Mercies and Miracles

by Sharon Downing Jarvis

  “Did you think Tiff was impressed with Petey?”

  “Of course. He’s a hunk! I hope she wasn’t too impressed, though.”

  “Me, too. I’m just not ready for her to begin the Lisa Lou routine.”

  “She never will. She’s not that type.”

  “Keep telling me that.”

  “I do, all the time. Try to keep it in mind.”

  “So, did you get the impression that Ruthanne wasn’t too excited to be here?”

  “Again, she would never say so to me, a local. Mac probably hears plenty about it, though.”

  He looked at her. “Are you saying her beautiful manners stop short of applying to her hubby?”

  “Who knows? He’d tell you about that, if he told anybody. I think it’s neat that your friendship has continued all these years. He’s a genuinely nice guy, isn’t he?”

  “He’s a very good guy. Very sincere about his work in the ministry. Loves the Lord, loves his family. I’d sure like to see him accept the fullness of the gospel, and take that family to the temple but I just try to trust the Lord to lead him. He does a lot of good; maybe he’s needed where he is, for now.”

  “Well, we’ll try to be good examples. And hope that any other members they meet will do the same.”

  * * *

  Late Wednesday afternoon, a few brethren from the elders quorum went with Bishop Shepherd and Robert Patrenko out to the fortified farm of Ralph and Linda Jernigan to harvest the last of his pumpkins. Brothers Smedley and Patrenko and, of course, the bishop had been there before, and so were accustomed to the rituals with the dogs, but the other two brethren were openmouthed to witness that everything they had heard about the Jernigan homestead was true. Ralph joined them as they tramped out to his field with wheelbarrows, sporadically scanning the skies as if watching for enemy aircraft.

  “Glad you can use these pun’kins,” he said, straightening up from cutting a large one from its vine. “Didn’t have the heart to harvest ’em this year, you know. Didn’t feel it was safe to be out here, either, of course. Still not sure but I guess the Lord’ll bless you you’re on His errand.”

  “So, Ralph, are you gonna come and see what folks create with these, tomorrow night?” asked Brother Smedley.

  “No, no. Halloween’s not a good time to be out and about. We don’t observe it. Hope all goes well, though. Suppose it’s a safer thing to do for the kids, than having them wandering house to house. Never did feel good about that.”

  The bishop remembered with great fondness his and Big Mac’s forays into the neighborhoods of their childhood, their collection sacks old pillowcases, their costumes thrown together at the last moment overalls stuffed with newspaper, an old straw hat, or a worn-out sheet with holes for eyes and mouth. There had been no worry about crime, only an admonition from their parents to watch for cars and frightened dogs, and to be responsible around smaller kids. It was sad to think that those times had vanished. Sad that children, and their parents, had to be wary of so many awful possibilities in the world, even here in Fairhaven. Of course, some things had changed for the better. There was more comfort, amazingly advanced technology, and the Church was growing by leaps and bounds, and temples being built so many places that he couldn’t even begin to name them all. Wonderful things but still, the loss of innocence was a high price to pay.

  * * *

  The Halloween dinner and Trunk or Treat party was a great success, as all of LaThea’s productions had been. The best costume prize went to Lehi and Limhi Birdwhistle, who came as Tweedledum and Tweedledee from Alice in Wonderland. Privately, the bishop felt the family should have won a prize just for making the effort to show up, all more or less in costume. Second prize was awarded to Brother Tuapetagi, who walked around barefoot in a lavalava and a lei, with a headdress of some kind of exotic leaves. There were the usual witches and princesses, clowns and superheroes. Even T-Rex put in an appearance, not dressed as a dinosaur, but, predictably, clad in his football gear, with smears of black goop under his eyes and several colorful bruises painted here and there. Some of them may have been genuine; the bishop wasn’t sure.

  Trish had seen to their costumes, of course, saying that it was incumbent upon the bishop to join in the fun. She had turned under the sleeves and pant legs of an old black suit of his, so that it appeared several sizes too short for him. He wore a loud, crooked tie, a round straw hat, white socks, and his ugliest old hiking boots. Jamie was a young hayseed with overalls and a checked shirt, and Trish and the girls wore gingham aprons and huge matching bows in their hair.

