by Lisa Samson
I reached back to the counter, grabbed the coffeepot and topped off my drink. Gary downed the final slice, took three large gulps of his coffee, and held out the cup for some more. “How’s Robbie doing with it all?” he asked.
“He’s taken on six extra hours this quarter and another job, working the security desk at the Best Western until midnight on weekends.”
“I’d heard it got broken into.”
“Yeah. He’s doing his best to keep busy.” To be honest, I could have litanized about how Robbie’s job made the very cells of my body run scared, but it seemed a petty worry when compared to their plight. That verse in the Bible about casting all your cares on Him is one that’s always been easier said than done for me. But Josh’s death somehow made giving Robbie’s job over to Jesus a little easier than usual. And anyway, how much help would I be if some armed robber broke into the Best Western?
“I saw a post from him on a grief Web site last night,” Gary said.
“Really?”
He nodded. “You might want to talk to him more about it, Popp.”
I promised I would.
Chris called down from the bedroom. “Gary, is that you?”
“Yeah, honey! Just drinking coffee with Popp!”
The bedroom door slammed.
A spent sigh escaped him. “She thinks I’m terrible now. Everything I do is wrong. Like I’m supposed to stop functioning or something.”
“She wouldn’t even drink a latte.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Well”—he gulped down the hot coffee, wincing at the heat—“I’d better go upstairs.”
He stood to his feet and tried to straighten out his shirt. “Remember that first day you brought her to our house? How old were you guys?”
“Tenth grade.”
“Man, wasn’t she something? Tanned skin and that long, blond hair. And she’d never even kissed a guy until me.”
“Chris is like that.”
“Yeah, she still is, Popp. You’ll never find anybody more loyal than Chris. It’s probably why she’s acting like she is.”
I leaned over and hugged Gary. “I love you, buddy.”
“I love you, too, Popp. I don’t know what I’d do right now without you guys.”
I kissed his cheek. “She’ll come around.”
“She has to.” He walked toward the door and turned back around. “Doesn’t she?”
I sat in the kitchen for several more minutes and finished my coffee. Wiping down the counter one last time, I turned off the coffeemaker, then called up Duncan. “Can you come get me? I don’t feel like walking home, and I’ve got some laundry.”
“I’ll be right there,” he said without hesitation.
The entire way home he did nothing but try to convince me to change my mind about the plate glass window.
He can really be a jerk sometimes.
The scene outside the front window on Monday evening should have delighted me, would have delighted me on a different day. Today it made my stomach feel as though I’d eaten too many raw oysters. The sky steadily littered the grass with an ambitious load of flakes on the diagonal. And here I thought spring had come for good. Drat. I’d have to drive in it out to Miss Mildred’s for prayer, recounting the entire way the only accident I’d ever had, the accident in a January snowstorm. Well, maybe I’d give her a call first; maybe Miss Mildred would give me an out.
“I don’t even think so, Penelope Heubner!” Mildred’s voice assaulted my phone ear. “I’ve got a pork roast waiting, and the skin is brown and crispy. And you know how you like my biscuits. They rose an extra half inch tonight just for you. And if you don’t get here soon, they’ll get cold.”
“But the weather!” Wow, that was a first-class whine even if I did say so myself. Sheesh.
“It’s the perfect night for a cup of my grandmother’s hot cider. We can warm our hands on the mugs while we pray I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
“Miss Mildred, you’re not being kind here. I really want to get out of this.”
“I know, baby. And I’m just not going to let you. You need this as much as Chris does. Besides, I thought you knew me better than that.”
“I do. I was just hoping to catch you during an off moment.”
“Mildred LaRue doesn’t have off moments.”
I could say “Amen to that,” but didn’t.
And so, knuckles glowing ghostly white atop the steering wheel, I found myself sliding downtown, up Church Street and out onto Route 45 to Miss Mildred’s family farmstead. Mildred, the only daughter of Cyrus and Urvana has lived there all of her life. Her great-great-grandfather’s manumission papers hang in a dime-store frame on the dining room wall. She does just enough maintenance to keep the house from disrepair. See, Mildred LaRue has more sense than to spend family money and singing money on “fool knickknacks” as she calls anything that doesn’t hang in her closet.
But I know it’s about more than preference. How much does a jazz singer really make once she subtracts travel expenses, salaries, and costumes from the pay? Just another example of a preacher’s widow being sent out to pasture and left to grow her own grass.
And Miss Mildred has it good, from the horror stories I hear around the presbyteries. Esteemed wife one day, widow the next with nothing to show for years and years of service, not to mention utter aggravation. If pure Christianity and undefiled is visiting the widows and fatherless in their afflictions, someone is really missing the boat! I hear lots of horrible tales in the ministry of terminally ill pastors being let go because the medical expenses would be too much for the church. God doesn’t bless that kind of thinking, I do know this.
Will I end up like Miss Mildred and so many others? Then I remember the stash and think perhaps Duncan has the right idea after all!
I slid up to the latticed porch and breathed deeply to calm my stuttering heart. No use thinking about the drive home! I’d walk if I had to, so letting the dread of the obvious spoil the evening with Miss Mildred would be just plain stupid.
