by Ann B. Ross
Chapter 22
And speaking of Pastor Ledbetter, I was getting sick and tired of the way he ignored Hazel Marie and Little Lloyd. He hardly ever looked at them, just stood in the pulpit and let his gaze sweep right past them as if they were too insignificant to catch his attention, despite my having seen to it that they were in church every Sunday morning that rolled around, and had put the child in Sunday school and taken Hazel Marie to my own class. She was much too young for the Lula Mae Harding Class that I attended, but I knew she wasn’t ready to go it alone in one of the young women’s classes. And I certainly wasn’t going to suggest that she join a class for couples.
So, here were two regular attendees, both of whom dropped something in the offering plate when it went around, and the leader of the flock acted as if they didn’t exist. It was enough to make me grind my teeth.
Of course, I’d known all along that Pastor Ledbetter was a sore loser, since preachers in general are as accustomed to getting their own way as any other corporate leader. And he had lost big and publicly when he’d tangled with me over Wesley Lloyd’s estate, and it must’ve pained him considerably to see that illegitimate and very wealthy child sitting in a pew each Sunday, staring up at him with his mouth hanging open. I know the pastor heartily disapproved of my association with the child and his mother. I expect he would’ve preferred that I keep them hidden away just as Wesley Lloyd, his most ardent supporter, had done. It was my deep suspicion that the pastor had known something of Wesley Lloyd’s secret life but had turned a blind eye as long as his pledges and contributions kept coming in.
But perhaps I wrongly accuse him. I just know that he was not happy with me, in spite of the hefty pledge envelopes I put in the collection plate, and in spite of my seeing that Little Lloyd dropped in his quarter every Sunday, which I must point out was considerably more than a tithe of his weekly allowance.
None of that was appreciated by the pastor, but on the last Sunday before Christmas Day, he truly outdid himself. Maybe a lot had to do with the fact that he did not preach a sermon. Instead, various young people read from the Scriptures in between hymns and carols by the choir, all going on behind a group of children who presented a nativity scene. It was your typical church pageant, with the prettiest blonde child cast as Mary and a boy with a pasted-on beard as Joseph. The angel had a bedsheet draped around her and a tinsel halo on her head. The whole thing would’ve been better staged at night when the sanctuary was too dark to see clearly the shepherds’ ratty bathrobes and the dish towels wrapped around their heads.
But these were children, so you have to overlook a lot and appreciate their efforts. Which I did, but none of it affected me much until they digressed from the Scriptural narrative and added a little drummer boy scene, with Little Lloyd as the little drummer boy himself.
I hate to admit this because it seems so maudlin, a distasteful sentiment to my way of thinking, but I was so moved that tears sprang to my eyes before I could get hold of myself. Hazel Marie latched onto my arm when he appeared, and both of us had to dab at our eyes throughout the presentation.
We watched with bated breath as the child marched slowly down the center aisle with a toy drum hanging from his neck, that stirring song on a record player accompanying him. He approached the manger and knelt to offer the only thing he possessed—the ability to play his drum.
Well, of course, the child couldn’t play a blessed thing, but he tapped the drum a few times when the choir director pointed at him, and our imaginations did the rest. But the whole scene with that child, unacknowledged and hidden away by his father, portraying the poorest of the poor just struck me as the most pitiable and heartrending thing I’d ever seen.
I soon got over it, especially since one of the three kings almost knocked over the manger, and by the time the benediction was pronounced, I’d regained my usual composure.
Later, as Hazel Marie and I were heating up the food that Lillian had prepared for our Sunday lunch, I said, “Do you know who directed that little pageant?”
“Edna Worley, I think. She’s Lloyd’s Sunday school teacher, so I expect she had a hand in it.” Hazel Marie gathered a handful of silverware and started toward the dining room.
“Hazel Marie,” I said, reaching for an oven mitt, “I think it’d be easier to eat here in the kitchen. I mean, it’s just us, so there’s no need to be so formal.”
