The Church Ladies

by Lisa Samson

  Josh’s big feet clattered up the stairs, his shoes visible at the top. He growled a primordial holler, and gripping the opening into the attic propelled himself ten feet through the air and onto the couch with a sturdy thump.

  Duncan ran in from his study where he had busied himself on the final touches of his Sunday sermon the day after Christmas. “What was that noise?”

  “Oh, man,” Josh said in a “dude” voice, “you gotta try this.”

  So much for Angus sleeping.

  The activity lasted until 1 A.M. when I zipped in with some hot cider in mismatched mugs. Even Duncan made sure he took his turn every third time, although this time he refused to wear the cape. “A man’s got to keep his dignity.”

  “What little you have left, Dad.”

  Robbie and Duncan punched each other.

  “Cretins,” I said, all the while enjoying their utterly male exchange.

  Angus slept on, unfortunately, because he woke up the next morning at five o’clock, and only Duncan and I could rouse enough to watch him open his presents. And then Duncan fell back asleep on the couch.

  Such is the life of the baby of the family.

  Josh, always an early riser much to his mother’s chagrin, was the first of the Christmas Eve revelers to awaken. He shared some Christmas Blend coffee with me in the kitchen while Angus played with his new Nintendo set in the living room.

  “How’s school, Josh?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Did you like your classes this semester?”

  “They were okay. General education stuff. A little boring to be honest. You know.”

  “Actually, I don’t. I had to study a lot.” I hate to admit that, but it’s true. Today they’d probably say I have a learning disability, but for some reason, when I read a book, I have to repeat the sentences several times before they sink in.

  “Well, it’s what you do with what you have that counts.”

  “Josh, you’re priceless.”

  He spooned some more sugar into his coffee. “I’ve made some friends, though. So that’s good.”

  “Did you find that Christian athletic group I told you about?”

  “Yeah, thanks, I did. They’re a good bunch.”

  “What do you guys do?”

  “Oh, you know. Instead of alcohol, they get their kicks out of rock climbing and stuff.”

  I thought about getting out some orange juice, but decided against it just then. “Have you gone on any climbs with them?”

  He got up and opened the refrigerator door. “Yeah. Went down to the Peaks of Otter on the Blueridge Parkway one weekend.” Pouring more milk into his coffee, he said, “It’s really something being up high like that. What a way to view the world! Talk about being close to God.” He sat back down. “We take our Bibles sometimes and share. It’s cool.”

  “More power to you, Josh. I prefer to keep my feet on the ground.”

  Angus called out, “Wanna play with me, Josh?”

  “I’d love it,” Josh hollered back, then raised his brows above a wide smile. “Duty calls.”

  A minute later he sat cross-legged on the floor with his little cousin, letting Angus beat the tar out of him.

  He really should be a pediatrician, I thought. He’d make a great pediatrician.

  Surprisingly, Paisley called at eight to wish us all a Merry Christmas. She stayed in Massachusetts over the holiday with her new live-in boyfriend … a stockbroker named Phillip, of all things.

  Phillip—a Bible name.

  I swallowed against the nausea, blinked against the stinging of my eyes. Oh, Paisley. My child, my child. I pictured her caught by her long hair in the branches of a tree as the mule she rode kept going without her, just lumbering on in stupidity while his burden flailed her body in a voluntary seizure against the surrounding air.

  Swallowing again, I remembered a houseful of people who loved me, people I hadn’t yet ruined, awaited breakfast.

  Chris and Gary came over for brunch after the church services ended. Gary brought his guitar, and we sang carols. This was the way Christmas was supposed to be.

  Talk about food! Eggs benedict with crabmeat instead of Canadian bacon, Chris’s famous home fries with caramelized onion and cups of cheese, pastries and baked goods, french toast with strawberries and real whipped cream. And, bless Mother’s heart, Starbuck’s coffee cast a wide net of aroma all through the downstairs, fishing everyone else out of bed by 10 A.M. I have to admit that every once in a while my mother comes through. In fact she’d sent five pounds of Guatemala in an ornate, needle-point stocking.

