Queen Bee Goes Home Again

by Haywood Smith

  When the waitress left, I leaned closer to Tommy and said, “She’s really got a case on you.”

  “She,” Tommy said quietly, “is just a kid, and a party girl, at that. Definitely the last thing I need. But I don’t want to hurt her feelings, so I let her flirt, but I don’t encourage it.”

  “Very wise,” I said. “And kind.”

  He nodded in appreciation, then took a sip of hot coffee. “Aaah, caffeine.”

  Connor Allen and the deacons stood to leave, and, even though I knew it was hopeless, I watched him go with the same expression the waitress had spent on Tommy.

  “Uh-oh,” my brother said. “I recognize that look.”

  “Why do we always want what we can’t have?” I asked him, serious.

  “Who says you can’t have?” he challenged.

  “All the deacons of First Baptist, I’m sure, and every gossip in the congregation, led by Mary Lou Perkins. Apparently, they didn’t get the memo about forgiveness after repentance when it comes to the Grant thing.”

  Fortunately, Grant had sold the drugstore and left soon after our fiasco, but the damage was done. “Ten years later, and I’m still notorious for my checkered past, never mind the facts.”

  Tommy leaned closer. “Lin, everybody has a checkered past. God knows it, and so do I. And you certainly haven’t done anything like that before or since.”

  His loyalty was one of the things that had helped me get through it.

  Then he frowned and asked, “You haven’t, have you?”

  So much for loyalty. “No!” I whispered emphatically. Then my indignation evaporated. “But I might as well have slept with Grant. I planned the whole thing. Sinned in my imagination,” I whispered, quoting Connor Allen’s predecessor, whose pointed sermons about scarlet women had driven me to the Methodists. “Same thing.”

  “No it’s not. You came to your senses and didn’t go through with it, stuck to your own values. I really admired you for that. And for keeping your head held high in spite of the gossips.”

  I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so I changed the subject. “Ocee got my transcripts, so I’m going up there to make sure they’re correct. Want to come with me?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got a meeting at ten.”

  The smitten waitress brought our food, perfectly cooked.

  Tommy and I ate in silence, but there was still an elephant sitting at our table.

  I had an irrational crush on the new Baptist minister.

  Just like with Grant, only this time, the man might very well be worthy, but I refused to be the tainted woman who came between him and his new congregation.

  My mind understood that the attraction I felt for Connor Allen was irrational, but that didn’t discourage my body. I barely knew the man, and there I was, feeling like a fourteen-year-old in heat.

  Fourteen wasn’t one of my better years. Too much adolescent angst and emotion.

  Was one good-looking, smart, kind, available Christian man all it took to rob me of all common sense?

  Apparently, even though my inner Puritan scolded that it could never go anywhere.

  Shoot.

  What in blue blazes was I going to do? I was a sixty-year-old Christian woman, not some teenybopper drooling over Justin Bieber.

  Just hell.

  Sorry, Lord.

  Eleven

  As predicted, Connor Allen’s new house passed the inspection with flying colors, and we closed one week after the sale, much to everyone’s relief—mostly mine, for the thirty-nine hundred dollars in my bank account. (Julia gave me a fifty-fifty split as a farewell gift, instead of taking her usual sixty percent.)

  The more I saw of Connor, even at the closing, the bigger crush I had, so I hid behind a mask of professional indifference, reciting inwardly, Feelings aren’t facts. Feelings aren’t facts. Feelings aren’t facts.

  This man was not for me. He needed a Debbie Boone of a woman, not a destitute blabbermouth with no filters and a bad reputation.

  Oh, Lord, I was obsessing. Please keep me from obsessing.

  Apparently, that wasn’t in the plan, because I just got more obsessed as the days went on.

  Practically the whole church turned out to “help Pastor move in” when his furniture arrived (translate: check out his things, down to his pants size and boxers or briefs), so my plate of deviled eggs got lost among the dozens of casseroles and desserts that bombarded him from every available woman over thirty in the congregation. He got so much food, he had to buy a small chest freezer to hold it.

