by Ann B. Ross
“Well, her house is four blocks from mine to the southwest. And mine is two blocks west of Main Street, so I’d say that hers is about six blocks away from Main—in a zigzaggy sort of way.”
“Okay, I’ll double-check that. But if it’s zoned either C-4 or RCT—residential commercial transitional—we may have a battle on our hands. Now, you implied that the church may be supporting this group?”
“Not the church, as far as I know, but I’d bet money on the pastor. He and Madge Taylor, who most definitely is the spearhead, are as thick as thieves, so I expect he’ll present it to the session any day now, if he hasn’t already.”
“So there’s been nothing in the bulletin?” Binkie and Coleman were members of the church, but they rarely showed up for the services.
“Not a thing,” I answered. “Which goes to show that the pastor has learned his lesson. He’ll try to get the session’s backing before telling the congregation—just another instance of the underhanded way they’re going about this. He’ll want to present a fait accompli, so that the project will be too far along to stop by the time everybody finds out about it.”
“Well, here’s something you can do. Or Hazel Marie can. Make a list of all who live in the area. Using the Cochran house as the center, get the owners’ names of all the houses within a cicle of, say, about four or five blocks in diameter. It’s unlikely that there’re any homeowners’ contracts—as would be the case in a planned community—which would regulate what goes on there, but we’ll need to check that, too.”
“I know a few who live nearby already,” I said, perking up at the thought of additional help in sending Madge Taylor elsewhere. “Thurlow Jones’s house would almost certainly be within five blocks of the Cochran house. And Dr. Monroe’s, too. You know him, don’t you? He’s that foot doctor. A podiatrist I think he’s called.”
“Umm,” Binkie said, tapping a pencil on her desk. “Not good. Doesn’t he have an office in his house? That could mean it’s zoned MIC—medical institutional cultural—sort of a mixed-use designation. Unless he was grandfathered in.”
My spirits dropped at that. “Could that nonprofit group claim that they come under a medical designation, too?”
“It depends on how they’ve described themselves to qualify as a nonprofit. Don’t worry, I’ll be looking into that.”
“Well, but, listen, Binkie, I’ve heard that Dr. Monroe is all but retired. Maybe we can talk him into full retirement, and urge him to convert his office back into a living room, or whatever it was meant to be.”
Binkie smiled. “Every little thing could help. The first thing is to find out who’s bought the Cochran house. I’ll get started on that and let you know what I find out. In the meantime, get Hazel Marie busy making that list, and you might contact some church members to see how they feel.” She paused, pushed back a few curls that had fallen over her forehead, and said, “Did I understand you to say that the session will support this nonprofit?”
“No, I don’t know it for sure. I only know that Pastor Rucker supported Madge’s last wild idea, and he was mightily disappointed when it didn’t pan out. But they made a mistake by not going to the session first, so they won’t make it a second time. Binkie, I tell you that the two of them are do-gooders of the first order. They’re so intent on doing good to some that they can’t see that they’re doing harm to others.”
* * *
—
“This was harder than I thought,” I said to Hazel Marie. We were talking on the phone that afternoon, after dividing up the surrounding blocks between us. I had been on the telephone all morning and most of the afternoon. “For one thing,” I continued, “a lot of people have given up their landline phones and use only cell phones now. And cell phones aren’t listed in the phone book.”
“I know,” she said. “And my phone book must be five years old—they don’t seem to hand them out like they used to. We may have to go out and knock on doors.”
“I’d like to avoid that if we can. But how many people were you able to contact?”
“Nine. And none of them want a group home in our midst. In fact, Helen Stroud was outraged at the idea. You know how hard she’s worked on that house of Thurlow’s, and she told me that she’d already begun thinking about urging the neighbors to join in a neighborhood beautification effort. And, Miss Julia, you know that teenage boys aren’t interested in beautifying anything, except maybe some old cars jacked up in the yard.”
Helen Stroud was a divorcée who had made a rapid descent down the social scale when her husband was incarcerated for fraud and embezzlement. After living a year or so hand to mouth, she had entered into an agreement to look after Thurlow Jones, the stingiest, most aggravating man alive, when he fell off his roof and banged himself up. Helen was being handsomely rewarded for taking care of him when nobody else would.
“I know, Hazel Marie,” I said, soothingly. “I’m so glad you talked to Helen—she’ll be a great help. And the more interest we get from the neighbors, the better. I could almost wish that we lived closer to the Cochran house so I couldn’t be accused of meddling in somebody else’s business.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. Your house is well within the five blocks that Binkie said would be affected.”
I almost missed the chair when I had to sit down.
Chapter 5
Of course it was. I knew that, yet it simply had not registered that a group home full of risky teenagers would impinge on my own property. And Mildred Allen’s as well. Her grand house on beautifully landscaped grounds was next door to mine. She most certainly would not welcome anything that lessened the value of her place.
To make myself feel better by having a companion in my anxiety, I called Mildred and told her what might soon be located in our midst.
“I just wanted to let you know what’s going on,” I told her. “I have Binkie looking to see if we can legally stop them from moving into the neighborhood, and she seems to think that all the neighbors acting in one accord would help.”
