by Leslie Gould
GALATIANS 5:6
10
Caye looked around the room. It was half past ten Sunday morning. They were in Jill’s living room for Fellowship. It was Rita’s turn to be down in the basement with the kids. Caye wondered how it was going, knew Jill’s kids were out of sorts. So were her own kids. They could feel the tension, the waiting.
Louise was often out of sorts anyway. She was a child who, each year, seemed more uncomfortable with herself and others.
Thomas started the meeting the same as any other. There was no hint of a possible catastrophe, of impending doom. Jill and Rob sat on the sofa. Caye knew that Jill’s long hair was pulled back in an oversize barrette, and that she was wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt, but she could not see her friend. Rob was blocking her from sight. Caye sat on one of the mahogany dining room chairs. Nathan sat beside her.
Caye had volunteered to have the Fellowship at their house, even though she really didn’t want to. It wasn’t easy for her, the way it was for Jill, to have people over. At first glance, she told herself it was a matter of space. Their basement was unfinished, so the kids would have to be crammed into Andrews room. But it was more than that. Entertaining made her nervous and self-conscious. All the flaws of their house, flaws that she lived with daily and did not notice, leaped out at her. The yellow-and-green plaid kitchen linoleum, the water spots on the dining room ceiling, the chipped counter in the bathroom.
But for Jill’s sake she was willing to host the Fellowship.
“Oh no,” Jill said when Caye called to volunteer. “I want everyone here. Rob said he’d help get everything ready, and it will be easier for me if we have it here—I won’t have to go out.”
Caye even admitted, when she arrived, that Jill looked better. “Muscle relaxants and Ativan work wonders,” Rob responded.
Jill gave him a “don’t contradict my optimism” look.
Each member asked how she was feeling as they came in the door. Jill stayed on the couch and answered each one, “Better. Really. I’m much better.”
“Well, good, you really had us worried,” Rita boomed as she gave Jill a hug. Then she headed down to the basement with the kids.
Caye marveled at Jill’s warmth, how she connected with each member—even when she was sick.
Thomas started the lesson on time. The teaching was on the Ten Commandments. He discussed the background, and then the group read through Exodus 20 together. Next came the discussion. The first question was, “Have you broken one of the commandments and not regretted it? Not seen consequences in your own life?” When Jill started to speak, Caye was alarmed—she was certain Jill was going to confess to not having told Rob about her father dying of pancreatic cancer.
But that wasn’t Jill’s subject at all.
“I stole something once,” she said, “and I’ve never regretted it.” Everyone sat quietly.
“I stole tulip bulbs from an old lady in Pennsylvania, dug them right out of her yard, right from under her nose.”
“And you’ve never regretted it?” Thomas asked.
“Never.”
“Why?”
“Because they belonged to me.” Another pause.
“Well, they were on her property. But she wouldn’t share. So I took them.”
“The old entitlement-justification story,” Rob chuckled, shifting his head and giving Caye a view of Jill. Rob often joked about Jill’s poor logic. “She lives by her feelings,” he once said. “That’s why she’s so optimistic.”
Jill had a knack for saying whatever came to mind. It was one of the appealing things about her. Most of the thoughts she blurted out were self-effacing stories. But they weren’t designed to be “oh, I’m so stupid” stories. They were just funny stories, stories that she wanted other people to laugh at too.
Caye was surprised that she’d never heard this story of Jill’s before—another new Jill story. How many stories had they told each other? How many stories were left to tell?
“Thanks, Jill,” Thomas said with a laugh. “Only you could discredit my point in such a cheery way.”
At the opening of prayer time, Thomas looked at Rob and asked, “How can we pray for your family?”
“We find out the results of the biopsy tomorrow. Please pray that it will be negative.”
“May I add something before we pray?” Joya was sitting on the edge of her chair, her feet perpendicular to the floor, toes pointed downward. She was wearing a blue-and-yellow checked jumper with a white T-shirt and white Keds.
