Gone to Green (Green (Abingdon Press))

by Judy Christie

  “Would you like to take my nightly walk with me?” I asked. He looked taken aback and then quickly recovered.

  “Sure. That’d be great. Can the mutts come along?”

  I felt more at ease that night than I had since long before the controversies with Major and Lee Roy and the McCullers had erupted. The dogs were busy the entire time, dashing into bushes and barking or running ahead. I had never exchanged more than a few sentences with Chris, and he turned out to be both funny and thoughtful.

  “I’m sorry I never got to any of your games,” I said, embarrassed.

  “Oh, no problem,” he said with a big smile. “Next year you can watch us win state. Those fighting Green Rabbits are pretty tough.”

  “They must love you,” I said. “I noticed how close you all were at the downtown social. You probably keep them in line but still have fun.”

  “They’re great kids, mostly. Lots of them don’t get much attention at home. They have to keep their grades up to stay on the team, so that helps.”

  “Do any of them get kicked off?”

  “Not if I can help it,” he said, pausing to pat all three dogs that had run back to check on us. “They’re young, deserve another chance. As my mama would say, they haven’t made it over fool's hill yet.”

  He rubbed his shoulder absently. “The other day a guy with a sprained ankle was having a contest to see who could jump farther in the locker room using his crutches. Just before I stopped the challenge, I decided it was a teachable moment. I won, but it sure made my arms sore.”

  I laughed.

  “I bet you’ll have a great season next year,” I said. “Iris says most of your starters will be back.” It made me sad to realize I would not be there to see a game.

  As we got back to the house, I grabbed a couple of bottles of water and cut the cake. We sat in the porch swing and visited for an hour more, talking about the new fence he had put up to keep Mannix, Markey, and Kramer under control, speculating on the route for the proposed highway and debating who would win the mayor's race.

  “Let's do this again,” he said. I smiled and waved when he drove off.

  Our friendship developed slowly that next month. We walked together many evenings, and occasionally he called.

  “What do you think about the paper starting a college scholarship fund in Matt's memory?” I asked one night.

  “He was a great boy,” Chris said. “That would be a nice way to honor him and Iris Jo.”

  “I also want to see if I can help Katy get to college, instead of beauty school,” I said. “She's got the makings of a great journalist. I don’t want her to spend her life doing the wrong thing, just because it seemed easy when she was sixteen.”

  One evening we sat close in the porch swing, both wearing sweatshirts on the chilly night.

  “I’m thinking of a big children's Christmas party at the country club,” I said. “For all of the low-income kids near downtown. That could be a way to introduce them to something special and to let the town see diversity in action.”

  “You are amazing,” he said. “Just plain amazing. That brain of yours is always working. You are something.” And he reached out and gave my hand a squeeze.

  His support helped as I tried to move beyond bad things that had happened.

  “The Lee Roys and the Big Boys of the world are nothing compared to the Helens and the Jeans and the Katys,” I said. “And the Chris's.” I thought about my first dinner with Eva, who had just made the runoff election for mayor, and how she had told me that we must do something with what we are given.

  “Katy loves the notion of being a crusader. I wonder how I might spend my life crusading for good—and if I have the energy to do that.”

  “Sure you do,” Chris said, draping his arm around my shoulders. “You’re doing it already with The News-Item. You have your own little army down there. Those folks would do anything for you.”

  He was a bit in awe of the newspaper business but didn’t hesitate to tell me when he disagreed with something the paper had done. “I do wish, though, you could crusade for a little more school sports coverage.”

  Sometimes when other people wanted to talk about the paper, I tried to change the subject, knowing I could be defensive. But Chris was different. He praised and criticized and asked questions in a straightforward way.

  I certainly admired his work as a teacher.

  “I’d be in the federal penitentiary if I had to stay in a classroom all day with those kids,” I said. “How do you do it?”

  I was joking, but he took the question seriously. “I just feel called to do it. I like those kids, and I hope most of them like me. It's good work, the Lord's work. After Fran died, I realized how important it was to do something that mattered with my life.”

  We had not spoken about his wife, and the little I knew about her came from Iris Jo. She grew up nearby, also taught at the high school, and fought her cancer fiercely. At some level I wanted to ask questions and complete the picture that had formed in my mind. On the other hand, I wanted to keep their marriage separate from my friendship with Chris.

  “I’m really beat tonight,” I said. “Thanks for the company, but I need to get up early in the morning.”

  “Me too.” He seemed as uncomfortable talking about his wife as I was. He stood up and gave me a peck on the cheek. “I’ll say good night then.”

  “Good night.”

  As he took long strides across the yard, I practically ran into the house.

  The next evening when I left the office, it was dark and I was alone. I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye, and for a moment I thought it was Chris. Once in a while he would stop by the paper, usually to drop something off for Iris Jo or to talk to Tom about a football story. I was uncomfortable with the way I had rushed him off last night, and I thought he might have picked up on it.

  As I turned with a smile, I realized it was not Chris, but Lee Roy Hicks with a sneer on his face. My heart immediately began to race. I felt so safe in Green that I never took any of the precautions I had taken in Dayton. I fumbled for my keys and my cell, knowing my pepper spray was on the kitchen counter at home.

