First of all, I don’t buy that he casts aside his criminal persona. His presence intimidates people. When I asked Sister J about this a few weeks ago, she said, “He’s Jesus too, Heather. As far as I can tell, Jesus didn’t tell me who and who not to love. He told me to love them all.”
She’s a better person than I am, that’s all I can say.
* * *
Jace climbs into bed that evening. “I think I’m going to go to the Hotel every other week. Maybe take JoAnne from work. The problem is, a lot of the residents there don’t have time to get to the health department. One man I looked at is working three jobs. But I think I’ll go in during the evening next time, after people are done working.”
“What about prescriptions? How are they going to pay for what you write out?”
“Leave it to me. I’ve got some ideas.”
I slide my Bible off my nightstand. “I think we both need to read Isaiah 58 every night for the rest of the summer, Jace.”
“Go ahead and read out loud. I’ll listen from here.”
And I begin shading in a life that, up to this point, has felt very much like a line drawing.
I’m certainly going to look up real estate prices there on North Avenue. Surely one of those houses, or several of them together, could be made into a community home for women with living spaces just like Krista longs for. Privacy and some accountability both available. And cakes. Cakes are always good.
* * *
During the middle of the night I sit up straight. I dreamed Jesus came and led me out of the basement of an old stone church on fire, up through a rubble-strewn sanctuary. We climbed upon hewn stone blocks, up through rugged beams, sun beaming in strips through the latticed roof, leaving all the smoke and ash behind. And the rubble. And the debris.
And He never let go of my hand during the climb.
Then He left me, covered in the warmth of His breath.
THIRTY
I went and sat with the sisters for another shot of wisdom yesterday. For three hours we sat, each of them asking a question for clarification every so often. When will you volunteer? How will this affect your family? Mostly we sat in silence and I looked at them, Anna sitting with her hands lying like gloves in her lap, Liza with her arms crossed, staring at the copy of a Calder mobile over the dining room table.
Inside, a question erupted. Will this hurt Will?
And another question skidded up beside it, wanting a fair shake.
But what would hurt my son more?
Meanwhile, the sisters sat in silence.
Do I want him to be raised to seek his own comfort and well-being, both physically and spiritually, or do I want him to be raised to seek the physical and spiritual well-being of others, especially those toward whom God feels such a tenderness?
Children learn best by example.
The sisters still said nothing.
And in the giving, my son would receive more than a ho-hum church life could ever offer.
The decision was finally made for good.
It is time for Jace and me to follow the desires God has placed in our hearts. In our hearts, both of our hearts. At the same time. This stunning display of God’s love is something I don’t deserve. We move forward, hand in hand, steps in unison. How beautiful is this? So now it’s time. Time to set my husband loose like a rock in a slingshot toward that ship. Time for me to follow Sister J around for a while to figure out just what it means to really care.
Something happened in the silence. I don’t like to call it a vision, really, but I saw my house on the hill glister before my eyes in a flashcube moment, the hill in negative, house crumbling and partially hidden by ivy.
Deep in my heart, I know my days on the loch are numbered. And they are numbered for all of us. In this, I grieve. Yet I know riches come in many forms, and God, who works in paradox and always has, will give us something far greater than a new tennis court in return.
But first I need to show up.
So with the first scent of a waning season in the air, I call Sister J from the bright blue deck of the sisters’ house.
“Hi, doll. What’s up?”
“I want to be a regular volunteer at the Hotel. As soon as Will goes back to school.”
“You bet. Is cake part of the bargain?”
“Absolutely. What days would be good for me to come?”
“Any day. You pick. We aren’t choosy.”
“I was thinking Tuesdays and Thursdays. Will goes back the first Tuesday after Labor Day.”
“Sounds like a plan. What do you want to do here?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Doll, don’t ever say that to a mission director. You don’t know where you’ll end up.”
“I’ll bring some cake down sooner.”
“Good. Everybody loves your cake.”
So that’s that. I’m locked in. But there are some things to take care of first, I think.
Everybody loves my cake. How nice.
* * *
While I’m paying the stack of bills that accumulated, the doorbell rings.
I peer through my living room window curtains onto the entry porch. Ah, yes, it’s Carmen. Fabulous. Probably come to ream me out for the other day. Should I pretend I’m not home?
I mean, really, we do that sort of thing all the time in one way or another. Maybe not literally, but the incessant answer of “I’m busy” to the perennial question of “How are you?” is pretty much saying, “No, I can’t do another thing, so don’t ask.”
A pot of coffee is brewing, though, in preparation for a nice, cozy, sofa-sitting surf of REALTOR.com. Must be a sign. Besides, I left the garage door open.
I walk to the door and open it. “Carmen! This is a surprise!”
She rearranges the shoulder strap on her purse. “I’m sorry I’m just dropping in like this. I’m on my way to the doctor’s office and I could have called, but, well, it’s been awhile since we’ve really connected.”
“Come on in. I just put on a pot of coffee a few minutes ago. It’ll be ready in just a sec.”
“I’ve only got a little bit of time. I promise I won’t ruin your schedule.”
I see it all!
