The bishop shrugged. “Well, he wouldn’t, would he? He never wants to cause anybody any trouble—not you, nor Gerald either. But we were thinking that maybe now he’s mature enough to have his own house key to your place here. I mean, it’s not like he’s the type to mess things up or call in a bunch of friends to party or something like that.”
“That’s right,” Sam added. “He’d prob’ly do no more mischief than watching a little TV and making himself a snack. He’s just a good boy. What do you think, Twyla?”
“I’ll tell you what I think. If Buddy has a key to this place, then Gerald has a key to this place, and I’m not havin’ that! I wouldn’t put it beyond him to come over here scroungin’ after money or anything he could sell to get money for his beer and whatever else he does.”
“Do you really think Gerald would take advantage of you, that way?” the bishop asked.
She shrugged one thin shoulder and blew smoke high into the air. “He did when we was married,” she replied. “I couldn’t keep a dime for groceries or diapers, let alone anything else to try to make a home. He drank up or gambled away ever’ last penny I earned, him and his fine old poker friends.”
“Hmm,” said Sam Wright, gazing in perplexity at the carpet. “Tell you what, Twyla. What if someone else—a responsible third party, you might say—kept the key for Buddy, and he had strict instructions to pick it up from them as needed and return it right away? Maybe a neighbor you trust around here, or—”
“He could leave it at my place, for that matter,” the bishop offered. “We could have a special place for it, and give it to him whenever you’re gone—and Gerald will never know.”
Twyla frowned, and crushed her cigarette in a metal tray. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll think on it. I didn’t know about Buddy campin’ on you folks, puttin’ you out like that. But I’ve gotta be real careful, or I’ll lose ever’thing I’ve worked for. I mean, I don’t even give Jeter a key, and I don’t put one under the welcome mat, neither.”
“That’s all we ask,” Sam said gently. “Just think about it.”
“And please, please know that whenever Buddy shows up, he isn’t putting us out in the least. We love him like a son,” the bishop added. “But he’s kind of embarrassed about it, so we thought we’d just speak to you privately, without his knowing.”
“He don’t know nothin’ about this? He didn’t put you up to askin’?”
“Not at all. That’s why we came when we knew he was busy.”
“All right, then,” Twyla said, standing abruptly. “You’ve said your piece, and I’ll think on it.”
They took their leave, and Sam Wright heaved a deep sigh.
“She used to be such a pretty little brown-haired girl, shy and sweet. And her and her mama was at church ever’ time the doors opened. I don’t know what changed things for ’em, but sometime durin’ Twyla’s teenage years, they backed off and quit comin’. Wish’t I knew why.”
“Somebody must know more about it,” said the bishop. “Maybe we can find out.”
Chapter Thirteen
* * *
“ . . . Sacred as your own good name”
Trish was addressing envelopes to several of their neighbors in an effort to aid the Cancer Drive. She paused, pen in hand, gazing at the list she had been provided.
“I don’t know whether I dare send one of these to the Lowells, Jim,” she said, her forehead wrinkling. “I mean, the deal is that people return their donation envelopes to me, and I compile it all and send it off to the charity. Maxine would probably think I’d abscond with the funds! But if I don’t send her one, and she somehow discovers she was left out, she’ll probably write headquarters and lodge a complaint against me. What’ll I do?”
The bishop considered the problem, but at the same time he was enjoying the sight of his beloved wife—cheeks rosy and dark hair shining. Of late, one or two lighter hairs had appeared along her temples. “I’ll think of them as highlights,” she had said, frowning into the bathroom mirror. “When did they come, anyway? They sneaked up on me.”
“They do that,” he had agreed, aware that his own scalp was sprouting more ash than ash blond in recent months. Now he addressed himself to the present problem.
“I seem to remember it was our decision to be as friendly and normal as circumstances will allow, so that Mrs. Lowell has as little as possible to use as ammo against us. So I’d say send her one, same as everybody.”
“But I’m supposed to write a little personal note at the bottom. What can I possibly say?”
“What’ve you put on the others?”
