by Annie Jones
“Me? What did I do?” Sadie’s tone left no doubt—she knew exactly what she had done.
“What did you do? Only took my private thoughts and personal anecdotes…” A writer’s word. Payt’s gentle prodding came back to her. “You took my letters and held them up for public ridicule.”
“Ridicule? Hannah, do you know what people around here have to say about your work?”
Her pulse fluttered. For a moment she considered begging her sister not to tell her. She’d spent her entire life cultivating an image of quiet sophistication, of good taste, of grace, of—
She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the side of the toaster. Her pale blue jeans bagged where the pudding-muddied water had soaked into the knees. Her hair stuck out every which way from Payt’s running his hands through it. And the oversize bright green shirt meant to show off the skin tone she worked daily to keep perfect had baby spit-up on the shoulder. Grace. Sophistication.
Hannah laughed, more like a whimper really than a laugh, but still she served up a mincing smile as she asked her sister, “What do people around there say when they read about my life, Sadie? Do they say, ‘Poor Hannah, tell her we’re all praying for her swift return to sanity’?”
“Hardly.”
“You mean they aren’t praying for me?” Obviously they had never seen her after a day working in the nursery. She squared her shoulders. “That isn’t very nice. You’d think someone would at least—”
“Hannah, stop talking about yourself and listen to me. I want to talk about you.”
“Okay.” It wasn’t the kind of thing she could argue with, could she?
“Here’s what people tell me when they read your work—Hannah is so bright, so talented. We always knew she’d end up doing something creative.”
“Really?”
“Really. The day after they print one of your pieces, I have to put up with it all day long—Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.”
“Wow! Wait a minute, after they print one of my pieces? How many of my e-mails have you sent in to the paper already?”
Sadie didn’t miss a beat in her rant, much less bother to respond to Hannah’s question. “And my favorite compliment—‘Of you three girls, that Hannah has the best sense of humor.’”
“No way. No one says that about me.”
“Yes. Absolutely yes. April and I are totally insulted, by the way. So much so, we talked about starting up one of those clown ministries to show everyone we can make people laugh, too.”
“But, Sadie, I don’t want people to laugh at me.”
“Hannah, they aren’t laughing at you, they’re laughing…”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
“Peace, Hannah. I called to make peace, remember?”
“And just how do you propose to do that, after what you’ve done?”
“How about if I tell you the paper wants you as a regular contributor?”
“Doing what?”
“Your column, dope. ‘Nacho Mama’s House.’”
Hannah leaned against the wall and stared into her stark, disused kitchen. “Did you have to call it that?”
“It’s cute.”
Hannah groaned.
“Anyway, the paper can’t pay much, but they will pay. Plus the editor says he will personally try to make sure your work gets seen by other sources, so you might pick up some freelance jobs.”
“Freelance?”
“Jobs, Hannah. Writing. It’s what you always wanted.”
“Isn’t that some kind of kooky curse? For people to actually get the things they think they want?”
“The only thing kooky is you, if you don’t try this. Come on, Hannah, you have to try. If you don’t, you may regret it the rest of your life.”
“Sadie, do you sell plots in that cemetery of yours?”
“Um, no, why?”
“Because you’re just very good at it, that’s all.”
“At selling?”
“Yeah, and at helping people dig their own graves.”
“What does that mean, Hannah?”
“It means…” She squeezed her eyes shut and silently echoed the admonition from Daniel again. “Peace. Be strong.” “It means tell them where to send the check. I’m going to write the column.”
6
Subject: Opinion, please
To: ItsmeSadie, WeednReap
Keep in mind this is a rough draft. Sadie be kind. April, be honest.
Things really are cooking at Nacho Mama’s house!
Really! My son’s soccer team won their first game this week! Not that they won the first game they ever played, but after weeks of playing they finally won one! Ha-ha!
To celebrate, I wanted to do something special, and since I don’t own a platter big enough to allow me to spell out Congratulations in nachos, I decided to bake a cake. A fellow soccer mom is on her way over to pick it up this morning to take to practice today. Guess I’d better get stirring!
Ha-ha. Sorry to couch my column in a bad pun, but speaking of couches, our furniture should arrive this afternoon—thus my inability to take aforementioned cake to practice. Also my aunt Phiz—that’s my father’s sister, Phyllis Amaryllis Shelnutt Shaffer Wentz—sent word a few days ago to expect a surprise today. Something from China, I suspect. I only hope it’s not food, because it might get crushed in shipping. That’s the way the cookie crumbles. You know, China? Cookies? Chinese fortune cookies?
Well, if you haven’t guessed it by now, I might as well come right out and tell you. I have no business writing a column on the misadventures of modern motherhood. I am a phony. I’m not funny and I can’t write and most of all I can’t write funny.
Please, be wise. Do yourself a favor—do us both a favor—and toss this paper into the recycle bin with this column unread.
What do you think of your great idea to send my work to the paper now?
Sam dragged a beanbag chair across the living room, plunked it down by Hannah, then dropped onto it like so much deadweight.
