“Mom, this dinner is so lame, and you know it. Do you really think everybody will get all buddy-buddy because of it?”
“No. But we’re a part of this school, Will. And we’ll do what it takes to serve.”
There.
Will slams some pipe cleaners into a bag. “Well, if serving’s the real issue, let’s just drive this stuff down to Sister Jerusha and those kids upstairs on the transition floor. All this is going to get thrown into the trash by the time next week rolls around anyway.”
And he’s exactly right.
This stuff definitely deserves a big green dot of unnecessariness.
* * *
Laney grabs a seat next to me. Of course, nobody has shown up but them and us. Figures. “This reminds me of church,” she says. “Everybody can find time for the actual activity, but the setup and the cleanup are left to the old faithfuls.”
“You said it. The baby’s adorable.” A teeny little Brooke sleeps in her car seat.
“At least there’s that.” Then she smiles. “I do love my kids, Heather.”
“I know.”
“Good. Just making sure you knew.” She grabs a hair elastic from around her wrist, and in the time it takes to sneeze, she commits fabulousness in the form of a tousled up do. But with Laney, you just don’t mind.
Will and Nicola sit at their own table, mind you, taping foam blocks into bamboo baskets and glue-gunning moss over the top. After that we’ll set in a tiki statue and finish it off with a circle of silk dendrobium in white and pink.
We sit in the cafeteria, a multi-windowed room decorated in shades of gray and maroon, the focus wall adorned with the school’s crest. More boring than a khaki trench coat.
Mr. Maddock, the administrator, approaches. “Hello, Mrs. Curridge, Mrs. Peterson.”
We greet him.
“Thanks for all your help here at St. Matthews.”
“Sure,” I say.
“No prob.” Laney.
He peers down at the car seat and smiles. “Another future student, I see?”
“Uh-huh. We’ll keep ’em coming!”
He excuses himself, back to the grind and all that.
I pull some moss from a cellophane bag, considering Will’s deadon observation. These things will definitely be food for the dump next trash day. “Don’t you ever wonder what it’s all for anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“This school. This life. We just try to make things better and better for ourselves, don’t we? You’ve got the doctorate in theology, Laney. Isn’t it a little skewed?”
“Yes, frankly, it is. But I haven’t figured out what to do about it.”
“Maybe that’s not the theologian’s job.”
She rearranges the blanket of her newborn. “But maybe it is. It all starts with our view of God, Heather, who we believe He is, what we believe He desires. Why do we think we can divorce our everyday decisions from the desires of His heart?”
Mr. Maddock pokes his head in the room. “Mrs. Curridge, can I talk to you privately for a moment? It won’t take long.”
Two minutes later he gestures to one of the chairs in front of his desk and sits down in the other. “I wanted to keep you updated on Ronnie Legermin.”
“Oh, yes?”
“His father had no idea his son was behaving in such a way.”
I’d find that hard to believe, but hey, my dad didn’t know about me.
“He’d like to talk to you personally and in private.”
“Does Ronnie know this came from Will?”
“No. I told him it was a grapevine affair. Do you mind if I give him your number?”
“Not at all.” Oh, man!
* * *
Well, I survived the centerpiece gathering with only one deep scratch on my arm from a wire flower stem. I drop Will off at the club for practice for tomorrow’s swim meet. Three hours to myself, and a list of things to do unravels like a falling hem. I need to sign Will up for fall art classes at the community college, pay bills, figure out if I’ve got all Will’s immunizations ready for high school next year, and I haven’t ordered his uniforms yet, but, well, the wanderlust in me triumphs again. I really need to drive.
I pull out onto Blenheim Road and travel north. I always seem to travel north past the horse farms and the farm farms, past the hilly woodlands, the wide bands of grass, the nurseries, the sensible ranchers on their three-acre plots; the mammoth new mansions-in-a-minute that border old farm property.
I call Jace. “Are you doing rounds?”
“Just about to. What’s up?”
“I’m driving. Just driving.”
“You okay?”
“Just thinking about how I always seem to end up where I went to school. It’s odd to think that now a lot of kids who grew up in the Christian school movement have reached middle age and even odder to think we’re no different statistically—divorce, alcoholism, our likelihood to have a TV—than the products of the public schools. When I first read that in Christianity Today or someplace like that, Jace, I practically freaked out. And now I begin to look around me and I think there must be something to this.”
“How so?”
“The divorce rate among my own graduating class is off the charts, and I know of at least three extramarital affairs. So if we’re not any morally different than the rest of the world, why do we think we’re so great, why do we think we’ve got the answers, why do we act like such know-it-alls? Shouldn’t our love for Jesus make a difference in our behavior?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“As far as I’m concerned, all we have is hope. And if I’m honest, it’s probably all we’ve ever had that’s separated us from the rest of humanity. Isn’t that right?”
“I don’t know, hon. It sounds a little simplistic to me.”
“I really didn’t think so either. But I can’t come up with any alternative theories at this stage of the game. All I know is I can’t go on avoiding the questions any longer.”