“Just something like, ‘Thanks so much for any help you can give this good cause.’”
“What’s wrong with that for Lowells?”
“Nothing, I s’pose. But I’m sure she’ll find something!”
He shrugged. “Seems to me the worst she can do is say no. And who knows, maybe she’ll even donate a buck or two. At least you’re offering her the chance to help.”
Trish made an uncertain face. “Okay. But I’m spending a stamp to send it next door. I’m not going over there.”
He grinned. “Fine with me. She’ll probably do the same if she replies.”
“I can hope.” She continued writing and sealing her notes.
“Hey, babe?” he asked after a moment of silence.
“M-hmm?”
“Do you wear slacks when you go visiting teaching?”
She regarded him steadily. “Tina Conrad, again?”
He nodded.
“Well, the answer is usually yes. Most of the sisters I know, do—although some of the older ladies like Ida Lou, or Nita Mobley, stick to dresses. I think it’s just a generational preference, though, not a matter of manners and morals.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“She’s really giving you a hard time, isn’t she?”
He sighed. “You have no idea.”
* * *
“How’s Chuck working out, Art?” the proprietor of Shepherd’s Quality Food Mart asked quietly of his produce man, Arthur Hackney.
“Oh, fine, Jim—but did we really need somebody to cover for us during vacations? We’ve always just covered for each other before, and I thought it worked out okay.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, it’s more like a favor to an old schoolmate. He’s fallen on hard times right now and needed something right away, so I figured the budget could stretch to cover one more very basic wage for a while. Appreciate your not mentioning I told you that—to him or any of the others, though.”
“Sure, I hear you. Besides, it’s kinda fun to watch Mary Lynn these days, idn’ it?”
“Mary Lynn? Why? What’s she doing?”
“Oh, my gosh, man—hatn’t you seen the sparkin’ that’s goin’ on?”
Jim shook his head slowly. “You mean Mary Lynn and—Chuck?”
“The same! Them two’s headed for romance, if not the altar, sure as shootin’!”
They were? Where had he been?
“How do you know, Art? I mean, what’ve you seen?”
“Oh, just how she blushes whenever he says hey, and how they’ve taken to eatin’ lunch together, and how he looks for her first thing ever’ day when he comes in. You watch, you’ll see.”
He did watch, and he did see. Mary Lynn suddenly seemed to have several new blouses in bright summery colors, and to his amazement, she came in on Friday with her long mane of brown hair pulled back into a thick braid, tied with a pink ribbon to match her shirt. In her ears, which he was sure he’d never glimpsed before, were tiny pink butterfly earrings. The transformation was astonishing.
“Good morning, Mary Lynn,” he said. “You look especially nice, today.”
Her head ducked in its customary manner, but there was no loose, flowing curtain of hair to hide the bloom on her cheeks.
“Thanks,” she all but whispered, as she settled at her desk and began flipping through a stack of invoices.
“I like yo
ur hair like that,” he went on. “It’s very becoming. It looks cooler, too, for such hot weather. I can’t believe it’s almost July.”
“Me neither,” she replied. “June just flew by.”
“I’m told time flies when you’re having fun. Or as Tiffani puts it, when you think you’re having fun!”
“Reckon if you think you’re havin’ fun, you must be.” She flicked a glance up at him. “Mr. Jim Shepherd, what’re you grinnin’ about? Cain’t a girl change her hairstyle once in a while, if it makes her happy?”
“Miss Mary Lynn Connors, I approve of whatever—or whoever—is making you happy.” He sat down and swivelled his old leather office chair around to face her. “It’s whoever, isn’t it? It’s Chuck, right?”
She tried to keep from smiling, and couldn’t. “Jim, don’t tease me! I ain’t never had a boyfriend before. I don’t hardly know how to act. All these years, I been scornin’ any man that looked twice at me—not that so many did—on account of I could see right through ’em. And now this’un comes along and he’s so nice, such a gentleman, but still fun to be with—I don’t hardly know how to credit it.”
