I tell him the story of the church bell and ask him if he’s ever heard it.
“No.” He whispers in a voice heavy with awe. “They drowned some towns?”
“That’s what my dad told me.” I never wanted to share this with anyone before. It was like giving away a piece of my father that belonged only to me. But it feels right.
“Wow, Mom. I wonder what they look like now?”
“I would imagine they’re all decayed. Probably only the stone structures are even remotely intact. I guess. I don’t even know when they built the dams.”
The lake is always so peaceful. I love living on the water. It calms me. Everybody needs a calmer me.
“We’re lucky to live here, aren’t we, Mom?”
“Blessed is more like it.” I examine his profile, remembering the days when the full curve of his cheek gave me no clue as to what the man would someday look like. Now many telltale signs occupy his superstructure. He’ll have a strong, rounded, bullish jaw, not the bent, chiseled jaw of a model, but sturdy, dependable, and ready. His eyes will examine the world through their gray irises and recreate it in his own image. His nose will emerge below his forehead without indentation between the eyes. He seems to be hanging on to the fuller bottom lip.
I love staring at him. “Sometimes I wonder about who you’ll be, and more to the point, what I’m doing now that will either stifle you or spur you to greatness.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “You overthink this stuff, Mom.”
“I don’t know. I mean, maybe you’ll want to be a simple man, a plumber like my father or a schoolteacher who grades all his papers during his free hours and comes home to work on his art.”
“Maybe. I doubt it, but maybe. Although I would like to learn how to bend pipe. I could do some really cool stuff with that.”
“But will I, the wife of a surgeon, the lady who lives in the big stone house on Loch Raven and vacations in places most people haven’t heard of, will I be fine with that?”
He squeezes again. “Mom? You okay?”
“I guess. I’m just a little torn to pieces these days. I don’t know where to set my feet anymore.”
“Well, I’m here.”
I turn to him, smile, and run the backs of my fingers down his cheek. “It’s not your job to worry about me that way, bud.”
“Hey, I worry about what I want to worry about!” He turns back to face the water. “So that Hotel place is really falling down?”
“It needs a lot of work.”
He nods and shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his khakis. “I think I’m going to take a little walk.” He steps away, walks toward the limestone kiln, then turns. “You know I don’t need to live here, don’t you? In this place?”
“Huh?”
He sweeps a wide arm. “All this. Don’t hang on to anything for my sake, Mom.”
And he walks away, hands in his pockets, posture loose and open.
I call Laney again. She says, “You still sound troubled.”
“I’m just remembering things.”
“Like what?”
“When I was a little girl, my father used to take me to a peninsula on Loch Raven that turns into an island when the water is high. We’d pack up a blanket, some books, and a transistor radio. If an Orioles game was on, we’d follow along, picturing Al Bumbry and Brooks Robinson. Tippy Martinez in later years. If the O’s weren’t on, we’d listen to WLIF’s easy listening music and read. Sometimes we’d read the same book, our heads close together on the blanket.”
“You guys were close.”
“Very. We read at the same speed. He would turn the page just when I was ready, and I never had to say a word. It was always me and Dad, Laney. I was glad to have my father all to myself. I was glad my mother had died after she left us.”
“Your mother left you?”
“When I was really little. And then she died a couple of years later, and I never had to worry about trying to get her attention, getting her to love me, chasing after impossible dreams.”
“Maybe sometimes, Heather, we just keep chasing the same dream over and over again.”
* * *
So fine, then.
I stay up until 2:00 a.m., a booklet of stickers in hand as I start to categorize my belongings by placing a coordinating dot of color: red for less than five years old, blue for absolutely necessary—and my definition of necessary is pretty extreme—I mean really necessary, like settler on the prairie necessary. Blue like the ocean or the sky necessary. Yellow for sentimental value, a yellow glow, a yellow light in the window leading you home. Finally, green for unnecessary. Green for “go.” Good to go. So far, having gone through the living room and dining room, I’ve used up two yellows and forty reds, twenty-seven greens and seven blues.