“I don’t think you should. I think you should ask all the questions you’d like.”
I turn off the air-conditioning and roll down the windows. “It seemed like all the answers were found in that Christian school in those days, or so I heard every week in chapel. But those suggestions sure as pie didn’t do a bit of good for Gary and Mary Andrews, did they?”
“Who are Gary and Mary Andrews?”
“I’ve got to go. I’ll keep a plate warm for you at dinner.”
“Heather, who are Gary and Mary Andrews?”
“Another time, Jace. I can’t talk about it yet.”
If he can’t tell me about what’s going on with Bonnie, I don’t feel the least bit guilty about not sharing Gary and Mary with him.
“Hon, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Gotta go.”
I park across the street at the veterinary office parking lot. I watch the little bungalow, hoping that maybe this time somebody will step out. It’s got to happen sooner or later, doesn’t it?
* * *
On the way to pick up Will, I call Lark. Leslie answers. “Hello, dear!”
“Hi, Mrs. Summerville. I called to talk to Lark. Is she home?”
“No, she took the bus to a meeting across town.” The mystified disapproval rises like a fog out of the earpiece.
“Darn. It wasn’t important, I guess.”
“Will I do?”
“Well, it’s like this. I was just thinking about Phillip Carmichael from high school. And I think I had a revelation.”
“Tell me about it.”
“When I was in ninth grade, I made it into concert choir at school.
The alto section. Phillip Carmichael was this slightly effeminate tenor who was a junior the year I was a freshman. I have no idea where he is these days. And actually, I’m not really sure his last name was Carmichael. I don’t really remember his last name, if you want to know the truth. I hadn’t thought about him for years until the other day when
I ordered blue cheese dressing to go with my wings.”
“I love blue cheese.”
“Me too. One day, on choir tour, we were sitting in a Shoney’s somewhere in Tennessee, and I was in my chef salad phase. I ordered chef salad all the time during my early years of high school. Loved them! Phillip said, ‘I hope you don’t order blue cheese dressing again. That really makes your breath stink, Heather.’ We traveled hours and hours by bus, so breath made a difference.
“So I ordered Thousand Island dressing. And you know, it wasn’t half bad. With some extra pepper to counteract all that ketchup, I actually liked the way it went with the strips of provolone cheese, the salami, the ham, and wedges of hard-boiled egg.”
“I love a good chef salad too.”
“In fact, I ordered Thousand Island dressing for years, because heaven help us, someone told me I had bad breath. But over the years I ate less and less salad, and by the time I was twenty-five— ten years later!—I realized that blue cheese dressing was still my favorite and so were chef salads and how foolish to have let Phillip Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is deprive me of my favorite dressing for an entire decade.”
“Yes, indeed, it was. It’s important to eat what you like, because there’s always somebody out there who doesn’t like it and will tell you so, Heather, and if they tell you so, they’re not appealing and kind.”
“Pretty simple, right?”
“‘Elementary,’ as the old man said. I think I’ll get Lloyd to make me a chef salad for dinner. You put me in the mood.”
“Good.”
“Heather, are you all right?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was this really about salad dressing?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you the Phillip in the story, or are you you?”
“Both, I think. I think I’m Jace’s Phillip and my own Phillip.”
“Oh dear.”
“Was there anybody like that in your life, Mrs. Summerville?”
“My Aunt Regalia.”
“Regalia?”
“Ghastly name. Family name, of course, dear. One afternoon our housekeeper made biscuits and I slathered on the butter. She told me thin is more important than delicious and that I was looking more delicious than a girl should if she wants to look like a lady. I haven’t had butter since.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve years old.”
“Humans can be a rotten bunch, can’t they?”
“Oh my, yes, dear. They certainly can.”
“Would you do something for me? Would you go downstairs and tell Lloyd to make you some homemade biscuits with butter?”
“You know, Heather, I think I’ll do exactly that. And grits too.”
* * *
Lark called me back at eleven. I slipped out of the bedroom and downstairs into the kitchen ready to unload.
“So everywhere I went today I saw cake. First off, Safeway displayed posters advertising a buy-one-get-one-free cake sale in their bakery. In Strapazza’s window a sign said ‘Italian Wedding Cake Here!’ And then, I swear, four people said ‘piece of cake’ to me during a conversation. Four people.”
“Whoa, Heather.”
“I think God’s knocking on my brain, but I’m not telling a soul except you. They’d think I was nuts. Almonds, most likely—arranged on a fluffy bed of buttercream icing.”
“Does Jace think you’re nuts?”
“A little. But he’s keeping his own secrets.”
“Bad ones?”
“No. Good ones, ones he thinks I can’t possibly understand.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Yes. I have to admit it. I really am.”
“Is his secrecy justified?”
Why does Lark always have to ask the hard questions?
“Probably. But I’m not ready to do what it takes to bring it all out into the open.”
“Don’t let your life pass you by because you’re scared, Heather. I did that for years, and it was horrible.”
