In the next block is Rexall Drug, the American Legion, and the post office. The post office lobby closes at four-thirty, but the door to the bank of PO boxes stays open later. Mack peers through the glass door at the frosted office window, the wall of bronze boxes, filigreed and looking just the same as when he was a kid. His family always had a mailbox at the end of the farmyard drive, and Mack had wanted one of those bronze boxes, which required keys.
The end of this block is the end of any real business. A filling station used to be here, and long after it closed the two pumps remained, quoting regular and premium prices from 1982. Some restaurant owner finally yanked up the pumps, leaving light squares on the grease-stained pavement. The pumps probably now adorn some overpriced sandwich shop in Des Moines or Chicago. Probably that sandwich shop is painted inside to look old and nostalgic, that peeling-paint, two-toned look. Here, at Ralph’s old Gulf station, the outer wall, formerly a gleaming white, is bled through by its underlying rusty brick. But no one pays good money to sit there and have a ham and cheese, chips, and Coke. Even the ghosts have moved on.
He crosses the street and walks back to the square, then along its north side, past the shoe store that has become an insurance office. Then the JC Penney store that has turned into the town museum, the large interior piled in loosely organized fashion and sectioned off into rough portions of the town’s history.
A bare maple tree casts shadows at the corner of the former Lee’s Clothing Store. This is a friendly little spot in the summertime, when the shadows become full shade. Three or four metal chairs and a round aluminum table provide a place for several of the old men, who keep up a hoarse chatter in the quiet afternoon. If you stop to say hello, they will nod and ask how you are and keep talking, as if they don’t have much time or room for anything beyond their own business, as if what younger people are concerned about has little hold on them anymore.
He walks over to the south side of the square and follows Des Moines Avenue east, into old yards and residences. On most of the streets in Beulah there is no real curb anymore. The tough grasses of dead autumn lawns fall out of their boundaries and into the light pavement of the streets. Now, with a flat layer of snow remaining, the best definition of a street is the line made by cars and trucks parked along its edges.
He goes several streets over to the community park, one block square that sits at the center of several homes and their yards. They used to have 4-H picnics here. Three large walnut trees overwhelm the set of swings and the picnic shelter. He remembers how every autumn the black, husked walnuts lay everywhere, resting under the tables and gathering in the indentations of the concrete floor.
Mack sits on a picnic table and tries to look at the houses around him as if he’s never seen them before. He can hear some mom getting after her kids, her voice thin behind storm doors and windows. He sees her standing in a picture window not far from where he is. Her hands are on her hips, and she is looking down, probably at a toddler. She looks ready to yell or make a sudden movement. But as Mack watches, she suddenly laughs and bends down, out of view.
Jodie laughed a lot when the kids were little. She played with them whenever she could, to the point that Mack was sure she’d had kids just so she could keep playing as an adult. Maybe all women stop playing after enough years have passed. He can’t think more about that now.
He dusts off the seat of his pants and heads back toward the square. He knows that, although he doesn’t see people in the houses, they see him. In a place so small, every movement matters. People keep track of who sat at a picnic table in mid-December. He wonders briefly what the silent witnesses think of him, what they murmur to spouses or in-laws as he passes down their sidewalks.
Jodie
Rita is in a bad mood. She called Jodie at eight this morning and asked her to stop at the post office for her because she’s staying in bed today. She sounds defeated. Jodie can’t tell if this radical change in behavior—the staying in bed, not the bad mood—is the result of feeling bad physically or being frustrated about the car. Mack informed Jodie two days ago that Mom would be without a car, and they’d need to run errands for her.
“Poor Tom,” Jodie said. “Is he working on it again?”
“No. Tom and I have an agreement. He won’t figure out what’s wrong until Mom’s over the bronchitis.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Well, this is a new strategy.”
“Actually, once she’s better, I’ll just sneak back into the garage and fix it myself.”
She laughed then, admiring the man who stood in her doorway. She’d forgotten how tricky he could be. “You know she’ll figure it out after a while.”
“I don’t care. I’m taking her wheels away.” He leaned against the doorjamb and sipped coffee. For just a moment, Jodie felt that her old Mack had returned.
So this morning Jodie has shopped for groceries, delivered pharmaceuticals, and picked up the mail in Rita’s stead. It took half the day, and Jodie has experienced a new wave of admiration for her mother-in-law. She hopes to be so active twenty years from now but dares not think that far ahead.
At the pharmacy she runs into Annette Peters, a member of Beulah’s First Methodist, where the Barneses used to attend. Annette is one of the few people Jodie truly misses, now that she and Mack attend church in Oskaloosa. Even though they encounter people of their former church in other situations, it feels different not to worship with them anymore. Annette was not only a sweet person but a conscientious friend. There was the time she arranged for a surprise birthday luncheon for Jodie, off in Pella, just a few miles down the road. Jodie went to the address thinking it was a Methodist women’s meeting at someone’s home, only to find that it was a home converted into a tearoom. Six other women from church were seated when Jodie entered the homey dining room, with its clean white walls and deep oak woodwork, small tables draped in white linens, and pretty lamps and potted plants giving the area a warm glow. The lunch was from a menu that changed weekly. And each woman got her own pot of tea or coffee. When the owner brought out Jodie’s dessert—a decadent lemon chiffon pie—she was joined by two other women who sang “Happy Birthday” in Dutch. Annette just grinned while Jodie laughed and blushed.
