“It sounds scrumptious,” Barbara said, struggling mightily to control her gag reflex.
“I’ll make you some, if you’d like,” Dolores offered.
“That’s very kind of you, Dolores, but I wouldn’t want you to go to all that trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Dolores said. “I’ll have Dale bring it by Thanksgiving Day.”
That will certainly thrill Sam, Barbara thought. Dale Hinshaw dropping by their house on Thanksgiving. Helping himself to a chair at the kitchen table, making himself at home, ignoring hints that it was time he left. Dale would offer to say a prayer, in which he would thank the good Lord for his mercy in these last days. “Lord, we just know you’re fed up with all this liberal gobbledygook, and we just thank you for your patience in not coming back and just killing the whole lot of us.”
Oh, well, that’s what Sam got for volunteering her to make noodles.
“Where are you going for Thanksgiving, Fern?” Barbara asked.
Fern was quiet for a moment, then said, “Oh, nowhere special. I was just gonna stay home and watch the Macy’s parade.”
“I thought you had some family over in Cartersburg.”
“That was my sister Frieda, but she’s passed away.”
“What about your nephew Ervin? Why don’t you spend it with him?” Miriam asked.
“He went to Cleveland to a manhole cover convention and is staying over a few days to see the sights.”
The Friendly Women glanced at one another, the weight of Christian guilt lying heavily upon them. They knew they should invite Fern to join them for Thanksgiving, but they each hesitated, hoping someone else would take up that cross.
“I’d be happy to have you come to my house,” Opal Majors said, “but I’ve already got two card tables set up in the living room and four people on the couch. I don’t know where I’d put you.” She smiled pleasantly at Barbara. “How are you and Sam enjoying your home? You have such a lovely place. I just love what you’ve done with your dining room. It’s so spacious. The Lord has certainly blessed you with a beautiful home, that’s for sure.”
“If I had a dining room like yours, I’d have guests every day,” Bea Majors said.
Barbara was cornered. The Friendly Women were staring at her expectantly. There was no escaping. They continued to stare. Finally, she broke. “Fern, we’d be happy to have you join us for Thanksgiving,” she said, then held her breath, praying Fern would decline her offer.
“Why, thank you, Barbara. I’d be happy to.”
The other Friendly Women sighed in relief, grateful to have dodged the Fern Hampton bullet.
Barbara wasn’t sure the best way to tell Sam what she’d done. That evening, she made his favorite dessert, bread pudding. When it came time to put the boys to bed, she told Sam to relax, that he’d worked hard that day and deserved a break. She tucked the boys in, then brought him a serving of bread pudding. He looked at her warily. “Any certain reason you made bread pudding?”
“Oh, no special reason. I just want to pamper you a little bit, that’s all.” She sat down beside him and snuggled in. “How about we go to bed a little early tonight, honey.”
“Not till you’ve told me what you’re up to. You’ve done something you know I won’t like. I can tell. What’d you do?”
“Now, Sam, it’s only for one day, and it won’t hurt a thing. Besides, when it’s all over, you’ll be glad we did it.”
“Glad we did what?”
“Glad we invited Fern Hampton to Thanksgiving dinner,” Barbara said, wincing.
“We did what?!”
“Sam, she didn’t have anyplace else to go, and all the women were staring at me waiting for me to invite her.”
Sam groaned. “I can’t believe you invited Fern Hampton to our house for Thanksgiving.”
“You’re the one who told me I was too cynical, that I needed to spend more time with church people and improve my Christian walk. Make up your mind, Sam. Do you want me to spend more time with the church members or not?”
“Fern Hampton for Thanksgiving dinner is not what I had in mind,” he said.
“Then you should have been more specific.”
Sam sighed.
Fern was the first to show on Thanksgiving morning. Sam and Barbara were lying in bed when the doorbell sounded a little after seven. They heard the door open, then listened as Fern rustled around downstairs.
“Yoo-hoo,” she called out. “Is anyone home? I’m here.”
“We’re upstairs, Fern,” Sam yelled. “We’ll be right down.”
