The Potluck Club

by Linda Evans Shepherd; Eva Marie Everson

  Sharon ran to me as soon as I stepped out of the car. The air had more snap to it today than the day before, and I was grateful I’d worn my dress jacket. “Hello, Sharon Kanaly,” I said matter-of-factly when she reached me.

  Sharon looked first to me, then to Leigh, who pulled her full weight out of the passenger’s side of the car, then back to me. “Hello, Mrs. Kanaly,” Leigh greeted. “Aunt Evie, I’ll go on inside and get settled in our seats.”

  “Our seats,” she’d said, meaning the same seat I’d sat in since I was a child swinging my little legs back and forth—left, right, left, right—and noting the sheen in my shiny Mary Janes against the stark whiteness of my frilly socks. One thing was for certain, when Peggy and I were children, Mama dressed us to the nines on Sunday mornings.

  “Did you hear the news?” Sharon asked me, jutting her neck so she looked like one of those birds from down in Florida.

  “I assume you’re talking about Jan Moore.” I began walking toward our tiny church, toward sanctuary I knew would not come easy today. “To be honest with you, I thought it was going to be kept under wraps for a while.”

  Sharon kept step with me as I looked around, noting the other members as they milled toward the front doors of the church or the side door closest to the nursery, for those who had little ones. “Well, naturally the pastor told Curtis this morning, wants him to find out who they need to contact within the medical community.”

  I stopped, turning to face her. “This morning? And you know already?”

  “Well, Evie. It’s not like husbands and wives keep secrets from one another.” She blanched. “Oh. Well, maybe you don’t know. Well, they don’t.”

  “I see.” I started walking again. “Will a formal announcement be made this morning, then?”

  “I just saw Jan in the kitchen and told her I thought she should come right out and tell the congregation, no need to keep it a secret. After all, between my prayer chain and your little prayer group, I think we’ll have her covered, don’t you? I think that’s what we’re called to do as brothers and sisters in the Lord.” The way Sharon said “Lord” was more like “Lower-ed,” which made me smile in spite of myself.

  “I have to say I agree with you. Did she say what she was going to do?” We’d reached the front doors and were nearly surrounded by other members.

  Sharon shook her head no. “But I believe she’ll do the right thing, don’t you, Evie?”

  “I’m sure she will,” I said, then turned slightly as one of the teenage boys from our congregation opened the door with a “Here you go, Miss Benson.” I winced. Like I didn’t have the strength to open a door myself. Still, manners need to be observed, no matter how I might be feeling.

  I settled myself in my favorite pew next to Leigh, we being the only two in that particular row and on that side of the room. Vonnie and her husband, Fred, sat in front of us, Fred smelling faintly of motor grease and Vonnie smelling like sweet talcum powder. The two scents together made my nose wrinkle, which Leigh caught, and she laughed. As soon as I settled, having taken off my jacket, Vonnie turned to me and whispered, “Did you know that Sharon Kanaly is already aware of Jan’s illness?”

  I nodded. “She accosted me outside.”

  Fred turned his heavy-set balding head our way and shushed us. “Girls,” he said. “This is the house of the Lord.”

  I frowned at him. “Like I don’t know that, Fred Westbrook.”

  He twisted his neck a bit more. “Good. Then stop gossiping long enough to act like it.” He then glared at Vonnie, who said, “Fred’s right; I’m sorry.” She smiled sweetly at her husband, nuzzled shoulders, and then turned back to the front.

  Leigh smiled at me again, waggling her brow just as the choir—all ten members of it, including Goldie Dippel and Lisa Leann Lambert—walked in from a little side door, taking their places in the loft behind the pulpit.