Today Annette looks tired. Jodie heard recently that her oldest daughter just lost a baby, in the third month. She wonders what other events have visited Annette’s family, events that Jodie would have known about when she was in regular contact.
“Annette! How are you?”
The woman is slender, her naturally wavy blond hair tied back in the way most women deal with long hair when there’s work to do. “Oh, we’re all right, Jodie. How about you?”
“Fine, fine.”
“I hear that Mack’s doing a lot better.”
“Yes, thanks for mentioning it. He is. I was sorry to hear about Katie—how’s she doing?”
Annette’s smile is steady. “She and Tim have done real well. It was a first pregnancy, and the doctor says there’s no reason she can’t keep on trying.”
“Sometimes it’s as if the body hasn’t caught on yet. And she’s young.”
“Yes. They have plenty of time. You look good, Jodie.”
“So do you.” Their smiles linger in the pause that follows.
“You all are still in my prayers.” Annette can say such a thing and not sound condescending or pitying or judging. Jodie feels pain at this renewed understanding of the friendships she has given up in the name of survival.
“We really appreciate that.”
They part company, and it’s a few moments before Jodie can remember what she came for and what errands are next on her list. She thinks of the birthday party, the lightness of that afternoon, and the warmth of female company. When, exactly, did she decide to forfeit all of that? Was it the shame of losses that made her withdraw? After a while, if the grief and loss keep coming, the world goes silent. No one knows what to say anymore. Taylor Senior’s death was typical enough—farm accident—and
he was in his sixties. But Mack giving up the farm, and then Alex losing his, and then Alex dying. A person was tempted to think that the odds were stacked no matter what. After all that, what support or help is even plausible?
She stops, last of all, at Rita’s to deliver groceries and mail and visit for a bit, but not long because Rita feels lousy and is on her way to a nap. With her mother-in-law safely tucked away at home, Jodie takes several deep breaths. She tries to shake out all the negative thoughts that have plagued her this afternoon, and with that in mind, she takes Walnut Street and slows down as she passes Terry’s house. The car is in the garage, the ruts in the drive half-filled with the morning’s snowfall. Even though she is bundled up in old sweats and a jacket, Jodie feels suddenly voluptuous and close to shivers. She forces herself to keep pressure on the gas pedal, gliding by the small house not unlike most vehicles traveling in town when snow is on. She has never been in Terry’s house, at least not since they have become lovers. She thinks she remembers dropping some materials at his door one day, some forms the school secretary had asked her to walk over one time. The memory of Terry at that time is like the memory of another person altogether. He had just moved in, had been in town maybe a month. It is amazing what new chemistry does to another person’s being. Terry seems different from the guy who came to Beulah two years ago and bears no resemblance to the kid she knew in high school. Maybe he dresses differently or something. Maybe he just looks more like what he truly is, now that Jodie is paying attention.
When she steps in the door of the farmhouse, her bit of Terry happiness is shattered by music from the living room. Heavy metal something from Young Taylor’s collection. Her son is stretched out on the sofa, no light on in the room, staring at the ceiling.
“Hey! Turn it down!” She has to yell this twice before the form on the sofa twitches.
“Mom, listen to this.”
“No! It sounds like a train wreck. Turn it down.”
“You’re not really listening.”
She marches across to the CD player and shuts it off. Young Taylor doesn’t move; his eyes are closed. It makes her think of the way he covered his face when he was little and getting into trouble, thinking that if he couldn’t see Mom and Dad, they couldn’t find him.
“You can play it upstairs. Better yet, with your headphones on.”
“Mom, you need to slow down.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that once the new maid and cook get here.”
She looks at the clock and mutters Jesus’s name. She can’t pinpoint when she began to use it as a swear word. She’d hardly used any profanity during all her growing-up years and kept a particularly clean mouth when the children were little. But now she is uttering sacred words right and left as if she has just discovered their power. She suspects that she started using the Lord’s name this way to get his attention; obviously, prayers that used the name properly had not been good enough. Or maybe this is how she tells God how angry she is at his system. Whatever, it’s a protest. Supper should be ready by now. She throws open the freezer door and finds some hamburger, sticks it in the microwave to thaw. Sloppy Joes tonight. No buns. Oh well, it goes all right over toast.
Mack walks in as she is fighting the can of tomato paste.
“Hey, want me to do that?”
“No, I’ve got it.” The phone rings. Mack is closest, but Jodie puts the can and opener in his hands and reaches for it herself.
“Jodie, it’s me.”
Her lips go numb. Terry’s voice has become a private, important sound in her life. She sees Young Taylor’s feet still at the end of the sofa, and says to Mack, pointing toward their son, “Would you tell him to straighten up the family room, please? And take his music upstairs.” Mack goes to Young Taylor, still working the can opener.
“Not a good idea, calling this time of day,” she says into the phone, just above a whisper.
“Oh, right. He’s back home now.”
