Plain Perfect & Quaker Summer 2 in 1

by Beth Wiseman; Lisa Samson

  “I already did. They said it was fine.”

  So what’s all this about? Does he want to get rid of me for the week, or keep me with the sisters because they’re a good influence on me, or is this something he thinks I need? For such a nice guy, he’s driving me nuts right now.

  And it stings a little. He has never kept a secret from me before.

  That I know of.

  Mercy.

  “Wanna walk down to the water?” I stand up.

  “Good idea. By the way, Carmen’s trying to get in touch with you. She’s called the house a bunch of times.”

  “I know. I just can’t go there right now.”

  We slip and slide our way down the embankment and settle on Liza’s rock. We don’t say too much. Who says much when the ship you’re on begins to pull away from the dock and out into the harbor?

  “Do you miss the hospital ship, Jace?”

  “More than I can say.”

  “I canceled the tennis court.”

  “No kidding!”

  “Nope.”

  When I kissed him good-bye an hour later, still no confession about Bonnie.

  I tell Anna. “Is this a problem?”

  “Oh dear. The fact that you can’t come out and ask him speaks to something far deeper.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  We picked our own. Now that really does make sense after having been with these women, nonstop, for the past two weeks. It’s really not quite the same to climb in the car, drive down to Klein’s or Safeway, and pick up a flat of strawberries from California or South America or some exotic place with a strange-sounding name, far away over the sea.

  The farmer, Dave Bittner, helped us pick the berries as we zigzagged down the rows. Young, energetic, and somehow drawn to the sisters just like I was, he chattered about his kids, his crops, and all the plans he had. He talked about land and soil and rain, about roots and seeds and leaves, all these things God makes. And this is his life. Not ideas that remain ideas. Not postulations or prose. Dave Bittner must scrape the very planet from beneath his fingernails each night before he picks up an ear of corn and bites down with his calcium teeth.

  Yeah, that sure beats the Safeway.

  And now clear running water thrums into the stainless steel kitchen sink. Liza gently places the berries in to soak, although, you guessed it, they were grown without pesticides. Still, dirt, no matter how clean, isn’t something most people want to eat.

  Okay, yes, there’s that odd man who pops up on TV shows every once in a while who eats dirt. But he only proves my point.

  I begin cutting off the tops. We’re making jam for all the ministries the sisters support: the home for marginalized women down in Randallstown—unwed mothers, battered women, undereducated women, pretty much anyone with girl organs who needs a hand and wants to get on with her life. The alcoholics’ home, of course. And I’m sure Anna will take some to her Quakers and the Vets. I ask if I can make some for the Hotel, and they are delighted by the suggestion.

  I bask in the holiness of these berries. I eat one, worshiping in a very taste-filled, texture-filled way as it slides down my throat, the natural sugars defining the moment, the sweetness a gift from heaven.

  Liza pops one in her mouth too. “The best part. Sneaking tastes.”

  “I agree.”

  Anna told me not to ask Liza about Lou, and though I’m eager to know how she’s doing, I refrain. Anna so very seldom gives concrete suggestions, I know this must be something I’d be wise to listen to.

  “Liza, how do you keep going with all this? Don’t you ever feel raw from dealing with so much heartache?”

  “Well, Heather, if it was about me, I suppose I would.”

  “Even so. A person can only take in so much.”

  She starts to mash the berries in a pot over low heat. “Now there’s your mistake.”

  Anna would never say something like that. I like it. “How so?”

  “It’s like this. I don’t just take in, dear. More comes out of me than goes in. It’s why I give, have really made a life work out of it. When you take so much in, it can fester inside of you, knotting up your muscles, your psyche, your stomach, your nerves, even your soul. You’ve got to find some way to get it out. So when I give some jam, or make a meal, or talk with the men down at the home, I’m giving away some of my doubts, my fears, my own sin, and the sin of others that I know about.”

  “I don’t get how that helps.”

  “As long as good is happening, God is there.”

  “But isn’t He in the pain too?”

  “Yes. But in the pain I lean on Him. In the good, somehow, I participate with Him in a way that binds me to Him and Him to me in a different way. He allows me to partner with Him during those times, and I find that to be the highest honor He could ever bestow upon an old sinner like me.”

  I pick up another berry. “And then become like Christ Himself, who wasn’t content just to say things, but to touch people, heal them, eat with them.”

  “Be with them. Jesus showed up, Heather, at the weddings, the funerals, the meals, the stonings, the healings, the crucifixions. We tend to forget how straightforward it can really be.”

  “Liza? Do you ever wonder if you would have remained with Him in Gethsemane, along Calvary road, and at the foot of the cross?”

  “All the time.”

  “I do too.”

  “The only answer I can give to it is to ask a question. Am I there now? Right now with Jesus? Am I walking the road, praying in the garden, taking up my cross? If I can’t say yes to that right now, how can I begin to answer the other question? Do I have the right to even ask it?”

  “I often wonder how Jesus actually saw this world as worth dying for.”

  Her brows raise. “Oh my! Wouldn’t you die for your son?”

  “Of course.”

  It’s all so simple with Liza.