  The pumpkin-carving contest had begun before the rest of the party, to give the artists time to complete their masterpieces and not miss out on the other activities. Some were funny, some beautiful or scary, but the bishop’s personal favorite was a tall, narrow pumpkin that wore a turban squash on its head and looked remarkably like a certain near-Eastern terrorist whose picture was constantly in the news.

  After the dinner and the judging, the group moved to the parking lot, where car trunks and the backs of pickups had been decorated and lit according to the owners’ whims, and the children went from one to the other collecting goodies. The bishop had only one pang of sorrow at the party, and that was when he thought how much little Andrea Padgett would have enjoyed being there. He hoped she was doing something enjoyable with her foster family, whoever they were. His heart was saddened, thinking of Melody opening her door and handing out candy to other people’s children. He wondered if she even bothered.

  * * *

  The bishop took Friday afternoon off from work, picked up Trish and her glossy brown sweet potato pie, and the two of them collected Ida Lou Reams before heading off to Hazel Buzbee’s place. He hoped Hazel remembered that this was the appointed day for their visit but then, if she didn’t, what difference would it make? Where would she go? It didn’t appear that she ever went much of anywhere.

  He had been sure that he could find the place again, and it only took correcting two wrong turns on red clay roads that all looked identical for him to get his bearings and arrive at the little greenish cottage.

  “My land o’livin’,” said Ida Lou. “She lives way out here, all by her lonesome?”

  “She does that, and seems to like it that way,” the bishop replied, getting out of the car to open doors for the ladies. He scanned the house and yard, interested to see that the garden had been tidied up and the ground plowed, ready for next spring’s planting.

  “Hello!” he called, then remembered Sister Buzbee’s hearing problem and reached back inside the car to sound the horn a couple of times. It was a country tradition to announce your presence as soon as you could and not “sneak up” to the front porch and surprise people. He supposed the custom gave folks time to pull on a shirt or hide the jug of white lightnin’ from their visitors.

  Hazel heard the horn. She emerged from the house, peered carefully to see who was there, then came down the rickety steps to greet them, followed by her faithful hound.

  “Well, I swanny! I didn’t rightly think you’d remember, Bishop, but here you be.”

  “Here I be indeed, Sister Buzbee, and this is my wife, Trish, and Sister Ida Lou Reams, our Relief Society president. She wanted to come along, too. Couldn’t let us have all the fun. How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, I’m mean as ever. Is that my sweet potato pie I see there?”

  Trish held out the pie. “I hope it’s the way you like it, Sister Buzbee,” she said.

  “You have to yell, she’s pretty deaf,” the bishop told her, and Trish repeated herself a couple of decibel levels higher.

  “Reckon I’ll like it fine, if your husband remembered about the nutmeg,” Hazel yelled back.

  “Oh, he told me,” Trish assured her.

  “All right, then, y’all come on in. Iffen you don’t mind, I’m gonna cut me a piece of this right now. Anybody else want some?”

  They all politely declined, and found straight chairs to sit in while Hazel took h
er treasure to her kitchen table to serve herself a generous slice. The front room had the three chairs they used, and one cushioned rocker that was obviously Hazel’s accustomed seat. It also held a bed against one wall. The bishop recognized the high, lumpy look of it as a feather bed. His grandmother had owned one just like it. The small house smelled of kerosene and pork fat and old wood, but was scrupulously clean and neat. A small shelf on one wall held a clock in a wooden casing that had darkened almost to black over the years and a few books. He recognized a Bible and a Book of Mormon, and wondered if Hazel could see to read either of them, anymore. Two closed doors were located to the left of the bed, and he assumed they probably led to another bedroom and, since he hadn’t seen an outdoor privy on the property, a bathroom.

  Hazel came in and sat down with her pie and a cup of coffee, which she placed on a small table beside her chair.

  “I done told you I drink coffee,” she reminded the bishop.

  “Yes, ma’am, you did,” he agreed. She nodded, and put a forkful of pie into her mouth.

  She frowned, chewed slowly, and swallowed.