  “Lee Roy!” I said in a shrill tone. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, Miss High and Mighty, I thought I would drop by to tell you hello and say thanks for ruining my life.” He stepped closer to me, and I backed up, until I was pushed up against my car, with his body nearly touching mine.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” I said.

  He looked around. “Come in here and act like you can take over this town. Where's all them friends of yours now?”

  He was rambling, and I could smell liquor on his breath.

  “Lee Roy, you don’t want to do this,” I said. “Go home and sleep it off. We can talk about this in the morning.”

  “Maybe I want to talk about it now. Everything was going great until you came along, sticking your nose in everybody's business, stirring things up at the country club, letting high school kids sell advertising, like it was some menial job. This was supposed to be my paper.” His voice got louder. “My paper. The McCullers promised it to me, not some city girl who didn’t know squat about Green, Louisiana.”

  Although terrified, I felt sorry for him. As Aunt Helen would say, he had squandered his talents. He was smart and well-liked and ambitious. He probably could have run the paper or been mayor or any one of a dozen other things if he hadn’t been such a louse. But this louse had me pinned up against a car, and I needed to do something.

  Using a move my brothers taught me when I went off to college, I kneed him as hard as I could. He groaned and grabbed at his crotch and stumbled back, before falling to the ground, stunned.

  At that moment, Rose walked out of the Holey Moley and squinted my way as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. “Lois, is that you over there?”

  “Oh, thank you, God. Yes, Rose, it's me. Please call the police. Quick!”

  Within a few m
inutes, the parking lot was full of people. “It's going to be all right,” Rose said, touching my arm. “Everything's fine now. We’re here.”

  A police officer put a handcuffed, mumbling Lee Roy into a squad car. “She won’t get away with this,” my attacker muttered.

  Stan pulled in from one direction, and Iris Jo and Chris from another. All of them rushed up, looking terrified. Chris gave me a big hug and kept his arm around me. “Are you all right?”

  Feeling a bit dazed, I assured everyone I was fine. “Where did you all come from?” I asked. “What are you doing here?”

  Come to find out, Helen's friend had heard the call on the police scanner. She had phoned Iris Jo, who had called Chris and Stan. Within a few minutes, Linda appeared, alerted by Rose, followed closely by Tammy, who had heard it from her former brother-in-law, who was a Bouef Parish Sheriff's Deputy. Alex and Tom popped up after receiving a call from the clerk at the police station. I figured it would only be a matter of minutes before Katy and her mother drove up.

  I looked around and, suddenly, smiled the biggest smile I had ever smiled.

  “Supper's on me at the Cotton Boll,” I said.

  19

  For the first time in twenty years, Green Missionary Baptist

  Church soloist Mary Lee Bryan will be unable to participate

  in this year's performance of Handel's Messiah, following

  the district football finals during which she lost her voice

  while cheering for the home team from the sidelines. Get

  well, Mary Lee! And Hallelujah to the Green High Rabbits!

  —The Green News-Item

  Kevin came to visit, close to despair.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked. “These sorts of living conditions cannot go on. We must do something. We’ve put this off as long as we can.”

  She was responding to an upsetting news story about a house fire in the Lakeside Annex. A space heater exploded, and two children and their mother had died of smoke inhalation. A baby and elderly grandfather had survived, but were in critical condition. There were no smoke detectors in the house.

  The next week we had a nearly unbelievable story about an infestation of bats forcing another family out of their home. The couple who rented the house from Major Wilson's property company called the fire department about their problem. A parish inspector found a filthy mess, including forty-five decomposing bat carcasses, dead birds, and a large number of hibernating bats. The parish declared the house unlivable. The couple was frantic, not knowing where they were going to find an affordable place to stay.

  Kevin and I had discussed this neighborhood off and on for months, and her concern had escalated during our girls’ night out dinners.

  “Let's talk to your parents about it,” I said. “They’ll help us figure it out. Why don’t you all come over to my house for supper tomorrow?” The Taylors had been the first people to have me over for dinner, and I had a feeling of peace again as we visited over one of the casseroles from my freezer.

  After eating, Kevin and I cleaned up while Pearl and Marcus chatted. We returned to my kitchen table to come up with a list of possible tactics.

  “We somehow have to weave this neighborhood into the overall life of Green,” Kevin said. “It stays separate now. There's such a high crime rate over there, compared to the rest of Green. Young thugs hang out on the corners and harass good people. Many of the residents are poor and uneducated. They do not even begin to know how to take care of their property.” Passion and pain were apparent in Kevin's voice as she spoke of the very neighborhood where she lived.

  “And some of the folks are elderly,” Kevin's mother said. “They don’t have anyone to help them with their housework, much less their yards. And half of them are afraid to leave their houses because the neighborhood is so dangerous.”

  I pulled out a notebook and listed possible resources. At the top of the list was The News-Item. “We can do news coverage and write editorials about the efforts. And we can contribute to a smoke-detector fund to get it going.”