The next morning Jace, towel around his neck and pouring a cup of coffee, asks what’s going on.
“Just a sort of inventory.”
He shakes his head. “Care to explain, hon?”
“Nope.”
He leaves for work ten minutes later.
If he can be slanty about his Bonnie thing, well, so can I about this.
Will’s all over the idea. “I mean, how much stuff do three people really need, Mom?”
“Oh yeah, mister?” I rip off some sheets. “Go do your own room and we’ll see how excited you are about it.”
He grabs the stickers, the challenge in his eyes. “Just you wait and see.”
ELEVEN
Nothing cheers up a Marylander like a crab cake. Lark, Will, and I finish up lunch at Bo Brooks Crab House. On the deck, the breeze off the river ruffles our hair and clothing; my blue and white sundress flutters. I like clothing that flutters. Will licks the last of the shrimp salad off his fork, and Lark scams the final onion ring, dipping it into the mixture of mayo and ketchup she always jumbles together.
My excitement returns while trying to relay to Lark the work going on at the Hotel. Lark says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this excited before, Heather.”
“And I’ve got cake!”
“Lots of cake,” Will says. “Lots and lots of cake.”
We pull up to the Hotel thirty minutes later.
Will looks around him, eyes like planets. He has never been in a bad part of town. Fifteen years old and he has never been in a bad part of town.
I park around the side of the Hotel, smack up against a Dumpster that looks as if a stiff wind blew it end over end like a tumbleweed at least a decade ago, rust growing like copper mold around every crack in the army green paint.
Lark climbs out and shuts her door. Will and I follow suit, and my son and I just stand there, eyeing the decay, the garbage, and a pair of sun-dried underwear and three gray-white tube socks. I wonder if he saw the used condom. His round eyes lock on my own. Drat, he did.
Lark moves forward. “Oh, come on, you guys. Stop acting all scared.”
“Like you can talk!”
“Hey, at least I know to get off the street.”
Two young men run up the road, shouting just as we round the corner. A well-dressed man in a European-cut suit hurries toward us from the doorway of the Hotel. “Come inside quickly, folks. Those guys are bad news.”
He’s a beautiful pale mocha, and intense, glowing eyes catch the sun in their golden irises. Hair cut close to his skull enables us to see a scar running along the right side of his head above his ear. That must be a hundred-dollar tie too.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m not down here much.”
Lark jabs me in the ribs with her elbow.
He smiles. A dimple in his left cheek too. What a charmer! I’ll bet he’s one of the local pastors. He opens the door. “Believe me, I’ve been around here too much. It can get a little rough.”
Will says, “You obviously don’t live in these parts anymore, though, right?”
“Will!” I say.
The gentleman waves a hand. “No worry, no worry. No, I moved away a few years ago, but I find m
yself around here more than enough. I’m a big fan of Sister Jerusha.” He smiles sweetly, warm eyes casting a generous, welcoming net and pulling us in.
I sneak a glance at Lark, who’s standing there looking like her brain has flown out of her head. Lark? You attracted to this man? I sure wouldn’t blame her if she was.
“I am too,” I say. “Sister Jerusha is amazing.”
“No doubt, no doubt. She tries to do her best by people.”
“You should know, Knoxie.” Mo strides down the stairs like a milk chocolate Incredible Hulk.
Knox Dulaney? Ah, yes, Heather Curridge charmed by a drug dealer. Just perfect.
Knox turns to us. “Ladies, young man, have a fine day.” He nods his head politely and leaves.
“Bad news, the man is bad news.” Mo sits back down at his desk. “Well, hey, hey, Mrs. Curridge. Escorted by Knox Dulaney himself.”
“Good memory, Mo, and it’s just Heather, believe me.”
“And who you got with you?”
“My friend Lark Summerville.” Mo shakes her hand and she snaps out of her trance. “And my son, Will.”
Mo shakes his hand as well. “Fine young man you got there!”
“Good to meet you.” Will.