  She measures out sugar. “But most of us are only called to live for God, His world, our children, His children, aren’t we?”

  I raise my brows. Oh, so that’s all it takes?

  She smiles her saucy smile. “Easier said than done, I know. But honestly easier done, in the long run, than undone.”

  * * *

  Lark picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Heather.”

  “How do you do it? You always pick up right away.” I take a sip from my nighttime cup of tea.

  “I’m scared I’m going to miss something important, maybe even life-threatening for somebody else, all because I didn’t get to the phone in time. I used to have a toll-free line, 1-800-I-Pray-4-U, and I’ve been paranoid ever since.”

  Honestly, she’s a bit wacky, which is why I love her.

  “So what’s up?” she asks.

  “Did your father set up his foundation before or after he came to faith?”

  “Before.”

  “Why?”

  “He loved all the folks. The people in his factory, the people he met on his travels. He saw them as real people, with hearts and minds and lives to live. After he found Christ, he spent a lot of time in the Prophets, Heather. Particularly Isaiah. His life verses were Isaiah 58:6–8.”

  “Isaiah 58, you said?” I fish for a pencil in the nightstand.

  “Yep.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Try Micah 6:8 while you’re at it. It’s the do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with thy God thingee.”

  “You’re a veritable font of Scripture knowledge tonight, Lark.”

  “Well, I had to make sure I wasn’t doing all this stuff for nothing. A lot of Christians play down good works like it’s some smelly thing that only people from mainline denominations rely on to work their way into heaven. People who aren’t really close to God in the personal devotion-slash-refrain-from-sin type of stuff.”

  “I know. Which is one of the struggles I’m having.”

  “People’s souls may go on forever, but I think God wants us to help their bodies and spirits here right now too. And no
t just Christian people.”

  “Thanks. I’ll look this stuff up.”

  “I mean, it’s hardly an either/or situation, now, is it?”

  “Not if you say so.” Whoa, Lark.

  “Okay. Go to bed, Heather.”

  I decide to check my messages. Oh my goodness, two more from Carmen. The new mothers’ tea. The new mothers’ tea. Does she never give up?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Of course it takes us twice as long to get to the Hotel with Liza driving, but we left in plenty of time. Anna waved us off, clutching her own purse to head out to the Veterans hospital. Five jars of strawberry jam rest in a basket on my lap.

  Though Liza may have lost her road speed, she should get a medal for her parallel parking. With two cake boxes in my hands, one in hers, we clop our way down the broken sidewalk alongside the Hotel. The jam hangs in a basket from the crook of my arm.

  Mo sees us after we round the corner and walk past the plate glass window near his desk. He gains his feet and slips over to the door, flipping it open wide. “Well, here she is, and with some more of that cake!”

  “Hey, Mo.”

  “And you brought along a friend, I see.”

  “This is Liza Stephens.”

  Mo takes her cake and sets it on a nearby table. The small, gentle movements of this mammoth man fascinate me. “Krista,” he calls. “You mind helping these ladies get these cakes to the kitchen?”

  She stands up without a word and walks toward us. It’s the young woman who was locked out a few weeks ago. Grabbing Liza’s boxes, she jerks her head toward the door at the back of the room. “Come on this way, y’all.”

  She doesn’t seem too happy about this, but it gives me time to examine her from the back. Her black hair is piled into some intricate, wavy do, and two large hoops dangle from her ears. A tattoo screams “Playgirl” across the back of her neck. Ah, her creamy skin looks like soft velvet beneath those words.

  She’s no longer pregnant. I wonder where her baby is.

  “How’s the baby?” I ask.

  She pushes through the swinging door and into the kitchen. “You can set them right here on the table. And how do you know about my baby?”

  “I was here the night Sister Jerusha wouldn’t let you in because it was after nine.”

  She shakes her head. “That woman can be a witch.”

  “We all can,” Liza says. “I’ve never seen a bigger one than myself.”

  I laugh.

  Krista tilts her head to the side. “I guess that’s true of me too.”

  I nod. “Me too.”

  “So my baby been taken away. She in foster care and here I am. Just tryin’ to figure some things out. Anyway, you wanna see Sister J? She back in the office.”

  “If she’s got time.”

  She leads us through the kitchen to the back hallway and knocks on the door to Sister Jerusha’s quarters. “Sister J! It’s that cake lady and a friend of hers.”

  “Come on in!”

  She sits with that suave, well-dressed man, whose sculpted face, exquisite and fine, breaks into a smile. “This is my godson, Knox.”

  He nods at me. The drug dealer strikes again. And that smile. What an intoxicating smile.

  “Knoxie, this is Heather Curridge and—”

  Liza puts out her hand and Knox takes it. “Liza Stephens.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.” He turns to me. “Pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Curridge.”

  “Heather. Please.”

  “Of course.”

  He kisses Sister J on her cheek. “Better go, Aunt Jerusha. Don’t you be too hard on these ladies. You know how you can get.”

  Sister J beams.

  Mo would be scowling right now if he saw this, I can tell you that.

