Good Heavens

by Margaret A. Graham

  She shook her head.

  We walked on into the hallway. “No money for cigarettes?”

  She shook her head again. “I quit.”

  I didn’t know whether to believe her or not. I took a good look at her. Whatever was in her dark eyes that I had not seen before, I saw then, and it tore away at my heart. It was a hungry look.

  “You did? You stopped smoking? How?”

  She said one word. “Jesus.”

  I tell you, that sent a chill up my spine. The women tell me it’s harder to quit smoking cigarettes than it is to quit heroin.

  “Miss E.,” she whispered, “would you go in the clothing room with me?”

  “Sure,” I said and handed her my Bible so I could look for the key on my ring. “You need something?”

  “If company’s coming—” She broke off in the middle of the sentence. “Do you think you could find me a turtleneck?”

  “Sure. Let’s look.” A turtleneck. She wants to hide that tattoo.

  We found three tops in her size. “Now could you use some pants?” I asked. She said she could, so we looked through the racks and finally found a couple that matched her tops. She thanked me, and with her arms full of clothes and my Bible on top of them, she peeked out the door, making sure no one would see her, and ran to her room.

  As I was locking the door, I figured Portia was hiding those clothes so Linda wouldn’t make a big to-do about them. “She’s got fear worms,” Dora had said. Well, Lord, let’s see if we can’t do something about deworming that poor child. And I followed Portia to her room.

  Sure enough, she had stuffed those clothes under her mattress and was smoothing out the covers. She jumped when she saw me, then quickly picked up the Bible and handed it to me.

  I smiled. She thinks I’ve come after my Bible. “Portia, may I sit down?” I sat on the bed and patted the spread beside me. “Come, sit here.” I waited and didn’t watch as she eased onto the bed. I could actually feel her body trembling. Dora’s right, I thought. This girl is afraid of her own shadow.

  I had to set her mind at ease that I was not going to fuss at her. “Portia, I’m glad to see you like my Bible.” I opened it on my knees. “I guess you like to read all these little things I keep filed in the pages?”

  She nodded. I kept flipping through the pages and looking at slips of paper with sayings, poems, this and that. A yellowed page of a letter Bud wrote from Vietnam . . . a pressed flower from my mother’s grave . . . a bookmark made of olive wood from the Holy Land. More than anything else were the poems and sayings. When I was satisfied that Portia understood I was not going to hurt her, I started to close the Bible, but Portia whispered, “And the verses.”

  “The verses?”

  “The ones you marked.”

  “Oh yes,” I said. There were scads of them highlighted or underlined with different-colored pens.

  She timidly pointed her finger at something I had written in the margin. I held the Bible up close so I could read what it was. “Prayer is helplessness casting itself upon power.” For the life of me, I couldn’t remember who said that. “That’s a good one, ain’t it, Portia?” I said. “I don’t remember when I scribbled that in there. I’m surprised you can read my writing.”

  She wanted to show me another place, so I handed her the Bible. A few pages over, she found it and I read it aloud. “Sunday is heaven once a week.” I didn’t feel too good about that one. It reminded me that since I’d been at Priscilla Home, I was too busy on Sundays to really enjoy the Lord’s Day. “Portia, I use to keep Sunday better than I’ve been doing here lately. Seems there’s always so much going on around here. But when I lived in Live Oaks, there was nothing like coming home from church, eating a good Sunday dinner, then putting up my feet and spending the rest of the day with the Lord.”

  We kept going through the Bible. On every page or two, there was a reference, a date, or something written in the margin that had meant something to me. I was amazed that my scribblings meant so much to Portia. That poor child was so pleased that I was enjoying this, she had stopped trembling and seemed excited. She turned some pages and pointed with a finger to what I had wrote: “My knowledge of the Maker will determine my expectations.” Good heavens, it had been years since Pastor Osborne had said that in a sermon.

  I didn’t fully understand it then, but I’d pondered that one a whole lot since.

  Portia asked me where she could find the Ten Commandments. “Emily wants me to read them to her.”

