“Wal, so’m I. Land! Ain’t none of y’all been around for a long spell. What do you want?”
“Just to visit to see how you’re doing.”
“As you can see, I’m still stumpin’ around!”
Was there a glimmer of humor in her eyes? A slight upward twist of her cracked, sunburnt lips? He wasn’t sure.
“I’m glad to see that. You know, I remember when you used to come to church with Sammy.”
“You ain’t old enough to remember that!”
“Yes, I am! It was right after my mom and I joined the Church,” he shouted. “Do you remember Sister Velma Shepherd?”
Sister Buzbee narrowed her eyes, squinting up at him. “Thelma Shepherd? Nice lady, kinda tall, light hair? When we used to meet atop of the lodge hall?”
He nodded, not bothering to correct her on the name. Close enough.
“That’s your Mama? How’s she doin’?”
He shook his head. “Not too good. She had a stroke. Lives with my sister now, in Anniston.”
“Well, I swanny. Thelma Shepherd. Hatn’t thought about her in years! And who else did I know, back then? Lemme see . . .”
“Hilda Bainbridge, and Roscoe?” he shouted.
She nodded deeply. “Hildy was real sweet to me. She still with us?”
“She is, but Roscoe died last spring. She’s real lonely without him.”
“Tell me about lonesome,” she yelled back, gesturing around her with the muzzle of the shotgun, which the bishop wished she would put down. “I been on my own out here for longer’n I care to recall.”
“Do you have anybody to help you?”
“Oh, the little couple at the next place look in on me, and ever now’n agin Mr. Johnson from the store down the highway brings me some canned goods. He knows what I eat.”
“What happened to Sammy? Where is he, now?”
“Vietnam happened to Sammy. He never recovered from that agent-whatever stuff. Died, back in seventy-five. Never was well, after that war.”
“I’m so sorry. So you’ve lived all alone, all this time?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way. I like my privacy.”
The bishop nodded, but he had a thousand questions. What if she fell ill? What if she fell, period? A broken hip or arm, and she could die where she fell, but not until she had suffered untold misery.
“Do you ever go to the doctor?” he asked.
“What for? I ain’t sick! I’m jest old and too mean’n ignorant to die. How come you’re askin’ all these questions? You ain’t thinkin’ of movin’ me outta here, are you? ’Cause I’m not goin’, and that’s a fact. Iffen I die out here, that’ll be the Lord’s will and mine, too. This here place ain’t much, but it’s my home.”
“I understand. I just wanted to be sure you were safe, and being looked after.”
“I’m safer here than most places I can think of.”
“Is there anything we can do for you?”
“Why should you? I ain’t been to church fer years.”
“Doesn’t matter you’re still a member, and you’re one of the Lord’s children!”
“You say you’re bishop, now?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am. Plus, I’m your home teacher. I’m planning to come see you at least once a month, if you’ll let me.”
“I drink coffee.”
“Okay. Can I still come see you?”
“Others have said they’d come, but I’m too far out. Nobody has time.”
The bishop privately agreed that she was pretty far out, all right, in more ways than one, but in a peculiar way, he was charmed by her. “I promise I’ll come,” he told her. “My mama raised me to keep my word.”
“I won’t come to church,” she warned him. “I don’t go anywheres.”
He nodded. “All right. I’ll try to bring a little church to you, if that’s okay.”
She squinted at him. “How do you mean?”
“Just a little message from the prophet, or the scriptures. Maybe the sacrament, if you’d care to take it.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “You can do that? The sacrament?”
“Yes, ma’am, we sure can.”
“I reckon I’d like that. But not just yet. I got to get myself prepared.”
“All right. Is there anything else I can bring you, next time I come? Something good to eat, maybe? My wife’s a good cook, and I own a grocery store.”
She frowned. “Reckon I don’t think of anything. I eat pretty simple. When will you come again?”
“Um how about three weeks from today? That’ll be um November first. Will that be okay?”
“Days’re all the same to me it don’t make no never mind.”
“Thank you, Sister Buzbee and it’s real good to see you again.”
Her laugh was a dry cackle. “Now, I know your mama didn’t teach you to lie!”