“Well, my kids are here too, and most of the time the phone calls are for them.”
“Sorry, Jodie, but the suspense was killing me.”
“Huh?”
The phone is silent. “My note—you haven’t read it yet?”
“What note?”
He laughs, nervously. “The one I stuck in the side of your purse while you were in the post office. Yours was the only car on the street, so I thought it was safe. You didn’t see it?”
Jodie looks at her purse, which she set on the kitchen cabinet next to the door. The side pocket is empty.
“What did it look like?” She picks up the purse and begins rummaging through it. She looks toward the family room, where Mack and Young Taylor are picking up newspapers, talking quietly.
“Just a plain white envelope. I put it in that side pocket. You couldn’t miss it.”
The numbness that began in her lips suddenly rushes the length of her body. This time, Jesus’s name is a true prayer.
“What?” Terry sounds irritated.
“I put Rita’s mail in that pocket so it wouldn’t get mixed up with mine. Terry, what were you thinking? I must have picked up your note with all her stuff.”
His voice turns crackly with panic. “Do you think she’s found it yet? Can you go over there and get it?”
“I’m in the middle of supper now, and Mack and the kids are home. I can’t leave! And yes, she rips through her mail the minute I give it to her. Did you have my name on it? Was it sealed? She’d just return it to me.”
He sighed. “No, I drew a lily on it—you know, the kind you like so much?”
“I’ve got to go.” She hangs up as Mack wanders back in. He smiles and hands her the opened can.
Kenzie
Dear Jesus,
I’m so confused. I have so many emotions inside me now. I feel love and fear and everything else. And I pray almost every minute of the day, but the more I pray, the less you seem to be around. Oh, I know you’re with me all the time, but I used to feel it more. I used to be sure. Your Holy Spirit would fill me with peace and assurance. But now I don’t know what I feel.
I love Mitchell. I love him so much. I can tell that he’s a godly man, someone so close to you that other people don’t understand him. Just like they didn’t understand the prophets—or you, Jesus. I became his friend because I thought he needed to know you and that I could help him. But it’s the other way around. He’s helped me so much to understand you and the world and the future and what we have to do as Christians.
I’ve waited my whole life for a true, spiritual friend like Mitchell. And you led us to meet each other, but everything’s confused. Believing is so hard now. Maybe because I finally understand what it means. You said we had to hate our fathers and mothers. I never thought that would mean leaving Mom and Dad. But I can see what’s happening, that the Tribulation is on its way and the Anti-Christ has already attacked our home. I thought you’d want me to stay and do battle, but I can see now that your ways are not our ways.
How can I leave my family? How did you leave, Jesus, when you were grown and it was time for you to start preaching and healing? Did it hurt this much? Did your mother and brothers and sisters not understand why? I know how they tried to lock you up once—they thought you were crazy. Just like people will think I’m crazy when I go away with Mitchell.
But when I’m with him, everything feels sure and true. I know that what I’m doing is the right thing. He and I can pray together and talk about your Word for hours. And he can build anything. He’s so much smarter than people think. He’ll take care of me. I can’t believe that you sent such a wonderful man to me. I thought I was too young, that you thought I was a kid, just like Mom and Dad and Grandma think. But Mary was just a teenager when you made her pregnant with Jesus. So I guess that in your plan it’s fine for me to go away. You’re calling me to a better place. I have to be in a community that loves you and only you. I thought I could really help here, and maybe I did. But you’re calling me away now, to a real family of faith
, a group of brave people who understand all the horrible things that are happening.
Jesus, help me do what I’m supposed to do. Thanks for bringing me Mitchell, who can be strong even when I’m not.
But please, please, make this not hurt so much. I don’t mind suffering for you, but is there any way you can make it so my parents don’t suffer because of what I’m doing?
At least Dad’s home now. Maybe my leaving will make him and Mom work together better; maybe they need the pain so that you can heal them completely.
Thank you for everything. I hope I didn’t sound ungrateful or like I don’t have faith. I finally do have faith. But it’s different from what I thought it would be. Everything is so different. I guess that’s what it means to grow up in the spirit.
Give me strength and peace. Help Mitchell as he makes the plans. We want to do everything according to your will.
In Jesus’s precious name, Amen.
12
FINDING HOPE
All thy works with joy surround thee, earth and heaven reflect thy rays,
Stars and angels sing around thee, center of unbroken praise.
Field and forest, vale and mountain, flowery meadow, flashing sea,
Singing bird and flowing fountain call us to rejoice in thee.
—“Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee”
Jodie
She feels nothing at all as she pulls out the Christmas tins, the ones that get stored from year to year in the top of the pantry. They are round or square, bearing deeply shined winter scenes or patterns of holly or candy canes. By now she has collected about twenty of them, and not too many years ago she and Rita filled each and every one with homemade candies and cookies. Nearly half of the sacred family recipes were brought out only after Thanksgiving and exploited for Christmas and New Year’s alone—the fancy confections bearing names of ancient aunts and grandmas, long dead but coming alive for those few weeks in the bleak winter, resurrected in sugar and nuts, food coloring and dustings of flour or cinnamon.
Vinita Hampton Wright Page 25