They put on their robes and went downstairs. Fern was standing in their kitchen. “I thought I’d get here early and help with the turkey,” she said. She began rummaging through the cabinets. “Where do you keep your roasting pan?”
Barbara leaned toward Sam. “This is all your fault,” she hissed in his ear. She took Fern by the elbow. “Fern, you needn’t bother. You’re our guest. You go visit with Sam.” She turned toward Sam. “Sam, why don’t you show Fern to the living room, and you can visit in there.”
But Fern wouldn’t hear of it. She kept searching through the cabinets. “Ah, ha! Here’s the roaster!” Sam and Barbara had planned on deep-frying the turkey. The week before, they’d bought a turkey fryer at Grant’s Hardware. They tried explaining that to Fern, to no avail. “Frying a turkey? Whoever heard of such foolishness?” she said. “It’s a good thing I showed up when I did, or this day would have been a flop.”
From that moment on, Barbara was banished to the sidelines. She’d start to do something and Fern would take over. “Now, honey, why not let’s put a little more milk in those potatoes. We wouldn’t want them lumpy, would we? No oysters in your dressing? I think I might have a can at home. Why don’t you be a dear and run and fetch them.”
The others arrived a little before noon—Sam’s mom and dad, and his bachelor brother, Roger, from the city. Fern directed them where to sit, then took the chair at the head of the table, and asked Sam to pray. The doorbell rang just as they lowered their heads.
“Excuse me,” Sam said. “Let me get that, and I’ll be right back.”
He opened the front door, and there was Dale Hinshaw, holding what appeared to be beige Jell-O. “I’m here with your turkey Jell-O,” he said. “The missus just finished it.” He peered around Sam and into the dining room. “Is that Fern in there? Hey, Fern.”
“Hi, Dale. Come on in.”
“Don’t mind if I do. Say, it sure smells sure good in here.”
“It’s the turkey,” Fern said. “They were gonna fry it in grease, but I got here just in time to stop them.”
Sam stepped forward. “Thank you for the Jell-O, Dale. It was very thoughtful of you. Please thank your wife for us. Well, we were just sitting down to dinner, so we won’t keep you. I’m sure you want to get home to your family.”
“Nope. The kids aren’t coming till tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you stay and eat with us,” Fern said. “There’s plenty of food. Sam and Barbara won’t mind.”
“I’m sure Dale probably has other plans, and we wouldn’t want to put him out,” Sam said, putting a hand on Dale’s back to steer him toward the door.
“Well, thank you, Fern. I think I will stay,” Dale said. “Say, why don’t I phone the missus and get her over here, too. Where’s your phone, Sam?”
Sam nodded glumly toward the kitchen.
They could hear Dale through the kitchen door. “No, they don’t mind. They begged me to stay. I think they’re lonely. Sure, we can wait.”
He sat back down at the table. “She’ll be here quick as a wink. She wanted to take a bath first, and do her hair.”
“Why don’t I put the food back on the stove, so it doesn’t get cold,” Barbara said, rising to her feet.
“I’ll help,” said Sam.
She cornered him in the kitchen. “Well, Sam, it looks like you got your wish. I’m spending more time with the church members. Have you noticed an
y improvement in my Christian walk?”
Two hours later, Dale’s wife showed. The potatoes had set up like cement, the gravy was skinned over, and the turkey had turned a pale gray.
Their table sat eight people, nine in a pinch. With Dolores Hinshaw, there were now ten.
“Sam can sit on the couch,” Fern said. “He doesn’t mind.”
Dale cleared his throat. “Why don’t we go to the Lord for a word of prayer. Lord, first off, we just thank you for your love today, for not just grabbing us by the neck and kickin’ our heinies like we deserve. Lord, our hearts are burdened thinking of everyone who don’t know you—the Muslims, the Catholics, the Chinese. We just pray they accept your truth, so’s you won’t have to kill ’em. Thank you for this food and that Fern showed up in time to save the turkey. Amen. Say, Fern, could you pass the dressing down this way.”
