“How does this relate to forgiveness then, Dorothy?”
“It’s just that sometimes, sometimes words and messages, whether they’re about death or forgiveness, or delivered by pastors or friends, are much easier to say than to live. You know what I mean? Just because Jesus is always ready to forgive us, does that mean we are always that ready to forgive one another . . . or ourselves? Do you believe we are, Pastor Delbert? Do you believe we humans, we children of God Almighty, can and are readied and able to forgive what we can’t even fathom? Actions that seem unthinkable . . . unforgivable, even by those we thought we knew very well?”
Pastor swallowed hard, then shored himself up and said with confidence, “I believe, Dorothy, that if we cannot, we need to trust the Almighty to work that work in us.”
Dorothy drew a deep breath, such a deep breath as to indicate she might not have been breathing at all up until that second. Then she exhaled with a whoosh. “Yes. Thank you, Pastor. That is a good, affirming answer I needed to hear and a good thing for us to remember.” She leaned into him and gave him a hearty hug. Close into his ear she whispered, “I’m glad you’re grounded in trusting God for human forgiveness, Pastor, because sometimes the sudden need to do so can surprise us.” She patted his cheek with tenderness, and with the same look he’d seen in her eyes while he was preaching.
What was that look? He decided it almost looked like one of sympathy. A chill ran down his spine, as though the building had suddenly become drafty. While Dorothy headed off to clear the altar, Pastor Delbert looked for the open window that was allowing such a sudden and cool wind to penetrate the building, although he found none.
Dorothy finished her altar duties and looked at her watch. It was nearly eleven. She sat down in the front pew, feeling weary, strained and needing to crawl up, then curl up, in the lap of her Lord. She closed her eyes, and that’s just what she did, not only in her mind’s eye, but in the safety of God’s familiar house.
Lord, me again. No surprise there, huh? She reflected on her days since that evening in the Lexus with Katie, who had first mentioned the Core Four Covenant. This is what happens when we weave tangled webs of dishonesty, isn’t it? God, forgive me. But like the good shepherd You are, You stick right with us while we fumble, fumble along. Patiently waiting for us to fall into our own pits, then, there You are! WHAT A GRACIOUS GOD! Reaching down into our dark secrets and bathing us with Your light. . . . Dorothy let go of words, eyes closed again, imagining for a moment bright, warm rays of welcome sunshine landing on the top of her head, her face, her shoulders, arms, lap, toes . . .
Help me be Your eyes, Lord, so Katie knows You are with her. Dorothy tried to imagine what Jesus might say to Katie, should the secret come out and He were to appear to her in the flesh, looking full in her face.
Help me.
A surprise smile rumbled within her as she recalled the song she and May Belle used to sing as girls down by the creek. Something about a rabbit needing to be rescued from the hunter. “Help me! Help Me! Help me he cried . . .” Next thing she knew, the rumbling smile let her lips know about it. “Thank you, smile,” she said aloud. “Thank you, God! Thank you, May Belle. Thank you, . . . Mom.” She focused on the wonder and balancing respite one receives when one gives thanks in the middle of a crisis.
Dorothy sat as still as a post for a long while, eyes open, just listening. Listening for the sounds of His words, His thoughts to come into her.
Then she knew, as well as she had ever known anything, that she was the one who needed to pry open the box, to speak the first word, and not wait for Katie to figure it out. If she was the one with the key, she’s the one who needed to use it.
Katie and Josh both awakened early. They decided they’d just get out of the city and catch a drive-through breakfast on the outskirts before Sunday traffic bottlenecked. She pulled over and let Josh drive after the halfway mark, figuring it was best to keep him comfortable driving long stretches of multilane highways rather than just country roads. They were mostly silent. Katie was physically still pretty relaxed from her spa day, although thoughts of the Core Four Covenant were beginning to once again gnaw at her peace. She’d think about the Core Four and her heart would zing, like when you suddenly remembered something important you forgot to do. When that happened, she would close her eyes and try to mentally put herself back on the massage table, feeling the soothing touch of healing.