  Grace Church begins each service by singing a little “good morning” song. As soon as our pianist, Carrie Lowe, hit the first chord, we began to sing. I found myself choking, however, when we got to the words about rejoicing in the day. How could I possibly rejoice, I wondered, when there in the front row of the church, sitting straight and tall, was one of the best women God had ever put on his green earth and that woman was dying. I stared at the back of her head, watching the tiny movements of it as she sang along with the congregation. I wondered what thoughts might be beating against her heart at this moment and then reflected on how I might be feeling were I her, knowing I was dying.

  The song finished. Pastor Kevin—who’d been leading us—called out, “Greet one another in the name of the Lord!” Leigh and I winked at one another and then turned to the pew behind us, where the Fairfields—Todd and Julie—sat with two of their three children. “Good morning, Fairfields,” I said. “How’s Abby?”

  Julie Fairfield took my hand. “She’s fine, Miss Benson. Just fine. Loving every minute of school.”

  “My alma mater, you know,” I reminded her needlessly.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She turned to Leigh, taking her hand. “How are you, Leigh?” she asked.

  “Big as a house,” Leigh answered.

  Julie smiled at her, and I caught a look in her eyes. I’ve been where you are, it said. Pregnant and unmarried. I realized Leigh wouldn’t know this; it had happened long before she would have caught the gossip, but I thought it might bear telling later on in the morning. “Leigh,” Julie said in a low voice, leaning over the back of our pew. “If you ever need to talk . . . I’ve been where you are. Abby—”

  So much for telling her later, I thought, though it took a moment for Leigh to understand. When she did, I watched a light shine in her eyes. “Oh, really? Thanks. I’ll do that. I really will.”

  Julie Fairfield took a deep breath and sighed as though she’d just let the biggest cat out of the bag and it had caught some church mouse. A bit uncomfortable, I turned back to where Vonnie should have been standing but was not. Instead, she was at the front, holding Jan Moore’s hand and talking intently to her. Naturally Sharon Kanaly was within earshot, and I couldn’t help but frown.

  I took a step to join Vonnie (and push Sharon out of the way), but something stopped me. I wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready to take death by the hand again. Instead, I reached for Leigh’s, squeezing it with mine, and for the first time thought favorably about the life she carried inside.

  19

  Her life will never

  be the same . . .

  Clay heard about it first from Donna, who stopped by the café on her way home from the club meeting. She was chalky and visibly shaken and sat on a barstool. But she was close enough that he could ask her, “What’s going on?”

  At first she just shook her head; then she ordered a cup of coffee to go. Clay stood, walked over to her, and leaned against the counter. “Come on, now,” he said, noticing a tear slip down her cheek. That’s when she told him that Jan Moore had been diagnosed with cancer.

  Clay shook his head. “Dora Watkins was in here the other day. Said she didn’t think Jan looked well.”

  “Dora Watkins,” Donna said, eyes wide. “Hey, she beat cancer, didn’t she?” Hope registered for the briefest of moments, then settled.

  After church services the following day, it seemed everyone in town knew. As Clay ate his Sunday luncheon special of sliced ham, creamy potatoes, and green beans, he listened to the agonized whispers of those who spoke as though they’d buried the lady already. “Geez O’Malley, there’s a lot going on around this sleepy little town” he wrote later. He continued pecking at his typewriter.

  And you don’t have to be as observant as I to know that with the birth of Leigh’s baby and the possible death of one of the town’s most beloved members, life around Summit View will never be the same.

  Especially for Evangeline and the ladies of the Potluck.

  20

  Savory Family Dinner

  On Monday afternoon I was a woman with a mission. As so
on as I’d closed down the computer in the high school’s library, tucked chairs neatly around the few tables the county school system had afforded us, and then locked the door leading into the hallway, I walked back through the library and made my way to my office. Without a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed my purse from inside a desk drawer, turned out the lights, and slipped out the back door, which led to a corridor used exclusively by faculty and the occasional students who were room assistants. Mrs. Hall, one of the second-grade teachers, was coming down the hallway with a stack of disarrayed papers in her arms. She greeted me kindly with, “Going home, Lizzie?”

