Though None Go with Me

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Lisa pulled from the bag a box containing patent leather shoes. They were still sensible, thick, and heavy on support, but they were definitely party shoes. Elisabeth smiled.

  Then came the matching purse. “Lisa! I expected a dress, not all this!”

  “Patience, Grandma.” She produced a red wool, shirtwaist dress with a white Peter Pan collar and buttons down the front. Elisabeth tried to exult, to tell her it was the handsomest outfit she had ever seen, but Lisa was already on to accessorizing. “This will take a large brooch,” she said. “How about the white cameo? You’re going to look so festive, so wintry. I wish you’d had this for Christmas.”

  They rummaged through Elisabeth’s bureau for the right necklace, earrings, and bracelet. “Too many pieces?” Elisabeth asked. “I’ve never worn much.”

  “You’ve never been sixty-five either.”

  Elisabeth chuckled and covered her mouth.

  “What?”

  She shook her head, her shoulders heaving.

  “Come on, Grandma. Out with it.”

  “I’m going to be way overdressed for Frances!” And she convulsed with laughter. Lisa dropped onto the bed, howling.

  “You’re awful!”

  “Aren’t I just the worst?” Elisabeth said. “Now if I could find a feather boa I could look like Dellarae Shockadance Phillips, Lord rest her soul.”

  Lisa sat up and leaned against Elisabeth and they supported each other on the soft mattress. “I haven’t heard that name in a while,” Lisa said.

  “You know the story.”

  “Of course. How long has she been gone now?”

  Elisabeth shrugged. “I used to get their Christmas card, always signed by her.” She sighed. “‘With Christmas love, Dellarae and Ben.’ Never heard from them otherwise. Then two Christmases ago the card just read, ‘Merry Christmas, ’63. Benjamin.’”

  “Not that you memorized it.”

  Elisabeth felt the urge to stand and look out the window, as she often did when lost in memories. But her left knee was stiff and her right ankle throbbed. She shook her head. “I hurt for him. I really did. I didn’t know he’d lost her. A carbon copied note said something about it being his first Christmas without her and how, ‘as many of you know,’ she had passed that spring. Well, I wasn’t one of the many who knew.”

  Elisabeth felt Lisa’s embrace. “An oversight,” she said. “He was grieving.”

  “I let him know when Betty passed.”

  “That was a long time ago, Grandma.”

  “He sent a nice note.”

  “I remember.”

  “I might have been able to help him.”

  “I know,” Lisa said. “People in pain are your specialty.”

  “I should have written or called, but what could I say after so many months? He didn’t bother to let me know, so—”

  “So you didn’t even send him a card that year.”

  “Or last year. Or this. I think he finally got the message.”

  “No card from him this year?”

  Elisabeth shook her head.

  “It’s never too late to send one.”

  Elisabeth was desperate to change the subject. “Stay with me.”

  “Can’t. Gotta go.”

  “I won’t be able to button this dress.”

  “Sure you will. I’ll button all but the top two, and Frances can help with those, if necessary.”

  “Come with us. Frances won’t mind—”

  “Grandma, stop! I’d love to, but I, uh, have a lunch date already.”

  “A date?”

  “If you must know.”

  “With whom?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Of course it is! Now who?”

  “Well, it’s not just one.”

  “Lisa!”

  “And they’re not all men.”

  “Well, then tell me.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it later.” Lisa stood.

  “You’ll come by then, promise?”

  “Promise. Now let’s get you downstairs and get your outfit ready so all you have to do is slip into it.”

  The house felt colder with Lisa gone. Most weekdays when she didn’t check in, Elisabeth usually stayed in her robe. It was all she could do to get from the kitchen to the bathroom and to her chair. Lisa had bought her a used black and white, but reception was so poor that she hardly ever watched except for fifteen minutes of Walter Cronkite late in the afternoon and the occasional This Is Your Life with Ralph Edwards.