“Help yourself,” Fern said. “Those are real oysters in that dressing. I put ’em in there myself. Barbara wasn’t gonna put any in.”
Barbara smiled weakly. “I wasn’t sure if everyone liked oysters,” she explained.
“Well, of course everyone likes oysters,” Fern said. “What’s not to like?”
Sam’s younger child, Addison, looked at Sam. “Daddy, what did Dale Hinshaw say about the Chinese?”
“I’ll explain it later,” Sam said. “Right now, we’re eating.”
“Just praying they’ll know the Lord, that’s all,” Dale said cheerfully. “Here you go, Sam. Help yourself to some of this turkey Jell-O. Now don’t chip your tooth on a bone. The missus tries to get most of them out, but you never know.”
Sam spent the rest of the meal thinking what might have happened if he’d accepted the job at that rich church in North Carolina the year before. He’d probably be eating Thanksgiving dinner in a country club, then maybe smoking a Cuban cigar and drinking a snifter of brandy. His wife wouldn’t be mad at him. He looked up to see Dale Hinshaw give a slight belch, then reach in his shirt pocket and pull out a toothpick, on which he commenced to chew.
After dinner, they retired to the living room to watch the parades and the football games. Fern sat in Sam’s recliner and Dale stretched out on the couch, while Sam and Barbara served pumpkin pie.
“Say, you wouldn’t have some ice cream to go on top of this, would you?” Dale asked.
“No, we don’t,” Sam said. “I’m sorry.”
Dale frowned. “It’s just not the same without ice cream.”
“Sam, I have ice cream at my house. Why don’t you be a dear and run and get it,” Fern suggested.
Dale looked at Sam expectantly.
It was eight o’clock before everyone left, and ten o’clock before Sam and Barbara got the boys in bed, cleaned the kitchen, and then collapsed on the couch, where they lay perfectly still. Sam didn’t speak, fearing the wrong word spoken in haste would do irreparable harm to his marriage.
The phone rang. Sam groaned, struggled to his feet, and walked into the kitchen.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Sam. It’s me, Fern.”
He could hear Fern speak to someone else. “I told you they’d still be up.”
“Ervin just got in from his manhole cover convention and he’s nearly starved. I’m sending him your way for some leftovers.”
“Gee, Fern, I’m sorry, but I just fed all the leftovers to the dog.” Then he hung up the phone and sat back down on the couch.
“We don’t have a dog,” Barbara said.
“I know.”
“I guess this proves your theory wrong.”
“What theory?”
“That spending time with church members improves your Christian walk. They’ve not been gone an hour and you’re already lying like a rug.”
Sam didn’t say anything for several minutes. Then he said, “I don’t suppose it matters to you that the Apostle Paul advised women to be submissive to their husbands.”
“Which might explain why he was never able to find a wife,” she observed.
They lay on the couch. The house was dark except for a faint glow in the kitchen from the light over the sink.
“I suppose we ought to go to bed,” Sam said. They heaved themselves off the couch and trudged up the stairs. They didn’t even bother to wash. They just fell into bed, where Sam fell promptly to sleep. But Barbara lay awake, pondering why the things that made a person a better Christian were always so irritating. She wondered how she could even tell if she were a better Christian. Probably when people no longer irritated her, she thought. If that were the case, she had a long way to go.
Seventeen
A Christmas Revelation
With the holidays looming, people’s thoughts have turned to Deena Morrison, who is still unattached. Christmas is a sad time to be alone, and everyone was hoping she’d be married by now. Back in March, at the Easter service, she’d sat with Sam’s brother, Roger, which had buoyed the town’s spirits. But Roger couldn’t believe someone so beautiful would be interested in him, so he never phoned her. Though he thinks about her. And she thinks about him and wonders why he doesn’t call.