I lean forward. “That was really Knox Dulaney? The drug dealer? I thought he was a pastor or something.”
Mo laughs himself into a coughing fit. “Oh, that was a good one, girl.”
I don’t tell him I wasn’t kidding.
“You lookin’ for Sister J?”
“Yes. If she’s got the time. I’ve got some cake in the car too, for dessert tonight if you need it.”
“Hang on, I’ll buzz her. And we always need cake.” He picks up the phone and presses a button. “Retha? Sister J upstairs with you? Tell her that lady whose husband was almost shot by Knoxie Dulaney’s no-good cousin from Florida is down here to see her.” He listens. “Thanks.” Looks up at us. “She’ll be down in about ten minutes. There’s a social worker up there with some of the women, workin’ things out. You know.”
“No problem. Why don’t we unload the cake?”
Mo calls one of the guys hanging around by the television set playing, of all things, Martha Stewart Living. “Sly! You wanna come give Mrs. Curridge a hand here? She brought cake.”
Sly jumps to his feet. “There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for cake.”
By the time we settle the boxes on the worktable in the kitchen, Sly has revealed he is twenty-eight days clean from crack.
He runs a hand over his shaved head. “I’m just, you know, tryin’ to get my body strong first, and then I’m going back to work. My brother-in-law gets a lot of work bricklaying, and I’m a bricklayer too, been bricklaying since I was that boy’s age. But . . . got to get this body strong first. One step at a time. You know.”
Sister Jerusha pounds across the big room. “I saw the cakes. Terrific! Frish, but I’ve never seen such pretty food here at the Hotel. You’ve given us a first, doll. And believe me, that takes some doing.”
Will looks at me as if to say, Frish?
After I introduce Will and Lark, Sister J invites us back to her quarters for a cup of tea. So robust, so mythic, she hardly seems like a tea person, more like a whiskey person.
“What’s your last name, Sister Jerusha?” I ask as she points to the small couch. We all crowd in as she sits on an old La-Z-Boy, the side upholstery held together with duct tape as promised. I think about the lounger in our family room. She needs one far more than we do, and I saw a wonderful chair online last week that would replace it. Or maybe I don’t need to replace it. Maybe Will and I can run it down next week. Ah, and I can’t forget to get the bed linens out of the back of the truck before I go. And the towels and plates.
Crucifixes of wood, silver, brass, ivory, and plastic hang all over the walls. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. It’s important He suffers down here. It’s important these folk see what He did in obedience so He could not only redeem but understand.
“My full name is Jerusha Bridget Mary O’Neill. I grew up in the church, and I’ll die in the church. I, my dolls, am a walking cliché.”
“My mom’s a cliché too,” Will says. “So no worry there!”
“Will!” I turn to him. But I have to laugh. “If I was twenty pounds thinner, you’d be right on the mark.” A lot of the physicians’ wives I know, stay-at-home moms like me, are teeny-tiny little Botoxed, faux-buxomed beauties. It would bother me, but Jace assured me he’d be mortified to be married to someone so artificial. “Do you honestly think a guy wants to hug someone with a plastic chest, Heather?” Gotta love the guy.
Okay, thirty pounds thinner.
Lark has remained quiet since we arrived, taking everything in.
“Did you help with the cake?” Sister Jerusha asks.
Lark shakes her head no. “I’m just here to see what’s going on. Heather hasn’t been able to shut up about this place since the other night.”
I nod. “It’s true.”
Sister Jerusha pulls out her hankie. “You either love us or completely want to avoid us. I don’t see much middle ground, that’s for sure. Some folks actually dislike what we’re doing as far as the downstairs set. Say it’s enabling people to stay in poverty.” She leans forward. “But God’s been with me every step of the way.” Sits back in her chair, once again starts fiddling with the simple linen square. “If it wasn’t for that, well, I’d have thrown in the towel long ago. Plus, it isn’t like I’m Mother Teresa or anything. Someday they sure as heck won’t be talking about canonizing a St. Jerusha!” She laughs a great, loud “Humph!” then points to Will. “You like ice cream bars?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Hang on, then.” She rises to her feet, tucks the hankie into the waistband of her skirt, and disappears into the opposite room. A few seconds later she returns, Fudgsicle in hand. She hands it to Will. “Our secret. I never share these with the clients.” She turns to us. “See? A saint I am not. But what can you do?”
