Just Shy of Harmony

by Philip Gulley

  It’s a comfort to believe God might not mind his doubts.

  In her sermon, Miriam had said that doubt can be the beginning of belief. Harvey’s been thinking about that and believes she might be right. Doubts lead to questions, which, if we’re patient enough, eventually lead to answers. Harvey thought about preaching on the benefits of doubting but didn’t want to upset Dale Hinshaw, who’s still not speaking to Miriam after her sermon. So he’ll probably preach about how autumn is the season of dying, but that spring brings new life and thus is God’s encouragement for us to remain faithful in the face of death.

  Sixteen

  Peace on Earth

  It was a Tuesday morning in early December, and Bob Miles was watching the town square from his desk by the window of the Harmony Herald.

  It was a big day for Bob—he was writing the one-thousandth edition of “The Bobservation Post.” He hadn’t told anyone, though he was hoping to work it into conversation. He’d spent a lot of time at the Coffee Cup the day before, waiting for someone to say, “Hey, Bob, how long you been writing that column anyway?”

  Then he could’ve answered, in an off-handed kind of way, “Well, I’m not certain, but I think this week is my thousandth one.” Maybe Penny Toricelli would overhear him and bake a cake, and they’d have a little party in honor of “The Bobservation Post.”

  But it didn’t happen. Instead, he sat on a stool at the Coffee Cup as Penny swiped the counter in front of him and said, “Say, Bob, there was a misprint in last week’s ad. Italian Night is Wednesday night, not Thursday night.”

  Italian Night was Vinny Toricelli’s idea. He’d read in a magazine that ethnic restaurants were all the rage, so he’d bought a used organ at an auction and put it in the corner next to the salad bar underneath the painting of the Last Supper. He hired Bea Majors to play the organ from five to seven o’clock every Wednesday night. Vinny wanted her to play until eight o’clock, but Bea doesn’t want to miss Jeopardy, so she leaves five minutes before seven and gets home just in time to watch Alex Trebeck, who, she is certain, appreciates her viewing loyalty.

  Bob was sitting at his desk on Tuesday morning when he noticed Ned Kivett arranging a Christmas display in the front window of Kivett’s Five and Dime. Ned’s had the same display since 1956. Santa’s suit is faded to pink, and the red paint on Rudolph’s nose is mostly chipped off. Now Rudolph’s nose just looks swollen, like he’s been in a fight or had one too many drinks.

  Why bother? Ned thinks. I’m the only store in town. So what if my decorations are cheesy? Where else can people shop?

  For one hundred and seventy-five years this town has cultivated the fine art of indifference. Bob Miles gets an advertisement wrong and shrugs it off. Kyle Weathers leaves one sideburn longer than another and couldn’t care less. But when Deena Morrison opened the Legal Grounds Coffee Shop it jarred the town’s complacency. Penny and Vinny at the Coffee Cup had to snap to. It used to be if Penny spilled a little coffee, she’d snarl at you for jostling her arm and make you wipe up the mess. Now she smiles and says, “Don’t you worry, honey. I’ll take care of that.” Vinny even took down their Eat, Drink, and Be Quiet sign and replaced it with one that reads Through These Doors Pass the Finest People on Earth.

  All this politeness has made people edgy. If they had wanted polite, they’d have gone to the pastor’s house for coffee. So they were relieved to hear that Deena might be closing down the Legal Grounds and moving back to the city to practice law. Life at the Coffee Cup could return to its former mediocrity, and everyone could relax.

  But Deena hasn’t moved yet. She visited her parents for Thanksgiving and stayed away an extra week. She hung a Closed Until Further Notice sign on the front door of the Legal Grounds. Everyone thought she’d left for good, but now she’s back.

  Bob Miles saw her coming around the corner in front of the Royal Theater, and his heart gave a little leap. He watched her unlock the Legal Grounds Coffee Shop door.

  What a beautiful woman, he thought. That Wayne Fleming is an idiot.

  That is the consensus of most everyone in town. They can’t believe Wayne’s taken his wife back after the way she’d run off the year before.

