by Ashton Lee
“Then why don’t you get up and say it? It’s right to the point and pretty inspiring in my book.”
He stayed quiet for a while but finally produced one of his big smiles. “I’ve got a lot a’ competition tonight from some folks who know how to make fine speeches, but I’ll give it some serious consideration.”
Maura Beth made a point of visiting with practically everyone who had shown up as they all settled into their seats with their plates of chicken, ham, deviled eggs, green bean casserole, and Miss Voncille’s reliable biscuits. She was happiest to see Emma Frost had kept her word and brought her Leonard with her, even though the conversation with him was strained.
“And are you enjoying all that good food, Mr. Leonard?” Maura Beth was saying, noting that he and Emma were indeed a good match. The man was as plain and ordinary-looking as she was, but the blank look on his face told the tale of his ailment.
“I . . . uh . . . believe so,” he said, staring at her and then down at his plate as if it were about to speak to him.
“He really likes the green bean casserole,” Emma put in. “I really favor it myself. Who fixed it? Do ya know?”
“That would be Nora Duddney’s contribution, I do believe. You’ll have to tell her how much you like it when you get the chance. It’s her first time to bring anything, so I know she’d appreciate the compliment. She’s sitting back there with her gentleman friend, Wally Denver.”
Then Leonard spoke up after finishing off his helping of casserole. “Coudda . . . have some more?”
“Have all you want,” Maura Beth told him, gesturing toward the buffet table. “I could go get it for you.”
“No, I’ll do it, Miz Maura Beth,” Emma added. “I was headed back for a second helping myself.”
Maura Beth connected with Periwinkle and Mr. Place next. “I guess you’re both getting excited about Waddell Mack and his band having dinner at The Twinkle tomorrow night. What a great opportunity for you!”
“You bet we are!” Periwinkle told her. “Except Waddell Mack and his band are one and the same.”
Maura Beth’s eyes shifted back and forth. “Beg pardon?”
“That’s the name of his band—Waddell Mack. He named it after himself.”
“Ah, I see.”
“You should really download his latest album and listen to some of the songs between now and tomorrow night. You and Jeremy are still coming, right?”
“We’re planning on it. By the way, what’s on the menu?”
Mr. Place spoke up. “We were planning on our baked chicken and roasted asparagus until Mr. Mack texted us that he was in the mood for some fried catfish and coleslaw.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll love anything you fix him.”
A few minutes later Maura Beth found herself chatting with Marydell Crumpton and Renette Posey, who were sitting together in the back row. “Where’s Mamie tonight? She’s not sick, is she?”
“No, indeed, Maura Beth. She’s still mad about my working here at the library. So she’s boycotting the meeting tonight,” Marydell began, after sipping her cup of eggnog. “I know how her brain works. She’s sitting at home right now, all dressed up with no place to go—imagining that everything is falling apart without her and that any minute now, we’ll all be banging at the door and practically begging her to grace us with her presence. Ha!”
They all laughed, and Renette said, “Miz Marydell is such fun to work with. I get to hear all about the things Miz Mamie does.”
“I’m afraid my sister doesn’t like sharing the spotlight with anyone, least of all me,” Marydell continued. “I know we’re all better off not having her here anyway. I can’t think of anything remotely inspirational she might have to say. She’s good at nitpicking but not much else.”
Then Maura Beth continued making the rounds. “Tonight, I feel like I imagine a children’s librarian feels all the time,” she was saying at one point to Miss Voncille and Locke Linwood, who were seated to her right while enjoying their potluck spread. By then, she found herself very much in her professional mission mode and was enjoying herself thoroughly.
“In about fifteen minutes I’ll be presiding over our little story hour—if you want to call it that. We librarians like to say the traditional kind is the first real opportunity to get young brains hooked on reading. Of course, I haven’t been able to do story hour as often as I would have liked over the years, since I’ve worn way too many hats with not enough money to buy a one of them. But somehow I’ve still managed to find time to throw together a makeshift summer reading program for at least a couple of weeks. I’ll start interviewing candidates for the position of children’s librarian in January, and let me tell you—I can’t wait to delegate that responsibility once and for all.”
“This truly is a thrilling time for you and the library,” Miss Voncille said, finishing up a deviled egg. “And I can’t wait to hold my ‘Who’s Who in Cherico?’ meetings in that new genealogy room you keep telling me about. Maybe we’ll finally attract some new members for the first time in years.”
“You’ll have more room than you ever dreamed of, and we’ll keep on expanding the genealogy collection and buy some genealogy software for you that’s all the rage now. When the drywall is up next year, you and Locke must come out and I’ll give you a little tour so you can get the feel of your new stomping grounds.” Maura Beth took a generous bite of her ham and a sip of her eggnog before she continued. “So, I’ll ask you the same question I asked Justin Brachle a few minutes ago. Will either of you be sharing a story with us tonight?”
“We both will,” Locke told her with a noticeable excitement in his voice. “I think everyone will be moved by what we have to say.”