  Whoa, Fidge lady!

  The remains of Christmas that had waited for a week out by the road for pick-up by the trash men were long gone. The bottom of the last bag of coffee lurked just an inch below the beans now. I’d gained eight pounds since the cold settled in, and the walks to Java Jane’s waned down to nothing more than a guilty memory. Size sixteens loomed on my horizon if I didn’t do something soon. Well, to be honest, they had arrived, but I refused to go buy new pants. I’d thought about dragging my pregnancy jeans out of storage, but the thought horrified me so much I decided I’d rather go around with constricting waistbands and short rises.

  But it was a Weather Channel morning today.

  I sat in the living room, the only source of light radiating from the television. Robbie’s head lay in my lap. Another night sleeping on the couch, poor guy. He’s so keyed up when he gets home from work. I wanted to walk, really, but an ice storm pelted the town. It had been licking Mount Oak for three hours now, stinging the tin roof of the bungalow, lulling everyone but me into a late sleep. The streetlight down by the Best Western illuminated a world coated in light corn syrup, and the superintendent of the county schools pronounced them closed.

  Good thing I’d gone grocery shopping yesterday.

  Yeah, definitely a good thing. I’d met a nice girl at the checkout line. Seemed like a child, really, but she was married to the new interim pastor over at Oak Grove Baptist Bible Church. Independent. Fundamental. King James Version only. At least that’s what it says on their sign. Her name tag said Sunny. Aptly named, apparently. Unless she turned off that sweet smile when she left work.

  She kept saying, “Yes, ma’am” this and “Yes, ma’am” that, which kind of bugged me. And I can’t blame the culture down here. Baltimorean kids say ma’am at the checkout, too. It is a pride thing, pure and simple.

  Gliding music announced Local on the Eights, and although I had been viewing for an hour, I still felt a responsibility to see if anything had changed. Duncan never watches Local on the Eights. He is one of those people who only watches during a hurricane along the coast or when tornados “are ravaging the Midwest.” Hardly a devoted weather fan.

  Vivaldi’s “Winter” played, and after the precipitation radar screen disappeared, dependable weather woman Phoebe appeared in her trim yellow suit and perfect black bob, telling me to “stay tuned” because the Travel Wise report would be coming up next.

  Oh, good.

  I love the travel report, all those interstates and state lines just spread out at a glance. Cloud cover over the Great Plains. Cold up in Minnesota. No surprise there. It satisfies that pent up feeling I’ve been nurturing since leaving Jody Callahan’s arms. Seeing all those roads, knowing each mile has its very own vista, its very own smell, its very own combination of green and brown and gray and blue, knowing that if I wanted to I could hop in the van …

  The van?

  Well, see. Frustrated again. Maybe Robbie doesn’t keep me from leaving. Maybe the van does. How in the world could I leave in that rattletrap? How could I jump in with a suitcase for myself and one for Angus and leave? A picture of New York City iced up the screen. Sludge City looked more like it. Maybe New York wasn’t such a good idea after all; maybe someplace warm like Arizona might be better.

  Maybe that was too warm.

  I pointed my remote at the screen. Sunny in Colorado today. I’d have to think mo
re about the Rockies as a possible location.

  The screen blackened, and darkness surrounded me. I shuffled into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. When I yanked off the filter basket, to my surprise it weighed more than expected. I held it up to my nose in the darkness and sniffed the last of the Starbuck’s. Yep, the coffeemaker needed nothing but a click of the button. Duncan sure doesn’t make things easy for me. The nice things he does feel like lemonade on a cold sore. And yet, what if he acted like a pig? Would I be more prone to stay, thinking it just penance?

  I flipped on the light, blinking against the brightness.

  As the coffee dripped, I scribbled a note to Duncan that said—

  You’ve got Angus today. I’m going to paint.

  With men, it is best to leave no room to maneuver. Coffee notwithstanding.

  I searched under the kitchen sink for the ugly green vigilante thermos, knocking over Mr. Clean and the scrubbing bubbles in the process. After filling the dented thermos, I screwed on the inner lid, rued the day I misplaced the outer cap, and grabbed the lopsided, mauve pottery mug Paisley had fashioned in the fifth grade.

