by Ann B. Ross
Sam shook his head. “Maybe not. If the commissioners allow the variance, they know it’ll strike fear in the hearts of all the town’s citizens. If one neighborhood isn’t protected by the zoning laws, who’s to say anybody else’s is? At least, that’s the main point of Binkie’s argument. She knows what she’s doing, Julia. You can depend on her.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I was beginning to have my doubts, although Binkie has never failed me before. It’s also a relief to know that I won’t have to speak at a public hearing.”
“Don’t be too relieved. I expect Binkie will want several of us to go to the microphone and speak against the variance. Just, as you should expect, the other side will have their own speakers.”
“Yes, and every one of them will tug at the heartstrings of the commissioners and probably cry a little, as if the Cochran house is the only possible answer for homeless teens in all of Abbot County.”
“Well,” Sam said, reaching over to pat my knee, “the next commissioners’ meeting is still a couple of weeks away. We have plenty of time to get our ducks in a row. Why don’t you write out what you’d like to say, and I’ll write mine to support your points?”
“I’d really rather,” I said, with an almost unforced smile, “that you write both of them.”
Laughing, he agreed, and I was comforted by having his strong presence and orderly mind to rely on.
* * *
—
“Sam?” I asked, after several minutes of listening to the news, which seemed to be much the same every night. “What are your thoughts about pledging this year?”
His eyebrows went up. “To what?”
“To the church, Sam. You know—so the deacons will know how much they can spend.”
“I guess I haven’t given it much thought,” Sam said vaguely. “We’ve always pledged something, so I expect we’ll do it this year, too.”
“You’ve probably not thought of it because the pledge cards came while you were away. Yours is in your desk drawer if you want to fill it out.”
Sam gave me his full attention then. “Do I detect a tiny bit of reluctance from you about making a pledge?”
“More than a tiny bit,” I admitted. “But I was trying not to influence you.”
Sam and I kept our finances separate, mainly because he had no desire to live off Wesley Lloyd Springer, whereas I had no qualms at all about spending the proceeds from my first and unmourned husband’s estate. We, therefore, contributed to the church on the basis of our separate incomes.
“What’s going on, honey?” Sam lowered the volume on the television and turned to me. “What’s the church doing that’s upset you?”
“What’s it doing?” I asked with a touch of sarcasm. “Let me count the ways. Besides openly supporting an illicit operation, no one is the least interested in hearing from the other side. I’m feeling ignored, overlooked, and patronized.” Then, from that introduction, I told him of my chance meeting with Kenneth Whitman, who had pretended to be sympathetic to my cause, but had really been shrugging me off.
“And,” I went on, “there’re a few hints that something else is going on under cover. Another instance, you might say, of eventually announcing a fait accompli, and I want nothing to do with it.” Having told Sam of the finance committee’s misuse of church funds by donating to Madge, I now told him of Pastor Rucker’s asking if we would serve on a relocation committee.
“When I turned him down,” I said, getting it all off my chest, “he asked me what Jesus would do. And, Sam, that almost stopped me, until Lloyd reminded me of the Good Samaritan. So I told the pastor what Jesus would do, and as far as I’m concerned the subject is closed. I laid it all out for him, but whether it got through to him or not, I don’t know. ‘He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.’ Matthew, chapter eleven. And, to also quote from memory,” I went on, “‘That’s all I have to say about that.’”
Sam smiled. “Matthew again?”
“No. Forrest Gump.”
Then, tentatively, I ventured to say, “But you may feel differently.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Sam said. “I’m not much for jumping on a bandwagon without knowing where it’s going.”
“Exactly!” I sat straight up on the sofa, energized by Sam’s putting into words what I was feeling. “That’s exactly why I’m reluctant to pledge for all of next year until they tell us what they’re going to do with it. Just this very afternoon, Pat Lowell called me—you know her, don’t you? Her husband’s retired from some big corporation in Chicago, so they’re fairly new in town. Anyway, she was calling members who usually make a pledge, but who haven’t turned in their cards—of which, I am one. She wanted to know if I was unhappy about anything, and I just told her straight out that I was holding off because I’m concerned about some things the church is supporting. Then I asked, ‘Doesn’t that worry you?’
“And, Sam, there was dead silence on the line, then she said, quite firmly, ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Well, I had to laugh because it was so abrupt and unexpected, but speaking bluntly is typical of your average Northern retiree, as you know. Anyway, I had a good mind to tell her that in that case, she should just double her pledge to make up for mine.
“Anyway,” I said, sighing, “I guess I’m feeling misunderstood and unappreciated, and to top it off, I’ve lost a friend.”
Sam put his arm around me and said, “You always have a friend, but who’re you talking about?”
I had already told him about that shameful intervention to which we’d subjected Helen. “I still feel awful about it because I jumped onto somebody else’s idea without looking into it or realizing what the outcome could be. I mean, of course she was offended—who wouldn’t be? And why I didn’t see that from the beginning, I don’t know. I guess I thought that it was something I could do, rather than sit by and watch the train wreck, as I seem to be doing with the church.”