Hazel Marie stopped and smiled at me. “I think so, too. And easier to clean up.”
I nodded, wondering if I were letting slackness overtake my usual customs. Wesley Lloyd would never have eaten in the kitchen. Everything had to be just right and as formal as it could get to please him.
All the more reason, I thought with a tightening of my mouth, to do it differently. Besides, with a child in the house, and one who had performed so satisfactorily, there was every reason to ease off a little. Casual living has much to recommend it.
When we were gathered around the kitchen table, and our plates had been filled, I said, “Little Lloyd, who was it that cast you as the little drummer boy? Or did you volunteer?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t volunteer. Miss Worley just told us what we had to do, and we did it.”
My word, I thought. Edna Worley might be unmarried and childless, but she certainly knew her child-raising techniques. That just confirmed to me that you didn’t have to bear a child of your own to know how to raise one.
“Mama,” Little Lloyd said, hurriedly swallowing what was in his mouth. “Can I get Miss Worley a Christmas present? A lot of the kids brought her one this morning, but I didn’t.”
“Oh, Lloyd,” Hazel Marie said, immediately concerned. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think of her.”
“Well, I didn’t either,” the boy said. “And I still wouldn’t have, except she told everybody after the pageant was over that I was the best drummer boy she’d ever had. So now I’d like to get her something real nice.”
I was immediately on my guard, readying myself to head off any infelicitous spending. “It’s not necessary, Little Lloyd, to give everybody you know a gift,” I said. “A nice note in your own hand would be more than sufficient.”
He ducked his head, and those heavy glasses slid down his nose. “Yes, ma’am, I guess so.”
“But,” I said, relenting somewhat, “perhaps something small and thoughtful would be appropriate.”
“What did the other children give her?” Hazel Marie asked, which I thought entirely germane to the situation. One must keep within the bounds of custom.
“Well, she got a lot of candy, and somebody gave her a book of devotions, and somebody else gave her a gift certificate for pizza. But Ben Sommers gave her some earrings like little tiny stars, and she really liked that. So that’s what I want to give her. But I want to give her some dangly ones, Mama, like what you like.”
Hazel Marie’s face lit up, and she opened her mouth, I knew, to agree that dangling earrings would be the perfect gift. I beat her to it. “Little Lloyd,” I said, “it is entirely inappropriate to give such a personal and expensive gift. She would not expect it, and you should be careful not to go overboard in spending for any one person. If you give Miss Worley something expensive, you will only embarrass her, because she is not in a position to reciprocate. And, even if she were, she could hardly play favorites by giving you a gift and not any of the others. Just remember, it’s the thought and not the gift that counts.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his attention firmly fixed on his plate. “I’ll try to remember.”
Hazel Marie was silent for a while, then she said, “Lloyd, we’ll think about it and then go shopping for her. I expect we can find the perfect gift without too much trouble. You have one more day of school, then we’ll have three whole days before Christmas to come up with something.”
“Okay. I mean, yes, ma’am.”
Of course, I knew my lecture on fiscal responsibility put a crimp in their high spirits, but I knew I was right, so I didn’t let it bother
me too much. Besides, the child was in line for a considerable inheritance, and he needed to have the polish and finesse of a gentleman in order to carry it off responsibly. There is nothing worse, to my mind, than sudden wealth descending on a person who doesn’t know any better than to conduct himself in the tackiest and most tasteless way possible.
Startled, I suddenly cocked my head, thinking I’d heard a footstep upstairs. Quietly sitting upright as I prepared an acceptable excuse for being up so late, I waited to see if someone was coming to check on me. After several minutes of listening to the house creak and the furnace click on, I decided that the sleepers were slumbering on undisturbed.
Stiffly and gingerly, I rose from the chair and tiptoed into the kitchen, feeling my way through the dark rooms. A cup of coffee would’ve hit the spot, but I settled for a glass of water, then made my way back to the warmth of the chair by the fireplace.
