Plain Perfect & Quaker Summer 2 in 1

by Beth Wiseman; Lisa Samson

  Olive sets her box of supplies on one of the tables. “We came to paint the room. Let’s paint it.”

  Carmen points at Laney. “You’re the one with the little kids. What do you think?”

  “If someone lets me borrow a cell phone, I’ll call Cade.”

  Olive says, “I’d better call home too. Sam has indoor soccer, but you know, he can miss it for once in his life.”

  I point to the pile of supplies. “Well, then, let’s get ready. The stuff is over here.”

  Jace and the boys did a great job patching the walls last week. Looks good.

  It has already been well established that we all know how to paint. The drive down was filled with our years of exploits in covering walls. Betty once painted a room puce; she took the prize for boldness. Laney doesn’t need tape—good for her—she can cut in around the ceilings and the baseboards; she took the prize for finesse. Carmen used to paint for money in college; she took the prize for smarts.

  Fabulous, right?

  Olive never could see paying good money to a painter—after all, how hard could it be?

  Yep, we are the chosen ones.

  Nicola and Will still hold hands.

  I dunk a wooden stir stick into the paint and begin to swirl. “Now that you’re teaching our churchy-thing, how do you like it?”

  Laney picks up a bristle brush. “I love it. I’m finally doing something with the gift God gave me. It’s a responsibility, though. I really don’t want to lead anybody down a wrong path.” She grabs the can and heads over to the ladder.

  No wonder cakes are my gift to the world. I don’t want anybody listening to me at all. Way too much responsibility. And what I’ve figured out for today may not even stand the test of a twenty-four-hour time span. All I can do now is cling to Jesus. I wouldn’t want to be in Laney’s shoes any more than I’d like to be at the bottom of Loch Raven.

  Laney’s talking and joking with people from her perch where she cuts in the paint around the new ceiling, way more at ease than I am with the clients. I just watch her as I roll on the green paint, following the trail of Olive and Carmen—the tapers of the baseboards. Betty’s ahead of them cleaning the baseboards we’ll coat with a thick white lacquer. Trim’s my favorite part.

  Will and Nicola are holding hands.

  Laney understands how people are sinners. Everybody, everybody, everybody. And she is no respecter of persons, herself included. At least that’s my guess.

  Sister J walks in. “Frish, look at you all!”

  I set down my roller. “You like it?”

  “You bet. Well, thanks be to God and all that good stuff! So introduce me to the gang, doll.”

  And I do.

  Sister J touches her nose. “Jimmy’s cooking up a special treat for lunch just for you all. Soup!”

  We laugh.

  “No, really. Obrycki’s dropped off some crab cakes last night from a canceled catering job.”

  Carmen says, “I love crab cakes!” then claps a hand over her mouth. “Wow, that was loud!”

  “Who doesn’t love them?” Laney.

  Sister J. “You bet. Every once in a while, the Lord throws us a bone. And if it comes in the form of a crab cake, so much the better.”

  Something happens to our little group. We solidify into a community, a single purpose ahead of us, a goal in sight, a small journey we agreed to take together. And that precious euphoria of doing good together reaches out and ties us close.

  I love that feeling.

  You know what I think it is?

  God smiling.

  Yep, nothing profound, just a few humans in relation to God and each other doing holy work that will bring themselves no benefit other than the joy of serving others. Now this is church.

  A few minutes later, Sister J pokes her head into the room. “Heather? Got a minute?”

  “Okay.” I follow her back to her office.

  “Not much news on Krista, doll. I thought you’d like to know. LaQueesha heard she got into some black Jaguar the night she disappeared. But that’s all we know.”

  “Poor Krista.”

  “She’s a baby doll. I’m still praying, though. Are you?”

  “Oh yeah. I can’t get her off of my mind.”

  “That’s right. See, God knows where Krista is. And we know where He is, so it makes this silver triangle. At least, I always picture it that way. Anyway, thought I’d tell you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks for bringing down that crew. Nice gals.”