  Lisa had set the newspaper on the table next to Elisabeth’s chair and unfolded it for her. It still felt cold as she tried to smooth it with swollen-knuckled fingers. She passed up the entire front page and the editorial page blather about LBJ’s Great Society and what the first family was doing over the holidays. She skipped any article with Vietnam in the headline and pored over the engagement announcements and the obituaries. Then it was straight to the comics. Blondie, Out Our Way, and The Berrys amused her, but then her lack of sleep came calling and she began to nod.

  The paper slipped to cover her legs from just above the knees. It felt so toasty she didn’t try to retrieve it. She tucked her hands into the large pockets of her robe and let her chin fall to her chest. Her neck would ache when she roused, she knew, but for now it felt so good, so cozy, so …

  Elisabeth dreamt of a woman, a large, loud, red-dress wearing amalgam of Dellarae and Frances. Frances had expanded in her maturity and her voice had become fluttery but no less voluble. The woman in Elisabeth’s dream looked and dressed like Dellarae but moved and sounded like Frances.

  Elisabeth and the woman were playing in the schoolyard, kneeling to tend to their jump ropes. Though they were their present ages, Elisabeth moved like a little girl and Frances had a huge head of ringlets. “I could vomit!” she said.

  “Regurgitate,” Elisabeth corrected, and her large, old playmate pointed at her, threw back her head, and laughed so heartily that Elisabeth had to laugh along.

  She woke herself laughing, or was it the blast of frigid air from the front door, the squeaking of the hinge, the stomping, that voice?

  “Elisabeth, I expected you’d be ready!” Frances bellowed, shutting the door and moving heavy-footed into the front room. “You’re not even dressed!”

  “I’m sorry, Frances,” she said weakly. “I don’t feel much like going.”

  “Nonsense! Here are your things. Now on your feet, up you go. That’s my girl. So many people waiting.”

  “Where?”

  “Well, down at the cafeteria, like I said. Only place open today. Turkey dinner for two-ninety-five. My treat.”

  “How do you know people are waiting?” Elisabeth said, as Frances helped her out of her robe and into the dress. The cold emanated from her friend’s coat.

  “Because I called them, that’s all.”

  “You didn’t tell them this was a birthday lunch, did you?”

  “Well—”

  “Please, no.”

  “They’re not going to any fuss—”

  “Oh, Frances!”

  “I had to make sure we could get in. They assured me we could, and they’re holding a table, that’s all.”

  “But I don’t want people making a big show—”

  “I told them that, all right? Now come on. They’re holding a table. The least we can do is not make them hold it too long. Elisabeth, this dress is stunning! And the rest of the ensemble! My! Lisa had to have put this together.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Not that you don’t have taste and style, Elisabeth. Of course you do. But you so seldom buy for yourself. Lisa did this, didn’t she?”

  “Of course.”

  “What a sweet girl.”

  Elisabeth’s boots and winter coat didn’t do justice to her look, but she could not venture out without them. She covered her glasses with an oversized sunshade and held Frances’s arm as they carefully managed the steps.

 
“What’s that thermometer say?” Elisabeth said.

  “I don’t want to know and neither do you,” Frances said, and Elisabeth could see only the huge vapor cloud her friend emitted. But she heard something from next door.

  “What’re they doing?” she said. “Going somewhere?”

  “Looks like it,” Frances said, holding open the car door. “In you go now.”

  Elisabeth felt the ice in her lungs with each breath. “Where would they be going?”

  Frances bent to help lift her feet and swing them into the car. “Honestly, Elisabeth, you are the curiousest woman I’ve ever known!”

  “Curiousest?” Elisabeth said, laughing as Frances shut the door and hurried to the driver’s side.

  As she slid behind the wheel, Frances said, “You know what I meant. How would I know where your neighbors are going?”

  “Well, what are they wearing? Going sledding?”

  “A sled would freeze to the hill today. They’re bundled up but sort of dressed up. Satisfied?”

