by J B Hawker
“It will be delish, I’m sure. Those women are Olympic champion cooks, you know.”
“I’m not hoping for any medals on my first try. I just hope it’s edible,” she said, going into the kitchen as Gideon went upstairs.
…
“You see, I told you. That was at least a silver medal meal,” Gideon said, leaning back and patting his flat stomach.
“Only silver? I am disappointed,” Hope teased. “Now that the food has been eaten and duly judged, perhaps you will tell me what’s up with that phone call in the driveway.”
Gideon paused before replying, “I hate to tell you, but I haven’t been able to find anyone to help out on the camping trip. I’m afraid we may have to cancel, after all.”
Hope’s spirits dropped at his words. She had been reluctant to commit to the weekend, at first, but after meeting with the youth and making plans together, she was determined not to let them down. The thought of adding another disappointment to Dawn’s sad life only intensified her resolve.
“We can’t let the kids down, now,” she said. “I’ll take them on my own. I’ve bivouacked for weeks in an active war zone, I think I can handle a weekend in the nearby hills, just fine. I’ll have my cell phone if anything should happen, after all.”
The campout was an unplugged weekend for the campers, with no cell phones or electronic devices, but it would have been irresponsible for the leaders not to have communications and GPS available.
“I tried to get out of the seminar, that was the phone call you saw. I argued my case like a trooper, but the best I could get the committee to agree on is for me to give my presentations earlier in the schedule. I suppose it might be alright for you to take the kids on your own for just the first night. Then, I could join you the next day. What do you think?”
“That sounds fine. And if you need to stay at your seminar later, you needn’t worry about me and the kids. Really. I’m a seasoned camper and most of the young people have been on this annual trip at least once, so they will be a big help with the newbies.”
“Newbies like Dawn Thompson, you mean?” Gideon asked. “Under the circumstances, do you think she should be included? You will have enough on your hands with our bunch. They are all good kids, but they’re not angels. Just like wild animals, teenagers may look cute and cuddly, but they can be unpredictable.”
“I don’t want to leave Dawn out. Something tells me this trip could be a crucial turning point for her,” Hope insisted, adding, “Don’t forget, I’ve trained some unruly raw recruits in my day. I don’t think I’ve lost my touch.”
“Oh, I think you can still be pretty intimidating, Drill Sergeant Honey Lips,” he said grinning and leaning over to kiss his wife.
“Then, that’s settled,” Hope said, gathering up their empty plates. “You know, I’m really looking forward to the weekend.”
“Does that surprise you?” Gideon said helping to clear the table and following Hope into the kitchen.
“I’ve been wondering where I’d fit into the role of pastor’s wife... I know you said to just be myself,” she said when Gideon began to interrupt. “I’ve seen for myself how all the women in the First Ladies Club have carved out places within their congregations to use their own unique gifts and I’ve been wondering what my niche would be. I think, just maybe, I’ve found it.”
“Wilderness guide?” Gideon asked.
“No, silly. Working with the church youth. I’ve never had much to do with kids. Never thought I’d like it.”
“And now?” he asked.
“I do like being with them, and, you know what? I think I’m pretty good at it, too.”
…
Yvonne Jones rummaged in her messy purse and pulled out a new vapor cartridge for her e-cigarette. Inserting it into the device, she dragged nicotine deeply into her lungs, coughed, and relaxed back onto the sofa.
Grease-stained pizza boxes and take-out containers littered the room and made their own contributions to the unappetizing aroma.
She gazed at the large screen TV across the room, humming tunelessly to herself, never focusing on the flickering images. Her heavy, garish makeup was smeared and her straw-like bleached hair was matted down on one side of her head while standing in upright tufts on the other.
Hearing a loud crash followed by a quickly stifled cry from upstairs, Yvonne lifted her head and shouted a raspy, “Dawn! Are you watching those brats?”
Getting no response, she yelled, even louder, “Dawn! Get down here. Now!”