  (When I heard the delivery truck rumble in next door, I just happened to look through the glass pane in my apartment door and see them unload the freezer.)

  Once Connor Allen was finally settled in and working at the church, I prayed that my adolescent emotions would wane. Miss Mamie and I had the whole of 1431 Green Street to disinfect, which should have provided an excellent distraction, but every time my mind wandered off course, it zeroed in on the gorgeous man next door.

  So I scrubbed harder and sang good old, foot-stomping hymns to counteract it as Miss Mamie joined in.

  Of all times to have my libido wake up! I’d never felt that way with my ex. But the feelings Connor Allen stirred still felt familiar, and very seductive.

  Logic told me that everything I knew about Connor was surface. And as for his marriage, there were two sides to every story. For all I knew, he could be a saint one minute, then a monster the next. I’d met more than one minister who was awful to his wife and family.

  Yet he seemed like a true holy man.

  But trying to be logical about this didn’t help.

  The one thing I knew was that I was not the woman for that gorgeous man. That gorgeous, intelligent, honest, sexy man.

  We won’t even go into the obscene fanny tattoo I’d gotten during a drunken impulse on my honeymoon with the husband of my youth: two red cherries and “eat me” in script. I know. Vulgar to the max, but I was young and foolish. Marrying Phil was proof enough of that. And we won’t go into the fact that it had gone a bit wrinkly when I’d lost my middle-aged spread, thanks to the divorce.

  So the following night, I tried reading a few “sweet” historical romance novels at bedtime to ease the tension, but instead of transferring my crush to the heroes, all I could see was Connor Allen’s face in the stories.

  Which was definitely a sin, which only confirmed how wrong the whole situation was.

  I took it up with God, but He just sat there, still and quiet, in silence. Not very nice, if you ask me.

  I hated it when I was supposed to wait. I do not wait well at all.

  I mean, couldn’t the All-knowing share a way out of this? I’m just saying.

  Lead us not into temptation, remember?

  Nothing.

  Frankly, I think putting Connor Allen right next door was a pretty mean joke, but then again, I was the one who’d done it, so there you are.

  I also hate irony when I’m the one who has to live it, which seems to happen all the time.

  So when that still, small inner voice clammed up on me, I sought God’s direction in scripture, focusing on the verses about holiness and purity, which just depressed me so much in my falling short that I had to quit that, too, or face major depression in spite of my antidepressants (loads of escitalopram and trazodone, with a top-off of generic Wellbutrin).

  My GP said that America was one big unsupervised study of the long-term effects of antidepressants, but I silenced her with, “Shut up and give me the prescriptions, or else.”

  Apparently, the threat of violence by the patient is enough medical justification to continue them, because she quickly gave me the scrips. Ditto with my bioidentical estrogen.

  By the middle of my third week back home, the Mame and I had finished scrubbing down most of the roasting third floor with Windex, Clorox Clean-Up, or CitriSafe nontoxic mold killer and were working side by side on our kneeling pads in the hallway, doing the baseboards, when she leaned b
ack and wagged her hand my way. “I don’t know what you’ve been takin’, daughter mine, but I sure do wish you’d give me some. You’re wearing me out. This isn’t a race, you know.”

  I couldn’t stop the telltale flood of embarrassment that further reddened my chest and face. I leaned back, too, swiping a stray tendril from my eyes as I noted that Mama was sheened with sweat, just as I was. Horses sweat. Men perspire, my Granny Beth’s voice scolded, and ladies dew. “I’m sorry. It just helps to distract me from … things.”

  Seeing that her knees were really red and swollen, I offered, “Maybe we should work in different places, so you can go at your pace and I can go at mine.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Then we couldn’t do our hymns together. I just need you to slow down a bit so I’ll have enough breath left to sing along.” She waggled the scrub brush my way. “When we run out of songs we know, I’ve got my Grandmama Grainger’s old hymn book in the library to remind us of more.”