  “Actually, no. I’m headed for the public library.” I turned the doorknob to assure myself that it had locked.

  “Oh?” Janet Hall is a pretty young woman—one of our newer educators—with large innocent eyes and a smile bookended with deep dimples. She and her husband of two years are expecting their first child in seven months or so. We all wondered whether or not she’d come back to teach or decide to stay home and be a full-time mommy.

  “Research,” I said, walking beside her. “I’m going to read everything I can about breast cancer, cancer treatment, cancer centers. Basically anything I can get my hands on in hard copy. I’m going to look up some things on the Internet too. I know I could do that here, but I want the full scope at my fingertips.”

  “Is this because of Jan Moore?”

  Janet is a Methodist and doesn’t attend Grace Church, but that certainly doesn’t matter. Everyone in Summit View knows Jan, knows her and adores her. “Yes,” I answered. “I’m a lover of research, as you may or may not know. I intend to have some information to share with her by this time tomorrow. Hopefully enough to shed some light on the situation. We’re not going to take this lying down, you know.”

  We reached the outside door, and I opened it. “Thank you,” she said, to which I replied, “Think nothing of it.”

  “And what do you think of the situation?” she asked me as we continued toward the employee parking lot.

  “I believe . . .” I began, then choked. I took a deep breath and continued. “I believe in miracles,” I finished.

  Janet raised her eyebrows. “If you believe in miracles, why are you researching?”

  Reaching my car, I pulled keys out of my purse, then looked her dead in the eye. “I believe that through modern science we see God’s miracles. Now don’t get me wrong. I also believe in those miracles man cannot explain. But if you ask me, when a disease destroying a body is brought to a stop by man’s intellect—which is God’s gift in the first place—then we still have a miracle.”

  Janet nodded, then moved on. “I can’t argue with that. Let me know how it goes,” she called behind her, to which I replied, “Will do.”

  A few minutes later I drove my Acura into the parking lot of the Summit View Public Library, got out, and hurried toward the front door. The temp was dropping again, and I had a fleeting thought about snow, hoping it would hold off at least until I got home.

  I walked into the warmth of the large open room dominating the whole of the library. Kristen Borchardt, a librarian and a friend of mine, met me. “Lizzie, I’m so glad you came in,” she said.

  I stopped. “You are?” I smiled at her.

  She motioned for me to follow her to a room behind the U-shaped checkout and returns counters. I walked around to the little half door that swung inward, pushing it with my knee, then followed through. Kristen was already in the room and standing on the other side of the desk when I walked through the doorway. “Come here,” she said, pointing to the chair behind the desk. I noted that there were several stacks of magazines and books sitting neatly on top. “I’ve already gathered together a few books and periodicals for you. Some medical journals too.” She tapped one of the stacks with her index finger. “They’re all up-to-date. Every single one of them.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “I take it you were expecting me.”

  Kristen nodded. “As soon as I got home yesterday from church, I said to Horace, ‘Lizzie Prattle will be at the library first thing after school’s out.’” She looked down at her watch. “What took you so long?”

  I smiled at her. “So you gathered together the information you thought I’d want to read.”

  “I did.” She pointed to a computer desk behind the chair. “The computer is booted up and ready for you to surf the Internet if you want.”

  “Thank you, Kristen,” I said, slipping behind her to take a seat in the desk chair.

  Kristen walked toward the door, stopped, and turned. “By the way, the University of California San Francisco is making some wonderful progress when it comes to breast cancer. I’ve printed out some information and put it on top of the medical journals for you.”

  I glanced down, nodding. “Thank you. I’ll start with that.”

  Two hours later I was forced to stop in my labors in order to call Samuel to tell him I’d be late returning home. “And dinner would be . . .” he prompted.