When the girl stepped into the room, Yvonne opened her mouth to let flow her usual stream of abuse, then caught herself with a calculating glint in her eyes.
“So, Missy, I guess you changed your mind about your mountain-top experience with the God Squad, huh?” she said, attempting a benign expression.
“What do you mean?” Dawn asked.
Distrusting this new face of her foster mother, she took a step back.
“Well, you know we agreed that if you wanted to do a flit with those Holy Joes, you would have to earn it by taking over a few little jobs around here, right?” Yvonne asked.
Dawn’s eyes narrowed as she nodded.
“Now it looks like you don’t want to do the work, after all. I put you in charge of the diaper brigade for only a couple of days and, just now I hear all Hell breaking loose upstairs. Which one was howling, anyway? Do I need to climb up those stairs? If you can’t keep up your end of our bargain, I don’t have to go along with letting you go camping, do I?” Yvonne sneered.
“I’ve been taking care of the little kids, just like you told me. I’ve even stayed home from school so you can lie around stoned, haven’t I?
Yvonne jumped up and slapped Dawn.
“I’m not stoned,” she said, staggering a little as she flopped back down. “Don’t you ever let me catch you saying stuff like that, you hear me?”
“Maybe I should tell the social worker a few things next time she’s here,” Dawn muttered, holding her hand against her reddened cheek.
“Don’t you threaten me, Madam!” Yvonne said. “No overworked social worker is going to listen to a trouble-making little nothing like you, anyway. I’m a licensed foster parent with a clean record. Don’t forget that I can get you sent to the State School anytime I want.”
“But you won’t, because you’d lose the money you get for me,” Dawn said, fighting a growing fear.
“I can get more foster kids anytime I want. You throw-away kids are a dime a dozen. Now that I think about it, you’re becoming more trouble than you’re worth,” Yvonne said, enjoying the impact of her words.
Struggling to keep her composure, Dawn forced down the rage building inside her.
“If you send me away, you won’t have anyone to change all these dirty diapers and clean up the messes, though. I work hard around here, and I’ve kept my end of the bargain. You have to let me go on the camping trip,” she argued.
Yvonne took a drink from the glass of lukewarm orange juice and vodka sitting on the floor beside the sofa, slopping a little on herself, and thinking. There were a few more days before the campout and Dawn was still useful to her.
“Well, maybe I can give you another chance... if you shut up and do the job... and no more of your sassy mouth. Understand?”
Dawn nodded, swallowing.
A baby began to cry upstairs, and Dawn turned to go back up.
“You are on thin ice, girl! Remember that. And keep those brats quiet. I want to take a nap,” Yvonne called after her.
There had been a time when Yvonne actually liked kids. She could remember wanting some of her own back when she and Deak were first married. But that never happened and when they went through some tough financial times the couple had decided to take in foster kids, just temporarily.
It hadn’t been so bad in the beginning, but once Deak took up with that floozy he met in California and Yvonne was left on her own, she didn’t know what to do.
She was a licensed foster paren
t, but not trained or experienced in anything else. She’d finally convinced Deak that he owed it to her to cooperate in a little plan she’d come up with. As a long-haul trucker, his absences during surprise visits weren’t unusual and she convinced him to come to any appointments which were required. In that way, she continued to receive the money for the foster kids.
It was a lot of pressure taking care of all those needy and traumatized kids, though, and Yvonne’s drinking and drug use increased while her concern for and attention to the children in her care decreased. Even though she skimped on their food, clothing, and affection, Yvonne had prided herself on never physically abusing the kids.
Slapping Dawn was a first and Yvonne told herself it wouldn’t happen again... no matter how satisfying it had been to strike the rebellious girl and see the shock on her sneering face.