A large, jagged-lipped hole gaped open in the middle of the front lawn, halfway between the front porch and the pasture fence. A shovel lay on the ground nearby. I walked over and peered down. Four feet wide approximately, five feet deep so far, and what in the world could it mean?
Mildred threw the side door open. “Around here, Penelope!”
The aroma of roasted pork spirited away the snappy chill as I stepped up onto the boards. “Man! That smells so good.”
“And you didn’t want to go out into the snow! Hurry up, you’re letting out the heat!”
Mildred, wearing black, crushed-velvet pants and a green sweater with sparkly, sequined blue and green argyles, ushered me into the warm kitchen, her large hands leaving heated spots on my back. I always suspected that Miss Mildred’s mother had it remodeled back in the early sixties. The metal cabinets had been painted sea foam—precursor to avocado green. And why did decades of kitchen décor always denote themselves by a particular shade of green? Hunter green in the eighties. Celery/sage in the nineties.
The stainless steel cooktop supported a steaming pot or two, and underneath a gingerbread hooded window, the single-welled sink, also stainless, overflowed with crockery. The linoleum tiled floor flowed underfoot in stripes of sea foam, white, and that dry, chalky yellow.
“What’s that hole outside for?”
Mildred let out a disgusted grunt. “Herman’s digging.”
“For what?”
“He heard a radio broadcast from one of those crazy people that believe in UFOs and pyramids and the Lord knows what else. And some man wrote a book about tunnels that are filled with gold. From the Civil War.”
With a loud laugh, I pared off my coat. “And he thinks you may have one in your yard?”
“Yes, he does! Didn’t even ask my permission to start digging.”
Mildred took my coat, and I followed her to the small closet in the hallway outside the kitchen.
“Well, at least the snowstorm stopped him for a while.”
“Big, old, ugly pit out there for me to look at when I pull up now,” Mildred complained as I followed like a three-year-old back to the kitchen. “Go ahead and sit down, Penelope. You’re worse than my own shadow.”
“Why does he think you’ve got tunnels here?”
“My ancestor was very successful. He’d been freed quite some time before the war, and Herman says that if he had been my great-great-grandfather, he would have hid his money in the ground during the war, so it stands to reason that Grandpop did just that, and it’s there just waiting to be found by Herman Winfred.”
“I’m sure his wealth was tied up in his land, though, wasn’t it?” I sat down on a rickety wooden chair and watched her fill the serving dishes.
“I’d suspect so. But there’s no telling Herman about that sort of thing. That man goes all over the place in his thinking. And he does it with such business, too.”
“Well, at least it keeps him out of your hair.”
“There is that.”
A crispy roast of pork, browned potatoes, and onions communed together on a large oval platter with a chipped lip. Two mismatched place settings waited to be loaded up.
“And here’s some greens.” Mildred spooned them into a white porcelain bowl. “Let’s eat.”
Mildred closed her eyes, and her brown hand cradled mine. “Bless this food, Lord. Bless us all. Amen.”
“No sauerkraut, Miss Mildred?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mildred threw up her hands. “You Germans. Just hold on a second and I’ll heat up a can. But you’d better start eating the other stuff beforehand. Don’t want it to get cold.”
I wouldn’t have uttered the fact that bagged sauerkraut tasted so much better than canned if my life had depended on it. “So you’re going to let Herman continue his holes?”
“Like you said, it keeps him out of my hair when we’re not out on the road, so I guess there’s something to say for it.”
Herman plays a fine guitar.
The meal made worthwhile every heart-stuttering slip on the way over. I shouldn’t have eaten the skin but Miss Mildred did and was no worse for the wear at seventy-two, so I figured why not. I’d never experienced the wonder of greens up in Baltimore County, but with a little vinegar sprinkled on the cooked-down leaves, it spoke to that German in me at which Miss Mildred always poked fun.
Penelope Heubner, indeed.
True to Miss Mildred’s word, we ended up the meal with mugs of cider and sat in the turret area of the parlor. Two chairs outlined with rows of upholstery pins and partially covered with quilts looked more than prepared to welcome our derrieres, no matter what size the derriere happened to be.
“You seen Chris today?” Mildred asked.
“Yeah. For a little while.” Man, that cider was good.
“Still doin’ stuff over there?”
“As much as I can.” I wondered what kind of spices she used.
“What about at your house?”
“Duncan’s still pitching in.” It sure beat the boxed mix I’d always used.
“He’s a good man, Penelope. I don’t know why you can’t appreciate that to its fullest.”
“It’s not about him, Miss Mildred.”
She waved that away. “Of course it is. Back in the day, we didn’t think like that. But”—she sighed—“that wasn’t the way we were raised to think. We were raised to count our blessings and focus on them. And, since you’re obviously not going to fill me in on why your heart is so sore, I guess we’d better do what we came to do.”
We prayed.
I love to pray with Mildred LaRue.
God’s Spirit descended into the room, settling peacefully to listen to our prayers said in the name of God’s Son.
Angus sure had the right idea.