  Bob Miles sees Sally Fleming nearly every morning. She walks past his window on the way to her new job at the mental-health center upstairs from the Herald.

  Sally is not without her charms. Blond hair and blue eyes and a warm smile. But the best thing about her is that she doesn’t act like she’s pretty. She smiles at everyone—even those who treat her like dirt, like Fern Hampton.

  Back in November Fern had announced in church that they needed a volunteer for the primary Sunday school class. When Sally raised her hand, Fern looked right over her like she wasn’t there. Everyone noticed it and looked down at their feet and studied the red carpet.

  “That Fern Hampton has no business being in the church,” Wayne fumed that night after the kids were in bed.

  “Oh, never mind her,” Sally said. “That’s just the way she is. I kind of feel sorry for her. She must be miserable inside.”

  They had planned to tell the church about Sally’s leukemia during the prayer time, but after Fern’s slight they’d been so embarrassed they hadn’t said anything.

  Sam was the only one in church who knew. Wayne and Sally had made him promise not to tell anyone. They wouldn’t even have told Sam, except they needed him and Barbara to watch their kids while they went to the cancer doctor in the city. But after they told him, it felt good to have someone else share the burden.

  Sam had been stopping past once a week ever since. Then he’d invited them to his parents’ house for Thanksgiving dinner. Sally brought dessert—Jell-O with little marshmallows—then helped wash dishes afterward while the men watched football and Barbara took the kids outside to play.

  Sally washed while Sam’s mother, Gloria Gardner, dried and put away. When Sally had been younger, she’d dreamed of moments like this. Her mother had died when she was five. She’d been raised by her father, who loved her but was too consumed with grief to pay her any mind. Sally would watch television shows of normal families, with mothers and everything. When her father did remarry, it was to a shrewish woman who didn’t like Sally and let her know it. Which is why Sally married Wayne when she turned eighteen.

  This is what it would have been like if Mom had lived, Sally said to herself. We would have spent Thanksgiving together, doing dishes and talking and laughing.

  When she’d first learned of her leukemia, she had been mad at God. How could you do this to me? First you take my mother, now you’ll leave my children without a mother. What kind of God are you?

  Then one morning while the kids were in school, the thought struck her: I should go away before my children get to know me any better. It’ll be easier on them that way. Looking back, she knows it was a dumb idea, and she’s glad to be home.

  She watched her children out the window, with Gloria standing beside her. The sorrow of it hit all at once. She ached for them. A tear slid down her cheek. Sam’s mother looked over at her. She thought she’d pretend she didn’t notice, but then Sally sobbed.

  “Oh, there now, honey. What’s wrong?” Gloria asked. She laid down her dishcloth, put her arm around Sally, and eased her over to the kitchen table.

  Sally kept crying. Her shoulders trembled.

  “My poor babies,” she moaned.

  “What’s wrong, honey? You can tell me.”

  “I’m sick.”

  “Well, honey, let’s get you home and into bed. You’ll probably wake up tomorrow and be just fine.”

  “No, no, I won’t. It’s worse than that.”

  After some prodding, Sally told Gloria about the leukemia and how she was going to the cancer doctor to have tests run. By the time she was through, Wayne had come in the kitchen and was kneeling beside her, holding her. Sam and Charlie Gardner were watching from the kitchen door.

  “I’m sorry,” Sally sniffed. “I didn’t mean to ruin everyon
e’s Thanksgiving.”

  Gloria stared at her, ashen-faced. Leukemia…My Lord…

  “Wayne, I think it’s time to go home,” Sally said, standing up from the chair and wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Gardner. It was kind of you to invite us. We’re certainly grateful to you.”

  Gloria hugged Sally’s thin body to her. “There now, it was our pleasure. You and your family are welcome anytime. We’d love to have you for Christmas. That is, if you don’t have plans.”

  “We’d like that,” Sally said.

  “Now you just let us know if we can do anything at all for you. Just anything at all. We’ll be happy to help. Isn’t that right, Charlie?”