Upstairs, Dawn had diapered and comforted the crying infant, cleaned up the spilled box of battered toys, changed the wet sheets on the toddler’s bed, and was sitting on the floor with the little boy on her lap and a sad-faced four-year-old girl leaning on her shoulder. Dawn was reading to the little ones from a tattered book of nursery rhymes.
Although her foster brothers and sisters were an ever-changing cast of characters in her nomadic life, Dawn cared for them and wished there was some way she could rescue them all.
Dawn’s own childhood was spent in a series of indifferent foster homes. Abandoned outside a health clinic in a cardboard box that had once contained bananas, the infant had been near death, suffering from malnutrition and pneumonia. A hospital had been her first warm, clean home, but the constantly changing shifts of nurses kept her from developing attachments.
By the time she was healthy enough to be placed in foster care, Dawn was a fretful and difficult baby who grew into a fearful toddler, and later, an angry teenager.
Dawn’s coping mechanism against the chaos of her life was to act out, rejecting others before they could reject her, and testing every boundary.
Her recent hospitalization for the drug overdose had been a shock. As she struggled back to awareness, she’d discovered that no matter how unhappy she was, she didn’t want to die. This was the wakeup call which had led her to accept Ty’Nisha’s half-hearted invitation to church and why she was so desperate to go on the youth group’s trip. She needed to walk another path in life before it was too late and she hoped by observing these children from stable, loving homes, she might find her way.
…
In the low lamplight, Sister Evans sat beside Sister Moses’s bed, her fingers busily working on an intricate knitting pattern, while her eyes regarded her ailing friend.
“Of course, I’m never one to cast judgment, Geraldine,” she said. “But I confess to having a few concerns about our new First Lady.”
Sister Moses’s chest rose as she sucked in a labored breath and whispered a few words in reply.
“Oh, of course! I agree. She’s charming and it’s obvious that Pastor adores her,” Sister Evans said. “I’m just not sure she has the right background for such an influential position in the congregation.”
Sister Moses raised her wiry white eyebrows.
“Well, for instance, those self-defense classes she leads aren’t very dignified, are they?”
The sick woman waved her hand, brushing away this unimportant issue.
“And then, too, she’s taking the youth group on the annual camping trip. I know, she’s got all that military background, but I heard that she’s allowing a girl of questionable morals to go with our own kids!” Sister Evans said.
“Tell me,” Sister Moses breathed.
“Dorcas Whitby told me Pastor got permission from the elders to use the camping scholarship funds to pay the way for this foster girl, Dawn, to go on the trip, but she’s only been to our church one time! And not only that, but she was recently hospitalized for a drug overdose! What sort of influence will she have on our young people?”
Sister Moses whispered something.
“I didn’t catch that, dear,” Sister Evans said, leaning down.
Sister Moses gestured for water and Sister Evans held the straw to her lips.
After drinking, the older woman fell back onto the pillows before repeating what she’d said.
“Throwing stones,” she breathed.
Sister Evans leaned back with a sheepish expression before a smile creased her round face.
“Of course. Thank you, Geraldine dear, for pulling me down from my high horse. This child is exactly who we should be ministering to.”
Sister Moses closed her eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Good kids,” she whispered without opening her eyes.
“Exactly, so,” Sister Evans agreed. “Our youth are well-grounded in the Word and should be unharmed by a weekend rubbing elbows with this poor wayward girl.”
The two women were silent for a few moments, the only sounds the clicking of knitting needles and Sister Moses’s labored breathing.
“I’ll add the girl to our prayer list,” Sister Evans said, pulling a sheet of paper from her knitting bag.
“Thank you for trusting me with this, dear,” she added as she made a note on the sheet. “I won’t let you down.”
Peering at the paper, she said, “Your nurse’s handwriting is a little unclear, so let me read this over to you before I go. Just nod if I’m right, okay?”
After checking over the list, the two women prayed together for the written needs before Sister Evans gathered her handwork and departed, her heart heavy to think that this might be her last visit with her dear old friend.
