual, for it mattered to her that she present the best side of herself to Amazing Grace Gresham—for Tracy’s sake, of course, since the girl was so enthralled by the woman.
Madge went back to the den and sat down in the dark, listening to the Melodies and watching the curtains that covered the den windows. When Miss Grace drove up, the headlights of her car would bear witness against the curtain’s fabric and the ceiling and walls of the room. Madge was pensive as she sat, wrists dangling over the ends of the armrests.
Their phone conversation had been a little warmer than the first they’d had at the beginning of the school year, but it was still brief and formal. Hi, Mrs. Porter, this is Grace Nelson. Madge’s heart had leapt with a jolt of emotion. Oh, hi, Mrs., uh, Nelson. Hi. Instantly, she had concluded that Tracy had told the woman the truth!—and so the skin on Madge’s face became hot and moist. But when the coach spoke again, she sounded friendly, not angry or abrupt, as a woman would sound who had been accused of being a lesbian child molester. I hope I’m not calling too early, the friendly voice had offered. Oh, no, Miss—uh, Mrs. Gresham, uh—no. I-I was just…on my way out into my…ministry work. There was the slightest pause and then, Well, I certainly don’t want to keep you, then. I just wondered if it would be convenient for you if I stopped by after practice this evening. The heat and moistness increased and Madge’s lungs began expanding and contracting wildly. Oh, ser-certainly—sure, that would be fine—a nervous clearing of the throat—May I…ask what it’s about? She had tamed her wild respiration and barely breathed as she waited for the coach’s answer. Of course it has to do with Tracy. But I’d much rather discuss it with you in person. Not the answer Madge had expected but she’d had no choice but to carry the burden of curiosity with her into field service. And now, finally, she would find out. Did the woman want to confront her about the sexual accusation? Or had Tracy not told her about the suspicion and did the woman simply want to fight the cause of letting Tracy’s visits continue? Madge was not sure, and the uncertainty made her nervous, so much that her forearms and wrists felt numb with weakness.
A flash of brightness swept across the den windows and then briefly illuminated the darkness of the room before vanishing. Madge stood. Her heart pounded. She grabbed one of the copies of The Watchtower magazine from the den’s wood coffee table—her grip was feeble and so the magazine slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. “Oh,” she cried softly and retrieved the literature. She stood aright, winded by the effort of bending, and walked briskly into the living room, where she sat again in the armchair and pretended to be reading. If Tracy led the woman to the front door, instead of to the side door under the carport, they would pass the living-room window and through the sheer drapes glimpse her seated, ostensibly engrossed in the magazine. Perhaps Miss Grace would inquire about the magazine and give Madge an opportunity to witness. At any rate, having The Watchtower gave her something to do while she waited for them.
Momentarily, the doorbell rang. Madge placed the magazine on the glass coffee table, stood, and went to the front door, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly in an attempt to allay the stress that had built up in her middle. The last thing she needed was to suffer an asthma attack in front of Amazing Grace Gresham. A professionally healthy person like that—Madge would be humiliated. And she knew her teenage niece would be mortif
ied. Again, she wondered what, exactly, Tracy had told the woman. Madge’s face again warmed at the thought of pending humiliation, and she opened the wood door, smiling nervously, and unlocked the exterior storm door. “Hi!” she said when the door was open, and then she suddenly realized she didn’t know what to call the woman accompanying her niece. Grace Gresham had so many names, it seemed, past and present, at school, in connection with her husband, and although Madge had addressed the woman in the past using the students’ nickname for her, she thought that greeting the woman as Miss Grace would seem foolish, especially with the formal nature of the women’s relationship and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. So Madge decided not to use any name at all. “Come on in!” she invited.
“Good evening, Mrs. Porter,” the famous woman said as she stepped across the threshold. Her voice was clear and crisp, yet tempered by a soft quality Madge found pleasing.
“Good evening!” Madge returned, too loudly.
Tracy stepped in.
“Hi, Tracy,” Madge said, eyeing her niece curiously.
“Hey,” the girl muttered softly and did not return her aunt’s look.
Madge swiftly searched the girl’s expression for clues that might reveal how much the teen had revealed to the coach. But she could not discern anything new in the girl’s face. It was the same closed expression Tracy had borne last night, when she went to bed angry, and this morning, when she awakened. Madge smiled nervously at Grace Gresham, closed the front door, inhaled shakily, and extended an arm toward the sofa. “Please, have a seat.”