Carmen is scared! This incredible responsibility rapes her calendar, gnaws her soul. It’s stealing her life. Meetings and groups and events to arrange in such a way that parents will love it, feel appreciative for the school, give money, and keep the cogs a-greased.
But who appreciates Carmen?
She’s frozen in the headlights, people!
But she has superglued the Happy Christian mask to her face. Even though I don’t know if she’s a Christian or not, I’d recognize that mask anywhere.
Poor Carmen.
“Have you had lunch?” I escort her back to the kitchen.
“No. I meant to make a sandwich before I left, but you know how that goes.”
Not really. I always carve out enough time to eat, unfortunately. “How much time do you have before you have to leave?”
She checks her watch. “Twenty-five minutes.”
“Have a seat.” I slide out one of the counter stools by my island. Then I pour her a cup of coffee and fix it just the way she likes it, barely sweet, lots of half ’n’ half, and I know that because I know these things about the people I’m involved with. I’ve always prided myself in knowing these things.
She sips. And sighs. Sips and sighs.
I dig through the snack drawer in the fridge. The Snack Drawer. Haven’t yet figured that one out. So I use it for lunch meats and cheese. And tortillas.
“I’m going to make you a wrap, Carmen. Roast beef, Havarti, tomato, and horseradish sauce sound good?”
“Are you kidding? Can I have two?”
“Definitely.”
I gather the cellophane bags holding these, truly, wonders of the world, and Boar’s Head knows how to do roast beef, don’t they? Cream Havarti too. The crimson tomato, compliments of Jolly, bursts as I drive the knife
into its juicy flesh.
Ah, I love summertime. I slather the piquant white sauce on the tortillas.
Carmen sets down her cup. She does everything with a crisp thrift. Love her baby tee. Pale pink with pansies across the bosom. Matching lips too. “I’m getting together room mothers for the fall, and I was wondering if I could count on you this year, just to arrange the babysitting for parties and such.”
It’s an olive branch. I know it. I long to take it, but who am I trying to fool? I’d just be prolonging the inevitable. I lay on the cheese. “I don’t know, Carmen. My schedule is filling up.”
“It would only be one morning a week at the most.”
The roast beef, the tomato. “Some lettuce?”
She nods. “So, will you?”
Roll up the sandwiches and slide the plate to her. “I don’t know if it’s a matter of will, per se, Carmen. It’s more like can.”
She picks up a sandwich. “Oh?”
“I’m going to volunteer downtown a couple of days a week while Will is in school.”
“You mentioned some homeless thing.” She puts down the sandwich. “Where downtown?”
“Near North Avenue. It’s called the Hotel.”
“Is it a Quaker thing?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“’Cause those crazy sisters are Quakers, you know.”
“Sister Jerusha who runs the place is Catholic.”
She winces. “You’re going to work for the Catholics?”
“They’re doing good things down there, Carmen.”
“Still.” She takes a staunch, Protestant bite of her sandwich. “I grew up Catholic. It did nothing for me.”
I’m going to let that slide. Not because I feel superior in my ecumenism, but because I believe her. I shrug. “I grew up Lutheran. Want some chips?”
“Sure. Thank you. And here we are with our children at an Episcopal school.”
I make my own sandwich in silence. On the CD player in the living room, Will plays some obscure band called the Psalters. Crazy Jesus music. He’s out there reading a cookbook on Texas grilling. Someday he’s going to start investigating the meat industry, and we’ll all suffer.
“So are you going to spend all your time downtown, then?” Carmen asks.
“Most of my volunteer time, yes.”
“So, then, the school can just take a backseat now?”
I wince. “I’m just trying to figure things out.”
“St. Matthews has always been the place for rational, well-educated people and their children. Maybe it’s not the place for your type to begin with.”
“That was pretty nasty, Carmen.”
“Well, neither of us is one to mince words.”
She puts a chip in her mouth, chews, and takes another bite of sandwich. I turn my back and pretend I’m going to the fridge for something, anything to give her some thinking space. Surely something looks promising. Ah, there. Pickles. That’s convincing. I grab the jar.
And I do love sweet pickles.
She lays down her sandwich. “I’m sorry. That was over the line. Why now, Heather? Why all this all of a sudden?”
“I don’t know. I feel like I’m being called out, Carmen.”
“I don’t even know what that means. Are we that horrible to you?”
Horrible?
I walk around the island and sit on the stool next to her. “Is all this . . . well, I don’t know what to call it other than drama . . . because of me personally or because you’ll have to find someone else to help out with school?”
Her eyes grow round. “I haven’t really analyzed it. I thought maybe we were friends. Sort of.”
Mercy! Friends? Carmen and I?
“Carmen, have you ever once called me and suggested that we go out for coffee or something?”
“Well, no. But neither have you, Heather.”
“I know. I’m just a little floored by the friendship thing. You seem too busy for friends.”
“Yes. I hate that about myself. I’ve been trying to work my way into favor with people my entire life, and all I do is end up pushing them away.”
“You haven’t made one real friend at St. Matthews?”
“No. Have you?”
“Laney Peterson. She’s a good lady.”