  I showed her Exodus 20 and waited while she read the chapter to herself. I was so caught up in what was going on with my old King James, I had almost forgot what I had come in there to take care of.

  After she was finished reading that chapter, she put one of the bookmarks in the place and handed the Bible back to me.

  “Portia, do you have a few minutes to spare?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I want to tell you a story about a friend of mine. Her name is Beatrice, and we grew up together, went to school together, went to the same church, all the like of that. But sad to say, by the time we was in the eighth grade, Beatrice had lost all her family, and ever since then she depended on me a lot. To this day we are like sisters, and she really means a lot to me. But Portia, even though Beatrice was a Christian, she was so afraid of everything—high places, being alone, strangers—all the like of that. About ten years ago she had breast cancer, and after that you couldn’t mention the word cancer without her going historical. I tell you, Portia, I use to talk myself blue in the face trying to make her see that she didn’t have to have all them fears, but it didn’t do a piece of good.

  “Well, not long ago, all that changed. A nice Christian man came into her life. His name is Carl, and he saw how scared she was—scared of everybody and everything. He told Beatrice he knew what would help her. He said she should look up all the ‘fear nots’ in the Bible. You know, like, ‘Fear thou not for I am with thee.’ It must have took some time, but it worked. Today Beatrice is a different person. She can even say the word cancer and not mind it one bit.”

  When I was done, Portia didn’t say anything, so I asked her, “Do you know why I told you that story?”

  She nodded and looked so downcast I was sorry I asked.

  With my finger under her chin, I lifted her small face and looked in her eyes. I asked the question I figured she wanted to ask. “How did Beatrice find all those ‘fear nots’? I’ll show you.”

  In the back of my Bible is a pretty good concordance. I turned to it and showed Portia how to look up “fear nots.”

  She wanted to start looking right away, so I patted her hand and smiled. “I’ll leave my Bible with you, Portia. You have my permission to stay in your room as long as you like. When you’re done, just leave the Bible outside my room door.”

  I stood up to leave. “I guess I better get busy planning for my friends’ visit.”

  “Will Miss Beatrice be coming?”

  “No. I wish she was though.”

  I left and gently closed the door behind me. As I made my way down the stairs, I still felt the way a body feels coming out of church when the Holy Spirit has been at work. That feeling stayed with me all morning as I was planning for the W.W. s’ visit.

  I made a list of things to do and planned menus I knew Clara and the other two would like. I’d get Wilma to go into town with me for the donuts. The rhododendron were in full bloom as well as cornflowers and daisies to fill all our vases. Evelyn and Lenora could pick some greenery to go with the flowers to give the house a good smell. Maybe by the time Clara and them came, the piano would be fixed and somebody would play it. But to be on the safe side, I called Nettie and invited the Valley Church trio to come for supper and sing for us afterward.

  I tell you the truth, all of that happening in one day—well, all I got to say is it was one glad day. My cup was full and running over!

  19

  Whenever Albert Ringstaff came for supper, he would sit on the por
ch with us after we ate. For a while all the girls would be out there with us, listening as he told about his experiences. But in a little while they would leave, either to go to their rooms, watch a video in the day room, or play ping-pong. That left me, Ursula, and Lenora on the porch with Ringstaff. Sometimes Ursula had work to do, and then me and Lenora had him all to ourselves. For me, the best part of any day was when we could sit and talk with that fine man.

  Of course, we invited him to come to supper the night we expected the W.W.s to arrive. He came early, wearing that tweed jacket and gray slacks I liked so much. I had never seen that man without a tie, except that one time he was fishing. In my book, he was old school through and through, and I liked that in a man. He pitched right in to help me rearrange tables and chairs so all the guests could sit at one table.

  We had hardly done that when Wilma hollered, “Company’s a-comin’!”

  I saw Clara’s car turning in the driveway, and rushed out on the lawn, waving and beckoning Thelma to drive around back. Then I ran around there to meet them at the back door. Oh, was I ever glad to see them! Clara was up front and Mabel was on the backseat. Getting out from behind the wheel, Thelma moved slow like all her joints were stiff, and was complaining about the Old Turnpike. I guessed the long ride was not easy for any of them.