  My Grainger great-grandmother had died when I was just two, but I remembered my paternal grandfather’s second wife Granny Beth singing those old country hymns in the kitchen, early in the morning as she made our bread and biscuits for the day. Even all these years later, I still missed her dearly, yet her wisdom remained in my mind and heart, though I didn’t always act on it. We’d been “cut out of the same bolt,” as she always said.

  My mother paused to study me. “I don’t know who it is you’ve been trying to scrub away, but you can tell me, you know.”

  Only if I wanted it on the grapevine (aka the prayer chain—both Baptist and Methodist, so my mother didn’t miss anything). I didn’t spill the beans, deflecting with, “It’s not somebody. It’s my own stupidity and my stubborn, rebellious flesh.”

  Her left brow rose as she granted me a skeptical smile. “As bad as that?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well,” she said cheerfully, “you could always get a good dildo. There’s nothing in the Bible that says you can’t have a good dildo.”

  “Mama!” Had she really said that? “That’s not what I was talking about.” Though it might not be a bad idea. Or would it?

  Shoot. There went my wayward brain again.

  No wonder God had stopped speaking to me.

  “Sorry,” Miss Mamie said without apology.

  Flustered, I heard my mouth engage before my mind. “I thought when I got old, I’d get better. Smarter. More mature. More in control of my emotions and my physical desires. But I’m still that same impulsive, contrary nit-head I was at puberty.”

  My mother peered at me till a light went on in her eyes. “Oooohhh. Our new neighbor.” She sobered. “I was afraid of that.”

  Horrified, I splayed my hand over my heart. “Oh, no. Could you tell?” Please don’t let everybody in town know! Please-oh-please-oh-please.

  “Of course not.” She patted my arm. “I just now figured it out. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have asked you what was wrong.”

  Why didn’t I believe that? Because it was the Mame. Her maternal compulsion to comfort Tommy and me always overrode such trivial inconveniences as the truth.

  But I would never be able to show my face in Mimosa Branch again if she spread this around. “Mama, I know it’s hard to keep things to yourself, but this one is a biggie. If anybody else even guesses this, I’d have to leave town and go to a shelter, and I’m not kidding. You and I both know perfectly well that nothing good can come from my crush on Connor, for him or me.”

  Miss Mamie sniffed, the simple gesture transmitting a blast of “Oh, yeah? Who says?”

  “I mean it, Mama.” I only called her Mama when things were drastic. “I have to nip this in the bud.” My mind immediately conjured a bug-eyed Barney Fife hollering, “Nip it in the bud,” but I stayed on topic. “I have no intention of acting on these ridiculous feelings, and it can’t go any further than you and me.” I grasped her rubber gloves in my own. “Please, this is really important. If you need to talk to anybody about it, talk to God. He sure hasn’t been talking to me lately.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” She leaned over and gave me an awkward hug, because getting up then back down was too much trouble for both of us. “I vow, this won’t go any further than God.”

  I knew she meant it. I just didn’t know if she could keep her promise, any more than I could stop cussing in my head.

  Please, Lord, don’t let this get out.

  I went back to scrubbing, slowing my pace to the somber beat of “The Old Rugged Cross,” one of Granny Beth’s favorites, and mine. But no matter how hard I scrubbed or sang, my flesh wouldn’t let go of thinking about Connor Allen.

  Twelve

  Three weeks after my first visit to Ocee State, I returned to the baking campus and waited to be called back to Pam What’s-her-name’s office.

  Brady, I managed to remember as the receptionist (another student) led me back to see her.

  Pam rose, as before. “Hi! We processed your registration and transcripts.” She closed the door, then offered her hand.

  I shook it. “Great. Any news?”

  I waited till she sat to do the same, as mixed emotions warred over what she might say. She seemed happy—a good sign. A very good sign, as it turned out.