She finishes up her sandwiches, and we chat about safer topics like the new diner in Cockeysville, and isn’t it great at Curves?
I walk her to the door. “I’m sorry I can’t help out this year.”
“I’ll just call somebody who’s more interested.”
I wince again. So unfair, Carmen. “I gave my life to this school for years, and if I got ten thank-yous in that time, I’d be shocked.”
She bends. “I’m sorry. I’m overcommitted and overextended and I’ve got to find people. I don’t know how it’s all going to survive this year if more people don’t step up to the plate.”
“I’m sorry too.”
“I don’t know why I took the position as volunteer coordinator. Stupid.” She rubs the bridge of her nose. “Well, I hope it goes well downtown for you, Heather. I really do.”
I don’t believe her.
And then she looks up into my eyes, her brown eyes peering out of prison bars. “I really, really do,” she whispers.
I hug her. She hugs me in return.
“I’m sorry, Carmen. I just need a little time. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Okay. You got it. But if we need cake?”
“I’m still your gal.”
THIRTY-ONE
I once heard someone say that we only change when staying the same becomes even more frightening. Well, I don’t know if that has anything to do with this car; I only know I can get rid of it. I’ve come to hate it so much. The Suburban. Irony at its finest. First of all, it’s not a suburban vehicle at all; it’s a country vehicle. Got a farm? Get a Suburban. They should have called it the Countryboy or the Ranchhand.
It deserves at least a thousand green dots on it.
So here I stand in the car lot. I just want a wagon. A station wagon. Like a 1960s mom. This is cute, a streamlined white Saturn wagon. Oh, it’ll be the talk of the country club and not in a good way. They’ll be wondering if we took a hit on the stock market or stood on the wrong end of a business deal. Actually, it’ll be kind of fun to see what happens.
Actually, we might want to quit that darn thing. Jace doesn’t even play golf, and it sure is an expensive way for Will to swim. More green dots.
I page Jace, who calls back during the test drive. “I’d like to trade in the Suburban. Right now.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Saturn dealer. Well, actually, I’m on Warren Road, test-driving a wagon.”
“Aren’t they kind of small?”
“It’s the midsize. I want to trade in the truck, Jace. Right now.”
“See how much they’ll give you on the trade. You may actually walk away with some money in your pocket. But yes, I think it’s a good idea.” The relief he must feel shakes his voice a little, or is it skepticism? Is there truly a light at the end of this tunnel labeled more-more-more?
Of course there is. Because I say so.
* * *
I didn’t walk away with money in my pocket, but it was almost an even trade. They gave me a zippy little wagon for that big old truck.
I’d say I came out on the top end of the deal.
And it’s a stick shift. I haven’t driven a stick shift since my days in beauty school. I drive by Robert Paul Academy where I trained. The best cosmetology school in Baltimore by far. I stroll by the windows, watching the students work on their mannequins, looping and pinning fancy up dos. I smile and wave at a pretty, petite young woman bobby-pinning a curl in place. She finishes her task, smiles, and waves back.
I was you a long time ago, I want to say to her. Right now, I don’t feel as far away from that as I used to.
On the way home I drive up Merrymans Mill Road and slow down in front of the
sisters’ drive. In the corner of my eye, a patch of yellow catches my gaze. A maple tree just begins to shrug off its slicker of green. My father once said as we stood on the banks of Loch Raven right before school began, “Heather, it’s my sign, that first patch of yellow. My sign that summer is ending.”
Thank you, ladies.
I do not turn into their drive, but continue on, back to Will, to Jace, to a promise that something golden will spring up from the lovely green garden my life has suddenly become, a garden planted in fertile soil, ready to nourish a greater purpose.
Mr. Purpose has offered his hand, I’ve placed mine in his, and we’re riding along to someplace I’ve probably never dreamed of.
I laugh at myself. Sentimental, optimistic little fool that I am.
Part Three
* * *
I’ll Follow the Sun
THIRTY-TWO
I’m whizzing down I-83 in my little wagon, past the numerous apartment complexes, the defunct mills now transformed into upscale lofts, the old London Fog factory, Stieff Silversmiths. The windows open, my hair is twice its normal size, and will God keep me out of the police radar since I’m headed down to do good works?
Ah, no.
At least that’s what I’d bet if I had to.
Will’s off to school, steps airy and expectant and ready to make tracks in Nicola’s direction. The summer of Nicola. Let’s hope it lasts throughout the year.
Of course, I’m waiting to hear how Ronnie Legermin behaves.
I’ve already called Lark, who cheered me on in her Larky way.
Will said, “Go get ’em, Mom! Was I right or was I right?”
Jace packed me a lunch complete with a Ho Ho and a carton of chocolate milk, obviously throwing his medical knowledge out the door. “You’re going to do great, hon.”
But for now, Unsearchable Riches, my favorite Baltimore Jesus band, sparkles at sixty miles per hour, their happy honky-tonk rock on my car stereo providing a spot-on soundtrack for the wind, the sun, and the speed of my wheels. And I want to throw back my head and laugh because I’m free at this very moment.
Plain Perfect & Quaker Summer 2 in 1 Page 47