As a passenger, which she almost never was, it was fascinating to her to watch the landscape change as they traveled farther south along the highway. Long stretches of field after field that had looked so terminally boring to her now appeared oddly appealing. Is it being the passenger, or because I really am getting used to the farm? Although she’d found herself in one way anxious to leave the city, she realized she also wasn’t ready to arrive home yet either, what with all that . . . Home. Yes, it feels like I’m going home. How’s that for a shocker? First you can’t wait to get “back” to the city, then you can’t wait to get out of it. And yet, you can’t stand to deal with what awaits you. She wondered if this was why gypsies throughout time had continued to wander. Maybe they didn’t feel like they really belonged anywhere either.
Her mind began to twiddle with the initials again. Tess Walker, Clarice Walker, somebody D Walker and DC.
DW. Somebody Walker. Dave. Dick. Don. Darlene. Debbie. Dolores. For several miles she toiled with every D name she could come up with. None sounded familiar. She wracked her brain to recall her mother ever having mentioned other Walkers. Nothing. Has her father’s eyes. Hope he can see her. Maybe having set the letters aside for a couple of days, distance and some fresh perspective would shed enlightenment when she returned to them.
She glanced over at her son, wondering what was up with him, why he’d been so sullen all weekend. And why hadn’t he and Alex gotten together? As close as the boys had been for so many years, this seemed very odd, even though Josh had obviously made new friends at Hethrow. Whatever the reason, it was clear Josh didn’t want to talk about it, and that he had been disappointed. He’d once even knocked on her hotel room door to ask if she had received any phone messages, needing to see for himself that she hadn’t overlooked the blinking light, just in case the hotel had patched Alex through to her room instead of his. “Joshua,” she’d said, “we don’t have the same last name, remember? If somebody called asking for Josh Kinney, they wouldn’t put them through to Katie Durbin.” He’d told her that if Alex had forgotten the room number, or his mom had thrown it away while he was out, that Alex was smart enough to know to ask for her if the desk told him there wasn’t anyone registered by the name of Kinney.
Divorce could offer odd and ongoing complications to lives. She’d felt a pang again, sad that divorce had to become a part of her son’s life. How can a child form an identity when he carries a father’s name, a father he doesn’t live with, and doesn’t share a mother’s last name, a mother with whom he does live ? And if I myself . . .
Josh looked at his mom, wondering why she was staring at him. “Yes?”
“Just wondering where the time has gone that I have a son old enough to drive” was all she said. “Watch the road.”
Like yesterday, her thoughts again flashed to Jessica, whom she’d been sorely missing lately—avoiding, really, in the midst of her Core Four angst. She adored Jessica, but could she be trusted with wild speculations and vulnerabilities? It occurred to her that Zeda was something like Jessica, in terms of temperament and her love for home and family. Katie wondered if she’d given Zeda half a chance years back if they, too, might have become friends. But then, that would have been too difficult with Zeda’s husband being so involved in the same competitive business. Katie wouldn’t have felt free to share any personal things the way she did with Jessica. Not good to mix business and friendship. That was her personal law.
Katie suddenly understood she’d needed to come to Partonville to learn that the type of friendship she had with Jessica even existed.
Friendships. She’d missed talking to Dorothy, too, who always seemed to be able to cut to the chase with her. She hadn’t talked to Dorothy since after bunco, when Dorothy had recommended Katie pray. What had she said? “Some things we need to plow through and pray over before we can get over them.” She also said she’d pray for me. Move me to the top of her prayer list. She could be praying for me right now, for all I know, while I’m busy sitting here thinking about her. What good would it be doing anyway? NONE! Just the same, I’d like to see her.
While Katie’s mind had wandered from this to that and back again, Josh had been composing a new e-mail in his head, the one he would send to Alex as soon as they got home. He figured he’d had it coming and couldn’t blame Alex for not seeming to work very hard to get in touch with him. He was going to try to patch things up one more time.