  Clara came around the car and hugged me. Mabel was practically buried under all the stuff they had piled in the backseat—jackets, sweaters and raincoats, a couple of bed pillows, packages galore, and a bushel basket of peaches.

  Wilma, Nancy, and Evelyn were cleaning out the garage and stopped to help us unload. Ursula came down from the apartment, and I introduced everybody.

  Thelma opened the trunk, and they started taking out suitcases. They must have had half a dozen! “We didn’t have room to bring a lot,” Clara said, “but we did manage to bring you some peaches, tomatoes, and boiled peanuts. Oh yes. Elijah remembered how you love Silver Queen corn, and he sent you what he had.”

  “Silver Queen corn? I can’t believe it’s come in already. And tomatoes? All we have on our bushes are blooms.”

  Mabel, hugging herself, shivered. “No wonder—it’s so cold up here.”

  “If you think July is cold, you should have been here in April,” I told her. “Girls, take the produce to the kitchen, please, and come back for the baggage.”

  We sorted out the suitcases and sent Clara and Mabel’s bags to the guest bedroom and Thelma’s up to Ursula’s apartment.

  I had hardly got them settled when Nettie turned in the drive bringing the trio. I asked Ursula to give them a guided tour while I finished up in the kitchen, where I was making the biscuits.

  It was one busy time, I tell you, but the house looked great—it was spic and span with flowers everywhere you looked. And I wanted that meal to be perfect. Melba made her special ham loaf; Brenda made corn pudding and was frying some green tomatoes. Martha made the dessert, blueberry cobbler, and to top it off, butter sauce. As soon as the biscuits were done, Brenda rang the bell.

  I ran downstairs to the guest room to bring Clara and Mabel up to the dining room. Ursula brought Thelma. I seated the W.W.s, the trio, and Ursula at the table with me and Ringstaff. I asked him to ask the blessing.

  I was anxious for the W.W.s to get to know Albert Ringstaff, and knowing how shy they were around new people, I got talking up a storm about him, telling them how I came to know him, about him fishing and all, and how he had traveled all over the world fixing pianos, meeting big shots, and how he’s such a wonderful Bible teacher and all. I wanted to go on and on, but then I realized I was talking too much. I guess I was excited. Everybody else had finished eating before I even got half done. Lenora, who was one of the girls serving that night, was waiting for me to finish before she served the cobbler, even though I told her not to mind me, to go ahead with the dessert. I felt funny eating while everybody in the room was through and waiting for me to finish. Ringstaff helped take the attention off of me by asking Ursula some questions, but even so, I finally gave up on finishing my plate. Lenora took orders for the cobbler, offering a choice of butter sauce or ice cream. I resisted the temptation to have a little of both.

  Everybody raved about that meal—even had the cooks, Brenda, Melba, and Martha, stand up, and we clapped for them.

  After supper, the girls insisted that I go in the parlor with our guests and leave the kitchen to them. So I did. Here Ringstaff was surrounded by nothing but a bunch of women, but that did not seem to bother him. I never saw anything like the way he brought everybody into the conversation. First he asked the trio to tell him about their music. Nettie was a little nervous to start with, but once she got going she told us all about such things as shaped notes and how precentors used to travel the mountains teaching people to sing in parts. I didn’t much have my mind on that, I was so anxious for everything to go off just right. I especially wanted the W.W.s to enjoy themselves.

  Well, I think they did. Ringstaff got them talking about Live Oaks, and that’s a subject right up Clara’s alley. She can take a body back to the founding fathers and bring our history all the way up to Live Oaks’ latest crime wave—boys busting watermelons in a field.

  When the girls were finished in the kitchen, they gathered in the parlor for the singing. The trio started off with “On the Jericho Road,” which is lively, to say the least, and we were all clapping, keeping time. The next number was real pretty, “When They Ring Those Golden Bells.” On the “glory, hallelujah, jubilee,” those three women trilled like real bells. I can’t remember everything they sang—oh, yes, they sang “The Old Gospel Ship” and “If I Could Hear My Mother Pray Again.” They closed with “I’m Praying for You” but the girls wouldn’t let them quit, so they sang “When I See the Blood.”