  The screen door slammed behind me as I slipped my way down the precarious, icy pathway.

  God created me to paint, I reasoned, unlocking the studio, wondering why I always feel I have to justify my artwork.

  “Penelope, the Lord told me to come here and say a prayer.”

  I let a soaking wet Mildred LaRue into my studio. Even covered in freezing rain, the woman couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. Somehow she’d managed to keep her makeup in place.

  I took a grocery bag from Mildred’s arms. “Did He also tell you to bring food?”

  “The Lord doesn’t have to tell me to bring food, child. He made me to bring food.” She began scraping off her slick, bright green coat. “Just like He made you to paint. Mmm, mmm, You been busy, I see.”

  Mildred LaRue is the only person in the world, besides Angus, allowed to view my unfinished work. I myself don’t understand it, but with Miss Mildred, history doesn’t play into it much, and Mildred herself says she’s always wanted to have good hands and be an “artiste.” I figure if this woman could be so transparent and mean it, well, letting her into my pigmented world of paint in hopes that Mildred will someday let me into her own pigmented world seems like a good idea. Not that Miss Mildred has done that. We never talk about black or white things. I don’t know how to ask the questions I’ve always had without coming off as offensive. Like why do black women age so much slower, and how come their young girls always wear all of those pigtails, and is it hard to find base makeup that really is the perfect shade of brown? And those are just the superficial questions.

  “I like that little green dot there on that skipjack,” Mildred said, pulling out her own thermos—a little plastic Campbell’s soup kind that immediately sucked me back to first grade and the day my mother packed Chicken and Stars for the first time in my Sleeping Beauty lunch box.

  “What have you got in there?”

  “Just Liptons. Got some monkey bread in the bag, too.”

  “Smells nice.”

  “Still warm, too.”

  I squeezed more white onto my plastic, cubbyholed pallet, a good sign that the painting wouldn’t end up with the temperament of a Flannery O’Connor novel. Although the idea of putting sharp things in my shoes sounded like a good form of penance—painful, constant, unseen. “So what are you supposed to pray about with me?”

  “Strength to do what is right.” She took out a funnel cake pan and a knife. The aroma of cinnamon and butter filled the space between us.

  This woman looked beautiful sitting there in a fluffy seawater green sweater and black velvet pants. Miss Mildred possesses those gentle kind of eyes. Soft yet strong. As if they choose to be soft, choose to be vulnerable so that a little bit of God shows through. “All right, then,” I said. I put down my paintbrush and held out my hand.

  “Let’s pray.” Mildred set the knife on top of the bread. “Father God, give Penelope the strength to do what is right. I know You, Lord, and I know You don’t like people to suffer needlessly. You died for her, Jesus, just like You did for me and all. Help her to believe it all the way in. Help her to rest in Your love and to let You take those extra fool burdens she insists on lugging around. Life is hard enough as it is. For Your yoke is easy and Your burden is light. Amen.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s all there is. Seems to me that about says everything needing to be said. Any more might just as well qualify as vain repetition. Now, you got one of those mugs for me, too?” Mildred pointed to Paisley’s creation.

  “Hold on.” I climbed down from my stool and rinsed out a Maryland Is for Crabs mug, transferred my coffee into it, then rinsed out the pottery mug for Miss Mildred. “Paisley made me that mug years ago.”

  Mildred poured from her thermos. “That big boy of yours didn’t make you a mug, too?” She swallowed a large gulp of tea.

  “Nope. Too busy for stuff like art.”

  Mildred’s eyes danced. “He does all the stuff you wished you could do when you were little, doesn’t he?”

  I thought about it. “I guess I wanted to be coordinated like that.”

  “That best friend of yours, she good at sports?”

  “Yeah. All state women’s field hockey and basketball.”

  “I see.” Mildred topped off her tea.

  I smiled and reached out to rub the bony upper arm of Mildred LaRue. Wow. Real cashmere. “I know you do. Would you like to stay for lunch?”