“Wow! That’s exciting. And as far as I know, Chuck’s the real thing. I mean, I haven’t been around him for a long time, but he was always a good kid, back in school. Kinda shy, only had the one girlfriend, that I recall. I don’t know what happened there, but apparently he’s never married.”
“Her name was Beverly. She died,” Mary Lynn said softly. “She had sugar diabetes real bad, and one time she went into a coma and never woke up. Chuck said he didn’t have the heart to date anybody else for a long, long time. Then he just got out of the habit and was workin’ hard to keep his mom in a rest home close to him, down in Dothan. He paid all her costs, bein’ the only child and all. He didn’t want to sell her house, ’cause she kept hopin’ she could come back to it. But she never did.”
“And now he’s back, and trying to fix it up. I guess he’s quite a handyman.”
“I seen what he’s doin’ with the back porch, and it looks real good. It was plumb fallin’ down. And he’s scrubbed the place clean as a new-bathed baby! I don’t reckon any woman could get it cleaner. I know he ain’t got much right now, but I do feel the man’s got potential.”
“I see that in him, too. Well—good luck, my esteemed office assistant! I hope everything works out for the best, for both of you.”
“He ast me to go to church with him, come Sunday,” she said shyly.
“Really! You mean—to my church?”
“Uh-huh. It’s okay, ain’t it?”
“Oh, well, it’s more than okay. It’s great! That’ll be wonderful.”
“I wadn’t sure. I mean, it wadn’t like you’d ever invited me.”
He stood there openmouthed, convicted in his heart of that sad truth.
“You are so right,” he said slowly, “and I am so, so sorry!”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. I mean, you’ve talked to me about it, and explained things when I ast you, but I always wondered why you didn’t just say, ‘Come and worship with us sometime, Mary Lynn.’ ’Cause I would’ve done.”
He nodded. “I have no idea why I never invited you. I reckon I just thought you enjoyed going up home every weekend and going to church there with your family.”
“Sure—and that’s what I’ve done, for years—it’s all I know. And Pastor McCracken’s a sweet old man. But lately—I don’t know if this makes any sense at all—lately, I’ve been yearnin’ for somethin’ with a little more to it, if you know what I mean.”
“I believe I do. And I truly hope you find what you’re looking for with us.”
“Well, thank you, Jim. So do I.”
* * *
In the sullen heat of early evening, Bishop Shepherd was mowing his back lawn, grateful to Trish for having planted the entire front yard with perennials and wildflowers, creating a riot of color behind the ornamental wrought-iron fence and leaving him free of having to mow that area. In the yard to the west of theirs, he saw Hestelle Pierce tiptoeing toward him, waving a piece of paper in one hand and beckoning to him with the other. He cut the motor and went to meet her.
“Mr. Shepherd,” she said in a stage whisper, peering beyond him to be sure she wasn’t spotted, “I don’t want Miz Lowell to know I’m givin’ you this, but I do feel y’all deserve to know what-all she’s spreadin’ around about you.”
“Well, thanks, Miz Hestelle, for not believing everything you hear or read about us and our church. We appreciate that, and you’re a fine neighbor.”
“Oh, I take up for y’all all the time over to Gadsden Street Baptist. Ever’ now and then, somebody’ll say how y’all ain’t Christians, and I tell ’em to look inside their own hearts before they start in on judgin’ others, because my neighbors is Mormon, and the finest Christian folks I know.”
“We’re not anywhere near perfect, but we do try to be good Christians,” he said.
“Well, sometimes folks start in to tell me all their reasons why you ain’t, but I always say Christian is as Christian does, and that’s good enough for me. Now, don’t y’all take this too much to heart, all right?” She indicated the paper. “Just consider the source, is what I think.”
She waved and made her way back to her house. The bishop wiped his sweaty face on the sleeve of his tee shirt and headed for the shade of the patio, where he perched on the end of a chaise lounge and examined the circular prepared by Maxine Lowell.