And Shelby. What was he to do about her? He couldn’t just stand by and watch her succumb to the clutches of Kevin, who clearly didn’t seem to respect any girls, let alone Shelby.
But then what about Kevin, who had befriended him? Was this something to dump a friendship over? And what, exactly, was the “it”? His own stupidity and ego to begin with? And if he did quit hanging around with Kevin, no more cool table at lunch. Probably no more friends at all.
He couldn’t wait to talk to Dorothy and get her perspective. She always seemed to have a few wise words, and it was easier to talk to her than it was to talk to his mom, especially about stuff like this. Maybe, since they were getting home so early, he could still see her today.
“Mom, do you think I could borrow the wheels to visit Dorothy this afternoon?”
Katie stared at him in disbelief. “What made you think about her just now?”
“I don’t know. I just did. Why?”
“I was thinking about her, too. Just now. Just when you said that.” Katie stared out her passenger window, and without turning her head toward Josh, she casually said, “Maybe we ought to stop by and see her on the way through town. If you want to see her alone later, that’s fine, but we could just stop together and say hello.”
Although Josh really did want Dorothy all to himself, at least a brief Howdy Ho, as Dorothy would say, would be a beginning. He decided he owed her an apology, too, for not keeping in better touch. And after all, Dorothy had mentioned she hadn’t heard “hide nor hair” from either of them. Maybe she was missing both of them too. He glanced at the car clock. “Let’s see, it’s eleven. She’ll probably be home from church by noon, ya think? Maybe you should call on your cell phone and ask her if she wants to come out to the farm for lunch; she e-mailed me that she could use a good dose of Crooked Creek. Maybe we could pick up a bucket of chicken or something, then get her?”
13
Doc Streator leaned back against his car, lightweight jacket unzipped, arms crossed in front of him, bald head beaming in a flash of sunlight, which felt good on his face and chest. Pastor Delbert’s thought-provoking sermon on forgiveness still resonated in his mind and heart. While Pastor had been preaching, Doc had been thanking God for all the forgiveness he had been extended in his life, for surely, no man or woman was without the need. Now, though, he set those thoughts aside to chat with Eugene, who had walked out of church next to him after a short cup of coffee during the meet-and-greet session, which was mostly about having a cup of coffee—or tea, for those who had squawked long and loud enough to finally get one committee or another to donate funds toward an electric teapot. Or so they all thought. Truth was, Dorothy had gotten so tired of hearing them squawk and squabble about budgets and tea bags that she’d finally purchased one and anonymously donated it, along with a starter box of tea bags.
“You know, Eugene, I agree with Gladys—but please don’t ever tell her I said so—that you and I are probably in two of the most interesting positions to gather and tell a few stories from Partonville’s history. We’re on the right committee, for sure.”
Eugene buttoned the top button on his heavy, plaid Woolrich shirt, which he was using as a jacket over his Sunday dress shirt. He’d been running slightly behind schedule when he readied to leave for church this morning, and he’d grabbed the first outer garment in the front closet he set his eyes on. His wife was in St. Louis visiting her sister, which explained his tardiness. She usually laid out clothes for him each day; he was clueless and colorblind when it came to coordinating things. She would have had nothing short of a conniption fit had she seen what he wore to church. He pulled his old floppy hat out of the right breast pocket (a double conniption fit!), which he’d rolled up and stuffed in there when he hung up his jacket in the narthex. He batted it on his thigh to pop it open, then pulled it snugly down on his head. Eugene was always worried about catching a cold, and no matter how many times he’d been told over the years that colds were caught from germs, not a cool breeze, there was no convincing him. Doc smiled, knowing full well Eugene believed he was, with intent, warding off the sniffles with all this buttoning and covering.
“I wonder, Doc, how many folks you think you’ve delivered that I’ve buried?”