  “Depends on what you’re having, Penelope.”

  “Whatever it takes to keep you here.”

  Miss Mildred’s presence works like triple antibiotic ointment on a nagging rash. She knows I have an infected itch and knows what treatment it needs. But she has no idea what caused the rash in the first place and has never asked although I know she is dying to find out.

  “Tell you what, Penelope. I’ll make us some lunch. Still got some of that whiting in the freezer my Herman caught in August?”

  “Yep, in there behind the ice cream from Angus’s birthday party in September.”

  Mildred shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Now I know what that prayer was for. The Lord was telling you to clean out your freezer.” Chuckling at her own joke, she slid off her stool and eased back into her coat. “First I’m going to put some potatoes in the oven. Then after a while we’ll have us a fish fry.”

  I could hear the sound of the crumb-coated fish dropping into the fry daddy. Yep, Mildred LaRue always knew just what I needed, when I needed it, and how.

  And how.

  “How are you going to make it down the walk in those high-heeled boots of yours, Miss Mildred?”

  “I got here, didn’t I? I’ll be back in a few minutes to sing to you while you work.”

  “That a promise?”

  “I never make a promise I can’t keep.”

  I painted better to Mildred’s voice. Though the sky promised nothing but more of the same icy drizzle, it was turning out to be a good morning.

  Three hours later we sat down to eat. Duncan offered up an official sounding prayer with Thees and Thous and arts and Thines, and Angus fidgeted in his seat because he loves fish so much, and he loves Miss Mildred’s fish the best.

  After the amen we stabbed our forks through the crumb-covered whiting, and Mildred started laughing. For a woman that skinny she has a laugh that borders on obesity.

  “Are you gonna tell us a story, Mother LaRue?” Angus asked.

  “Are you up for one, boy?”

  “I sure am.”

  “I figured as much.” Mildred heaped a mound of buttered yams onto Angus’s plate. “Well, more than a few years back, when the Reverend Jesse David LaRue, God rest his soul, was both my pastor and my husband, we used to have fish fries at church. To raise money, you know.”

  I did know. Just a few months before we’d had a ham supper to raise money for a
new roof for the church. We were thirsty for a week afterwards.

  “Well, we usually didn’t have them in the summer, but that year we did because the church bus broke down and needed fixing, and there wasn’t money in the treasury for it, you know. So it was hot as blazes in the church hall, and the kitchen was just filled with us women dipping the fish in the crumbs and dropping them in the fat—”

  “What else did you have?” Duncan readied a mound of spinach greens on his fork.

  “Corn bread, greens, I think. It was a while ago, Pastor Fraser, and the point of the story isn’t the food anyway. Pass me that applesauce, will you?”

  I reached for the bowl feeling a keen disappointment. I love stories about food. My eyes met Duncan’s. He does, too.

  “The point of this story is the hornets.”

  Angus scrunched up his face. “I don’t like flying insects, Mother LaRue. Especially ones with stingers.”

  “So you like flies then?” I asked him.

  He scrunched up his face again.

  “I hate flies!” Mildred said. “Hate ’em! The way they’re all black and buzzy and just hang around your head just looking for trouble. My Jesse David could really swat flies. Mmm! He was a fly’s worst nightmare.”

  Duncan’s eyes twinkled. “What about the hornets then, Miss Mildred?”

  Duncan and I always call anybody who is old enough to be our mother Miss. The Baltimore City way. The ladies at Highland Kirk love it.

  “Well, it was hot as blazes in that church hall. I thought the plastic forks would melt, and we just filled the water pitchers with ice because it melted so fast. So my Jesse David got two of the deacons to bring in the fans from the sanctuary. That was before the days of air conditioning, Angus.”

  Duncan smiled. “When all the ladies carried little China fans in their pocketbooks.”

  “That’s right, Pastor Fraser. So anyway, they wheeled these big old fans into the room.”

  “The kind on the tall stands?” Duncan asked.

  “Goodness gracious, you Frasers ask a lot of questions!”

  “Did they have lots of dusty globs hanging from the wire?” I asked just to be ornery.