“I had a revelation,” she said. “On Friday morning. I already shared it with Caye—but I want to tell all of you.” She looked directly at Jill. “I was praying during the biopsy, and God told me…” She paused. Caye felt uncomfortable, just as she had when Joya had talked with her on the phone.
Nathan reached over and took Caye’s hand.
Why had Joya said that she’d told Caye? Caye hadn’t said anything to Jill, hadn’t told her about Joya’s phone call or the revelation.
“God told me,” she said again. And then, “This is hard for me, Jill.” Joya began to cry and took a deep breath. Caye realized that in the four years she’d known Joya she’d never seen Joya shed a tear. “He told me that you have pancreatic cancer but that he is going to heal you.”
Rob folded his arms across his chest. Nathan squeezed Caye’s hand.
“Oh, God,” Summer moaned from the platform rocker. Caye thought the words sounded like disgust, not a cry for mercy.
Jill was still out of sight, but her voice rose, a little shaky yet still cheery. “Well,” she said, as if Joya were a pop-up doll who had just surprised her.
“Joya, are you serious?” Summer asked.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” Joya said, her voice deep.
“Well, what else do we need to pray about?” Jill asked quickly. “Enough about me. Let’s move on.” She looked around the room. Caye avoided her eyes, but shot a glance at Rob. He sat with his arms crossed, his chin down.
I should have told Jill. I should have told her what Joya said.
The group was silent for a few long moments.
Finally Lonnie asked for prayer for his computer programming class; he had a midterm the next day.
Thomas read from Psalms and then led the group in prayer. Caye wanted to pray aloud, wanted to pray for Jill, but didn’t. She felt self-conscious praying in the Fellowship. She was afraid of praying the wrong thing, or showing how little she knew about the Bible and God. She was afraid of sounding unsure.
What would she have prayed?
She would have said, “God, I’m so scared. Jill is sick; something is wrong, and we don’t know what. We’re helpless. We ask for your healing—whether it’s cancer or something else. You know we need her—her kids, Rob, and all of us. Keep her safe. Amen.”
That’s what she would have prayed. Instead, led by Simon’s fussing, she left the room and went down the basement stairs to help Rita with the kids.
“I shouldn’t have blurted out my tulip-stealing story,” Jill said to Caye over the phone that afternoon. The boys were all down napping, even Hudson, and Rob had run into the office for a few minutes.
“What’s the story behind the tulip bulbs?” Caye asked.
It felt good to be talking to Caye on the phone—almost normal.
“I stole the tulips when I was twenty-three, a few months before I moved to Argentina. I’d gone to New Jersey to visit my friend Karen—we went to USC together. She’s the one who hooked me up with the diplomat job; it was a connection through her husband’s family. She and I went into New York every day for a week—went to the galleries, a few shows, the museums, did the shopping thing.”
Jill had rented a car and driven to Pennsylvania on the last day of her trip to see the town her father had grown up in.
“I visited my dad’s cousin, asked for some of my great-grandmother’s tulips, which
grew in the woman’s yard. She wouldn’t give me even one. So I went back and stole them after dark.”
“And never felt guilty?” Caye asked.
“Never,” Jill laughed. “Although I do feel guilty for confessing to not feeling guilty in front of Joya. I’m sure it will come back to bite me.”
“Are they the tulips in your garden?” Caye asked.
“Yep. You wouldn’t believe how I’ve babied them through the years. I’ll divide them in the fall, really.” It was a joke between them—Jill had meant to give Caye some of the bulbs for two years now, but hadn’t. “If you still want them now that you know they’re contraband.”
“You’d better get a nap,” Caye said with a laugh. “While the boys are down.”
“I’ll see you in the morning when we drop the boys off. And, Caye,” she added, right before she said good-bye, “thanks for being such a good friend.”
As she settled under the comforter, Jill thought about her trip to Mount Llewellyn, Pennsylvania. Marion never talked about the past but had mentioned one time the name of the town her father came from. When Jill asked Marion where she was from, her mother simply answered, “Close to where your father grew up.” Marion also revealed that Jill’s father was raised by his grandmother. “A very creative woman,” Marion had said, “but not very nice.”