“Honey,” Sam said, “listen to me. Let the church go its way—it’ll do that anyway. We’re members of the real church, regardless of where our letters of membership are. As for Helen, you two have been friends for too many years to end it all because of one little misstep—made, I remind you, with her well-being in mind. You’ve prayed about it and you’ve apologized—”
“Groveled, more like it.”
“Okay, groveled, then,” Sam said, tightening his arm around me. “That’s all anybody can do. Now let me tell you a funny story that’s making the rounds down at the Bluebird Café. Clara McDonald is getting married again.”
“What!” I sat straight up, my worries completely pushed aside. “Why, Sam, she’s ninety, if she’s a day, and she’s already been married a number of times.”
“Four husbands in all,” he said. “And buried every one of them. But this is what’s funny about it. Her new beau has about outlived his retirement fund, so he couldn’t afford a wedding ring. Instead, he took her four previous wedding rings and had a new one made using all the stones. Word is that she’s thrilled with his originality and his financial management skills.”
“Well, my word,” I said, trying to picture Wesley Lloyd’s measly little stone in a new setting. “We could probably use him on the finance committee at church.”
* * *
—
Having successfully lightened the mental load I’d been carrying, Sam took my hand as we made our way upstairs to bed. We’d just crawled between the covers, though, when my mind switched on to another unpleasant image.
“Sam? Something else has been bothering me.”
“Oh, really?” Sam said, pulling the comforter over his shoulder. “Now, I wonder what that could be.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. But don’t fall asleep until I do. I don’t want to dream about it tonight.” I slid up close to his side and went on. “I’ve been thinking about that DNA specimen that Detective Warner took, and I think I know why
he wasn’t all that enthusiastic about taking it.”
“He said it was expensive.”
“I know, but that couldn’t have been the reason since I’m willing to pay for it. No, I think the problem is that they don’t have a database—or whatever it is—to compare our specimen to others of the same kind. I mean, how would they collect—and keep—enough specimens to run a comparison? It would take an awful lot of refrigeration.”
Sam didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then he started laughing. “Honey, let me tell you something. DNA is DNA wherever it comes from—scrapings from the mouth, blood, saliva, or wherever. They don’t need a database of the—well, let’s say of the specific material.”
“Oh,” I said, and as I thought about the intricacies of collecting and storing such material which that would have entailed, I, too, began to laugh. Mortified by my own density, I buried my face against his shoulder, and said, “Oh, my goodness, of course they wouldn’t have a storehouse. Oh, Sam, I don’t know why my mind runs away with me like that.”
“Oh, I know why it does,” he said as he shifted in bed to put an arm around me. “It’s to keep me entertained. And now my mind’s running the same way. Can’t you just see it? An officer brings in a suspect and tells him to empty his pockets and his bowels.”
And with that final bit of first-grade humor, we laughed together like children.
Chapter 34
Have you ever awakened early in the morning too tired to get up, yet unable to go back to sleep? That’s the way it was for me the next morning, so I lay there for a while, trying not to disturb Sam as I shifted from one side to the other.
I felt terrible, and that was the truth—as if a heavy weight were dragging me down, or maybe a thick, dark cloud were wrapped around me, and not even the thought of Clara’s new engagement could lift my spirits. I knew what it was—a nagging fear that I’d been in the wrong on several recent fronts. For instance:
Had I been wrong to hire an attorney, collect names on a petition, and engage Hazel Marie, Mildred, and Helen in an attempt to oust Madge Taylor and her merry band of do-gooders from the Cochran house?
Had I been wrong to collaborate with Mildred to foil Madge’s plans for a self-congratulatory–cum–fund-raising tea?
Had I been wrong to virtually accuse Helen of malfeasance or misfeasance or nonfeasance—whichever applied—to how she was conducting Thurlow’s affairs?
It was only in considering the last question that I squirmed with shame and regret—how could I have set myself up in judgment of a friend? How dared I to presume that Helen was running through Thurlow’s capital like Sherman through Georgia? I would’ve been stricken to the core if a friend had demanded an accounting of my actions, especially the financial ones.
As for the rest, I could let myself off the hook by claiming an honest difference of opinion on a perpetual sore spot—when, where, and how much to help the poor whom we are told we will always have with us. Especially where, as in the case of the Homes for Teens, that is, not next door to the Pickenses.
So, with a partially placated conscience, I slipped out of bed without waking Sam and went downstairs to start the coffee.
By the time Lillian came in, I was sitting at the table, still in my gown and robe, nursing a cup of Eight O’Clock coffee.
“What you doing up so early?” she demanded, stopping as soon as she stepped inside.
“Just woke up, but I could ask you the same thing. Why’re you here so early?”
She proceeded to the pantry to hang up her coat and put away her large pocketbook, talking as she went. “I can’t let Lloyd go off to school without a decent breakfast, an’ this his day to do that tutorin’ he do.”
“We could send him back to his mother’s and let James get up early,” I suggested with a smile.
“Huh, that James too lazy for that,” Lillian said as she tied on a large apron and started breakfast. “’Sides, Lloyd like peace and quiet early in the morning. He don’t get that with them two little girls runnin’ around. He tell me he need to get his mind set up right ’fore he tackles Freddie Pruitt an’ algebra. You want some more coffee ’fore I scramble the eggs?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.” As Lloyd pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen, I went on. “Here he is now. Good morning, sweetheart. I hope you slept well.”