The coach obeyed, seating herself near the edge of a cushion. Tracy remained standing but did not look at either woman. Madge went to the armchair and seated herself primly, hands clasped in her lap. She tried to smile pleasantly but was distracted by the sound of her own breathing. She exhaled at length, softly, in an attempt to bring breathing and heartbeat back to normal. At the same time, she quickly considered the appearance of the woman on the sofa and was struck by how small Grace Gresham was in person. On TV fourteen years ago, and even in the little black-and-white photo of her streaking down a stretch of track in the G volume of the encyclopedia, she had seemed so powerful and muscular, so intense and focused, that Madge had expected a woman of imposing stature. Amazing Grace Gresham, in the flesh, was not so. Rather, she was petite and, it seemed, fairly dainty in build, although glowingly healthy and impeccably pretty. This last observation triggered a dark suspicion, which Madge quickly pushed away and redirected her thinking.
“May I—C-can I offer you—something to drink? I’ve got tea and some—and something for you all to—munch on. I—know you must be hungry and thirsty after—all that practice.”
“No, thank you, I’m fine,” Grace Gresham replied pleasantly.
“Oh,” said Madge. It hadn’t dawned on her that Miss Grace would not accept any of the refreshments, and now that it had happened, a dart of disappointment pricked Madge’s composure. All that running to the grocery store and deviating from budget and carefully preparing food, for nothing! “Tr-Tracy? What about you? I—I made your tea,” she prompted, trying to recover with pleasantness. She saw her niece’s expression—vestiges of the pouting anger from last night—and worried that the girl, too, was not going to avail herself of the refreshments.
“I don’t want nothing,” the teen mumbled.
Disappointment in Madge turned into insult. On top of that, her niece’s response made Madge more worried. Tracy was always parched and ravenous after basketball practice, so this change in the girl’s behavior, in her routine, could only mean one thing. She had told! And was now too distraught by the confession to eat. Madge’s face burned anew with embarrassment and for a moment she could not look at Amazing Grace Gresham.
“You’ve a lovely home, Mrs. Porter.”
The words, graciously spoken, were so unexpected they felt like a yank to Madge. She forced her gaze to settle again on the woman on the sofa. Miss Grace’s face was pleasant, almost smiling, so maybe the compliment was sincere. “Th-Thank you,” Madge said uncertainly. Maybe Tracy hadn’t told the woman the truth. “Sh-sure you won’t—have anything?”
Amazing Grace Gresham smiled. “I’m sure. Besides, I won’t be long.” The smile softened into gravity. “As I said on the phone this morning, there’s something we need to discuss.”
Madge went numb. “Yes,” she said expectantly, her forehead sweaty, a foolish grin on her face. She kept her eyes fixed on the Olympian but wanted desperately to fasten a pleading look onto Tracy.
“Tracy confessed something to me that I find disturbing.”
Madge felt it, the strange pricks on the surface of her skin, the squeezing around her thoracic cavity, and silently chided herself for being so weak. “Oh,” she wailed.
The coach looked at her with concern.
Madge stood, embarrassed to be afflicted in front of an audience of two young athletes. “Pardon me…” She brought a hand to her chest and coughed. “I…have to get my…” She turned away. “…medicine.” She fled toward the archway of the kitchen, wheezing. Behind her, the clear crisp voice spoke.
“Are you okay?”
Madge nodded vigorously, fist to mouth as she stifled a cough, eyes watering from the effort. “Yes,” she managed to croak. Behind her, she heard her niece’s soft matter-of-fact voice.
“She ah’right. She just got asthma”—spoken without malice or alarm, for the child had no idea how grave the disorder could be.
Madge reached the utility drawer in the kitchen—one of the many places she stashed the pump spray bottles of nedocromil—where she pulled open the bin and grabbed the small can encased in yellow plastic tubing. As she brought the metered-dose inhaler to her lips and pumped the steroid mist into her throat, the pretty little woman from the sofa rounded the corner, eyes grave and concerned, and looked steadily and curiously at her.
“You okay?” Grace Gresham asked again.
A tear slipped down Madge’s cheek—lacrimation always accompanied the coughing spells—and, panting, she nodded and tried to smile reassuringly. “Yes.” She wiped her cheek with her fingers. “Thank you.” She quickly tore a sheet of paper towel from its dispenser and dabbed at her eyes. “I caught it quickly.”
The former pro athlete did not look convinced. Instead, she continued staring at Madge with deep consideration. Behind her, Tracy rounded the corner but stayed near the arch, peering curiously at her aunt but reluctant to join the adults’ interchange.
“I’ve had players with the condition,” the coach shared, her manner still one of gentle concern. “I’ve seen how serious it can be.”
