The Church Ladies

by Lisa Samson

  There’s an old song that says “Calvary covers it all.” The word all is a beautiful word. It’s definite. It can’t mean anything less.

  Angus tugged on my hand as we hurried to the car from the last of the day’s errands. Mondays always ended up like this. You’d think after three years, I’d take Monday as my Sabbath. I have the best of intentions Sunday night. But Monday morning when the milk is low, and the bread is down to two heels kissing, my best plans are laid to waste because as long as I’m out getting milk, I might as well … breathe, Poppy, breathe.

  “Please, Mom, I really gotta go.”

  “But well be home in five minutes, Gus.”

  “Please, Mom!”

  “Oh, all right!” I snapped, pulling him roughly back into the IGA, his skinny arm stretched tautly as I yanked him along. I watched my own Mommie Dearest moment in horror. Those quick, black waves of anger that burst out every so often scared me.

  Angus jerked his hand free and ran to the back of the store. Waiting for him outside the men’s room, I felt more guilt crawling like worms all through me. I gave myself credit for one thing, though. I wasn’t beyond an apology. Poor Angus. He didn’t deserve this.

  Calvary covered this, too.

  He exited the bathroom thirty seconds later looking down at his shoes. I set down the bag of groceries and kneeled on the floor in front of him. Sitting back on my heels, I took him into my arms and pulled him down on my lap, his little legs draping over either side. So warm and sweet. “Sorry, buddy. It’s been a long day.”

  “Okay,” he said and struggled free. “Can I have one of those Tootsie Pops when I get home?”

  “Yeah.” I laughed and wondered just who the sucker was here.

  We slid into the gravel driveway at four-thirty, both Angus and I determined to take a little nap. He’d fallen asleep on the short drive home, actually, and refused to stir. So I hauled him into his room, depositing him on the bed in his coat, and then brought in the bag of perishables.

  Shoving the entire sack into the refrigerator, I decided to take a shower first, then lay down for a bit before getting ready for prayer at Miss Mildred’s. I just needed a few minutes to refresh myself before entering a room full of beautiful women. Miss Mildred and Charmaine. Great, just great. Now, not only guilt would be present with me during my prayers, but jealousy as well.

  It felt good when I laid myself down. Five-forty was the last call to give me enough time to dampen my bangs after being mashed in the towel, cover up the bags and circles under my eyes, and get dressed. I’d be surprised if I get more than three or four naps a year, so forty-five minutes of sleep seemed like a gift sent straight from God.

  I counted my blessings as I drifted off. Duncan was a good man, and there was hope yet for Paisley if the conversion of St. Paul gave me any indication. I really needed to pray more for the child. Angus. Robbie. A pretty little house. Good coffee in the morning. Prismacolors. Small feet. Tootsie Pops. Toilet paper. The Weather Channel. Cordless phones.

  Cordless ringing phones. Ringing phones.

  My eyes opened. Ringing phone!

  I sat up in the bed and reached for the shrill mechanism on the night-stand. Shoot, I’d just fallen asleep. It had better not be Duncan calling to say he couldn’t watch Angus, or this Monday night would be really barren!

  “Frasers.”

  “Penelope Anne Huebner, what on God’s green earth are you doing right now?”

  “Miss Mildred? What’s the matter?”

  “It’s 6:01, girl, and you’re still not here.”

  I panicked, pulled the towel off my hair and sprang out of bed. “I’m just leaving, Miss Mildred. Got a little behind, that’s all.”

  “And you forgot to tell me we’d have one more.”

  “Charmaine Hopewell’s there?” I ran over to the closet and pulled down a white shin and a pair of khaki pants, quickly grabbing the jangling hangers, halting their clang so Miss Mildred wouldn’t hear. If I could keep her talking while I dressed, the timing would be perfect. I’d hang up, get on the road, and arrive at the house on Route 45 with no one the wiser.

  “Uh-huh. Looking like a dreamboat, no less. And here I am in flat shoes and palazzo pants.”

  “What’s wrong with palazzo pants?” I shoved my feet into my own pants.