“No lie,” he insisted. “It’s been a pleasure. Next time, you won’t need your shotgun. Just watch for my truck.”
“Oh, this ain’t loaded. I ain’t had no shells for years, now. I jes’ carry it around like a lapdog, to keep me comp’ny.”
“Ah, I see. All right, now, Sister Buzbee. You have yourself a good evening.”
“Bishop? Could you leave me a prayer?”
He was embarrassed he hadn’t offered. He stood close to her, bowed his head, and offered a prayer in as loud a voice as he dared, praying for her well-being and calling down the protection of the Lord and an assurance of His love for this dear, widowed sister. Her amen was resounding. He shook her callused hand and turned to leave.
“Bishop?” she called after him. “Can your wife make sweet potato pie?”
He turned back, with a smile. “I’m sure she can. Would you like one?”
“Been thinkin’ on one for a long while, but I don’t have an oven that works.”
“I’m sure she’d be glad to make one for you. I’ll ask her.”
“Onliest thang is tell her she cain’t put too much nutmeg in it.”
“Nutmeg,” he repeated. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”
“I thank you, Bishop. It’s good of you to come.”
Chapter Three
* * *
“amid the conflict, whether great or small”
His wife gazed at him in consternation. “Sweet potato pie?” she questioned. “I’ve never even tasted a sweet potato pie, let alone made one!”
The bishop considered. “Mama used to make one every now and then. I expect Paula or Ann Marie’d have her recipe.”
“Most likely Paula. You think Ann Marie has a recipe for anything that isn’t printed on the side of a frozen-food carton?”
He chuckled. His younger sister, Ann Marie, was the least domestic woman he knew. Paula, his elder sister, was an excellent homemaker and cook who at least occasionally made delicious things from scratch, but Ann Marie considered her freezer and her microwave her best friends in the kitchen, if not in the world. Her husband tended to treat himself to large lunches at good restaurants.
“If Paula doesn’t have the recipe, I’ll ask Ida Lou.”
“Good idea. Anyway, it isn’t needed for a few weeks, so don’t stress, babe.”
“I’m not stressing. I just like to plan ahead.”
He nodded. He knew she did that, all right. Practically all of their Christmas was already bought and most of it wrapped and hidden. He was sure she had her menus prepared for Christmas and New Year’s, and probably a guest list of people to invite. Three weeks, he realized, was not a very long time in the day-planner of Trish Shepherd. She loved to plan, loved to anticipate, and wasn’t too fond of unexpected guests for dinner or spontaneous changes of plan. She liked things to proceed according to her notion of propriety, and her favorite surprises were those she instigated herself.
* * *
Friday evening, the bishop and his son, Jamie, hopped into the truck and drove across town to pick up Buddy Osborne, whom the bishop had persuaded to go with them
to the Fairhaven High School football game. He wanted to see Thomas Rexford, affectionately and appropriately known as T-Rex to most of his acquaintances and fans, play against Redstone High, their arch-rivals. T-Rex was a linebacker with a promising future in football if he could stay healthy and out of trouble with girls and grades. His bishop wasn’t sure which were the most troublesome.
Buddy’s mother came to the door of her mobile home, wiping her hands on a towel and frowning out into the fading evening light.
“Hi, Sister Osborne,” the bishop said. “How are you, tonight?”
“Oh, okay, it’s y’all,” she said by way of greeting, and turned to call her son. “Buddy! Your ride is here.”
Not “your friends are here,” or “the bishop’s here,” the bishop noted. Just “your ride.” She turned and headed back toward her kitchen, leaving him standing on the small porch. Country music played from a radio across the small living area, which was decorated cluttered, he suspected Trish would say with what appeared to be souvenir-type trinkets: ashtrays, figurines of Disney characters, and small Elizabethan lords and ladies. Of more interest to him were several miniature Nascar models on a table near the door. He supposed they were Buddy’s. He would have to ask.