  It was 10:00 before everything was over. The trio and Ringstaff left and then I took the W.W.s to my room for a little visit before we went to bed.

  Well, the news from Live Oaks was not good. “Guess who’s staying at Preacher Osborne’s place?” Mabel asked me.

  I couldn’t guess, so she told me. “Percy Poteat and his new wife.”

  “What?” I had completely forgot about telling that deadbeat he could stay at my house a couple of days to show Live Oaks his new wife. At that time I’d had no idea I’d not be there—and that the Osbornes would be living in my house.

  Clara was telling me, “They come riding up on a motorcycle early one morning looking for you. When you weren’t there, Preacher Bob said they could stay anyway. So they did. Esmeralda, she is definitely not our kind.” She looked at Mabel and Thelma for mutual agreement. “A bleached blonde wearing a leather jacket and boots is no lady! Esmeralda, do you reckon they’re really married? Nowadays people like that think nothing of living in sin.”

  Thelma hooted. “Like as not it’s one of those relationships the Lord calls adultery.”

  “They’ve been at Osborne’s a couple of weeks,” Mabel said, “and Percy keeps saying they’re leaving but not yet.”

  I was so upset I was beside myself. “That’s crazy! It’s all my fault! I have to call Pastor Osborne and apologize.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” Clara said. “Preacher Bob is trying to lead Percy to the Lord, and he’s got a long way to go yet.”

  “Oh, I’m gonna call him, and if I can get Percy Poteat on the phone, I’ll tell him to hit the road in no uncertain terms. I’ve done it before and I can do it again!”

  Mabel saw how upset I was. “Well, let me tell you some good news. Guess who’s dating Boris Krantz?”

  I thought it might be Clara’s granddaughter, but one look at Clara’s tight lips told me it wasn’t.

  “It’s Lucy,” Thelma blurted out.

  Then I remembered how I’d sensed those two might be interested in each other. Well, they would make a fine couple.

  “Lucy started helping Boris with his Spanish, and one thing led to another and now it looks like they might be getting serious,” Mabel was saying.


  Clara disagreed. “Why, it’s nothing of the sort, Mabel. He wants to learn Spanish so he can help all the Mexicans coming into Live Oaks, and she’s agreed to teach him. That’s all there is to it, and you shouldn’t be spreading rumors like that.”

  Mabel went right on talking. “By the way, Boris wants to bring the young people up here on a mission trip. What do you think?”

  “Well, we could use some help. We’re cleaning out the garage to make a place for canning the vegetables when they come in. And the girls keep talking about wanting to build a gazebo.”

  Thelma got up from my chair still stiff and stretching. “Esmeralda, it’s getting late. I better get over to the apartment before Miss Ursula goes to bed.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Get a good night’s rest, because tomorrow we’re taking you to Grandfather Mountain.”

  Well, wouldn’t you know it—the next morning it was raining cats and dogs. We had a good breakfast, though, with plenty of pastries from the donut shop. Then the W.W.s sat in on Praise and Prayer. Afterward, they wanted to know all about the different girls, especially Dora. I didn’t tell them very much.

  Ringstaff had come and was working on the piano, so I took the three of them in the kitchen while I fixed him his coffee and a fried apple pie. “Why don’t you give him one of those cream horns?” Thelma asked. “They’re real good.”

  “He likes my fried apple pies.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, he does, does he?”

  I let her think whatever she wanted to. That morning I pulled a daisy from a vase and put it on his tray. Most of the girls were in the craft room, so I told Clara they could go down there and see what the girls were making. After I served Ringstaff and visited with him a few minutes, I went down to join them.

  Good heavens! The W.W.s had taken over! They were showing the girls how to make covers for Bibles, and the girls were scrounging through all those bins finding cloth and lace, stuff like that, to make them. The two sewing machines were going full speed ahead, and there was a lot of laughing and kidding around. Portia was in there making a frame for something.