  “Could you just ask them—”

  “I am not about to stick my nose into your neighbors’ business. I don’t care where they’re going and neither should you!”

  “All right, all right, Frances. When did you stop that?”

  “Stop what?” Frances said as she backed into the street.

  “Caring about the neighbors’ business.”

  Frances grinned. “Don’t start with me, Elisabeth. You know it’s only my own neighbors’ business I care about.”

  The day was bright and clear, the roads packed with squeaky snow. Frances drove very slowly, and as Elisabeth’s eyes gradually adjusted to the glare, she peered out to see why. Cars were parked on both sides of the street.

  “Can’t anyone get into their driveways?” Elisabeth said. “You’d think boys would want all this shoveling money. Wouldn’t you? Hm? Well, what do you make of it, Frances?”

  “Make of what?”

  “All these cars!”

  “Honestly, Elisabeth, I don’t know! How could I know? I don’t care! I’m just trying to get you to lunch in one piece.”

  “Then why’d you turn here?”

  “What?”

  “You turned the wrong way. The new cafeteria is straight down the hill next to the drugstore.”

  “I know where it is! I made the arrangements.”

  “You’re going to the church?”

  “I need to pick up something.”

  “I thought we were making the people at the cafeteria wait.”

  Frances pulled in to the church lot, which was full except for one cleanly shoveled place right by the back door. “Will you shush while I run my errand?”

  “You’re the second person who’s shushed me this morning. What in the world is going on here today?”

  “Sit tight a minute and try not to think of any more questions!”

  Frances left the car running and waddled to the back door. The sun glared off the windshield, so Elisabeth covered her eyes with her hand and felt as if she could nap again. She racked her brain for what might be going on at Christ Church. She remembered nothing in the bulletin Sunday, but that had been five days before.

  She started at a light tap on her window and squinted through the frost at Walt Burke and Ike Slater, two of the elders. They were in shirts and ties, but no coats.

  “You’ll catch your death,” she said, as Walt opened her door. “I’m just waiting for Frances Childs.”

  “Yeah, she asked if you’d come in a minute.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind waiting.”

  “It’s a lot warmer in there,” Ike said, reaching to help her out.

  “Well, all right then,” she said, wishing she could muster the courage to refuse. If they’d let her be, she’d have been as comfortable as a woman could be on a day like that.

  The big men all but lifted her across the sidewalk and inside. Ike Slater’s wife beamed at her. “Let me take your coat and boots,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m not staying, Gladys,” she said.

  “Just for a minute,” Gladys said, kneeling to unfasten her boots. Elisabeth was half a heartbeat from snapping that she would just as soon be left alone, but the men steadied her as her boots came off. “Such lovely shoes!” Gladys exulted. Elisabeth sighed.

  Then it was off with her coat and Ike and Walt helping her down the stairs with her feet barely touching the steps. Gladys followed, clucking about her dress. “Where is Frances anyway?” Elisabeth said, as she emerged into the fellowship hall.

  The men let go of her and Gladys stepped past her with a self-satisfied grin. Elisabeth’s eyes worked overtime to take it all in, but from what she could make out, hundreds of smiling people had packed the place and stood staring at her.

  “Well, hello,” she said, and they broke into applause and a raucous chorus of Happy Birthday.

  How could she have been so dense? She had been had! Frances, yes, and even Lisa had pulled it off. This was all for her. She wobbled at the weight of it, and Ike and Walt steadied her, then led her to the seat of honor. Oh, no, anything but this!

  Her padded chair was on an elevated platform decorated with white streamers and balloons under a latticework arch. Spotlights illuminated her as her lips quivered—as much from embarrassment as emotion—and she felt conspicuous and rude sitting there while everyone stood applauding and singing.

  She caught Walt Burke’s eye and beckoned him. He leaned toward her and she grabbed his tie to pull his ear to her mouth. The crowd laughed as it sang, obviously assuming she was scolding him for this surprise.