  “Based on your finances and situation,” she told me, “I am pleased to announce that you have qualified for a Pell Grant, which will cover both your classes and your textbooks, for winter/spring quarter.”

  I sat there, stunned, doing my best to stomp out the Oh nos and You can’t even keep up with what day it is! How do you expect to pass in college? that erupted alongside my sense of accomplishment.

  Holy crow! I was really going back to college.

  Pam nodded to me, clearly expecting a reaction.

  Closeting my fears, I found myself on my feet, pumping her hand. “Wow! Thanks. I don’t know how to thank you. Thanks.”

  I still couldn’t believe it had actually happened. A full ride! Wow.

  Miracle of miracles. Thank you, Lord!

  She grinned. “I think you’re really going to like it here. Almost all of our nontraditional students do.”

  Still dazed, I subsided to my chair. “What’s next?”

  “You’ll need to meet with your adviser.” She handed me his card. “You can call and leave a message at his office for an appointment, but a student e-mail might do better.” She paused. “Do you have any special needs?”

  “Well, I can’t filter voices when there’s background noise. Is that a special need?”

  She made a note on my file, then handed me a card that said “Cathy Wallace, Student Accommodations Office.”

  Too politically correct. Instead of saying Disabilities Office, they came up with a name that sounded like student housing—which they didn’t even have.

  She went on. “This is the number for our special needs office. You can schedule an appointment with them for evaluation, and they’ll work with you on your accommodations.”

  “Thanks.” Cool. When I’d gone to college in 1970, nobody gave a fig whether anybody needed special help.

  She handed me an orientation packet. “Here’s the information you’ll need to get started. Your password for our Web site is your full birth date—two digits for both the month and date, and four for the year—then your mother’s maiden name. Once you’ve registered for your classes, you can set up your student e-mail and get your ID and parking permit.”

  “How many credits transferred from my year at Sandford?” I wondered aloud.

  She looked over the transcript, then said, “Five hours of art history.”

  Shoot! My mouth tugged down on one side. “That’s all?”

  She shrugged. “That’s all.”

  I really was starting from scratch. “Then I need everything.”

  She lifted a finger. “I’d recommend your trying to CLEP out of some of your basic courses. We allow you to test out of up to thirty-five credit hours.”

  “Clep?”

 
“College Level Equivalency Program,” she clarified. “Of course, if you qualify for special accommodations, you can register early in October, ahead of the other students, and Cathy can help you pick the professors who work best with limitations like yours.” She showed me a printed blue sheet that listed the required courses, then she started checking off categories. “You’ll need all of these core courses for an English degree, but you can select which ones you can CLEP from the link on our Web site.”

  There were an awful lot of checks.

  Seeing my dismay, she smiled in sympathy. “Cathy will go over this in more detail if you qualify for special accommodations. Otherwise, your adviser can help you.”

  Based on past experiences, a question popped into my mind. “How long has my adviser been here?”

  Pam made a brief face, then admitted, “This is his first year with us.”

  Talk about the blind leading the blind! “Well, I hope I qualify for accommodations, then.”

  Mouth, could you possibly be ruder? Shoot!

  But Pam laughed, then leaned in for a confidential, “Me, too.”

  I tucked the cards in my purse, then rose along with her. “Thank you so much. And the grant committee. Thank everybody for me, please.”

  She nodded. “See you in January.”

  January, and it was already August. I had a lot to learn in a very short time if I was going to CLEP well.

  My friends who’d gone back to school over the years had told me that it wasn’t the courses that were so hard, it was learning how each school did things that made it difficult.

  Frankly, my “life plan” had been more of an impulse than a calling. Yet there I was, all set to go to school for three years. Maybe less, if I could test out of a bunch of classes.

  I could do that. I loved school.

  Except math.

  Shoot. I’d have to take math! Just one course, but still …

  Passing that would take a Red Sea miracle.

  But God had provided the scholarship, so I supposed He could provide the brains I needed to pass college algebra. Or a good tutor.