That little boy . . . How poorly I had treated him! I hung my head in shame, remembering how he had never shown me anything but wide-eyed admiration and a constant desire to please.
Chapter 23
The following morning the three of us took our places at the dining room table. As Lillian came in with a plate of toast, I lifted my head and glanced around.
“What’s that I smell?”
“It’s cookies in the oven,” Lillian said, and glared at me. “Chris’mas cookies.”
Well, for goodness sake, I thought, as she flounced back to the kitchen, what in the world is wrong with her? I ask a simple question and all I get is a hard look and a short answer.
No one else said a word, which suited me fine. The evening meal was the time for polite conversation, but the morning one was made for silence. That had been Wesley Lloyd’s dictum, and over the years I had come to subscribe to it. I would concentrate on my breakfast, while he ate and read the newspaper and stirred his coffee. And stir his coffee and stir his coffee, until it was all I could do to keep from stabbing his hand with a fork.
But after more silence, Little Lloyd ventured to speak, although so quietly that I barely heard him.
“Mama?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Today’s the last day of school.”
“Yes, I know. The Christmas holiday starts tomorrow. Are you excited?”
“Uh-huh, I sure am.”
Silence descended again, with only the clink of silver against china to disturb the peace. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t joined in the conversation, which was just as well, since the only thing that it had occurred to me to say was that the child didn’t sound too excited. And that was just as well, too, for I’ve noticed that excitement in a child soon escalates into rowdiness, which I could do without.
As Hazel Marie was putting on her coat to drive the child to school, I stepped into the kitchen to talk over the week’s menus with Lillian. She had two pans of cookies cooling on racks. She frowned at me as she pulled off a length of cellophone wrap. Little Lloyd and his mother came through on their way to the garage, the child listing to one side from the heavy book satchel on his shoulder.
“Here, baby,” Lillian said. “I ’bout got these cookies ready for you.” She placed a stack of cookies on the cellophane, gathered it together, and tied the package with a red ribbon. “You give these to yo’ teacher, an’ tell her Merry Chris’mas. An’ they’s a whole pile of ’em waitin’ for you when you get home.”
The child smiled so big that it changed his entire face, making it somewhat palatable. If, that is, you could overlook those two front teeth that were all out of proportion to his size. I wondered if we should have something done about them.
“Oh, thank you, Lillian,” Hazel Marie said. “I appreciate this so much, but I wish you’d let me bake them.”
“No’m,” Lillian said, with a smile. “I don’t let nobody do no cookin’ in my kitchen but me.”
“Good thing,” Hazel Marie said with a giggle. “I’m not much of a cook. I know his teacher will love these and be thankful that I didn’t bake them. Come on, Lloyd, we’d better get going. See you in a little while, Miss Julia. I’m going downtown after I drop Lloyd off, if that’s all right.”
“Of course,” I said, but of course I wasn’t too happy about it, since I knew she was going to spend money.
Little Lloyd started out the door, then turned back to me. A hint of the smile lingered on his face, but there seemed to be something wistful in the look he gave me. Surely I misread it, though, for the child had everything anybody could want. He gave me a tiny wave, then followed his mother on out.
“Now, Lillian, we need to . . .”
“I know what we need to do, but don’t look like you do,” she said, surprising me so bad that I had to take a step back.
“Why, what do you mean?”
“I mean it almost Chris’mas, an’ you need to get yo’self busy doin’ something ’bout it. Who you gonna get presents for, anyway?”
“Well, I was planning to give the paperboy a dollar bill, but I just don’t have the heart to think about anything else.”
“Now, you jus’ listen to me.” Lillian propped her hands on her hips and stared me down. “They’s nothin’ under that tree in yonder but what Miss Binkie bring. You need to get some Chris’mas for that little chile, and for Miss Hazel Marie, and for Deputy Bates. It ain’t right for you to pull them down jus’ cause you don’t feel like doin’ nothin’ but mope around here all day. And what about Miss Binkie? That girl been helpin’ you all this long time, an’ you ought to be gettin’ her a present, too.”