  “Just a little on the casual side.”

  “Oh, Miss Mildred, it’s just us girls.”

  “I know that, but I made a fancy meal.”

  Groaning, I swirled the blouse around and stabbed my arms into the armholes. “Will it be spoiled because of me?”

  “If you don’t get here soon, it will be. Now hurry up and get on your shoes now that you’ve got your other clothes on.”

  “How did—”

  “And I hope you had a good nap.” Her voice warmed. “See you in a few minutes, baby.”

  Mildred hung up. That woman. That wonderful, skinny old woman. Sometimes love for another human being bursts your heart with happiness. My father and I used to call them “bursts of love.”

  I kissed Duncan on the cheek as he sat at his computer, grabbed my coat, and hurried through the kitchen.

  “Poppy!” he called. “Wait a sec!”

  But I didn’t stop to listen; I only heard him say something about some loud bangs or such. Probably more trouble with that blasted window in the sanctuary. Or maybe they’d decided what to do, and workmen had started already.

  In any case, it would keep. Miss Mildred had made a fancy meal, and I didn’t want to spoil it.

  There are some times in a woman’s life when she should actually stop and take the time to listen to her husband, because some of those times he’s speaking in her best interest. And I realized, much too late, mind, that I should have heeded Duncan and not slammed out of the kitchen in a big, fat, stupid hurry.

  I’d laughed and eaten and had such a good time with Miss Mildred and Charmaine. The star attraction of the Port of Peace Hour had stuffed her small self into even smaller jeans and a red sweater with a big cowl neck. She wore high heeled, red suede boots, the swashbuckler kind with rounded lips that shielded her knees. Her lips matched her sweater, and her sweater matched her hair, that riotous red, a color Charles Revson would have sold his gas-guzzling yacht to have created. No other makeup covered her face, however.

  The food was astonishing. French cooking no less. Fancy French cooking. A foie gras and spinach terrine molded in the shape of a curving fish, started us off right. It was such fun sitting there, talking about men (Herman had dug four new holes in the yard) and hair and makeup and diets and books. Charmaine proved to be a wonderful conversationalist, a girly girl. And she listened, too, letting us have our say, which surprised me. Her perfectly plucked brows scrunched together as she concentrated on every word spoken, looking as though her brain cells were busy taking mental notes, especially when the conversation turned to disciplining children.

  “My three are horrible!” she said after asking me if I had ever resorted to spanking. “Just terrible. They don’t listen to a word I say.”

  “It’s all in how you say it,” Mildred said. “Not that I can really talk.”

  I spoke up. “I’ve always wanted to ask you why you never had children, Miss Mildred. You’re so good with Angus and all.”

  Mildred got up from the table. And I readied myself for some storytelling, because Miss Mildred always told her big stories as she moved around: like how Jesse David died of diabetes, and why she had come to live with her grandmother at the age of seven, and even the time she developed vocal nodules. “I didn’t want children at first. I had a good career singing, going with the Star Spangled Jammers at good clubs in St. Louis, and New Orleans. High class clubs. And then I met Jesse David.” She began to clear off the dishes, casting a warning glance in my direction, and bobbing a greasy fork up and down when I rose to help.

  I sat back down.

  “Was he a preacher then?” Charmaine asked.

  “Yes, he was. A good one, too.
”

  Not like Duncan, I thought. Duncan categorized himself as a teacher, not a preacher.

  “What is it about preachers?” Charmaine asked. “Why are women so attracted to them? Harlan has women throwing themselves at him, and, although I love him dearly, he ain’t no Mel Gibson.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Duncan doesn’t seem to have that kind of problem.” Now there was food for thought.

  “Not yet.” Mildred kept up her plate gathering. “Just give him time in the ministry.”

  “He hasn’t seasoned yet.” Charmaine’s eyes met Mildred’s, and they laughed.

  I remained clueless.

  “You’ll get it one day, baby,” Mildred assured me. “Some of these church women, they look on the preacher as some kind of Jesus substitute here on earth.”

  Charmaine nodded. “That’s right. All over the pastor, looking to him like he’s got all the answers.”