“Yes’m,” he said, yawning, as he put his backpack on the floor and slid onto a chair at the table. “Just didn’t get enough of it.”
“How long will you be doing this? Getting up early, I mean, to tutor Freddie?”
“Till Christmas break, at least. I want to see how he does on his midterms, then we’ll see.” As Lillian put a plate of grits, eggs, and bacon before him, he smiled. “Oh, man, this looks good. Thanks, Miss Lillian.”
She patted his shoulder and said, “That boy lucky to have you helpin’ him.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, shrugging. “He just got behind because his mother’s sick or something. She’s in a hospital somewhere, so he’s staying with his aunt. I get the feeling that it’s a big, noisy family so it’s hard for him to study.”
“I got hot biscuits here,” Lillian announced. “They jus’ comin’ outta the oven.”
“Oh, good,” Lloyd said, quickly cleaning his plate and getting up from the table. “Miss Lillian, could you fix me a couple of bacon biscuits—maybe about four—to take with me?” He put on his heavy coat, then picked up his backpack to sling over his shoulder. “I’ve gotta go.”
“They already ready,” Lillian said as she handed him a foil-wrapped package.
Lloyd said good-bye to us both, then hurried out to his bicycle, letting in a gust of cold air as he left.
Turning to Lillian, I asked, “What in the world was that about? Is he so hungry that he has to take another breakfast with him?”
Lillian smiled. “Took me awhile to figure it out, but he takin’ breakfast to that Freddie. He don’t tell me, but I know that’s what he doin’.”
“Well, bless his heart,” I said, moved that Lloyd was so thoughtful, or rather, so observant, as to recognize hunger when he saw it. “Lillian, is that Pruitt child not getting enough to eat? I thought the schools served breakfast for needy children.”
“I know some of ’em do, but look like to me at this time of a mornin’, that boy gotta choice ’tween eatin’ breakfast an’ learnin’ algebra. An’ he choose algebra.”
“Well, bless his heart, too,” I said, and went upstairs to dress for the day, carrying with me the heavy thought of hungry children who didn’t have friends bearing bacon biscuits.
I got to the top of the stairs, then turned around and went back down.
“Lillian?” I said as I pushed through the kitchen door. “Let’s try to find out more about the Pruitt boy. He’s as thin as a rail and as pale as a sheet. And, obviously, not getting breakfast at home. I wonder if anybody’s taking care of him.”
“Yes’m, I wonder ’bout that, too.” Lillian turned from the sink, drying her hands on a Bounty towel. “I hear Lloyd say he have that aunt, an’ one time he mention a grandmama, but I don’t hear nothin’ ’bout a daddy. All I know’s the Pruitts are spread out ’round the county, an’ that aunt live here in town, so Freddie, look like he had to change schools when he moved in with her.”
“Then it’s no wonder he’s having trouble with algebra. That’s what happens when you change schools. Well,” I said, turning to go back upstairs, that stunted child’s thin face in my mind, “see what else you can find out. I mean, if you hear of anything we can do, let me know.”
* * *
—
After a fairly busy day of running errands to the dry cleaner’s, the post office, the bank, and a quick stop at the drugstore for some Robitussin because it was December and somebody would need it sooner or later, I headed for home. Pleased that I’d remember
ed to buy cough medicine, I thought again of the agony of trying to suppress a cough, particularly in a place of reverence. Have you ever noticed that you never have to cough until you settle in a pew for Sunday morning services?
On my way home, I had reason to wish I’d stayed there and never gone out at all. Passing the small independent church that was known for latching on to every liberal cause that came along and calling it progression, I almost drove up on the sidewalk. Spread out across the front portico of the church was a large blue banner reading
WE STAND WITH & FOR YOU
JUSTICE, FREEDOM, & DIGNITY FOR ALL
Now, just what did that mean? And why did they feel it necessary to restate what the Constitution already covered? And, I wondered, to whom was it addressed? The YOU seemed to cover everybody who read it, but that could be anybody, including fugitives from the law, active criminals looking for victims, or people like me who didn’t need or want a group of strangers standing around getting in the way.
Well, of course I knew what it meant. It was that church’s way of proclaiming its stance for anything new that popped up, the more outrageous, the better. Politics—that’s all it was, which was all right with me except I could do without their ostentatiously drawing attention to how inclusive they were. If they had wanted to be inclusive, then they should’ve just done it without expecting to be applauded for it.
Then I had to laugh. Right at the entrance to the church parking lot was a permanent sign that read CHURCH PARKING ONLY. Standing with and for all, whoever that might be, was fine and dandy—just as long as no one took their parking places.
I drove on home, feeling sad and excluded in spite of their banner, for I knew what they thought of me. Or at least I knew what their pastor thought of me and those like me—we were immoral and lacking in Christian compassion. He was the very preacher who early on had been quoted in the paper as supporting the Homes for Teens—in Madge’s chosen location—and the very one who had pointedly denounced anyone who disagreed with him.