“Dear Neighbor,” it read, “Time and time again we have warned you about the menace in our midst. In spite of our best efforts, however, people in our community are still being duped and tricked by the phony, fake imitation of Christianity that uses friendly faces and smooth words to lure away members of the real body of Christ into a deceitful mockery of the truth. We speak, of course, of the Mormons. There are some of these deceivers right here in our own neighborhood! They appear to be good family people, good citizens, and they even use some of the language of Christianity to appear to be one of us, but they are not to be trusted, and we must not offer them the hand of Christian fellowship!
“They send out nice-looking young wolves in sheep’s clothing (good wool suits) from Salt Lake City, Utah, to try to steal our lambs away to their horrific temple ceremonies, where they themselves speak of ‘binding’ and ‘sealing’—words that ought to alert us to the real purpose of this cult—to bind innocent people to Satan, the father of lies and deceit! Do not be deceived! Keep your children from association with them. Cut off their access to your minds and hearts. Do not attempt to argue or discuss with them, as they are trained in techniques to trip you up. Let’s all remain safe from their grasp!”
It was signed, “A concerned neighbor.”
The bishop scooted back so that he was reclining on the chaise, closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer.
“You okay, Jim? It’s so hot out here, I brought you a drink to restore your electrolytes, or whatever. What’s this?”
Trish lifted the paper from his chest and handed him a chilled sports drink. “Oh! Did Miss Hestelle give you this? It’s one of Maxine Lowell’s little efforts, isn’t it?”
She sat down on a nearby chair and read through it, frowning. He watched for her reaction.
“Ugh, that’s sickening,” she said. “I wonder how many of these she hands out? And how many people read them and take them seriously?”
“You know, I just feel our neighbors have more sense than to do that, don’t you?”
Trish raised her eyebrows. “Not necessarily. I haven’t said anything, because I didn’t want to worry you with what might be nothing, but I have noticed things lately that make me think she’s getting through to some people. People I like, too.”
“Who, and what?” he asked.
“Well, for example, when Pam Michaelson brought over her cancer fund donation, she just handed it to me and said, ‘Here you go,’ with never a smile or a ‘how’re you doing’ or anything. That’s
not like Pam. We’ve been friendly. Worked together in PTA last year. And then, the last few times Mallory’s asked to play with Joanie Carter, Mrs. Carter’s had some reason every time as to why Joanie couldn’t play right then. One time Mallory saw Joanie right after I called, playing with the little Sumsion kids, and said, ‘I thought your Mom said you couldn’t play.’ And Joanie said, ‘I just couldn’t play with you.’ Mal came home crying.”
“Maybe—just maybe—it isn’t this at all. Maybe Pam Michaelson was tired or out of sorts. Maybe Mrs. Carter objects to the way Joanie and Mallory get along together, or something.”
Trish gave him a small, tired smile. “The kids are right. You do cut everybody way too much slack. But then—it’s one of the things I love about you. What can we do, Jim? It isn’t fair that Maxine Lowell can just waltz in here and destroy our reputation and affect friendships we’ve had for years!”
“No, it certainly is not fair. But I still think the best defense is a good offense, and that we need to continue to be ourselves, and to be as friendly to our neighbors as we’ve always been. I mean, this house was my grandfather’s, and then my dad’s, and now it’s mine, and I’m not about to be driven out by the likes—and the lies—of Mrs. Lowell.”
“That’s really what she’s after, don’t you think? To run us out of the neighborhood—and preferably, out of town?”
“I expect so.”
“And how can I act like I haven’t even noticed Mrs. Carter snubbing Mal, or Pam being cool to me? I’d look like a clueless idiot!”
“Well, I reckon if it comes to really obvious snubbing, we could go to the person and ask if we’ve offended them in some way, and apologize if we have. Just—you know—to see how they react.”
“I hate this, Jim. We’ve always been so happy here. I mean, we’ve got Catholics on this street, and Baptists, and Methodists, and the Briersons are Jehovah’s Witnesses. And we’ve always all gotten along just fine!”
“Yep, but now we’ve got a rabble-rouser, who’s determined to be a spoiler. We’ve got to find a way to out-think her, to beat her at her own game.”
They were silent for a few minutes.
The Thorny Path Page 15