At the stadium, as it was grandly called it was really just a playing field and a couple of stands of wooden bleachers he experienced a sort of déjà vu moment, or a memory, he wasn’t sure which. He was seventeen again, and thrilling to the bright lights and the band and the enticing smells of hot dogs and popcorn in the cool night air. He was feeling free and unusually sociable, strolling into the area with Big Mac and a couple of other guys, calling greetings to people he knew, and all the time looking for Trish, hoping to maneuver his group into sitting where he could see her, without letting her or the guys know what he was up to. He had managed it, sitting two rows behind and a little to the north of her group of giggling, bright-eyed friends. He didn’t remember the game who the opposing team had been or how it had turned out but he remembered the sheen of Trish’s dark hair in the lights, and the sound of her laughter and cheers.
On this evening, it wasn’t Trish he looked for; it was their elder daughter, Tiffani, who had given him strict instructions not to attempt to sit with or talk to her and her group of friends.
“And don’t spy on me,” she had concluded, fixing him and Jamie alternately with a determined glare.
Her father pretended a wounded innocence. “Would we do that?” he asked.
“Dad, you know what that makes me want to do?” asked Jamie conspiratorially.
“Spy on her?”
“Yep. And throw paper airplanes at her, and try to toss popcorn into her mouth when she yells.”
“Uh-huh, that does sound like fun.”
Tiffani looked exasperated. “Dad, I’m serious. I’m old enough to go to a football game with my friends, without my dad and my brother and Buddy Osborne, of all people, hanging over our shoulders and watching every move we make.”
“What moves are you gonna make?” asked Jamie slyly.
“Dad!”
“Okay, okay, princess. We promise to be good. Don’t we, James?”
“I don’t know. Reckon I’ll try. But a football game won’t be near as much fun if we can’t spy. I mean, what else will there be to watch, besides my sister and her dumb friends?” Jamie grinned at Tiffani, who gave him a wide-eyed, warning look reminiscent of those her mother was capable of giving.
The bishop spotted the girls in the stand almost immediately, pretended not to, and herded the boys out of teasing distance but not so far that he couldn’t keep an unobtrusive, fatherly, spying eye on Tiffani. She sat with Lisa Lou Pope and Claire Patrenko, two girls from the ward. He hoped that Tiff and Claire would be a somewhat calming influence on Lisa Lou, who was so boy-crazy and flirtatious that, as her bishop, he worried about her probably far more than the situation warranted. He watched the play of light on Claire’s dark hair, remembering Trish at sixteen. Tiffani’s hair also reflected the light, but with a glow of antique gold, much like the color his own had been at that age.
The game proved to be a pretty interesting one. Having been soundly trounced by Fairhaven in their last match, Redstone was hungry for a victory, and the score bounced back and forth with regularity, making him wonder about the effectiveness of either team’s defense.
At halftime, watching the bands and flag twirlers go through their intricate maneuvers on the field, he enjoyed a chili-onion-and-slaw dog he knew he would live to regret in a couple of hours. Returning to their seats for the second half, they passed behind Tiff and her friends, and he couldn’t resist saying in a loud whisper, “Pretend you don’t see them!”
“Oh, hi, Bishop!” said Lisa Lou, twinkling up at him, and Claire turned to smile and wave. Tiffani’s head stayed firmly face forward, and the bishop grabbed Jamie just as he craned his head over her shoulder to peer at her in a typical brotherly, bug-eyed fashion. “Come on, guys, we’re an embarrassment,” he said, chuckling. That set Tiffani’s head nodding emphatically.
Buddy Osborne smiled a little, watching the interplay. He was a solemn kid, and, the bishop had long suspected, clinically depressed. It was hard to elicit any enthusiasm out of Buddy, although the boy was gifted artistically and quick with mechanical things. His family situation was not the best, the bishop knew. Buddy spent summers and holidays with his dad, which meant mostly alone, as his dad worked long hours and spent others playing pool and drinking beer with his friends. At his mother’s, Buddy was without the computer that kept him company at his dad’s place, and he had the added problem of not being especially liked by his mother’s new boyfriend. The bishop suspected that Buddy just tried to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible, wherever he was. He wasn’t the type to want to bother anyone.