  I nod my head. “They’re the best.”

  * * *

  Carmen stands in line with her plate. “I feel guilty about taking one of these crab cakes. Maybe we should go out and get our own lunch.”

  I lay a hand on her sleeve. “Your presence here matters. It’s not about you taking the food, Carmen. It’s about you giving your presence.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I laugh and so does Laney. “Sheesh, Carmen, you don’t want the folks to think you think you’re too good for them, do you?”

  Carmen’s face trims down into a look of horror. “Oh! I didn’t think about it like that! Okay.” She shakes her head. “This is all so new. I feel really uncomfortable.”

  Me. “I know! You should have seen me my first few weeks here. It was horrible.”

  Her brows rise. “Really?”

  “Ah, yeah. Really, really.”

  Of course everybody ends up sitting together. “No, no, no, ladies, we go out two-by-two. Let’s spread out.”

  Olive looks unsure, then says, “There are five of us.”

  Not counting Will and Nicola, who are still holding hands. They did manage, however, to pry themselves apart in order to mop the kitchen floor and clean the glass on the front doors.

  “You’re right! Okay, how about Laney and you and your mom. Carmen, wanna sit by me?”

  “I’d love that, Heather.”

  Laney says, “Hey, I’m fine on my own.” And she walks over to the table of the filthiest person there, Akbar Reynolds. His real name isn’t Akbar. I don’t think anybody knows what his real name is. He’s a schizophrenic. And he smells like a litter pan on a humid day, and honestly, I just gag and gag if he’s within ten feet of me. But with all the diapers Laney changes every day, I’m sure she doesn’t notice.

  She starts talking his ear off, and a few more people join her, a middle-aged couple—she bleached blonde, he with a long curly ponytail— and a street guy named Brill who left a good job and family for heroin. They’re laughing like crazy within five minutes.

  Good heavens, some people are just naturals at this stuff! God should have called Laney, not me.

  Then again, God called Moses, and Aaron was the one who could do the talking. Because there are a million miles between what God should do and what He does.

  * * *

  “You gals are great.” Hands on hips, Sister Jerusha looks around. “I can’t get over how you’ve been at it all darn day, with hardly a break!”

  Betty waves a hand. “Us old girls still have it in us.”

  Sister J points at her. “You said it, doll.”

  Carmen says, “We appreciate the opportunity.”

  “Anytime. Believe me. An-ee-time. So how much longer do you think you have to go?”

  “Another two hours,” Olive.

  I look at my watch. Seven o’clock. “Tomorrow, nobody’ll know what hit them, it’ll be so pretty in here.”

  “Already is. Okay, don’t let me slow you down. I’m heading upstairs to the Bible study for the addicted men. Jimmy’s leading tonight, and he’s always good.”

  Carmen’s eyebrows raise, and she looks at me. After Sister J exits, she puts a hand on my arm. “Addicted men?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Do they ever have those types of studies for women?”

  “Yes, in the mornings.”

  “Okay.” And she walks away, picks up a paintbrush, and sets to work on the trim. Second coat. And I’m s
tanding there with my mouth open, wondering who in Carmen’s circle needs such a study.

  * * *

  We all set to work on the second coat of the trim. Betty and Laney on the windows, the rest on the baseboards, and oy! My back will be singing the blues and the greens tomorrow.

  Will and Nicola are not holding hands; they are threading curtains onto rods I’ll hang in place next time I come down.

  Knox Dulaney steps through the front door. “Hello, Mo!”

  “Not a good time, Knoxie. We got these ladies here doing good charity works.”

  He holds up a hand of peace. “Not to worry. Not to worry. Just came to see Aunt Jerusha. She here?”

  “Upstairs at the Bible study.”

  “Hmm. I think I’ll take a pass.” He laughs. Mo waves him on.

  I shake my head and can’t help but smile. Man, I wish I didn’t like him. Why do I like him? He’s a horrible person! “Hey, Knox.”