Miss Voncille took Locke’s hand and squeezed it, but Maura Beth sensed the gesture was more for courage than affection. “I’m . . . well, I’m going to read one of my Frank’s letters that he wrote to me from Vietnam a little before he went MIA. This was a very difficult decision for me. I’ve never shared any of them with anyone before—not even my Locke since we got married—but I think this is the time and place to do it. If we’re supposed to talk about the ‘big picture’ and inspire each other here tonight, then I know what I’ll be reading will do the trick.”
“And I’ll be sharing something Pamela wrote in her journal, which she turned over to me a few days before she died,” Locke added. “I really don’t think I could have kept on going after her death if she hadn’t left me with those words. They’ve been guideposts for me. I debated whether to share that or a letter she instructed me to open on the two-year anniversary of her death, but I decided on the journal. It’s one of those short but sweet gems that will never leave you.”
“I know it will be full of Pamela’s special insights,” Miss Voncille told him, still holding on to her husband’s hand tightly. “She was a remarkable woman and a wonderful wife to you all those years.” Then she turned to Maura Beth. “Locke asked me if I wanted to read any of her journal, same as I asked him if he wanted to read this letter of Frank’s before tonight, but in the end, we both decided to keep things fresh and surprise each other.”
“I’m very impressed,” Maura Beth said. “You two understand perfectly what I want to achieve here this evening. I’m convinced Cherico is going to bottom out of this spiral it’s been in for a while, and I hope everyone leaves here resolving to help our little town do just that.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, do you know how many others will be speaking?” Miss Voncille added.
Maura Beth put down her fork and began concentrating with a thoughtful squint, moving her lips as she counted up. “Well, so far, we have the two of you, Becca Brachle, Connie McShay, James Hannigan, Mr. Parker Place; and then, my parents are here from New Orleans, as you know by now, and my mother told me last night at dinner out at the McShays that she had something she wanted to contribute.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Miss Voncille continued with a lighthearted flick
of her wrist, “but I truly hope we’re not here inspiring each other until Christmas Day.”
“I appreciate the humor,” Maura Beth said, smiling pleasantly. “But I did request that everyone keep their presentations to under ten minutes or so. The last thing I want to inspire here tonight is boredom and yawning.”
Miss Voncille quickly scanned the library lobby and lowered her voice. “What about that cousin of yours sitting next to your parents and your husband at the other end? She cornered me when I first got here, and I thought she’d never stop running on about how she was going to discuss the importance of telethons for good causes when it was her turn at the podium. I don’t want to come off as catty here, but I really could envision her going on for days like an actual telethon would. She could end up putting a real damper on the evening.”
In fact, Maura Beth and Jeremy had discussed the problem of Cudd’n M’Dear before leaving the house earlier and had agreed that the way to handle it would be to make sure that the family loose cannon from New Orleans went on last. That way, Maura Beth could interrupt politely if things started getting out of hand and declare that they had unfortunately run out of time and the meeting was over. It was strange but true—Cudd’n M’Dear always required significant advance planning, or anything under the sun might happen.
“You have to trust me. I have a game plan that I’m positive will work,” Maura Beth explained, checking the clock at the front desk. It was nearly time for the story hour to begin.
Yet it was more than troubling that despite his promise earlier in the day, Councilman Sparks had not made an appearance. Perhaps her bold suggestion that he make up the budget shortfall out of his own deep pockets this year to avoid those layoffs had been too much for him to stomach. She and Nora Duddney had already forced him to part company with some of the fortune his father had embezzled from library funds when the twentieth century was still young. Perhaps he just didn’t have it in him to shell out even more. Still, it was disappointing to accept; she had imagined that Councilman Sparks would deliver his generous decision in his customary grandiose fashion in front of the group to their vigorous applause and then take a bow. She could just envision all the excitement that would create.
Now what could be more inspirational than that?
13
Charles Durden Sparks—Step One
As story hour was beginning at the library, Councilman Sparks was sitting at his dining room table in his gracious Perry Street home. He was in the process of defusing Evie’s concern over the way he had pushed his food around his plate over her delicious dinner of pot roast with new potatoes and carrots. Perhaps he should have forced himself to eat something more than he had, but he didn’t think he could keep it down. Not at a time like this.
“I had a big late lunch today at The Twinkle,” he told her without batting an eyelash, but also avoiding eye contact. “Even had a piece of one of Mr. Place’s pies. I should’ve known better, but my appetite hasn’t recovered yet.”
“Then I’ll put it all up for you in case you get hungry later. No need to let this much food go to waste,” she replied as she cleared the table, fretting just a tad bit. “You aren’t coming down with something, I hope.”
“No, no. I’m just fine, sweetie. Go right ahead and put up a plate for me. That’d be just great. For now, I think I’m going to work on a few municipal budget items in the den,” he continued. “I’m way behind in ironing out a few things, so I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t drag us to that lovefest over at the library tonight. There are just so many people in that club I simply don’t care for—from Maura Beth on down,” she added. “Plus, you said that awful woman from New Orleans that played with your face at Maura Beth’s wedding is going to be there. I might just haul off and slap her upside the head if she tried anything like that again. The very idea!”
He couldn’t hold back his laughter. “Now that would be worth the price of admission. Almost.”