The purple faux-leather, two-for-the-price-of-one accessory sighed, then crunched softly as he settled in. They’d let him pick out the pair of so-called chairs as a last resort to give them something to sit on and add a touch of hominess to their barren living room.
“Did you say hominess or homeliness?” Payt had asked when they lugged the things in the house.
Sam wiggle-walked his chair closer to hers, stirring up enough static electricity to make a few of his hairs stand straight up.
She started to caution him about taking better care of the furniture, but one look at the green—according to Sam: “The exact color of lime Jell-O when you stick a flashlight in it!”—blob beneath her and she gave up.
Sam kicked his feet against the chair.
Hannah turned another page in the Bible that lay open in her lap. She knew he was bored. He’d told her so eleven times already, and it wasn’t even 9:00 a.m. yet. The kid just wanted some attention, but between her writer’s block and her I-can’t-get-anything-right blues, she just didn’t have the energy to entertain the boy right now.
Finally Sam leaned in to peer over her shoulder. When his chin touched the skin on her bare arm…
Pop!
“Ow.” She rubbed the spot where the tiny electric charge had gotten her, then bent to give the boy’s face a quick going-over. “You okay?”
“I’m bored.”
“I know. But are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” She went back her Bible.
“And bored.”
She held her breath and tried to concentrate.
He leaned in more until his brown head obscured more than half of the book. “What’cha doing?”
“Looking up a new Bible verse that I think might work as my new encouragement.”
He looked up at her, his nose crinkled. “Encouragement?”
“Motto?” That didn’t really sum it up properly, either.
He shook his head.
“Okay, you know how Grandpa Moonie sometimes says, ‘Peace. Be strong’ to me?”
He nodded.
“Well, that’s from the Bible. And my dad used it to…”
To make me feel like I could never measure up because no matter how hard I tried I never felt at peace and I sure never felt strong?
Unless anxiety-leading-to-inaction counted as a kind of peace, and hardheaded was the same as strong. Hannah lifted her gaze heavenward. “I just want to pick out a verse that fits me better.”
“How will you know when you find it?”
“I don’t know, hon.” She sighed and closed the Bible slowly so that she could savor the smell of the leather and the rustle of the thin paper. Just holding the book gave her some measure of comfort, and she drew on it. “Truth be told, I’m probably just looking for a procrastination.”
“Is that like a proverb? Where is it?” He slipped the book from her lap and opened the pages.
“What?”
“The Book of Procrastinations.” The crisp pages fluttered as he flipped through, his eyes intent on the headers. “Is that in the Old Testament or the New Testament?”
“The Book of Procrastinations?” Hannah smiled. “Neither Old nor New Testament, sweetheart. Procrastination means putting things off. I suppose you might find those in the Book of Hannah.”
“Show me.”
“Oh, um, Sam, honey, I was making a joke.”
“You mean Hannah isn’t in the Bible?”
She blinked. “Actually, she is, but not as a book. Hannah was…”
“Show me.”
Since Sam’s arrival, Payt and Hannah had wondered how best to address what Sam’s case worker had called “the nagging faith issue.”
Being passed from home to home had exposed Sam to smatterings of beliefs and nonbeliefs. More often than not, the other members of Payt’s family had tiptoed around the subject altogether, trying to placate the ever-changing moods of Sam’s heartbroken father.
Now Hannah was awed to have Sam climb up beside her, hold open the Bible and say so simply, “Show me.”
A lump rose in her throat. This was it. The awesome responsibility of helping a child find the way. It humbled her—and challenged her. On a gut level she wanted to push him toward the Gospels, to make sure he heard and understood the gift of salvation through God’s only Son. But that was not what he’d asked. He wanted to see the book that told of Hannah and her great love for God and for her own son.
“Where is Hannah in the Bible?” He prodded again. “I can’t find the name in the table of contents.”
“You won’t find it there. Hannah is mentioned in the Book of Samuel.”
“Samuel? That’s like my name, Sam.”
“Yes, it is. Hannah was the mother of Samuel.”
“She was?” His eyes got big. He held the book to her. “Show me.”
“Okay, give me a minute. I have to admit I’m a bit rusty with where to find a lot of things in the Old Testament.”
Sam jiggled his shoes while he waited.
Hannah hurried, conscious of the possibility of more static buildup and another shock. “Here. Here in First Samuel, the very first story is about Hannah and how she thought she couldn’t have children.”
“Is that like you?”
“Well, yes, actually, there were times I thought I’d never be a mom.” Then she looked down at him. “But I had faith, and now I have two wonderful children.”
He didn’t say a word to that, but concern colored his expression.
She read the story of Hannah’s prayer for a child and of Eli the priest hearing Hannah’s grief and telling her to “go in peace.”
“Like you again,” Sam pointed out.
“Uh-huh.” Hannah shifted in the beanbag and read on about Hannah having a son, concluding with 1 Samuel 1:20. “‘…and gave birth to a son. She named him Samuel, saying, “Because I asked the Lord for him.”’”
“That’s not like you.” This time the child spoke so softly she hardly heard him.
But his words imprinted on her heart.
Not so hard to do on a heart already tender from years of holding on to the very same pain—the fear of being unwanted. But Sam was not unwanted. And certainly not unloved.