Madge nodded and smiled politely, embarrassed and touched by the woman’s kindness. Maybe she was wrong about Miss Grace, maybe Diane was, for someone this kind couldn’t be what Diane had suggested she was. But—and Madge experienced again the same dark dread that had sent her into the wheezing spell—there was still the matter of continuing the conversation they had begun in the next room. The matter of facing the woman, of looking into her eyes and having to apologize for accusing her of being vile and unnatural. Madge’s skin became moist again, and she felt a faint shortness of breath. She tried to smile. “I’m sorry about that.”
“No need to apologize. It’s not anything you can help.”
“No, but”—an embarrassed chuckle—“it always seems to happen at the most inopportune times.”
“Stress is a trigger, so I would imagine so,” the coach said.
They hesitated, smiled at each other. Madge realized she actually liked the manners of Jazz Nelson’s wife. A woman like this couldn’t be what she and Diane had suspected. But there was still the matter to settle. Madge gestured toward the living room. “I…guess we can…” she began. Miss Grace nodded her assent and Madge led the way toward the arch. Tracy, however, hesitated at the table, looking at the hors d’oeuvres curiously. Madge noticed the girl and felt the rush of maternal softness she often felt when she observed Tracy in need. “You can
have some,” she pointed out. “Just wash your hands first.” The teen’s expression revealed reluctant compliance, and Madge felt satisfaction at knowing that even though the sulking adolescent resented her at the moment, still she had to rely on her old aunt for sustenance. Tracy headed for the kitchen sink and Madge saw it when Miss Grace looked at the food.
“I don’t blame her. Everything looks lovely,” the coach commented. “And it’s been such a long time since I’ve had a deviled egg. Did you make these yourself?”
Madge brightened. “Yes.”
“Oh. Homemade! I would love to try one.”
Madge moved to the table with eagerness. “Oh, please do! Have as—anything you’d like.”
“I suppose I should wash my hands, as well.”
“Oh, no, that’s for children, they touch everything,” urged Madge. “I know your hands are clean,” she added in a chuckle.
Grace smiled, took one of the small paper plates Madge had arranged on the table and used the sterling tongs to select an egg and place it on her plate. She picked up the boiled half-egg with her fingers, lifted it daintily to her lips, and took a small bite. “Oh, this is delicious,” she remarked sincerely.
Madge was delighted. “Thank you. But,” she observed playfully, “you don’t eat much.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” the coach explained, “but I won’t feel hunger until about an hour from now. Strangely enough, coaching seems to increase the level of peptide YY hormones in my bloodstream and suppresses my appetite.”
“Oh,” said Madge and wondered which aspect of Amazing Grace’s life—her professional athleticism or her economic prosperity—accounted for the unusual, technical explanation the woman had just provided.
Tracy joined them at the table and began preparing her own plate, but unlike Miss Grace, the teen began choosing servings of everything on the table.
Madge, pleased that her efforts were being appreciated, jumped with remembrance and moved to the fridge. “I’ll get the drinks. Miss, uh, Grace? Would you like tea?”
“Is it sweetened?”
“Yes,” said Madge, thinking that there was no other way one should expect to find tea in a Southern black household.
The coach looked apologetic. “I try to limit the amount of sugar and caffeine in my diet. Do you have anything else?”
Madge thought. “Well, I—have—orange juice, water, and cranberry juice. And I think the cranberry is”—she dipped into the fridge and retrieved the bottle—“Yes, it’s sugar-free!”
“That would be perfect,” declared Grace.
As Madge turned away to get glasses from the cupboard, she heard Amazing Grace Gresham’s voice behind her. Its tone had changed from formal pleasantness to a softer, more familiar, almost playful tone.
“Perhaps you should have gotten a bucket, Sullivan, with all that you’ve selected.”
Madge turned. The pretty athlete and her niece stood close to each other, their backs to her.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t-na got a plate, Miz Grace, with that one egg you selected,” the girl returned.
Madge watched, intrigued, as her normally shy and tongue-tied niece and the strange, pretty, famous woman broke into soft chuckles over the girl’s retort. And she realized she was wrong—that what Diane suspected was possible, although unlikely, but it was possible. Maybe. And she noticed something else. Amazing Grace Gresham, while certainly petite, was not thin but seemed a sturdy neat package of well-toned muscle, repressed power, easy movements, and radiant skin. The body, Madge concluded, of someone who had mastered the art of physical fitness. Or, she conceded, the body of a rich woman who could afford to buy fitness. At any rate, she imagined that to Tracy, Jazz Nelson’s wife must look like the most dazzling human being the child had ever seen. Once upon a time, Madge remembered, she had held such status in the eyes of the child.
Madge turned away from the scene and quickly poured the drinks, feeling none of the homemaker’s joy she had experienced a moment ago.
