Through the window, Adam could see the new basketball hoop in the parking lot. Great idea. Used at night and weekends, and no doubt would be a busy place this coming summer. As the coach had decreed, Hector dribbled everywhere except the church. He’d decided that wouldn’t be respectful—but he dribbled the ball right up to the front door. After several accidents, Adam had banished it from the parsonage as well.
He’d emailed stories about Butternut Creek to his sister as he did every Friday. In one he told another story about Chewy and a backpack, finishing it with, “He’s become one of the church’s best evangelistic tools.” She seldom answered, but she needed his support. He hoped the funny stories cheered her up. He couldn’t imagine anything more different from his life here and hers over there. How did she do it?
His parents wrote they’d visited Paris. The Chunnel had become a shortcut to Europe for them. They loved Europe and planned to send him a ticket so he could visit soon.
Life was good. Today he was going to wallow in being happy.
He began by looking at a computer file of church members he needed to call and chose one he hadn’t seen in church.
“Hello, Mrs. Gibson,” he said. “This is Adam Jordan, minister at the Christian Church.”
Silence.
“How are you doing this morning?”
“Fine.” Her voice sounded begrudging, as if she hated to give out even this small bit of information.
“I’m sorry I haven’t gotten in touch with you sooner. The chair of the elders tells me you’re a member of the church but haven’t been able to attend for a while.”
“That’s right.” Another pause followed. “What’s your name again?”
“Adam. Adam Jordan, I don’t believe I’ve met you.”
“Reverend Jordan, nice of you to call.” Her quiet voice quivered. “The problem is that it’s hard for me to make it on Sunday morning. I have a lot of trouble with my joints—arthritis, you know—and I don’t get moving until about noon. Then a migraine hits and puts me in bed, in the dark.”
“Sounds as if you have a lot of physical problems. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. On top of that…well, you don’t want to hear an old lady complaining about her aches and pains.”
How to answer that? “If you want to talk about them, please tell me.”
For another few minutes, she gave what his uncle Bob, a physician, had called “an organ recital,” describing the appalling condition of her heart and her liver and various other ailments he didn’t catch. He stopped taking notes after several repetitions of the phrase, “None of the doctors thought I’d live.”
“You know, our elders take communion to people who can’t make it to church. Could they drop by this Sunday? Would that be convenient?”
Again silence. Had they been disconnected? No, there was no dial tone. He glanced at the phone to see that the in use button glowed red. “Mrs. Gibson?” he asked.
“I am not,” she said testily, obviously insulted, “I am not a shut-in. I shop for myself. I play Bunco with my friends. I drive. I go to the beauty parlor. I am not a shut-in and don’t need the elders to bring me anything or for you to visit.”
With that, she disconnected. He knew for sure when the dial tone beeped from the speaker. Adam turned the phone off and laughed.
Although too weak to go to church, it seemed Mrs. Gibson could do anything else she wanted.
An imp inside him wanted to turn her name over to the elders, but that would only cause those leaders trouble. Instead he wrote, “Call next year. Don’t treat as shut-in,” on Mrs. Gibson’s card and filed it.
* * *
Birdie listened to the sounds of Carlos the Cat coming from the bathroom: Whap! Whap! Whap!
Mac had put Ping-Pong balls in the tub and the silly animal loved to bat them around. Mac said they’d given him new life. Instead of sleeping twenty-three hours a day, now Carlos slept twenty-two hours and fifty minutes and played in the bathtub for a few minutes several times a day.
She hated it when the cat wanted to continue chasing those balls and Birdie wanted to settle down for a nice soak. Whose joints were more important? The breadwinner’s or those of a skinny, elderly cat? Didn’t Birdie work to put food in his bowl? Nevertheless, she never bothered him.
Oh, my, had she gotten soft. Allowing a cat to inconvenience her because the girls adored him and he scratched people who tried to move him.
She stood up from Bree’s bed where she’d been contemplating a far more difficult problem.
Fashion or style or just plain pornography?
School had been in session for almost a month. Still hot here in Texas, would be through part of October. Wasn’t the heat that bothered Birdie. It was the clothing, those doggone tiny tops the girls liked to wear. Said it was too hot to wear regular T-shirts. So why was the district spending taxpayer money for air-conditioning if the girls had to wear those bits of nothing to stay cool?
Not that Birdie accepted that excuse. She’d been young once.
Bree told her grandmother that everyone—well, all the girls—wore tops with straps so narrow their bra straps showed. Just plain slutty, Birdie told her granddaughters that, but she couldn’t make any headway. School dress code allowed it. The other girls wore it. Some even tried to get by with sheer tops, but the principal gave those girls a hoodie to wear or sent them home.
Didn’t Bree understand what happened when a girl wore clothes like that? Elmer had allowed Martha Patricia to get away with anything. He spoiled her terribly and look what had happened. After Elmer died, Martha Patricia had left town with that no-good father of both her girls and it had all started when Elmer allowed her to wear tight shorts.
Mercedes had passed on a story about a woman who dressed like the daughter to show her how terrible she looked. Said the woman had put on a tank top without a bra and that had gotten the message over to her daughter.