Chapter NINE
The First Ladies were meeting in the social hall of the Missionary Baptist Church to make plans for their annual fall fundraiser. The money raised from this event would go toward providing Christmas baskets and warm clothing for the needy in their community.
Peggy sat at the head of the long folding table with her Bible, her gavel, and a stack of manila folders in front of her.
“We did a rummage sale two years ago and it was a big flop. Last year’s bake sale wasn’t much more successful. We need some fresh ideas, ladies,” she said in response to the women’s brain-storming suggestions.
“Okay,” Judy Falls said. “What about a fun-run? Like the Thanksgiving morning Turkey Trot, they do in Eugene?”
“How does that work?” Olivette Vernon asked, looking confused.
“People sign-up sponsors to pledge to donate money for every mile someone runs, or walks, if that’s all they can do. So, it’s fun and everyone gets exercise, too,” Judy explained.
“I’m leery of pledges,” Elizabeth Gilbert said. “Too often the money earned doesn’t come close to matching the pledged amount. Besides, there are so many fund-raising marathons for various causes, we’d just be one more. I’ve heard more than one person say they’d rather just hand over a check than pay someone else to do something fun. I confess to feeling that way myself.”
“I’ve been looking at the Chamber of Commerce calendar on-line and I don’t see any Christmas Craft Bazaars scheduled,” Naidenne Davidson said, looking up from her tablet computer. “We’ve got tons of crafty ladies in our churches who would probably donate items. Why not try that?”
“We could set up a couple of tables and serve seasonal refreshments, too,” Gwennie Barthlett suggested, warming to the idea. “Or even a soup and rolls lunch.”
“I think that sounds like a really fun idea,” Hope offered. “I’m not much good at crafts, but I know women in my church who are experts and they love to share their talents for a good cause.”
After speaking, Hope looked around, unsure if she had spoken out of turn. Although she was becoming more comfortable with her new friends, she wasn’t certain of the protocols expected of new members.
“I agree, Hope,” Olivette replied. “A bazaar sounds like just the thing. I’ve got a chest full of crocheted scarves I’ve been making without any idea of what I was going to do with them. They
aren’t really appropriate for the mission field and I’ve given at least one to each of my friends as birthday and Christmas gifts over the years.”
Olivette stopped suddenly, as if surprised by her own uncharacteristic volubility. After decades as the retiring wife of a Reformed minister, Olivette had begun to blossom after his death. No longer the little brown wren of the past, she had gradually replaced the drab neutrals in her wardrobe with the bright, happy colors she’d long admired and her personality was becoming more colorful, as well.
There followed the general agreement that a Christmas Bazaar would be the group’s project.
Church calendars were pulled up on tablets, laptops, and phones as the women searched for a free date to hold the fundraiser. Eventually, three days were discovered with no conflicting activities scheduled at any of their churches.
“Naidenne, will you check with the Chamber and get one of these dates on the Community Calendar?” Peggy asked.
When Naidenne nodded, Peggy asked everyone, “Where shall the Bazaar be held?”
“The First Presbyterian has the biggest social hall,” Judy said.
“We’ve got the best parking,” Gwennie offered.
“All of our churches have nice facilities, but which would be the best for getting people inside and displaying our crafts?” Peggy asked.
“The Community Fellowship is right downtown, and the social hall is on the main floor, so it’s easily accessible,” Hope said.
“The parking lot isn’t huge,” Naidenne said. “But there is plenty of parking on the side streets and in that empty lot behind the church. We’ve gotten permission from the city to park there for special events in the past.”
“I move that we ask to use the Community Fellowship social hall for our Christmas Bazaar, and if it’s unavailable we try the Presbyterians,” Elizabeth said.
“I second it,” Judy piped up, raising her hand and swiping papers onto the floor with the wide sleeve of her caftan.
Before the committee meeting was adjourned Peggy called for a vote and then instructed Naidenne to follow-up with her church and the city.