  “Ah, the good Heather. And bringing more good ladies with you.” He shoves his hands in his trouser pockets and gazes around. “It looks good in here. Nice colors. Bringing a little county to the hood.”

  I wince.

  “Well, I’ll be going. Just thought I’d stop in.”

  I wonder how many people he’s killed.

  * * *

  Glass shatters, metal crunches. I jump at the sound. What’s going—

  “Watch out!” Mo’s shouts provide a baseline for our screams as glass shards spew forth before the ramming hood of a car crashing through the now-twisted front doors. The room envelops the entire car as it screeches to a halt, the smell of oil and burnt rubber imbuing the air.

  All I can think is, Thank God we were on the trim, thank God we were all at the edges of the room!

  “Will!” I scream, and the two kids run over.

  “Don’t move!” Two olive-skinned men jump from the car like crickets, hopping in agitation, and are they high on something dangerous? I’m terrible at judging nationalities, but they’re not black, and one points a gun at Knox and yells something I cannot understand. He shoots at the new ceiling over Betty’s head. She screams and cowers as plaster falls at her feet.

  Obviously Knox has stepped on toes, expanded his territory where it wasn’t meant to go.

  Dear God in heaven . . .

  I’m in the middle of an all-out drug war!

  Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord.

  I put one arm around Will and tuck Nicola behind me.

  The slow motion begins, two more men emerging from the backseat, and we’re a breath away from dying, aren’t we? Isn’t this the type of situation where people . . . more guns are drawn, a kind of rifle . . . where people open fire, spraying bullets like water? And the words rise in pitch and volume, complexions are heightened to a flaring crimson.

  Laney is as pale as a china plate. She’s thinking about “all those kids.” Staring at Nicola, telling her Stay put with her eyes and the grim set of her mouth.

  One piece of me is bolstering up Will; the other is being boned by fear, its razor teeth pulling back layers I never knew existed. Don’t let my baby boy be hurt. Don’t let this be it.

  Knox yells back in that same language.

  I’m wondering about my life, knowing it’s in these guys’ hands and I can’t even understand a word they’re saying. And why do I have to be standing right next to Knox? If they shoot—

  The other women press themselves to the walls, fear paralyzing their faces into blanched masks.

  The first man out of the car steps forward, babbling his language and waving his pistol; he points it at Will, then at Knox, at Will, then at Knox. God, no. Please don’t let him shoot my baby boy! Not the child who drew me a million robots. Not the boy who hugged me countless times without my asking, who keeps me in check.

  Flicker, flicker, back and forth, and he’s laughing now, a fast, sassy, don’t screw with me and yet I find this all extremely invigorating because I’m a coldhearted killing machine laugh. More words.

  I pull Will closer into my side.

  “Don’t move, lady!”

  But don’t you see? This is my child. I stayed up a bundle of croupy nights, sitting on the closed john in the bathroom while steam from the tub faucet billowed around us, mingling with our sweat, soaking us in a fine, warm descent. I couldn’t breathe, but he could and that was the point.

  Back and forth, the gun moves.

  Don’t you see? He is the point!

  He laughs again. I look at Knox, at the fear in his eyes. And I know the other man will shoot. I know it like I already saw the movie.

  Knox yells, “No!” Steps forward. Flings himself sideways, in front of Will, as the man pulls the trigger.

  Knox pushes us onto the ground and falls on top of me as another shot blasts from the gun.

  I am jarred with pain as my bones, compressed beneath his falling weight, grind into the floor. And Will. Will crumples against the old tiles, salmon and pink, found in a Dumpster. “Will!”

  “He’s shot!” Knox. “My, God, the boy is shot.”

  I scream and push Knox off of me. “Will! Will!”

  The color has drained from his face. “Mom, I’m okay. I’m not dead.” I lean over him.

  And the gunmen scream at me, but I do not move. I look at them with all the hate I’ve ever known and I turn back to my son. The sound of sirens falls upon us. And the men, they’re turning back around. No more shots fired, right? No more.

  Another blast sounds as they shoot at the light fixture in the ceiling near Mo’s desk; sparks fly.