  “Is my Lisa here?”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “Get a chair for her and get her up here next to me.”

  “But this is your place of hon—”

  The song wound down and people cheered.

  “How well do you know me, Walter?”

  “Known you all my life, ma’am.”

  “Then you know I mean it. Get her up here with me or I’m walking out on my own party.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Are you all right, Grandma?” Lisa asked as she mounted the makeshift platform. “Do you need a pill?”

  “I need a paddle for you,” Elisabeth scolded. “And I’m not going to sit up here eating alone in front of all these people.”

  “They’re not even looking at you,” Lisa said. “Look.”

  “I don’t dare.”

  “Come on, I mean it. Look out there.”

  Elisabeth didn’t trust her aging eyes, but she tried to peer past the spotlights. Lisa was right. People paid her no attention.

  “Feel better?”

  “A little. What’s for lunch?”

  Pastor David Clarkson, no youngster himself anymore, prayed for the food and for the “occasion and the woman responsible for our celebrating,” then sent the hungry toward tables heaping with hot dishes, salads, and desserts. It was potluck and Lisa went to the front of the line to fetch plates for herself and the guest of honor.

  “You know just what I like,” Elisabeth said when Lisa returned. “But you forget my appetite has shrunk.”

  “I’m just here to serve,” Lisa said. “I like what you like, so I’ll clean both our plates.”

  “Not unless you want to look like me before your time.”

  “I’d love to look like you at your age.”

  “I’d love to feel like you look,” Elisabeth said. She only picked at a meatball and a chicken casserole, but two large cups of iced tea didn’t slake her thirst. “I wish they’d turn off these spotlights.”

  “And leave you in the dark? Not likely.”

  “I suppose there’s some program. I’ve been to these before.”

  “You’ve never been to one like this, Grandma. Wait till you see who’s here.”

  “People outside the church, you mean?”

  “Almost half from outside, I’d say. Didn’t you see all the traffic, the cars parked up and down the streets?”
/>   “Yes, but—”

  “All because of your bash.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “You’ll see. Look in the back.”

  “I can’t see that far.”

  “I’m not asking you to look at faces. Look at the tables, the chairs, the crowd.”

  Elisabeth looked. The place was jammed. “Has the fire marshal seen this?”

  “Oh, Grandma!”

  “I’d better not be expected to say anything.”

  “What do you think?”

  “They can stick a microphone in my face, but I don’t have to say anything.”

  “Unless you want to.”

  “Unless I want to.”

  “You’ll want to.”

  “Don’t bet the farm.”

  “You pass up an opportunity to testify? I’d bet my life.” Elisabeth caught the hint of sarcasm, and it pierced her.

  Elisabeth worried she would need a bathroom break before this shindig was over, and she wasn’t about to make that obvious.

  “This is thoughtful, Lisa,” she said, “but you know all I care about is the people. Can’t I just say hello to them one at a time?”

  “Of course. That comes later. People want to greet you corporately first.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “You don’t have to like it. It’s as much for them as it is for you. Many of them came great distances.”

  “There aren’t going to be gifts, are there? You know an old lady gets to where she couldn’t use one more blessed thing. Except a party outfit, of course.”

  “The invitations said ‘no gifts,’” Lisa said.

  “You sent individual invitations?”

  “All over the world.”

  “Wherever did you get the names and addresses?”

  Lisa smiled at her as someone came to clear their places. “This was a huge effort,” she said. “A committee, leads, lists, you name it.”

  “I’m touched.”

  Lisa squeezed her grandmother’s shoulder. “I should hope you would be. It seemed like everyone we located knew of someone else who wanted to be here.”

  Still, Elisabeth was puzzled at who would be there and from where.

  The program began with music. An ensemble from the choir sang. Two soloists followed, then a primary girls Sunday school class. It had been many years since Elisabeth had taught that age, but Pastor Clarkson explained that the singers mirrored “her most representative classes.”