  “Apparently takeout,” I answered with a frown. As much as I love my husband, a few of his absolutes drill on my nerves. The first one is: a woman should first and foremost cook for her family. Nothing else—including work, social, or church obligations—should interfere with this rule. Samuel couldn’t so much as boil water if he had to, so I knew he’d be sitting in the family room, reclining in his La-Z-Boy, counting the minutes by the growls of his stomach. “What would you like?”

  He paused before answering. “Why don’t you just go to the grocery store and pick up some of that already fried chicken? You can put some veggies from a can on the stove when you get home, and we’ll call that dinner. Oh, and pick up some of those brown-’n-serves I like so much.”

  My frown grew deeper. Why didn’t he set some veggies on the stove? “That sounds good,” I said. “I’ll be there shortly. I’m just going to gather up my notes and say good night to Kristen.”

  “I’ll be here waiting on you,” he said. “I am a little anxious to know what you’ve learned.”

  That line brightened my spirit. “Good. I’m a little anxious to share it with you.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I started to hang up until I heard him say, “Hey!” I brought the phone back to my ear. “Yeah?”

  “Michelle’s not here. She and Leigh went out for dinner.”

  “So it will just be the two of us . . .”

  “Just like old times,” he said with a chuckle, but I knew better. It would never be like “old times” again. When we were newly married we knew nothing of having three children so close together . . . of institutes for the deaf, of learning to speak with our hands . . . (or of dealing with an unwed son who would become a father). Now we had adult children. We had grandchildren halfway across the country we rarely got to see, some right here in town we see all the time, and we worry about them all. I sighed deeply. “Old times” didn’t include friends we’d buried too soon and those we were scared we might have to bury soon. Father God, I prayed silently. Please . . .

  It was an hour later before we were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, plates of fried chicken, Italian green beans, and brown-’n-serves between us. “Do you think Jan and Pastor Kevin know about UCSF?” I asked my husband.

  “What about it?” he asked, taking a bite of a chicken thigh, his favorite piece.

  “They have a cancer center where literally hundreds of clinicians are working toward finding a cure for cancer.”

  “What about those who have already been diagnosed?”

  “They’re giving them treatments. I’m sure some are part of the research.”

  Samuel speared beans with his fork. “I don’t know if they know or not. Are you planning on telling Jan?”

  I nodded. “I’ll call her later.” I glanced at the kitchen wall clock. “If it’s not too late.” Samuel took another bite of beans, and I continued. “Have you ever heard of J. Michael Bishop?”

  He shook his head.

&nbs
p; “Harold Varmus?”

  Again, he shook his head.

  “They’ve discovered cancer-causing genes. According to their research, it’s genetic mistakes that cause cancer.”

  “It’s amazing what medical science is coming up with.”

  I nodded, looking down at my so-far-untouched plate. “There’s a lot I don’t understand, of course, but there was a paper released recently about some gene that was identified as being key to breast cancer metastasis.”

  “From?”

  I looked around the room for the stack of notes I’d brought home, locating them on the corner of the kitchen counter, lying next to the now-empty chicken box. “Let me get my notes,” I said, rising from the table. When I came back, having looked through more than half my scribble, I said, “California Pacific Medical Center Research Institute.”

  Samuel paused for a minute before saying, “Why don’t you let me talk with Pastor Kevin about all this? If all this research is going on close by, he may want to look further into it.”

  “I think that’s a very good idea. When will you?”

  “Tomorrow.” He looked down at his watch. “For now, Law and Order is on. Dinner was passable,” he added with a wink, then left me alone at the table.

  “Have fun last night?” I asked my daughter early the next morning. We are both forced to rise early in order to get to work on time, Michelle having to leave much earlier than I do. I could easily sleep in a bit longer, but our predawn moments over coffee and cereal have become a favorite part of my day. I love my time with my daughter—and then my time in the Word before I have to head back up the stairs and finish getting myself ready.

  Michelle nodded her fisted right hand up and down, signing “yes.” She smiled at me, then continued. “Leigh and Evie want us to go to Silverthorne on Saturday for shopping and dinner.”