  “No more. Oh, Will,” I whisper. “Call an ambulance!” I scream.

  Shot? Blood? I close my eyes. No, I don’t want to see blood right now. Not my baby boy’s blood. My baby boy. I open them again and hold his hand as his eyes close.

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  The men jump back into the car, back out through the glass, and squeal away, the crunch of tires over glass sounding in our ears.

  My brain flounders in a knee-deep puddle.

  No more shots. No more shots.

  They’re still gone. Please stay gone.

  “Heather, are you all right?” Knox’s voice enters my ear like the prow of a ship through the fog. And then.

  Will. “I hope that guy gets a flat tire from all that glass.”

  Knox smiles, wincing in pain.

  The women gather around us, pale, ghostly. Carmen shakes.

  Laney shouts, “Call 911. Will’s bleeding!”

  “Already done it,” Mo hollers back, thumping over.

  Nicola and Will hold hands. Blood seeps through the shoulder of his shirt. I kiss his cheek. “It’ll be okay, bud.”

  Folks are running down the steps from upstairs. I hear Sister Jerusha’s shouts from behind them.

  Laney holds Knox’s hand. The dealer looks over at Will.

  “Shouldn’t it hurt more?” Will asks him.

  But before he can answer, he loses consciousness, and I sit next to my only son, my fifteen-year-old son, waiting for the ambulance to come.

  * * *

  Sister J’s face appears. “Oh my God, Heather. Will, doll, you’re going to be okay.”

  “He’s unconscious.”

  “Hit in the shoulder, thank God. It could have been a lot worse. Here.” She reaches into her skirt pocket for that hankie she fumbles with. “Apply direct pressure.”

  Around me an amphitheater of faces above bodies spattered with paint and concern protect us from the rest of the world.

  FORTY-THREE

  Having a notorious drug lord at least try to save your son’s life makes you wonder about a lot of things. Like what clicked inside of him to leap in front of Will? Was it God who did that, and does that mean He’s got good plans for Knox? Or just for Will? Am I supposed to pour more of myself into this man’s life now when the whole episode was his fault in the first place? I’d be a fool to think a hardened individual like Knox Dulaney is just going to turn around like that. Right. Like
he really felt concern for Will.

  Now that the adrenaline is gone, an anger remains that I can’t begin to process until we leave this bedside and the hospital behind. I can tell you one thing, I’m not going down the hall to visit Knox Dulaney. He can suffer all by himself as far as I’m concerned.

  Will sleeps in the hospital bed. The bullet has been extracted and he hasn’t yet awakened. But I have deeper questions than the ones about Knox Dulaney. Jace sleeps in a chair beside me. It’s 2:00 a.m. and there’s nobody awake to call. So I ask them to myself.

  Am I not doing the right thing by coming downtown? Isn’t this partly my fault? Wouldn’t God at least protect my son considering I’m trying so desperately to live a Jesus life? Can I expect some sort of divine intervention when it comes to stuff like this, and if I can’t, what does that mean? Do I really have what it takes?

  “Hezzie, go to sleep.”

  “I was asking that out loud?”

  “You sure were, hon.”

  * * *

  Will’s eyes open. “So I’m figuring I don’t have to go to school today.”

  “You’re a nut.” I reach for his hand, relief flooding me, filling the gaps behind the dam of doubt that he would come around at all after surgery.

  “Hey, I’m living to tell the tale.”

  Breakfast arrives, and he sifts through the liquid diet all the while asking Jace about the particulars of his surgery. “It was a pretty straightforward job. You’ve got some physical therapy to do, though, bud.”

  “What about Knox Dulaney?” he asks.

  “Had his spleen removed. He’s in far worse shape.”

  “Good,” I say.

  Will pushes the tray away. “Knox is here, right?” We nod. “Do you think I can walk down to his room?”

  So, I didn’t quite expect that. “No way!”

  Jace sits forward in his chair. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, bud. Who knows who may come into that room?”

  “Just for a few minutes.”