  We knew the fire department would help install the smoke detectors and educate residents about their importance. We hoped the police department might beef up patrols in the area to cut down on loitering and crime.

  “Add the Lakeside Neighborhood Association. We’re ready to jump on this effort at a moment's notice,” Mr. Taylor said. “List the Green Forward group, too. For downtown to reach its fullest potential, nearby neighborhoods need to flourish.”

  “And I’ll get the South Green Merchants Group involved. I don’t want to hear complaints again that we shut them out,” I said. “It's high time we pulled more areas together. We should be one community, not a bunch of factions.”

  “You are absolutely correct, Miss Lois,” Marcus said. They stood to leave.

  “Thank you for that delicious supper,” Pearl said. “I especially enjoy a meal I don’t have to cook.”

  Just after the Taylors pulled out of the driveway, Chris pulled in to say hello. He stopped by regularly, even on evenings we did not go for a walk, staying for a few minutes after he finished up at his catfish ponds.

  Dishing up leftovers for his late supper, I told him what we had been discussing. I enjoyed bouncing ideas off him and increasingly found myself wanting to pick up the phone to tell him something funny that had happened in town.

  “This could be something good for Green, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “This community needs more efforts like this,” he said. His quick agreement reassured me the idea was not off-base. “I can get the football team and other students to help with a spruce-up day in the neighborhood.”

  The idea seemed to grow instantly in both our minds.

  “Maybe Grace Community can paint a house for someone who is disabled. Maybe even challenge other churches to do likewise.”

  Representatives of all the groups gathered downtown at the paper one evening with an enthusiastic buzz in the room.

  “This can make an awesome Christmas present to the community,” Katy said.

  Her friend Molly quickly jumped in. “Katy and I can organize the party for the children at the country club. Tammy will help us, won’t you?”

  “I’d love to,” Tammy said. “We’ll give those kids a party like they’ve never seen—not to mention what the country club has seen.”

  With all of this going on for the Lakeside Annex, we received notice that the state and federal highway departments were close to finalizing the much-awaited route for the new North-South Interstate Highway—a path that went squarely through my yard and through the land of several of my Route 2 neighbors.

  “The preliminary drawings show the highway cuts right between the church and my house,” Pastor Jean said, when I called to ask if she had seen the letter. “Folks are already in an uproar out here. And not only out on Route 2, but also in town. I’ve had two dozen calls already.”

  For a few days, I set the notice aside, thinking it would be years before the road could be built. However, it ate at me, thinking about what it might do to the area and wondering if the bureaucrats who put it together knew the havoc they wrought on the lives of ordinary, tax-paying citizens.

  “People are panicking,” Iris Jo said during a newspaper planning meeting. “They think the government can come in, bulldoze their homes, and leave them with nothing.”

  “Sounds like the same thing the tenants in Lakeside are worried about,” Molly said. I glanced at her, impressed with the observation.

  “Let's write some editorials and pull together a community forum,” Tom said, quite serious about his commentary duties. “Why don’t you check with that woman preacher and see if we can have it out there?”

  Pastor Jean agreed immediately when I called. “You can definitely have the meeting at the church. This is a neighborhood issue, and the church needs to take part. I would appreciate it if you moderated the discussion.”

  I invited a representative from the Louisiana
Department of Transportation and Development, our congressman, candidates for mayor, and the head of the Green Chamber of Commerce. We publicized the event in the paper, and Tom wrote nearly poetic editorials.

  “People must make their opinions known and fight for the best route for our area,” he said. “It's high time that the highway department listened to real people, the tax-paying, bill-paying public.”

  The night of the meeting the little church was packed, from choir loft to people squeezed into every pew to an overflow crowd in the foyer and out onto the front lawn. There was almost a carnival atmosphere, and I realized the energy that could be generated when people rallied together behind a cause. The audience was extremely diverse, made up of longtime farmers in the area, elderly widows who were scared to death, young couples who had built homes out in the country or who had remodeled family houses, people who sold produce out of the back of their pickups, and a few wealthy landowners who had lots of acreage with timber or some sort of cash crop.

  “Good evening,” I said, leaning over the pulpit. The microphone squealed, and several people shouted, “We can’t hear you.”

  I adjusted the mike and tried again. “Good evening. I’m your neighbor, Lois Barker, and we’re here tonight to talk about the proposed path of Interstate 69. As you know, the Green area is part of two choices for this interstate's corridor through North Louisiana. As a businesswoman and resident of Green, I do not want to block this project. It has the potential to help our area—our entire region—greatly.”

  As I said that, several people grumbled, and one man yelled out, “I do. I want to block it. We don’t need that kind of progress.”

  A handful of people clapped, while a few others said, “Shhh! Let her talk.”

  “However,” I plowed on, wondering what I was doing up here, “I do not want to see the highway ruin my neighborhood, hurt my neighbors, and take away the charm of our community. So, we must let our voices be heard and suggest the government choose an alternate, less disruptive route, which will require flexibility in Green. I sincerely hope this does not sound like I’m trying to push the interstate off on others, make it their burden.”