“I pay her, Lillian. She doesn’t expect a gift on top of that.”
“She got you one,” Lillian came back at me. “I know, ’cause I done looked at ever’ one of ’em. An’ what about Miz Conover? You an’ her always give presents. What you gonna do ’bout her?”
“I thought I’d wrap up a loaf of your banana bread for her. You still have some in the freezer, don’t you?”
“Yessum, I do. But that mighty poor givin’, seem to me, since I know she come in here with something store bought for you.”
I waved my hand. “Yes, and it’ll be bath powder, like it is every year.”
“Don’t matter what it is. She take the trouble to go an’ do something for you, an’ you can’t even bring yo’self to think about a little chile, what lookin’ for Santy Claus to come in here ’bout three days from now.” Lillian stopped and drew in a deep breath. “Miss Julia, I know I don’t ever talk to you this way, an’ I hope you won’t hold it against me. But it look like to me you have a better Chris’mas yo’self if you make a better Chris’mas for somebody else.”
She was right. She’d never spoken to me in such a way before, and I was just before being mortally offended by it. But I am not one to reciprocate in like manner, so I thanked her for her advice and went upstairs to be by myself for a while.
I sank into the easy chair in my bedroom and rested my head on my hand. Lord, everybody was after me about something every time I turned around. If it wasn’t Binkie wanting my signature on a piece of paper, it was LuAnne wanting me to get out of the house and do something. Now, Lillian was on my back about shopping for Christmas, when all I wanted was to be left alone.
Well, no, I guess I didn’t, else I would’ve sent Hazel Marie and that unfortunate child packing long before this. I hadn’t realized what a burden they would be, for if it wasn’t Christmas it would be Valentine’s Day and Easter Sunday and Mother’s Day and birthdays and first one thing after another. All requiring, according to custom, some recognition in the form of gifts and presents and the spending of money. Before I knew it, I would be scraping the bottom of the barrel, without a penny to my name. What no one seemed to realize was that I was on my own now and, if the money ran out, what would I do?
I rubbed my forehead and sighed from the depths of my soul, thinking back to the barren years with Wesley Lloyd. He hadn’t believed in acknowledging any of the milestones of life, except Easter, of course, by going to church, w
hich made it no different than any other Sunday. Birthdays, I thought with a pang, were barely worth his attention. Every year on mine he would hand me a check for fifty dollars and tell me to buy something I wanted. And he would always—and I mean, every year that rolled around—say, “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
It had taken me years to get over being disappointed and to stop hoping for things to be different. At first, I’d decorated the house for each occasion, planned special meals, did my best to make special days special. He hadn’t appreciated any of it, often not even noticing unless I interrupted his routine. Is it any wonder that I’d given up and taken on his sour disposition? Now I didn’t know if I could rekindle any of the hope and expectation of a special day that I’d once known. I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to.
But Lillian had shaken me up. I should make an effort. I knew that. I just didn’t know where the energy for the effort was going to come from.
Maybe I’d go downtown and see what I could find.
I reached for a pen and paper to make a list. Lillian, I wrote first. Well, a check would be the thing for her, something she could use and would appreciate. That was easy enough.
LuAnne. Body lotion, since she was into bath articles.
Binkie. She needed something for that mop of hair, but I didn’t know what it could be. So body lotion for her, too, and I could kill two birds with one stone, or rather two gifts at the same counter.
Deputy Bates. What would a law enforcement officer need? Nice leather gloves with a warm lining? No, too expensive, and he probably already had some. A box of candy. That would do it, and I could pick that up at the drugstore.
Sam? Should he even be on the list? We’d never exchanged gifts before, so should I start something that neither of us would want to continue? And it might embarrass him, since he wouldn’t have anything for me. On the other hand, he had been of inestimable help in straightening out Wesley Lloyd’s two wills, and I suppose I owed him some recognition. Another box of candy with a nice note of thanks. In that way, he wouldn’t feel obligated to run out and get something for me.