  “Which he doesn’t,” Mildred said.

  “Nope. Little do they know the man can’t keep an eye on his own keys and loses his wallet at least once a month.”

  That, I could relate to.

  “Duncan hasn’t been in it long enough to develop that authoritative patina,” Mildred said with a smirk.

  “Did the women fawn all over your husband, Sister LaRue?” Charmaine asked.

  “They sure did! And with good reason!”

  Charmaine fiddled with her napkin. “I guess I find it hard to complain about Harlan’s groupies. I was one of them a decade ago. How did you handle that?” she asked Mildred.

  “I didn’t have to handle anything! My Jesse David did all the handling that needed to be done. He was always kind and concerned about his women members, but honey, he let me know in no uncertain terms that he was all mine!”

  We laughed together. Miss Mildred would expect no less of her man.

  “Now,” Mildred said, “if I can only get our current pastor’s wife to stop acting so jealous all the time, I’ll be doing something.”

  “Does she have anything to be jealous about?” I asked, knowing that even nice people got sucked into adultery, too.

  Mildred shrugged. “Maybe Pastor Phelps is a little too familiar acting. I don’t know. But she doesn’t help matters any the way she slinks her arm through his and gazes up at him all googly-eyed and broadcasting for all to hear how wonderful their marriage is all the time.”

  “Yuck,” I said.

  Charmaine said, “It’s like my grandma always said, ‘If you’ve got to flaunt it, you really haven’t got it.’ ”

  Oooh, I liked that one. I’d write it down as soon as I got home. “So anyway, Miss Mildred. What was it you were saying about your career and all?” I definitely didn’t want this conversation to change course for good.

  “Well, I met my Jesse David just as things were really heating up for me and my singing. In fact, it was on the train to New York that we met. I took one look at that man, and my heart”—she placed a long, bony hand against her breast—“it just jumped up into my throat. That man looked good in pinstripes is all I can say!” She closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose to calm herself.

  “So …,” I prompted.

  “So I sat right next to him and started up a conversation. We laughed the entire time north, and when we got to Penn Station I told him where I’d be singing, and he showed up that night wearing that same suit and a big smile. Mmm. That man, so tall and proud looking, made heads turn, I can tell you.”

  “You must have been a striking couple,” Charmaine added. “Harlan and I look as mismatched as a pepper shaker with a powdered sugar duster.”

  Mildred wiped the counters in ambitious, hard circles. “I told him that night after the show, when we were eating cheesecake over in Times Square, that I couldn’t have children. Told him all sorts of stuff like that, like how it had grieved me for years, like how it made me such a good blues singer.”

  I closed my eyes briefly. “Miss Mildred, I’m sorry for bringing that up. I didn’t—”

  Charmaine laid her hand on my arm. “Now, Poppy, you couldn’t have known.”

  Mildred started to chuckle as she poured three mugs of coffee.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “You are. The both of you. If you’d have let me finish, I would have told you that all of that was nothing but lies!” She sat down, sliding a mug to each woman. “As far as I knew then, I could have children like everybody else. But I was scared that night. Scared of the way that man had eaten his way into my soul in such a short time, like some sweet acid that only burned away the rotten parts.”

  She took a sip of her coffee. “Mmm, that’s good. Chickory in there. My own blend.”

  “No Chock Full of Nuts for you, Miss Mildred,” I said.

  Mildred reached behind her to the counter and grabbed a plate of cookies. Store bought. “Sorry about these. Didn’t have time to do a fancy dessert.”

  I grabbed two; Charmaine just sipped on her coffee and smiled apologetically. Well, I had started walking again, so how much could a little dessert hurt? “So you lied? Why?”

  “It was that preacher thing! I wanted him to feel sorry for me for some reason. To give him a reason to reach out to me.”

  “And it backfired, didn’t it?” Charmaine asked.

  “It sure did. I never could tell him the truth.”

  “Oh, Miss Mildred, why?” I felt my stomach turn.