“How much do you need?” Mildred asked.
“Oh, no. No, we don’t need money. At least not now. I just want to know if you’re with us or not.”
“Absolutely, I’m with you. I don’t want a gang of little criminals living in the neighborhood. You remember that boy who lived down on Taft Street? The one who broke into every house within walking distance because he was too young to drive? And now they want to put six of the same kind close to us? No, thank you. I can do without that.”
“Six?” I asked. “Where did you hear that?”
“It’s in today’s paper, but it didn’t say where they’d bought a house. I just scanned it because I didn’t know it would affect me.”
“Oh, my, I haven’t even looked at the paper today. But if they’ve gone public, they must be further along than we knew. I’ve got to hang up, Mildred. I need to see what the paper says.”
I usually read the Abbotsville Times soon after it hits the front walk each morning. But this morning I’d been too anxious to be at Binkie’s office, then too wrapped up in making phone calls, to sit down and read it. The article that Mildred had mentioned was at the bottom of the front page, and reading it made my heart sink.
NONPROFIT ACQUIRES HOME FOR TEEN BOYS
Local nonprofit Homes for Teens acquired a house last Tuesday, taking the first public step toward providing a home for homeless teenage boys. The house, located within the city limits, will be remodeled to accommodate up to six homeless teenagers and two full-time houseparents.
Madge Taylor, president of the Homes for Teens board of directors, said, “We are all so excited because everything is falling into place much more quickly than we expected. We are so indebted to the marvelous support that we’ve received from the churches in town, especially to the First Presbyterian Church and the Reverend Robert Rucker. And I must give special mention to a few anonymous
donors who have been most supportive of our efforts. We are making every effort to allay the fears of our neighbors, who might’ve been understandably concerned, but who are now rolling out the welcome mat. We will be looking to the community for funds to remodel the house, as well as to operate it for the benefit of so many local homeless teenage boys.”
The article went on to list the members of the board, as well as their plans to raise the funds needed to remodel the interior of the house. It also quoted the pastor of a small nondenominational church as saying, “To my mind, it would be absolutely immoral for anyone to be against this effort.”
I was sick by the time I’d finished reading it. Madge and her board members had truly made an end run around anyone who would’ve stood in their way. And now they would be actively raising funds to complete their plans. And, I asked myself, just who were those anonymous donors and who, according to Madge, among the neighbors had rolled out a welcome mat? The only thing the neighbors I’d talked to would welcome would be seeing the last of her.
But what really got to me was that Madge had enlisted clerical support—she’d gone straight to the top. And she’d made sure to mention that our church was supporting them, with special mention of our pastor. Just how were we doing that? No one had told me that we were supporting them. And if they’d actually bought the Cochran house, as the article implied, where did a nonprofit get the down payment before they’d even had a fund-raiser? Had it come from the church?
I was just before taking myself across Polk Street and bearding the pastor in his den when the phone rang. It was Hazel Marie again.
“Miss Julia?” she said. “I just have to tell you something I just realized. After reading the article in today’s paper, I remembered that I’d seen a real estate agent over at the Cochran house a few weeks ago, and he’d just put an Under Contract notice on the FOR SALE sign that was out front. I was in the side yard, so I called to him and asked who was buying the house. See, I was hoping a young family would move in so my girls would have some playmates, but that agent looked me straight in the eye and said he didn’t know who was buying it. I think now that he was telling me a story.”
“Worse than that, Hazel Marie,” I said, “he was outright lying to you. Of course he knew who was buying it, but either he’d been cautioned against telling or he knew it would cause problems and didn’t want to risk losing his commission. That just goes to show that everybody knows that a group home degrades a neighborhood, and everybody who’s in on it keeps it under wraps as long as possible. What real estate agency does he work for, anyway?”
When she told me, I said, “Well, that’s it for me. That agency manages some rental property for me, but no longer. I’m cutting ties with them right away, and I’m telling them exactly why. We’ll just see if keeping secrets and lying about it helps their business from now on.”
* * *
—
After my usual daily scan of the classified ads to keep abreast of the real estate business in town, I took the newspaper with me and went upstairs to Lloyd’s room to use his computer. I am not what one would call electronically proficient, but he’d shown me how to search for things that I was interested in. And that day I was interested in the members of the board of the Homes for Teens. So, working gingerly for fear of messing up Lloyd’s computer, I entered each of the names of the five board members. I wanted to know just who among the townspeople were supporting Madge Taylor on her mission to usurp our neighborhood.
I’d never heard of a single one of them! Except Madge, of course. But the other four, like her, were fairly recent arrivals in our town. Not a one, except Madge, had lived in Abbotsville longer than five years and a couple were so new that they’d probably not yet unpacked all their boxes.
From the brief biographies I found, they all appeared well educated and recently retired, which meant, I supposed, that they were eager to give our little backwater town the benefit of their vast experience and exceptional talents. Coming from large cities, not a one of them would know the pleasures of small-town life, where neighbors knew one another and helped one another and, indeed, prayed for one another. They would not think twice about disrupting a quiet, well-established area of homes with a house full of teenage boys—because that would be a good deed and would merit stars in their crowns, as well as local prominence.