  “Now, I told you about the nutmeg,” she said. “About how you cain’t put too much nutmeg in the pie, for me?”

  Trish leaned forward. “I only put a little bit,” she said loudly. “Not more than half a teaspoon, honest!”

  “Wal, no wonder I cain’t taste it! Pah! I’m sorry fer yer trouble, honey, but no half-teaspoon of nutmeg’s gonna give a whole pie the flavor I like! I’m real sorry, but I cain’t eat this. Y’all just take it on back home with you maybe somebody else’ll want it.” She took a sip of hot coffee.

  The bishop looked at his wife, whose cheeks had grown very pink. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He had no idea what to say, certain that whatever he came up with would be wrong. Ida Lou came to the rescue.

  “You know, Sister Buzbee, I reckon we’ve got ourselves a little messed-up communication, here,” she said. “Now, you told Bishop that we couldn’t put too much nutmeg in your pie, is that right?”

  “That’s what I told him, plain as day,” Hazel agreed.

  “And what you meant was that it just watn’t possible to put too much in for your taste, because you like it so much, is that right?”

  “Wal, yes, of course.” Hazel frowned, her chin jutted out defensively.

  “Well, see, I think the bishop took it to mean we shouldn’t put in too much, because you didn’t like it that well and that’s what he told Trish, here.”

  “I never said no such of a thang!”

  “I’ll tell you what. We’re agonna make you another sweet potato pie, and it’ll be plumb chuck-full of nutmeg. How’s that?”

  “Oh, I cain’t ask y’all to do that. Jes fergit it. I’ll git along ’thouten it.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” Ida Lou told her. “It’ll be here, you can count on it.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Trish finally said. “It was just a misunderstanding. I really meant to make it the way you wanted.”

  “That’s all right, honey, it weren’t yer fault.”

  “It was my fault,” the bishop owned. “I just didn’t get the message right. We’re sorry, Sister Buzbee.”

  “Wal, you’re fergiven, I reckon. But I sure did have my mouth set for that pie.”

  “Tomorrow,” repeated Ida Lou. “Just a few more hours.”

  The bishop managed to get in a little message regarding the Lord’s love for all his people, and the hope that we have in Jesus and His atonement, which Hazel leaned forward and listened to hungrily.

  “Are you able to read your scriptures still, Sister Buzbee?” he asked, nodding his head toward the shelf.

  “Naw, I tell you, Bishop, I cain’t make out the words no more. Now I wisht I’d committed a bait of ’em to memory, back when I could’ve done. Now, all I get is the Tabernickle Choir on Sundays. That’s my church, and it does pretty well by me. But I’d be pleased to hear you read a verse or two when you come, iffen you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll be delighted to, no problem. Now, is there anything we can do for you, before we go?”

  “Reckon not, iffen that thar pie’s any indication,” she said with asperity, but the bishop was learning to read her dry, cynical humor, and saw the tightening of the lips that meant she was teasing.

  “Okay, now, Sister Buzbee, the Lord says we need to forgive poor fools like me,” he scolded, grinning, and she leaned forward and slapped his knee.

  “You’re fergive, the both of ye,” she told him, and they rose to leave.

  Walking out to the front porch, Hazel looked Ida Lou up and down. “I do admire your dress, Sister,” she remarked. “It’s shore hard to get house dresses, anymore. Even the catalogs don’t carry ’em much. Ever’body’s gone to wearin’ pants like a man, but I cain’t cotton to that. Did you mailorder yer dress?”

  “Well, no to tell the truth, I made it up, out of some scraps of fabric I had on hand. I do love to sew.”

  “You done a good job. It’s real purty. Wal, ’bye now, and y’all come to see me whenever you can, all right? Bishop, when can I expect you next?”

  The bishop consulted the small calendar he carried in his pocket. Trish had tried to get him to buy a palm pilot, but he preferred his calendar. “How about a month from today December first? I might get out here sooner, but that day, for sure.”

  “I’ll plan on it,” she agreed, as if her schedule were so full that she had to pencil it in. “You got the pie? Good take it on home and feed it to whoever’ll eat it.”