  “Don’t know. I tried to gather nerve, letting him soothe my supposed aching soul. He’d even pray loud and hard in prayer meetings about it. I felt so ashamed. Finally, menopause hit, and then it was just too late.”

  “That’s terrible,” Charmaine said. “Didn’t you get pregnant, though? Just naturally? I know with me, Harlan only had to look at me with a glimmer in his eye and I was pregnant!”

  “I never had any trouble along those lines either,” I said. “I got pregnant on the first month with Paisley, the second month with Robbie, and Angus without even trying.”

  Mildred spooned some sugar into her coffee. “I know. It just never really happened. I guess what I had said in New York had turned out to be the truth.” Mildred’s face fell in a way I’d never seen before. I knew I needed to extend some comfort. But what does one say after a revelation like this? My hand found hers, and thankfully, Charmaine rolled her eyes and said, “Well, motherhood isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes I wish I had stayed single. I’d probably have a Grammy by now and bigger ‘you know whats’ to go along with it!”

  Laughter spilled from each of us. Yep, Charmaine would fit in just fine!

  “Let’s go do what we came to do,” Mildred said, and we obeyed, picking up our mugs and walking into the parlor.

  I passed an old mirror, big and dim and dotted with black flecks, but it was clear enough to see my reflection, the reflection of a middle-aged female with the worst case of towel bangs ever known to womankind.

  Why didn’t Duncan chase me down? Shaking my head, I grabbed an afghan from the couch on the way to the turret room.

  “What are you doing that for?” Mildred asked when we sat down and I draped the blanket over my head and shoulders, dressed up like a Bible woman.

  “Just cold, I guess.”

  This was great. Now I had to pray looking like the sheik of Arabi and feeling utterly embarrassed and jealous while two slim, gorgeous, highly talented women freely petitioned the throne of grace. Just great.

  It amazes me how Satan works sometimes. How he’ll take something little like bangs and enlist them into thievery. Well, they wouldn’t steal my joy tonight. I let the afghan slip, muttered an apology about my hair, and felt a peculiar happiness and relief when Charmaine said, “God doesn’t even see your hair, Poppy.”

  Well, amen to that.

  Fifteen

  A week later I repeated the scene, but with better hair. Charmaine came again, this time bringing the dessert. “Sunny filled me in on how much you love your sweets, Poppy, so I made my mam
a’s hot milk cake for you. I even brought some strawberries to put on top.”

  Sunny filled her in. Oh, that was classic. Maybe I should curb my evening runs to the IGA for a while, lest the mayor, the newspaper editor, or the surgeon general find out.

  “Where did you find the strawberries this time of year?” Mildred asked as she ushered the flamboyant church lady into the kitchen. “And where did you find that green scarf, child!”

  “The Green Grocer over on Mortimer Street for the strawberries, came from South America or something. And y’all should have seen the tomatoes! And the scarf I got at that little place on the square. That gift shop owned by the woman who used to be married to the chief of staff over at Memorial, until he had that affair with that cute little waitress at Barnacle Bill’s.”

  Affairs again. Sheesh. I pushed the thought from my head and decided to concentrate on the superficial, namely their clothing. A great topic for rumination, second only to hair.

  I had dressed up for the occasion, wearing a pair of black, wool, crepe pants and a real cashmere sweater I’d paid a fortune for in the old days, a blush color, almost pink, almost not, imbued the fuzzy threads. The shoes looked good, too, crisp black loafers with a modern heel. Duncan actually bought them for me when we went to the mall one day for the monthly toiletries run during Big B’s sale.

  Charmaine rubbed my arm. “You sure look pretty tonight, Poppy. I love that sweater.” She smiled into my eyes, so I knew she spoke the truth as she saw it.

  Mildred took my light jacket as I sat down. “Let’s face it, we all look pretty fine tonight.”

  “And no men to spoil it,” Charmaine said.

  I raised my glass of water. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “You know, y’all, if our husbands talked about us like we do about them, well, I’d just be so hurt!”

  “Me, too, Charmaine.”

  Mildred flickered her fingers. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I can tell you they don’t. They don’t think about us much when we’re not with them. You can trust me on this one.”