I prayed aloud, too, feeling myself transcended, feeling the words slip forth from my throat like milk and honey. Flowing out. Flowing up. Rich. Back and forth we pleaded for God’s mercy, God’s peace. Two things He is especially equipped to give.
God doesn’t qualify as some divine magician, making trials disappear in a puff of smoke and a holy abracadabra. He is a friend to help us through. If people realized that, maybe they wouldn’t be so bitter at the way the world is turning out. Maybe they’d hold on tight to the good things lest the disillusionment and the disappointment snatch those away, too. Like I could talk.
“Oh, Lord Jesus,” I prayed. “Shine a light on Chrissy tonight. Give her a space of peace in which to curl up. Let her sleep peacefully and fully and maybe tomorrow, when she wakes up, she’ll be ready to take a step forward. We don’t ask for her to start running, Lord, just a baby step, a step that says ‘I need to keep going’.”
“And I agree with my sister,” Mildred spoke up. “Lord, that family needs to know You’re there. Father God, send them Your Spirit to heal and comfort. You said You would send us a Comforter, Father. And now we claim Your loving promise, Jesus, that You will never leave us nor forsake us. You haven’t forsaken our dear sister, Christine. But maybe she feels that way, Lord. Maybe she feels lost and alone and forsaken. Touch her tonight, dear Lord Jesus. Touch her in a way only You can.”
We uttered the final amen together.
Miss Mildred’s eyes glowed from deep inside, and as she reached forward and set down her mug beside my own she looked younger for the time she’d spend in the Spirit’s presence. “The Spirit told me to sing to you Poppy, and here’s the song.”
Her deep voice began the words of an old hymn I had sung countless times. “ ‘Grace, grace, God’s grace. Grace that will pardon and cleanse within. Grace, grace, God’s grace. Grace that is greater than all our sins.’ ”
The tune glazed my eyes with tears.
“You got that, Penelope? You’re struggling, and God has already granted you grace. It’s big enough for whatever it is that’s fighting inside of you.”
“I know that.”
“You don’t act like it. Take hold of it. Grab it and hold it as tightly as you can.”
“It’s not that easy Miss Mildred.”
Her eyebrows raised. “It’s not? Hmm. I guess that whole ‘cast your cares on Him’ thing is a myth then?”
“I can’t let go, Miss Mildred. Sometimes I can, but then it always ends up back in my lap.”
“Let me just ask you one question, Penelope. Is it guilt you’re dealing with?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s about knowing who to put your trust in, baby.”
“I trust God, Miss Mildred.”
“You can say that, but I know this about guilt.… When you hang onto it, stroke it and use it for penance, what you’re really doing is taking the crucifixion much too lightly.”
I didn’t get what she meant exactly.
“He died once for all sins, baby. All sins. Would you dare to stand before His face and say, ‘Your pain and suffering was almost enough for me, but not quite’?”
The thought horrified me. “Of course not.”
“But that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“I’m scared if I let go, I’ll fall right back and do it all over again.”
“That’s the crux of it all, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Miss Mildred, it is.”
I felt annoyed. I didn’t come here for a soul examination.
“So, when I say it’s all about knowing who to put your trust in, you know exactly what I’m saying?” Her eyes held mine in a prison of understanding. It hurt. Violently.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Mildred transitioned as beautifully as she did up on stage between numbers. “But what you also know is that one, skinny old woman like me is not going to do all that pork roast justice. I’ll give you some food to take home.”
I prayed all the way home, forgetting about the ice on the road, letting my guardian angel lead me on. Have I looked on Your cross frivolously? I asked Jesus. Have I sacrificed the beauty of
Your horrible death, Your obedient sacrifice, by my own fear?
Oh, dear Lord, forgive me.
You died for my sins. I’ve heard that all of my life. Now I need to let You keep me from them, take away the veil that keeps me from seeing Your precious blood covering them, erasing them. I need to see You for the Savior You truly are and shall always be.
Gary broke down in my arms the next day. And we cried together over that little boy with the G.I. Joes and the boomerang. And my tears spilled not for Josh anymore, Josh in the bosom of Jesus, but for his parents. Gary cried for himself, and I cried for him. And Chris stood at the kitchen door weeping, but not joining in our circle of sorrow.
I’ve thought about death a lot during the years I’ve walked the earth in disquiet. I’ve thought about what it will be like to transcend space and time. And I’ve come to the conclusion that the apostle Paul was right when he says it’s far better to be with Christ.
If only we didn’t have to die to get there.
Thirteen
Angus’s eyes swelled to the size of peppermints. The television projected tiny scenes of The Wizard of Oz—before the tornado—onto his eyes. Stealing looks at him while checking my e-mail at Duncan’s computer, I hurried through them all and then found one from my mother. Dreaded those. Especially the instructional ones. “You need to start taking St. John’s Wort,” began the latest lesson. “It keeps you emotionally balanced, Poppy.”
It made me wonder if Duncan had been talking to her behind my back.
“Hey!” Angus hollered. “Well, lookey there!” His small finger, jammed up against the glass of the screen, bent backwards at the first knuckle. “Look, Mama! Look! Come here; you gotta see this. Hurry!”