Then I realized something that absolutely enraged me—every last one of the board members, including Madge Taylor, lived in one or another of the two gated communities on the edge of town. And when I say gated, I mean gated, with a gatekeeper, special stickers on homeowners’ cars, and everything else needed to keep out the riffraff. One did not enter those areas without advance notice of one’s visit. And each of those gated communities had a list of rules and regulations that you had to sign and swear you’d uphold before you were allowed to buy into the area. Why, you even had to get approval of the paint color you selected for your own home. And I knew for a fact that at least one of those communities gave their homeowners a choice of three exterior colors, and three only.
So why hadn’t those Homes for Teens board members bought a house for homeless teenagers in one of their own communities? Think of the amenities those young boys could enjoy—swimming pools, tennis courts, golf courses—all designed for good, clean fun that might deter them from continuing a life of crime.
Well, of course I knew why they hadn’t. First of all, the homeowners’ associations would not have permitted such a home in their midst. And second of all, those strict rules that regulated and protected the communities were the very reason that the Homes for Teens board members had bought their own homes there. They wanted to live where nothing was allowed that would detract from the uniformity of the community, but above all they wanted to live where nothing was allowed that would reduce the value of their homes.
So what did they do? They bought a house in a neighborhood far from their own—where it didn’t matter to them if it didn’t fit into the neighborhood, and where it didn’t matter to them if it reduced the value of the surrounding homes.
No wonder they were so excited, as Madge Taylor had said, about the purchase on Jackson Street. It fit all their criteria, particularly the one she hadn’t mentioned—it was located far from the homes of the board members.
I was livid as all these thoughts bounced around in my head. Livid also because I knew—I just knew—that not only would we be labeled immoral far and wide, we’d also be accused of selfishness and antihumanitarianism, and, worst of all, of not being Christians. And all because we, who did not live in gated communities, wanted the same things that those in gated communities already had—assurance that their investments were safe and peace of mind from knowing that their neighbors would be screened and vetted. No nasty surprises on the front page of the newspaper for them.
Then another thought hit me—did the fact that homes, as in Homes for Teens, was plural mean that they were planning for more than one group home? Was the Cochran house just the beginning?
That’s what Hazel Marie and I should emphasize—watch out, your neighborhood could be next, and they’ll be asking you to finance another such incursion while they sit back, pleased with themselves, in their own protected areas.
Chapter 6
I wished I had Sam to talk to. His analytical mind and great good sense would keep me on track, especially as I tended to expect the worst outcome of any problem that arose. Not only did I simply miss his company, I missed having his reassurance that I was seeing clearly and choosing the correct course of action.
Because, to tell the truth, I had some doubts about my stance on that group home, and they almost overwhelmed me that evening. Maybe, it occurred to me, a true Christian would not only accept what was being done but also pitch in to help get it done. Maybe I was being purely selfish to worry about the little Pickens twins and the pretty Osborne girl and Lloyd living next door to a houseful of potential delinquents. M
aybe I should stop worrying about my own and have a little sympathy for those boys who’d not had the privilege of a good upbringing. There was no telling what those boys had seen, experienced, and been exposed to in their young lives, so it was no wonder that they were already halfway off the rails—they probably knew nothing else.
As I thought of what some of those experiences might have been, my heart was moved for the abused and misused among us. Every life was worth saving—I firmly believed that. The question was, though, could every life be saved? And, in this instance, I meant saved in the sense that Madge and Pastor Rucker meant it—that is, could mistreated, abandoned boys who had already stepped onto the path of crime be turned into hardworking, self-supporting, law-abiding citizens simply by moving them into a house on Jackson Street next door to Hazel Marie’s children?
Just as I was about to concede that maybe they could, I recalled the two things that ran me up the wall about the whole process: the secretive way that Madge and her board had gone about acquiring a house, and the fact that the house was nowhere near hers or that of any of the other board members. If that didn’t tell you something, I don’t know what would.
And to think that my church, the church that I had supported for lo, these many years, was acting in the name of all the members, including me, without telling us one word about it just ran me up a wall.
“Lillian,” I called, as I picked up my pocketbook, “I’m going across the street to speak to the pastor. I’ll be back before long.”
“You better put on a sweater or something,” she said. “It kinda breezy out there today.”
I was hot enough to withstand the strongest breeze, so I took off across the street and into the church by the back door that led to the Fellowship Hall and the group of offices for the staff.
When I reached the side hall that led to the office formerly occupied by the Reverend Larry Ledbetter, I was stopped in my tracks. Beside the closed door of the receptionist’s office hung a large, new sign reading OFFICE OF THE SENIOR PASTOR. Senior pastor? Did that mean we were getting a junior one? And who was going to pay his salary, I’d like to know. Well, of course I knew. We were already well into our annual stewardship drive and, as usual, the bottom line on the new budget was much higher than it had been on last year’s.