  “You bet.”

  After the Flemings left, the Gardners sat around the kitchen table talking.

  “Did you know about this, Sam?” Gloria asked.

  “Yeah, for a little over a month now.”

  “And why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Gee, Mom, I can’t tell you everything. There are some things people tell me that I can’t talk about. But I can tell you one thing…”

  “What’s that?”

  “The leukemia is the reason she ran off. She didn’t want the kids to see her sick and dying. Her mother died when she was little, and she didn’t want to put them through that. She only came back because she missed them.”

  They sat around the table, quiet and thinking.

  “Well, now that we know, I think we ought to do something,” Gloria said.

  “Like what?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe the Friendly Women’s Circle could hold a bake sale for her. Lord knows, they’ll need the money.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Barbara said.

  Sam’s mother peered at the calendar on the refrigerator. “The Circle meets next week. I’ll tell ’em then, when they’re all together, and we can start the planning.”

  The Circle met the next Tuesday morning down in the church basement, at the folding table by the noodle freezer.

  Gloria Gardner is the president, having maneuvered Fern Hampton out of the job the year before. Fern had been complaining how busy she was, so Gloria said, “We ask too much of you, Fern, that’s all there is to it. Tell you what, I’ll take over as president and give you a break.”

  Miriam Hodge had quickly seconded the motion, the other women said “Approved,” and Fern was out, Gloria was in, and Fern’s been mad ever since.

  Gloria began the meeting with a tap of the sacred meat-tenderizing mallet on the folding table. The ladies stopped their talking and turned to look at her.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Gloria said. “It’s Sally Fleming.”

  “What about that little chippy?” Fern asked. “Has she run off again?”

  “She has leukemia,” Gloria said.

  There were gasps, then a collective “Oh, my” rose up from around the table.

  They turned toward Gloria, enthralled. It was all they could do not to rush home to call people and tell them the news, to experience the exquisite joy of informing the uninformed.

  Except for Miriam Hodge and Jessie Peacock, who bowed their heads and began to pray quietly for Sally.

  “Well, I guess it’s true that you reap what you sow,” Fern said.

  “What do you mean by that, Fern?” Gloria asked.

  “I mean a person can’t run off and sleep around without paying for it in the end.”

  “How do you know she slept around? Did she tell you?”

  “Well, now, I’m not dumb. Everyone knows what she did. It’s all over town.”

  Several of the women nodded in agreement.

  “I think you ought to know something, Fern. Sally Fleming didn’t run off with another man. She left her family because she didn’t want her kids to watch her die. She only came back because she missed them. Although going away might not have been a wise thing to do, she did it for her kids.”

  Fern looked down at her lap, then inspected her fingernails. “Oh, I see,” she said, in a quiet voice.

  The ladies looked away from Fern. There was a long silence.

  Fern opened her mouth to speak a time or two, but nothing came out. “I’ve been a hateful snot,” she said, finally.

  Though Fern Hampton has few virtues, it is true that occasionally she acts like the Christian she claims to be.

  She stood from the folding table and excused herself. She lumbered up the stairs, her knees cracking, and went outside to her car. She drove down to the mental-health office, walked up the stairs, her knees cracking, and pushed open the door.

  Sally was seated behind the desk. “Hi, Mrs. Hampton,” she said with a smile.

  “Hi, Sally,” Fern said, and offered a timid smile herself.

  “How can I help you? Did you want to talk with the therapist?”

  “Oh my, no, nothing like that. I’m perfectly fine in that department. No, actually I wanted to talk with you, Sally.” Fern paused. “Uh…well…I just want to tell you I’m sorry. I’ve treated you shamefully, and I ask your forgiveness.”

  She knows, Sally thought. “That’s okay, Fern. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “We’d be happy to have you teach that Sunday school class. That is, if you’re able and still want to.”

  “I’d love nothing more. But I’ll be starting my treatment before long. Can we wait and see how that goes?”