“I reckon a fair share of them, and many before their time, if you ask me. Although I didn’t deliver Jake, I think about him every week when I see Gladys sitting in that front pew alone, knowing just how she feels without her spouse beside her. Who’d have thought, the day he pulled out in his Mac truck for his next long haul—same as he’d done for all the years of his working life—that he’d return in an ambulance straight to your funeral home? One day you’re a truck driver and a mayor; the next day you’re an obituary.”
“You got that right. Course I guess when it’s my time to go, I’d just as soon go out in a blink-of-an-eye crash rather than some strung-out disease, the way, say, Caroline Ann did. Now that I think about it, Doc, I guess for a guy who’s birthed babies his entire career, you’ve watched plenty of folks die, too. Personally, I’d rather have them after they’re already gone than to have to watch them suffer. Guess I’m in the right business then, huh?”
Doc grinned. “We’re supposed to be working on a celebration, Eugene. I think we better cheer ourselves up before the next committee meeting, wouldn’t you say?”
“You got that right, too. Gladys will be expecting us to give her a thorough report.”
“What she’s expecting is a whoop-tee-do to end all whoop-tee-do’s. I tell you, our fine mayor is . . . is . . .”
“Sometimes there just are no words for Gladys, are there?” Eugene rolled his eyes.
“You know though, Eugene, she is on to something here. Maybe this whole shebang of a celebration will be something we all remember for years to come. Personally, I’m looking forward to reading our booklet, aren’t you?”
“Where should we begin?”
“How about we each pick five families who’ve been here more than one generation and who we believe have contributed something special to Partonville. We can talk on the phone, say tomorrow afternoon? After we’ve had a chance to think about it? Maybe compare lists? We ask them for pictures and such. We say to them, ‘I remember when . . .’ and that’ll get their pumps primed. They’ll be so flattered, we’ll probably never get them to shut up. Then we’ll ask them to stop talking and write up a few paragraphs, and turn it in to us by . . . When do we need this?”
“I reckon we need it within about ten days, if we’re going to stand a chance of having somebody put it all together, lay it out and get it printed—and that might be cuttin’ it too close. Gladys should have given us deadlines. You know, I believe we should have a talk with Harold and Sharon to see how we can work together with them, since no doubt the Partonville Press will somehow be involved with the printing.”
“Good idea.” Doc shifted positions, still leaning on his car, crossing one leg in front of the other. “Remind me who’s doing the fund-raising. You know, trying to get all those patrons and such?”
“Now that you mention it, I don’t recall anybody being assigned to that task! Boy, now there’s
another oversight—although I can’t help but believe Gladys isn’t already strong-arming everybody she sees. Probably wouldn’t hurt if we mentioned it to folks. If we get any collections, we’ll take those to the meeting too, until we know what else to do with them. That ought to earn our committee a few points with Ms. Mayor.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Doc said, running his hand back and forth around the back of his neck, “this town’s been so good to me all of these decades, I should become one of those patrons. Get the financial ball rolling. Did Gladys say just how much it would take?”
“Don’t most things like that have different levels of patrons? You know, like the silver patron for such-and-such a donation, and the gold patron level for more, then the platinum . . .”
“Then you’re a patron saint!” They both laughed out loud. Doc reached for his jacket zipper, the cool fall air sinking in and a new rush of clouds hiding the warm rays, which had been appearing and disappearing as quickly as the remaining days of his life.
Eugene saw Doc’s gesture as a red flag and he pulled his collar up around his neck. “And we don’t celebrate saints in church until All Saints’ Day, which isn’t until after the festivities! No point in being one if you can’t be recognized at the whoop-tee-do. I’m going to get going, Doc, before I catch a cold. I’m about to bust out shivering.”
“I think we’re getting punch happy now anyway.”
Dorothy walked up and stood next to Eugene. “What’s this I overhear about you two men getting punch happy? I tell you what, I could use a good dose of punch happy. Why don’t you let me in on a round.” Doc opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Then Eugene thought about trying to explain it. “You know, Dorothy, sometimes you just have to be there. Let’s just say it began with Gladys . . . and ended with saints.”
Dearest Dorothy, Help! I've Lost Myself! Page 14