Might as well try it, but she refused to leave off underwear.
After opening Bree’s drawer and taking out a shirt with what she’d called spaghetti straps during her youth centuries ago, she shook it out. Then she took her blouse off and slipped the shirt on over her head. It settled across her shoulders and hung down to her hips, huge on her. The straps of her old-lady bra showed white under the coral top. She studied her image for nearly a minute, aghast at what and who stared back at her. She couldn’t carry this off. She’d feel mortified to show anyone else, even her own granddaughters, her desiccated torso, ropy arms, and saggy neck, much less the thick straps of her bra. She looked like the scrawny old woman she was.
When had she gotten so old? She still felt like that girl who planned to start college to be an English teacher. Then she and Elmer had fallen in love at the prom, and her life had changed because Elmer had to stay in town to take over his father’s carpentry business. Years later, she ended up here, looking at her elderly self in the mirror.
Not that she’d change anything, except what happened with Martha Patricia, but she would have slowed down those years. They’d flown by much too fast.
Yes, here she stood, looking like a skinny old lady and wishing she had a few of those pretty curves Blossom had. She couldn’t allow anyone to see her like this. She’d have to think of some other way to teach the lesson.
Bree was a good girl. Everyone said that, but everyone wasn’t thinking about the effects of hormones on a teenager’s ability to reason or resist temptation. Could be one soft, lovely evening with the moon hitting the right angle, romantic music on the radio, and a sweetly scented breeze calling out thoughts of love and lust, two young people could get carried away. Goodness knows, it had happened to enough people.
Birdie guessed she’d have to trust Bree. She sure as anything wouldn’t leave the bedroom in this outfit.
* * *
Adam had bought a new tie, dark blue with a gold pattern. Didn’t go with his suit, but he’d borrowed Hector’s prom-and-homecoming slacks. A little short
but they fit well otherwise. With dark socks, no one would notice.
At last, he and Gussie were going out with Willow and Sam. Adam had issued a stern “no-joking” order to Sam and could only hope the former marine would behave. If not, Willow would put the kibosh on her husband. She handled him effortlessly. Sam was so much in love with his wife, he’d do whatever she said.
They’d take Willow’s car into Roundville, because none of them trusted Adam’s car enough to make it both ways, despite the fact that Adam made the trip weekly. Willow and Sam would drop him off at the Miltons’, and Adam and Gussie would go to Austin and back in her car.
After greeting Mr. and Mrs. Milton—Yvonne and Henry—he escorted Gussie to the car and reached for her keys.
“Oh,” she said. “Are you driving?”
He nodded, hand still out.
“Don’t you trust my driving?”
“It’s not that.” He didn’t understand this odd streak of machismo he hadn’t realized he had. But he couldn’t seem to tamp it down. He needed to drive. The thought of not doing so, sitting in the passenger seat while Gussie drove, made him anxious.
“Are you afraid I’ll get lost? Or have an accident?”
“I can’t explain it. I’m sorry.” He took the keys from her hand. “I have to drive.”
“Men,” she groaned.
“Besides, if you drove, I wouldn’t be able to open your car door.” He performed that. “And help you in.”
“Delicate flower that I am.” She laughed as she allowed him to assist her.
Sam had made reservations at a nice place on Red River for a celebration. Sam would finish his class work and student teaching in December and had a teaching job at the middle school starting in January.
“At least I no longer have to live off my rich wife,” Sam said after they’d settled at the table. “But, you know, I like being a kept man.” He glanced at his wife and grinned before he turned back to Adam. “Let me give you some advice. Marry a woman who makes more money than you and can keep you in style.”
Across from Adam, Willow laughed. “Oh, yes, we live in such style.”
Next to him, Adam could feel Gussie tense.
“Sam and I live in the house Sam’s aunt left him,” Willow explained. “It’s a little small but it’s free.”
“And we’re together,” Sam said.
To change the subject because the waves of adoration between Sam and Willow had become stifling, Adam asked Gussie, “What looks good to you?” as she perused the menu.
Maybe this double date hadn’t been the best idea in the world. He could almost see little hearts floating between Sam and Willow and cherubs strumming harps over their heads.
And yet, he thought as he glanced at Gussie, as nauseating as it was to see such affection at close quarters, wouldn’t it be nice to take part in it? To care for someone that much and show it? Through a touch? A kiss? Or a besotted glance? Because the Petersons did nothing unacceptable. They were deeply in love and showed it.
Yes, as obnoxious as he found the display between Willow and Sam, he probably felt that way because he envied them.
“Congratulations on the job,” Gussie said to Sam after they’d ordered.
“We have more news,” Sam said. “We’re pregnant.” He smiled so broadly, the corners of his lips nearly reached mid-cheek.
“How wonderful,” Gussie said.
“When?” Adam reached across to take Willow’s hand.
“March. You’re the first people we’ve told, except for family.”
“Boy or girl?” Gussie asked.
“We don’t care. The general is hoping for a granddaughter.” Sam put his arm around the back of Willow’s chair. “Winnie’s just excited to have another grandchild. She never expected to have any.”