  Once again Sister J gives the tour. She loves giving the tour, it’s evident; cheeks flush, voice rises in excitement. And as you can imagine, Liza and Sister Jerusha are like oil and vinegar. Not really mixing, both too strong and too different, but really, made to go together in a way that would make whatever they would land on just that much better.

  After about an hour of hearing them talk about the missions they’ve worked in, mutual friends, and how on this green earth they’ve never met up before this, I head out to the big room to watch TV with Krista.

  “You like this show?”

  She nods. “Martha Stewart—the woman understand more than anybody know. Especially now that she been to prison.”

  “You been to prison, Krista?”

  “Spent a few sleepless nights in jail. Back in the day when I walked the streets. Then I got pregnant with Kenya and took off. I’m from Chicago. Moved down here to live with my aunt. Just got through a week of rehab. Three more to go, and Sister J gonna work on getting Kenya back.”

  “Did you graduate from high school?”

  “No. I like to get my GED. But I got to get me a job. But I can’t get a job without my GED. Not a good one, anyway.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  I turn back toward the screen. “Now I’d like to be able to cut up a chicken so easily.”

  Krista waves a hand. “Oh, that ain’t nothin’. I can do that with my eyes closed. My grandmom taught me all sorts of things about cooking.”

  “Well, that’s a skill right there.”

  “I got bigger dreams than that, ma’am.”

  “My name’s Heather, by the way.”

  “People tend to think people like me don’t have big dreams.”

  Mo calls over. “Krista! The van’s here.”

  “Gotta go. Three more weeks and then maybe I can figure out what’s next.”

  And the horrible, privileged part of me doubts she ever will. I hate this creature, arms crossed and head down, that lives inside me, this part that knows nothing about the Kristas of this world and wishes she would, by golly, just pull herself up by her bootstraps and make something of herself. Enough people from the “hood” have done that very thing, right?

  Lord, I believe. Help Thou my unbelief.

  * * *

  Five days remain, and I need another project. The sisters’ deck could definitely use a fresh coat of paint. So I ask them at breakfast about taking on the task.

  Anna sets down her toast. “Why, I think that’s lovely, Heather. Are you sure you want to do something so ambitious?”

  “I enjoy that kind of work.”

  “I like the idea.” Liza.

  “I can get the paint and start this morning. Did you have a color in mind?”

  “No. Why don’t you pick?” Anna.

  “Any color I want, Anna?”

  “Any color you want.” She places a firm hand over her sister’s.

  Liza raises an eyebrow.

  * * *

  So now I’m standing in line at the paint store with a tub of primer and a five-gallon container of cobalt blue paint—high gloss. I don’t know why I’m choosing this color. Maybe to see if they really mean what they say, if these women really are who they say they are when it comes to their own things.

  I mean, a lot of people do things for others, but it’s hands off when it comes to their own space, their own property. And I can’t blame them. But these sisters? Time and a lot of blue paint will tell. I call Laney and tell her what I’m doing, and she laughs for at least five minutes.

  Okay, one minute.

  “Heather, you are such a brat!”

  * * *

  I call Will, who asked all about my trip down to the Hotel. “I’m telling you, Mom. This is it. You’ve got to volunteer there.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I just feel it.”

  “What about all the stuff I do at your school?”

  “They’ll find other people to help. There are lots of moms who don’t lift a finger. They work all day, right?”

  “Uh-huh. But what if I like doing all that?”

  He laughs himself silly. First Laney, now Will.

  M
ercy, of all the possible kids, I had to get one like this! I don’t know if I can take his pressure much longer. Changing the subject, I find out he’s been fishing with that skipjack crew and making ten bucks an hour. Mrs. Curridge comes on the line and says, “He’s as brown as a berry, Heather.”

  Another message comes in from Carmen as I talk. I’ve got to, got to, got to call her back. Tomorrow.

  Jace left for Chicago and his nebulous “conference.”

  * * *

  The Towson Library is always a good place to do a little research. Maybe I can find Xavier Andrews before heading back to the sisters.

  The young woman at the research desk eagerly accepts the assignment. Which is a nice change. She’s new, looks fresh out of college. “I like a challenge every once in a while. And we have plenty of directories available.”

  “Somebody told me he relocated to Michigan, and that’s the last place I have.”

  With her height and long cinnamon hair, she really should be a model, not stuck here in some library in Maryland.

  “Michigan? Let’s see.” She turns to her computer terminal and starts clicking away despite long shell-pink nails.

  “I’ve already been on the Internet.”

  “No offense, but I’m really good at finding things on the Internet.”

  I smile and raise my hands. “Don’t let me slow you down.”

  The building remains familiar. “I remember coming to this place as a child. Saturday nights, just my dad and me. We’d park in the lot out back that’s the parking garage now, and then wind our way up the ramp walkway.” The giant concrete cylinder of a lobby caused quite the design controversy when it was built. The librarian says nothing. “My dad would drop the books off at the circulation desk: a Zane Grey or Louis L’Amour and perhaps some photographic essays of the West, maybe some local history book; and my Little House or Nancy Drew books. Ah, I loved that Nancy Drew. Did you?”

  “Uh-huh.”