“I love you, Sam,” she murmured, pulling him into a hug. “It’s true I didn’t ask God to send you to me. But I did ask Him to give me a family—and here you are.”
“Me and Tessa,” he said.
Ooooh, how she knew that tone. The double-edged emotions of sharing a parent’s love. Did she have to tackle the issue of sibling rivalry right now?
Sam provided her answer. He squirmed out of her arms, grumbling something about not getting all girly on him.
The moment had passed.
Sam leapt up and pointed to the Bible. “Did this help you with your procrastination yet?”
“Yes, it helped me procrastinate quite a bit.” She shut the Bible and set it on the cardboard box they were using for an end table. “But in a good way, at least.”
“Do you know what you’re going to write about now?”
“Nope. Maybe I just need something interesting to happen around here to get my creative juices flowing.” She stood up and rubbed her hands together like some mad plotter. “And it had better happen soon, before Tessa wakes up from her morning nap.”
Tessa was a world-class nap taker. Hannah’s sister Sadie told her to think of it as a blessing, but then Sadie didn’t have to plan her day around a baby who was four hours awake for every one hour asleep during the day. Then reverse that in the night. The whole thing had Hannah near the brink of exhaustion. Which wouldn’t be a big deal if she didn’t keep taking on new projects that pushed her over the edge.
Which reminded her—
“I didn’t finish frosting the cake yet. Mrs. Faison will be here in less than—”
Ding-dong.
“A minute?” she finished. She checked her clock. Almost an hour ahead of the time she’d said she’d drop by. Maybe the world’s most perfect mom did have a flaw after all—she showed up too early at places.
Okay, as flaws went, it didn’t rank up there with things like cussing, barroom brawling and wearing white after Labor Day. But it did show a chink in the other woman’s armor and eased Hannah’s apprehensions a tad as she said, “You let Mrs. Faison in, Sam, and I’ll straighten up in here.”
Sam took off for the front door.
Hannah glanced around the room with nothing in it but beanbags, a box and a Bible. Just to make herself feel like she’d done as she’d promised, she fluffed the bags, then stood back and eyed the effect with much satisfaction. “There. All done.”
Sam put his hand on the doorknob and looked back at her.
She held up a finger to ask him to hold off unleashing Supermom into her home for one moment and made a mad dash for the kitchen.
“Now!” She gave the go-ahead even as she wriggled into her chef’s apron, grabbed a cake spatula and pulled from the middle shelf of the fridge the tub of icing she’d mixed up earlier.
She heard the door creak as Sam eased it open.
Hannah took a deep breath and smiled. She’d heard that people could tell if you were smiling when you talked even if they couldn’t see you. So Hannah smiled real big and said, “Come on in. You’re just in time to lick the bowl!”
“That’s just dandy, lady,” a gruff male voice boomed through the wide-open spaces of her home. “Mind if we unload your living room suite first?”
The furniture? The deliverymen weren’t scheduled to arrive until late this afternoon.
She tucked the tub of frosting in the crook of her arm and jabbed the spatula into it even as she rounded the corner from the kitchen to the front room. “You aren’t supposed to deliver that until later.”
“Sorry, lady, but our first two drop-offs weren’t home. If it’s a problem for you, we can put you on the end of the list and get back to you after we do the rest of our load—a
nd the two we missed already. Might be late.”
“No!” She jerked her hand up, forgetting about the spatula in it, and sent a blob of icing flying across the room. Without so much as looking in the direction of the glob of white dripping on the fireplace mantel, she gave a cheery wave of the kitchen tool to show her extreme composure. “I mean, no problem. Bring everything on in.”
“Fine. Where do you want it?”
She looked around them. “I was thinking maybe in this big empty room here.”
“Yeah?” He scrunched up his face as if he’d just taken a bite out of a lemon. “Here?”
“Um, yeah.” She held her arm out to drive home the point. “Here.”
“Okay, it’s your house, lady. Not my place to judge.” He shrugged, made a mark on the crumpled paper on his clipboard and headed out the door, hollering, “Bring it on inside.”
“What was that about?” she asked Sam.
Sam cocked his head and held up his hands.
“Some people. Huh?” She didn’t really know what she meant by that, but the moment seemed to need something more before she could sigh an “Oh, well” and get things rolling again. “Why don’t you take Squirrelly outside so she won’t be underfoot or try to run out the front door? And while you’re out there, bring that tub of spackling compound Payt has in his work shed.”
“The powdery stuff?”
“No. He saved some already-mixed-up compound in a clear plastic container with a blue lid—like we use to store leftovers and things around the kitchen.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ve got to get this cake iced.”
“With spackling stuff?”
“No. That’s just in case the movers ding the walls—that way I can fill in any nicks or gouges before Stilton’s mom gets here.”
His look asked what he’d never voice: What is it with you and Stilton’s mom?
She felt compelled to offer an explanation even though he hadn’t actually said anything. “You only get one chance to make a first impression.”
“Mrs. Faison has been here before.”
“Yes, but that time came off less like an impression and more an indentation.” She grimaced.