“Don’t let him fool you. He really wants a girl.” Willow gestured toward her husband. “He has big plans to spoil his little princess.”
“We’re going to have to find a bigger house, because there’s no way we can fit another person in.”
After dinner, they strolled toward one of Gussie’s favorite music venues, Sam and Willow in front. Sam held Willow’s hand and, again, Adam noticed how they listed toward each other, drawn together.
He wanted that.
* * *
“Girls, get over here and pick up your shoes,” George shouted out the back door.
Carol and Gretchen dashed in from the yard. Each grabbed her own sandals and said, in union, “Sorry, Daddy.”
They hugged his legs before heading upstairs without a whimper or a complaint or a put-upon sigh, no sign of rolling eyes.
A miracle. Ouida’d witnessed a true miracle.
She wouldn’t have believed this months ago. Nor would she have believed what the house looked like. The living room was neat and fairly clean but under the coffee table were some books. A few toys lurked in a corner. Crayons spread across the small table he’d brought downstairs for the girls. A little clutter, enough so that the old George would have been overwhelmed. Now he didn’t even blanch when he spotted a dust bunny, which he’d always considered to be a seed of destruction and plague.
“Do you need anything?” he asked. Her husband had dressed for work in his usual well-tailored suit, silk tie, and gleaming shoes.
He looked the same—well, maybe a little harried—and sounded the same—except his voice held a note of exasperation occasionally, perfectly natural for the father of two—but he acted differently. No longer the passive man who barely lived with the rest of the family, he’d taken hold, seemed in charge.
“Help me to my feet,” she said. Feeling like a Weeble—she both wobbled and occasionally fell over—she grasped his hand and struggled to stand. After a few months, she now spent most of the day out of bed, often in George’s seldom-used recliner with her bootless leg elevated. She took care of herself, fixed lunch, started dinner, went to the bathroom, all that as long as she kept the cane close to lean on when she had to stand. This week, they planned to move the bed back upstairs, and she could take a bath again.
“Got to get on the road.” George glanced at his wrist. Unfortunately his expensive watch had been a casualty of a conflict over chocolate versus white milk a week earlier. He looked at the wall clock, which was a little askew. After the first fifty attempts to straighten it, he’d given up and now merely tilted his head to read it. “I’ll be back by six with dinner.”
That evening at six o’clock exactly—of course—George pulled into the driveway.
Dinner. Ouida pushed herself to her feet, then clutched her stomach. It had been bouncing around all day. She couldn’t be pregnant, could she? No, she’d had morning sickness with the others and this wasn’t morning. She’d thought making love on a bed in the middle of the living room when the girls might wake up seemed risky. George found that element of danger exciting—he was not always staid.
Carol and Gretchen ran downstairs and dashed to the window to wait for their father.
“I’ve got dinner,” he shouted as he came in.
“What did you get?” Carol jumped up and down in excitement.
“Fried artichoke hearts with furry gravy,” he said.
When the girls broke into laughter, George beamed.
But the mere thought of fried artichokes with furry gravy added to the odor of what he’d really brought home and hit her hard. Her insides clenched and burned. Must be the flu that Bree had mentioned, the one that had hit all her friends. Ouida struggled to keep her insides truly inside her.
“Hi, sweetheart,” George said after he put the bag on the kitchen table and came back to stand in front of Ouida. “How are you doing? You look a little pale.”
At exactly that moment and before she could even turn her head or put her hand in front of her mouth or shove him away, she lost the battle.
She vomited.
Even worse, she’d thrown up on George. When she finished heaving and spewing, she opened her eyes. Still standing in fro
nt of her, he looked down. She followed his gaze.
The eruption had hit only the bottom few inches of his beautifully tailored slacks, but his shoes—oh, dear, his beloved shoes, his adored oxfords with the lovingly cared-for, formerly brilliantly shining leather—were covered with her afternoon snack. How devastating for him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. When he didn’t answer, she lifted her eyes to his face.
Stunned, that’s how he looked. He’d changed a great deal, he’d become the George she’d fallen in love with and married, but even that much freer George wasn’t the kind of man who appreciated being thrown up on.
Was there anyone who did? Mothers got used to it but didn’t look forward to such an occurrence. She didn’t know what to say, how to soothe him, so she watched him, stricken with guilt and humiliation.
At first George drew himself up very straight. His stiff neck seemed to elongate as he stared down at the wreckage of his shoes.
“I’m so sorry. I know how much you love those shoes.”
Behind him, she could see the girls clutching each other’s hands and, eyes wide, watching their parents, studying the mess covering their father’s feet.
He lifted his eyes to her face, his expression and body relaxed. “Gretchen, get your mother a pan from the kitchen, then bring a couple of towels. Carol, get her a wet cloth and a glass of water.”
Then he looked at her gently. “I’m sorry you’re sick.” After inspecting her hand, he took it in his. “It must be terrible to have gone through so much and, now that you’re getting better, to have this happen.” He took a towel from Gretchen and tossed it over the stuff on the floor. He took the rag Carol handed him and wiped Ouida’s face gently. “Rinse your mouth out.” He handed her the water. “Then let’s get you cleaned up and in bed.”
The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek Page 25