The phone rings beside her. “Hold on a sec.” She picks it up. “Yeah? You bet. Okay, tell her to wait just a couple of minutes and I’ll be right out.” She cradles the receiver once more. “Krista, remember her? She’s back. I told you she’d be back, didn’t I?”
An overwhelming sense of relief gushes through me.
“So I figure you’re back here because you’re feeling either guilty or blessed beyond belief, and maybe even a little called. What is it?”
Is that what I sound like when I speak my mind? No wonder everybody’s worried! “I just thought Lark here might be able to help out the Hotel.”
Sister J turns to Lark. “We can always use help. In what way?”
“I run the Charles Summerville Foundation.”
“The one on the radio all the time?”
Lark nods. “Yes. I’m his daughter.”
“No kidding.”
“No. Heather says a lot of work needs to be done around here.”
“Heck yeah. Always. I need new plumbing, part of the roof replaced, a couple of new machines for the Laundromat, a ceiling in the main room, and that’s just to get you started. But what we really need around here”—she turns to me and points—“is more cake like that. Capiche?”
Capiche? I thought she was Irish!
* * *
Of course, Lark understood right away and tells me so on the way home when I ask what Sister Jerusha meant by the whole cake thing.
She sets the Christmas stocking she’s embroidering on her lap. “She’s saying there are always people like me to throw money at problems, and we’re awfully good at it. It was no affront to me, believe me, and we’re very necessary. But you brought cake, Heather, made in your own kitchen, with a lot of love and care, made with your own two hands, and Will’s hands too. You can see the difference, right?”
Tears nick my eyes, and I force down the throaty emotion that rises like sea foam. “Do you think the foundation will be able to help them?”
�
�I’ll make a recommendation. I don’t see why we can’t help fix up the Hotel. But it’s more than that. Did you hear her talk about her dreams for a youth center, a health center, a job training place right there in the neighborhood?”
“I’d help tutor!” Will says from the backseat of the car. Gosh, I love that kid.
Lark reaches back and baps him on the arm. “Problem is, the Hotel lives on heightened alert 24-7. They’re providing a lot of relief, and even some help in getting people on their feet, but I know she wants to do more than that. The rooms are pretty depressing. Can you imagine trying to make a life for yourself in a 10 x 10 with cracked walls?”
After dropping Lark off, I turn to Will, who immediately points back out the windshield to direct my attention where it belongs.
Okay, okay.
“I liked that man Sly, didn’t you, bud? I’ve never met somebody that newly off drugs before.”
“Me either, Mom. It’s not really what you think, is it? I mean, Sly’s a real person.”
“Everybody there is a real person.”
“Did you see that Chinese guy with the long hair who just sat there staring off into space?”
“Yeah. Hard to tell if he was stoned or just burned out.”
“ ’Cause we know all the signs of drug addiction.”
“You got a point there.”
We continue the drive north to my little windswept paradise on the cliff, far away from Sister Jerusha’s Hotel.
Will considers the landscape flying by a little too deeply, silent.
He doesn’t realize how lucky he is that these moments, these new experiences, can fall on him like a virgin rain shower; that he doesn’t have children and a house and a life that muddy the ground upon which the raindrops fall.
TWELVE
I want to keep dotting my possessions, but centerpiece construction begins today. Only a few days remain until the freshman welcome dinner is yet another meaningless experience for all concerned. Will helps me gather up the craft supplies we’re using.
“Do I really have to go, Mom?”
“I have no idea how many people will show up. Mrs. Peterson said she’d be there, and she’s bringing Nicola.”
Plain Perfect & Quaker Summer 2 in 1 Page 35