  They got the car turned around and headed back toward the lane before the laughter erupted. Trish began to giggle first, then Ida Lou, and then the bishop joined in. They laughed until tears formed, and then sighed from the relief of it.

  “Babe, I am so sorry!” he gasped. “Honest, those were her exact words you heard her you can’t put too much nutmeg in it! I never dreamed she meant the opposite! I wouldn’t . . .” He broke off into another chuckle.

  “That rascally old lady! For a second there, I wanted to smack her!” Trish confessed. “Isn’t that awful? But it made me so mad, after I’d gone to the trouble to find a recipe and make it up the way I thought she wanted! Oh! I haven’t been that mad in a long time. I’ll have to repent, for sure, and make her another one, so nutmeggy it’s bitter, if that’s how she likes it!”

  “She’ll get her pie,” Ida Lou said. “And you’re not to make it, my dear. It’s my turn. I’ll make one in the mornin’, and Barker and me’ll ride out here and bring it to her. The pore little thing, I don’t reckon there’s much pleasure in her life, and her heart was plumb set on that pie. But, oh, my, that was funny! Trish, honey, your cheeks were that red, and your eyes were just a’snappin’! Now, let me make some notes as we go, Bishop, on how to get back out here, ’cause I do want that pie to be fresh when we arrive!”

  “Anybody want a piece of this?” Trish asked, looking at the pie in her lap. “It’s going cheap.”

  The bishop offered his pocketknife, and they all munched sweet potato pie as they drove through the autumn afternoon. It was delicious.

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  “the hope of things to be”

  Bishop Shepherd was at work at Shepherd’s Quality Food Mart on Tuesday afternoon when he was paged to the telephone by Mary Lynn. He gave her a questioning look as he entered the office, and she shrugged. “Some lady,” she mouthed to him.

  The lady was Mrs. Parkman, Melody Padgett’s caseworker, inquiring if he might be available to attend the formal hearing regarding the possible return of Andrea Padgett to her mother.

  “Yes, you bet I will,” he responded eagerly. “Just tell me when and where.”

  “It’s scheduled for Friday, November sixteenth, at eleven a.m. in Judge Williams’s chambers. Her courtroom is being renovated, and the others are busy, but we’re delighted that the judge feels this is important enough to go ahead with, that she’s willing to hold it in chambers.”


  “A lady judge?”

  “Yes, sir. Judge Teresa Williams.”

  “Is she that is, do you think she’ll be sympathetic to Melody’s cause and Andrea’s?”

  “I can’t speak for her, of course, but she is known for being pro-family and fair in her judgments and the fact that she’s going out of her way to include this in a timely manner gives me some reassurance. Thank you, then, Mr. Shepherd, and we’ll hope to see you there.”

  “I’ll be there. Thank you.”

  He replaced the receiver. Mary Lynn flicked her brown hair over her shoulder and looked up at him. “That the case about the little girl who was taken away ’cause her daddy was abusive to her mom?”

  The bishop sighed. Mary Lynn probably knew altogether too much. “That’s the one,” he agreed. “I’m really hoping the judge will allow the little girl to go home to her mother. I can’t see any reason why she shouldn’t.”

  “Was it you that reported the abuse?”

  “No! No, it wasn’t me. I was trying to head things off and get some help for that family before things had to come to this pass.”

  “Who narked, then?”

  He regarded his secretary with interest. Sometimes her choice of words surprised him. He supposed it was the influence of television.

  “Well, nobody’s saying, of course, as it’s all supposed to be confidential, but personally I think it was the day-care lady. Andi exhibited some pretty telling symptoms at her child-care center, and the lady got suspicious that things weren’t just right with the family. She even discussed it with me, shortly before Andi was taken.”

  “Likely it was her, then. Hard to know what to do in a case like that, idn’ it? Whether you’ll make things better or worse, I mean.”

  He nodded. “If somebody else hadn’t notified the authorities, I might’ve had to, before long, and I reckon the results would’ve been about the same. But I’m glad it didn’t have to be me, because it makes it a little easier, now, to try to counsel with each of the parents they don’t have their present misery to hold against me, at least. It’s a sad situation.”