“Yeah, almost is right.”
And that was the end of the exchange.
True to his word, he promptly went into the den and sat down at the handsome plantation desk Evie had bought for him on their tenth anniversary. That was the year he had told her he thought she should cut her hair short, and she had worn it that way ever since. But he must stop letting his mind wander.
He had begun Step One: Go to the den. Lock the door. Write the note. The blank piece of paper was staring him in the face, daring him to find the words. It was unseemly at such a time, but he almost laughed out loud at his predicament.
So this is how writer’s block feels!
Momentarily, Evie knocked at the door somewhat insistently, interrupting whatever weak train of thought he had going. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m taking Bonjour Cheri for her poopsies, sweetheart. Be back soon.”
“Take your time!” he called out.
“Oh, we always do. My little darling sniffs at everything under the sun before she finally goes.”
Inappropriately, he chuckled at the image, and said under his breath, “What will dogs think of next?”
He returned to the paper and the pen in his hand. Not a syllable was forthcoming. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard. Everything in his charmed life had always come so easy for him. But this? He leaned back in his comfortable armchair and took a deep breath. He thought again of Evie and her poodle, padding along the sidewalk without a care in the world. How wondrous to live the life of a pampered pet—and that applied to both his wife and her dog!
Finally, he was able to eke out the first sentence: Evie, I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me for what I’ve done.
He picked up the paper and read it over before crumpling it up and throwing it in the wicker trash can under the desk. No, it was too trite, too predictable. Well, there was no need to rush. Evie was out on her walk, and she already had orders not to disturb him when she returned. So it was back to the drawing board to strike just the right tone, find those perfect words that kept eluding him.
Then he would proceed methodically to Step Two.
14
Frank Gibbons
Mr. Parker Place had just finished reading his mother’s eulogy that he had written and then first spoken at the Cherico African Methodist Episcopal Church not all that long ago. It was the first presentation in the library’s story hour and was well-received by the gathering. There were even a few eyes welling up with tears at the end as he stepped away from the podium and returned to his seat next to Periwinkle.
“Thank you for sharing that with us, Parker. Some of you did not get to hear his tribute to his mother at the funeral,” Maura Beth said as she took his place in front of the crowd. “But I can assure you, it was even more moving for those of us who attended the service.”
“And I just wanted to say again how much it meant to me to see so many of you who are here tonight at the church that day,” Mr. Place added. “It has definitely helped me heal.”
Then, even before she could be introduced, Miss Voncille rose from her seat and approached the podium. “Closure in life is so important to everyone,” she said along the way.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Maura Beth added, gesturing graciously. “A lady who needs no introduction, Voncille Nettles Linwood.”
Miss Voncille waited for the light applause to die down before she pointed to the letter in her hands and began. “Thank you for that. I’m not sure I would ever have shared this with anyone—not even my dear husband, Locke—were it not for Maura Beth and The Cherry Cola Book Club. I like to say that it opened me up for good after I shut down many decades ago when I received the news that my Frank Gibbons was officially MIA in Vietnam. As most of you know by now, Frank and I were engaged to be married before he was deployed around January of 1968. The Tet Offensive. It’s part of history now. But then, it was just wartime jargon to me. A term I’d never heard of that was repeated over and over by Walter Cronkite and Huntley and Brinkle
y on the evening news at dinnertime. I kept hoping and praying it wouldn’t affect me since it was so far away, but I knew better. Frank was in the middle of it, so how could it not affect me? I was certainly in denial. What I’m going to read to you tonight will show you what a fool I was to try and wish it away. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll skip a few very personal parts in the beginning that would only mean something to me. So, bear with me, please, while I catch my breath.”
Miss Voncille was as good as her word and then began.
And I believe I’ve been plunged into the worst of it, along with my company. The Cong are relentless, and I’m not sure we can match their intensity. But the truth is, this is a civil war, and I wonder if we’re going to do any better here than the French did when it was called Indochina. No, I’m not having second thoughts about being here and being a soldier. It’s what I’ve chosen to do with my life—at least, this part of it. My choice showed up early.
I played with plastic toy soldiers from the time I was five or six years old. I took sand from the sandbox and put it on top of an old wooden table with peeling paint out in the backyard. Then I put my little soldiers through their paces. I created good territory and bad territory on the surface of that table, and I don’t know where that came from. Who knows? Maybe it was the South and North Vietnam to come. Did I somehow know that? Do we somehow know what we’ve chosen even before we’ve chosen it? By the end of my playtime, some of my soldiers had keeled over and died, while others lived. I guess you could say I played God with them.
Do I believe in God? That was such an easy question to answer when I was little. I did what I was told, went to church and Sunday school, and never doubted anything. I’d never been tested. But now, the napalm takes my breath away—the fireballs and the booming sounds in the distance, burning the tops off the palms and leaving nothing but the blackened trunks. I want to keep believing in the goodness of the world, but here I am—a real, flesh-and-blood soldier in bad territory—and now I feel I’m the one who’s being toyed with somehow on the surface of something larger than myself that I’ll never fully understand.