Jill stopped at a phone booth and looked up “Linsey.” She found Ada Linsey first and dialed the number. She explained that she was looking for relatives of William Linsey.
“He’s dead,” the woman said. “Died a few years ago—out in California.”
“Yes, I know,” Jill said politely. “I’m his daughter.”
“Out snoopin’ around,” Ada said. “Wantin’ to see the old home place, huh?”
“No,” Jill said. “I just wanted to meet a relative or two. I didn’t know there was an old home place.”
“Not much left.”
“Could I come by?” Jill asked. “Bring some supper? I could pick it up at the diner.”
“Not a good day. I’m here all alone.”
“Could I stop by? Just to meet you?”
“William was my cousin,” Ada said, not answering Jill’s questions. “I’m sorry he’s dead. Didn’t surprise me though.”
“I could be over in just a few minutes,” Jill said.
“No, no, no,” Ada said. “Not today.” And she hung up.
Jill looked at the address in the book. The house was on Third Street. She looked up at the sign across the street from the phone booth. She was on Fifth.
It was 4:30 on a weekday afternoon. The town was nearly deserted. The trees lining the street blew slightly in the breeze. As she drove, Jill imagined her father walking along the sidewalk, kicking a can. She passed a box-shaped house with new lemon-colored vinyl siding, the Methodist church topped with a traditional steeple, a park with a grove of elm in the middle. She turned on Third Street and stopped at the next corner, searching for the address on the brick house in front of her. She parked and climbed out of the car and stood looking at the front of the house. Behind the overgrown wisteria spreading from the porch to the side of the house, she made out three tiles with the numbers.
The wooden front steps were gray, with strips of paint pulled off, exposing white primer and bare wood. The screen was open and revealed a heavy old wooden door. The house had two stories.
Jill walked around to the side. The flower bed was overgrown with weeds and grass. An old oak tree towered in the yard; the large back area was unfenced. Three apple trees grew along the alley. An old shed leaned toward a garden plot that looked as if it hadn’t been tilled in years.
Walking back toward the car, Jill noticed a lace curtain flutter against a six-on-six paned window. By the time she reached the corner of the property, the front door was open, and a tall, elderly woman, wearing a brown dress with a tan sweater held closed by tightly crossed arms, stood on the porch. Her short white hair was uncombed. Her legs were thin and bare, and Jill could see veins snaking their way down toward white shoes with rounded toes. “What do you want?” the woman asked in a husky voice.
“Just to see the outside of the house—that’s all.”
The woman frowned.
“I just talked to you on the phone,” Jill said. “And didn’t even say who you were.”
“Oh I’m sorry. I was sure I did. Jill Linsey. William’s daughter.” Ada scowled. “How’s your mother?”
“Fine.”
“I liked her. Only saw her once. Scandal that it was.”
Jill wondered what the old woman was talking about, thinking that Ada reminded her more of her mother than her father. It made her imagine what Marion might be like in twenty years.
“Well, you’ve looked around,” Ada said. “Be on your way.”
Jill let her eyes take in the property again, from the oak tree’s new leaves against the roof to the azalea bushes along the foundation. That was when she saw the double tulips, the beautiful red tulips with the pink centers and ruffled edges on the other side of the porch.
“Those were your great-grandmother’s,” Ada said, following Jill’s eyes. “Her best friend gave them to her. They keep coming up year after year.”
“They’re lovely,” Jill said, enthralled with the ruffled petals, the contrast of the ruby red and soft pink.
Why not ask for some of the bulbs? She had nothing from her father’s past, nothing at all. The flowers would mean so much to her. And the bulbs should be divided—although not this early. Still, she wanted the bulbs. It was worth the risk to take them too soon.
Before she could get the words out, Ada frowned more deeply, the lines around her mouth turning downward, her lips pulling into her mouth.