Meanwhile, certain people have been trying to fix her up with their unattached relatives. Oscar and Livinia Purdy, of the Dairy Queen Purdys, have been dropping hints that their son Myron is available and will one day inherit the Dairy Queen. He drives an immense four-wheel-drive pickup truck with a personalized license plate that reads 2HOT, which tells you everything you need to know about Myron Purdy. He’s asked Deena out three times, but she can’t get past that license plate.
She’s decided to stop trying to find a man, that if it’s meant to be, it’ll just happen. It’s a rather fatalistic view and contrary to her usual approach, which is to set a goal and work toward it. But she’s been working toward a husband for three years with no discernible progress, so she’s open to a new approach.
The Friendly Women’s Circle has not given up their sacred obligation to see her wed. Unbeknownst to her, they wrote letters to their fellow Friendly Women in other Quaker meetings asking for snapshots and biographies of the unattached men in their congregations, which they presented to Deena one Sunday after meeting for worship.
“Think of it as an early Christmas present,” they told her.
Deena was not happy with the thought of being peddled across the state at various churches, but she took the pictures anyway so as not to hurt their feelings. She thumbed through them when she got home, and it soon became apparent why these men were unattached.
“He’s not so bad,” her grandmother Mabel said, pointing to a picture. “I wonder why he shaved his head?”
“He’s probably a member of a gang.”
“Yul Brynner was bald. Women were nuts about him.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Deena admitted. “But look at his left eye, how it drifts to the side.”
Mabel studied the photograph. “I think it makes him look mysterious.”
“I don’t like mysterious,” Deena said. “Mysterious men always have something to hide. Like a body in their crawl space or a wife in another state.”
Mabel mused over another picture. “This man says he likes to travel internationally.”
“That probably means he spends his vacation fishing in Canada. Look at his shirt. It says On The Seventh Day, God Fished. No, thank you.”
“Your grandfather liked to fish, and he was a nice man.”
“I have no problems with men fishing. I just don’t want to date a man who wears T-shirts about fishing.”
The pictures were bad enough, but what really steamed Deena was when the December edition of the church newsletter landed in her mailbox with her name in the Friendly Women’s column. Please pray for Deena as she tries to find a man.
She wonders if moving to the city would increase her chances for matrimony. She’d confided in Sam that she was thinking of leaving. He hated the thought of it, since she helped offset the Dale Effect. Whenever they had visitors, he steered them toward Deena, so Harmony Friends w
ould appear more enlightened and progressive than it was. With Deena gone, he’d have to introduce them to Dale, which would have a chilling effect.
Deena reads books written by people no one has ever heard of, books Miss Rudy at the library has to order in special. She can talk with visitors on a variety of subjects, from the conflict in the Middle East to gardening. Dale reads the End Times newsletter by Brother Eddie from Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and asks visitors if they think Jesus will return before or after the Great Tribulation.
Sam did what he always does when he fears someone might leave the church—he asked her to serve on a committee so she’d feel obligated to stay. Specifically, the Peace and Social Concerns Committee, whose bloom had faded under the leadership of Dolores Hinshaw. Dolores’s response to staggering human suffering was to launch salvation balloons with her husband, Dale.
Sam eased Dolores out of the picture by forming a new committee and putting her in charge of it—the Harmony Friends Bicentennial Celebration Committee—which would begin planning now for their two-hundredth anniversary in 2026. Sam was relatively certain he’d be gone by then.
With Dolores out of the way, he nominated Deena to take her place as head of the Peace and Social Concerns Committee, and in she went.
“How long is my term?” she asked Sam, after accepting the position.
“Deena, with this committee we don’t tend to think in terms of years. Can a job really ever be finished as long as even one person anywhere is suffering?”
That’s when she knew she’d been hoodwinked.
“You know, Deena,” Sam continued, “it’s been so long since we’ve heard from the Peace and Social Concerns Committee, maybe you should bring the message the Sunday before Christmas. It’s our biggest Sunday. Everyone’s here. You’ll have a captive audience.”
After eighteen Christmas sermons, Sam had run out of things to say. He’d never liked that Sunday anyway, with the twice-a-year attenders arriving late and clomping down front to the empty seats, distracting everyone else.
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