  “Oh, yes, honey. You just work on getting better. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Not that I can think of. But if something comes to mind, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  Fern reached down and drew Sally into her considerable bosom. “We’ll be praying for you. Remember, if I can do anything at all, just let me know.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Bob Miles watched Fern Hampton pass in front of his window.

  He was typing out the thousandth column of “The Bobservation Post.” He wrote:

  I see Fern Hampton leaving the mental-health center. Down the street, Ned Kivett is putting up his Christmas display. Can you believe another Christmas is upon us? Here’s hoping for peace on earth and goodwill toward men.

  He rolled the paper out of the typewriter and carried it over to the Linotype machine.

  The one-thousandth column, he marveled. Who would ever have believed it!

  Seventeen

  A Winter Blessing

  The first big snow of the season slipped into town on Saturday morning, three days before Christmas. People stayed up late to watch the news on Friday, then went to bed and awoke to find eight inches of snow piled on the ground.

  Children all over town rummaged through garages looking for their sleds, then headed over to the park to the sledding hill above the basketball court. Charlie Gardner dug Sam’s old Radio Flyer out from behind the lawn mower. He sanded the rust from the runners with steel wool, then waxed them slick with a stubby candle. He pulled the sled over to Sam’s house, and he and Sam took Levi and Addison to the park.

  Sam had intended to go to the office, but he decided to take the day off instead. He’s been doing that quite a bit lately, and the world hasn’t ended. He’s even stopped going to the men’s breakfast at church. That’s because Dale Hinshaw, the head trustee, complains about all the work that needs doing around the place, and Sam ends up spending the day fixing the plumbing or waxing floors or painting a Sunday school room.

  So he’s stopped going.

  The interesting thing is, the less time Sam spends at church, the deeper his faith grows. It kind of troubles him. He’s spent nearly fifteen years of his life encouraging people to be active in church so their belief in God would prosper. Then he finds that the less time you spend with the likes of Dale Hinshaw, the easier it is to believe in a gracious God.

  So Sam took his children sledding at the park instead. He sprawled across the sled with Levi and Addison piled on top of him. Charlie Gardner pushed them off. What a thrill! Hurtling down the
hill, the cold air stinging their faces, leaning to the right to miss the oak tree, then onto the basketball court, which the fire department had sprayed with water and was now covered with ice. They whooshed across the court and slowed to a stop underneath the Lester Worrell Memorial Tree.

  The boys jumped off the sled, eager for another ride. Sam rolled off and lay on his back, looking into the sky. The snow had stopped. The sky was blue. It was crisp and cold. The veiny branches of the Lester Worrell Memorial Tree swayed gently in the north wind.

  Such beauty.

  It takes about eight inches of snow to make the town beautiful, to cover the junk people leave sitting out in their yards—the old engine blocks and piles of lumber and broken toys and clay pots holding the carcasses of last summer’s plants.

  Thank you, Lord, for all this beauty and for my sons. Sam’s finding it easier to pray now. Every now and then, prayer just wells up within him.

  Dale Hinshaw was down at the church, waiting for someone to come in and cook the men’s breakfast, but it didn’t look like anyone was going to show up. He wondered if they’d cancelled it because of the snow and maybe forgot to call him. The meetinghouse walks needed shoveling. He called over to Sam’s house, but Barbara said he’d taken the boys sledding.

  “Tell him he needs to stop by and shovel the sidewalks,” Dale said. “And he needs to put down some salt too. We’re out of salt here at the church, but he can get some at the hardware store.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to the meetinghouse today,” Barbara said. “He’s taking the day off to be with the boys. You’ll need to find someone else to clean the walks.”

  Dale hung up the phone.

  It had never been this way with Pastor Taylor. Dale never had to tell him to shovel the church walks; he just knew to do it.

  Boy, they don’t make preachers like they used to, Dale thought.

  He found the shovel behind the furnace downstairs and began shoveling the walk. He rested every five minutes, worried about having a heart attack. He’s been getting cramps in his leg at night. He thinks it might be his heart. He’s thinking of giving up bacon and trying to get a little exercise, maybe easing up on the Scripture egg project a little bit.