“Go on now,” the old woman said. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“I was wondering—,” Jill started.
“Now, get. Get off my property.”
Jill felt humiliated. She made her way backward, retreating like a naughty child, feeling the unnamed shame of her family. She walked to the rental car while Ada squared her shoulders and pursed her lips more tightly.
“Good-bye, then,” Jill said, embarrassed.
She took short steps around the car and opened the driver’s door, afraid that if she took large steps or moved too quickly, Ada might rush in and call the police. She held up her hand in a fluttery wave and sank into the seat.
In the four minutes it took to reach the edge of town she had a plan. She drove back to the gas station and left a message for Karen. She’d changed her plans; she was going to spend the night in Pennsylvania and would stop by in the morning to get her things before going to the airport.
Then she went to the hardware store across the street and bought a pair of white canvas gloves and a trowel with a green rubber handle. As she left the store, she stifled a giggle.
She felt giddy as she ordered a chicken potpie at the diner out on the highway. The waitress, who was about Jill’s age, avoided her eyes as she took the order. Truckers sat on red vinyl stools at the counter. The food was greasy, and her water glass felt sticky.
By half past seven, dusk was falling. Jill drove back into town, back to the house, and circled around to the alley. A solitary light illuminated the far rear corner of the house. She continued driving and parked a block away, pulled her black wool coat from the backseat, and slipped her fingers into the gardening gloves.
She laughed out loud. Why had she bought white gloves? She looked like Mickey Mouse. She picked up the trowel and took the keys out of the ignition, carefully putting them in her coat pocket. She purposely did not lock the car in case she needed to make a quick getaway.
Jill walked slowly to the house, trying her best to look nonchalant. Two boys, perhaps nine years old, rode by on bicycles, passing a tennis ball back and forth to each other as they pedaled.
“Ricky!” a woman’s voice called out.
“Gotta go,” the smaller boy said, sliding the ball into the pocket of his jacket.
Jill crossed the street and walked onto the lawn in front of the house. The grass was squishy under her feet. The winter snow and spring rains had soaked the sod. She knelt by the tulips and felt the dampness of the ground seep through the denim of her jeans. She plunged the trowel into the soil. She pushed and turned it against the moist loam, popping a clump of tulips out of the ground. She grabbed the stems of the clump and shook the dirt off the bulbs, then placed her treasure on the grass.
Again, she pushed the trowel into the dirt and twisted it down and around another group of bulbs.
She heard a creaking noise, and a half a second later light flooded the yard. Ada, or someone, had turned the porch light on.
Jill yanked the stems from the ground, grabbed the first clump of bulbs, and scooted, still hunched down, up against the concrete foundation of the house.
She heard the door open and footsteps on the porch, practically over her head. Was it Ada? Was she looking over the railing?
Then the steps retreated, and the screen door slammed.
Jill realized she’d been holding her breath and slowly let it out. Should she hurry off? Or was Ada standing at the window, peering through the curtains? Would she call the police?
The half-moon was rising over the house across the street. A dog barked in the alley.
Jill thought of her father. If Ada was right, if this had been her great-grandmother’s home, then it was where her dad grew up. She imagined him climbing the oak tree, riding an old rickety bike down the alley, weeding this very flower bed for his grandmother. Perhaps he even divided these tulips. He liked to garden; Jill remembered that. She thought of him out pruning his roses, a cigarette dangling out of his mouth.
“I’m here, Daddy,” she whispered. “I’m here thinking about you.” And stealing from a mean old lady. She suppressed another giggle. She’d planned to take all of the tulips—but she wouldn’t. Spite was such a nasty motivation. Two clumps were enough. She waited for several minutes and then crawled out of the flower bed; she walked quickly toward the back of the house. A dog barked and lunged toward her. Jill screamed and dropped the trowel. The dog jerked backward inches from Jill’s leg—he’d come to the end of his chain. She grabbed the trowel and hurried on. She heard the back door of Ada’s house slam.