He was several years older than Jamie, but Jamie’s natural friendliness and pleasure at being included with his dad and an older boy seemed to bridge the gap. Jamie chattered to Buddy, apparently not troubled that Buddy seldom replied. It was enough that he listened and paid attention.
The bishop watched the two boys when Fairhaven scored a touchdown in the second half.
“Ya-hoo!” yelled Jamie, jumping up and waving a pom-pom someone had dropped. “Way to go, Mariners!”
Buddy just nodded and smiled, watching Jamie and other enthusiasts. “Cool,” the boy said softly.
Toward the end of the fourth quarter, the Redstone Rockets were moving the ball steadily down the field. “Defense! Defense!” roared the Fairhaven crowd, in unison. Most, including the bishop, were on their feet. He didn’t like the situation. Redstone was making it look too easy, and in this game, it appeared to be a matter of which team happened to be ahead when time ran out. There were seven seconds left. The score was forty-one to thirty-five in Fairhaven’s favor. Six and it would go into overtime; seven and Redstone would win.
“Okay, defense, time to come alive,” he yelled. “Hold ’em back! Go, Mariners!”
Thomas Rexford was in at middle linebacker. On third and goal, the Redstone quarterback faked a handoff to his fullback but kept the ball, sprinting to his right, looking for a hole in the blue and white of the Fairhaven defenders. Seeing a gap, he cut sharply toward the goal, and it looked for a moment as though he had a clear path to the end zone. But suddenly, there was number forty-seven, the fabled T-Rex, who met him head-on in a bone-jarring tackle that knocked the ball loose. With two seconds on the clock, three Mariners fell on the fumble, ending Redstone’s chances for a score.
The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles, and the bishop wondered for a moment if the bleachers would hold under the stampede of pounding feet. Jamie was dancing up and down, grabbing Buddy’s arm and hauling him up to celebrate, whether he felt so inclined or not. He apparently did. For the first time, Buddy yelled, too. “Yay, T-Rex! Way to go!” The bishop’s enthusiasm doubled, and he squeezed Buddy’s shoulder and rubbed Jamie’s buzzed hair.
“T-Rex! T-Rex!” t
he crowd chanted, and Thomas Rexford pulled off his helmet and raised both arms in a salute to the crowd. Just as things began to quiet down, one of the Fairhaven cheerleaders, in an excess of enthusiasm, raised her arms in an answering salute, shook her lithe body in a sort of shimmy and yelled, “Hey, T-Rex! I wanna have your bay-bee!”
T-Rex looked startled, but he grinned and blew her a kiss. His coach whirled and pointed a finger at the girl, motioning her to sit down. Then he did the same to T-Rex, who subsided to the bench amid a wave of laughter and a few catcalls. The Fairhaven quarterback took the snap and went down on one knee, and the Mariners chalked up another victory against the Redstone Rockets.
For the bishop, much of the joy had gone out of the moment. He was embarrassed for T-Rex, embarrassed for Jamie and Buddy and Tiff and her friends, and disgusted with the cheerleader, whoever she was, for her unseemly display of immodesty. Apparently the cheer coach was unhappy with her, too, as she gripped the girl’s arm and whispered angrily to her on their way to the girls’ locker room. The girl’s expression was mutinous.
“How come she said that?” Jamie was questioning. “That was dumb. She shouldn’t talk like that to T-Rex.”
The bishop shook his head. “You’re absolutely right, Jamie. She shouldn’t have said that, at all.”
* * *
He repeated that thought later, at home, in Tiffani’s presence, and she frowned.
“Dad, she was just kidding,” she said in the patient voice teenagers often use to explain the obvious to slow adults.
“I actually assumed that, Tiff,” her father said, in the patient voice adults often use to let their teenagers know they’re not entirely out of the loop. “I just object to the impropriety the immodesty of her remark. And it looked to me like the cheer coach and Coach Snyder agreed with me.”
Tiffani shrugged. “Angie’s got a big mouth. She didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Angie who? What’s her last name?”
“Why, Dad? Are you going to complain about her, or write a letter to the editor or something? I mean, it’s not like she’s LDS, or anything. You don’t need to worry about her.”
Mercies and Miracles Page 3