“You raised Flannery, didn’t you?”
“Not really. Sometimes I think she raised me.”
* * *
Will finds me in the night gloom of my thoughts and sits down without a word. Stands back up. Makes us hot milk with just the right amount of honey and cinnamon.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, bud.”
“I heard your conversation with Miss Lark. Mom, I’m not the most spiritually mature person in the world, but are you really that thick?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
“Dad and I started into Isaiah. God cares about those people down at the Hotel. And this”—he waves his arm around my belongings— “this is sleaze in comparison. So is my school. So is, well, just about everything in our lives right now.”
So tell me how you really feel, Will.
“I think maybe you’re crossing over the line, bud. Your dad has worked hard for all the stuff you’re so readily disdaining.”
“Sorry.” He squeezes my arm. “This is all driving you a little nuts. Do you realize that? I’m kinda worried about you.”
“There are things about me you don’t know. Torments you have no knowledge of.”
“Like what?”
Like a little gray house where two dirty kids lived, one of whom I betrayed. “I can’t go there yet. And don’t ask me to, Will.”
“Okay.” He stands up and kisses me atop the head. “I love you, Mom. I’m sorry if I was hard on you.”
I grab his hand and kiss it. “Just go to bed, bud. It’s very late.”
“Okay. Hey, take a look in the garage before you go to bed. I’ve got some stuff for Goodwill. I couldn’t believe how many green dots I had. It was pretty bad.”
“And you’ve already got them boxed up and ready to go?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, what’s the point in keeping it around?”
THIRTEEN
Tomorrow the freshman dinner descends like a giant spider. I’m so torn by Will’s words. He’s an idealist, yes, and always has been, but this school isn’t bad. The parents are interested in their kids for the most part; the academics are excellent. So they want tiki centerpieces. So what?
Carmen, raven hair spiking up around her head, runs up to me as I hang up tropical floral swags in the cafeteria in preparation. Tablecloths go on next, and then the oh-so-glorious centerpieces.
“Oh, Heather, I’m glad I caught you. You’ll never guess what happened.”
I’m dying to know. Um. “What?”
“The Whittings can’t do the cake. Her mother was rushed to the hospital last night with a massive heart attack or something. Can you make the cakes? Please?” Her lipstick is always so perfect.
“For tomorrow night? Ten cakes?”
“I’m so sorry, I just don’t know what else to do.” And she doesn’t have those little jaggedy cracks around her lips sucking up the lip color either. How does she manage that?
Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe God really wants me to make my cakes for the school. I mean, the Hotel is all the way downtown, and with my driving . . . “All right. But can you find someone to fill in for me tomorrow morning for folding programs and setting up the sound system?”
“Oh. Uh—hmm. Uh—well, let me see. It’s kinda short notice.”
“Try.”
She looks up at me, sea-blue eyes suddenly gone round. “I’ll do it. Sorry . . . Heather.”
Immediately I flinch under that horrid remorse that comes bowling along whenever I blow it and act all snippy. Carmen works hard; she doesn’t need a smart aleck like me, even if she is a clod sometimes. And make no mistake, that was definitely cloddish. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do both. Not with that much cake. I’ll be baking almost all night as it is.”
She rubs my upper arm. “Sure. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
I shake my head. “It’s always something, isn’t it, Carmen?”
“You said it.”
“Go ahead. You got lots to do.”
“Good luck!”
Carmen really is a good person beneath her control freak, tanning bed persona. She just thinks her thing should be everyone’s thing.
“Hey, Heather? I’m sorry about the powder room.”
“Me too.”
I watch her click to her car, cell phone already up to her ear.
* * *
Will slides into the family room on his dirty socks, laptop under his arm. “So, Mom, I hate to tell you, but I think the church bell thing your dad told you about Loch Raven is one of those myths.”
I pat the sofa. Here I sit, watching my favorite cooking goddess, Nigella Lawson, who actually eats the food she cooks, looking like she’s ready to swoon when she stuffs rare steak dipped in béarnaise sauce into her mouth; she’s probably a size ten, which in Hollywood sensibilities relegates you to the category of sideshow freak. I click off the set.
“Okay, burst my bubble, then. Where did you find the info, Mr. Smarty-Pants?”
He sits down and opens his laptop. “Here on this site.”
“How long have you had those socks on?”
He points to the screen. “There are several towns under water, but the biggest one was Warren, Maryland. There was a big mill there, and a school, and boys’ and girls’ gymnasiums, a church. Lots of stuff.”
He scrolls down. “You need to check this out. But let me just tell you, when the City of Baltimore bought the town from the Summerville family—hey, do you think they’re related to Miss Lark?”
I shrug. “Beats me.”
“Anyways, the city bought the town for a million dollars, and before the water filled up the valley, they disassembled the towns.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I like the bell idea a lot more. But I don’t think it’s true. Bummer, huh?”
“Definitely. I’ve been listening for that darn bell ever since I can remember.”
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