The Church Ladies

by Lisa Samson

  “I’m coming alive again,” she told me that April day.

  “lf you’re going to survive this, Chrissy, it has to begin somewhere.”

  “It scares me, though.”

  I covered up a napping Angus with a towel. “It doesn’t mean you don’t still love Josh … if that’s what you’re worried about, Chrissy.”

  “Gary got me to go on the Internet last night. Did you know that other boys have died in hazings?”

  “Yeah.” I had been all over the Internet when it first happened. Alcohol poisoning killed a lot of college kids on hell night and other nights, too. And reading how much booze it actually took to get to that state boggled my already baffled mind. I read about a blood alcohol content of .68, on a female no less, and wondered how much she must have drank to get there, and how fast she drank it.

  Man, had things changed since I was in college. The kids drank, sure, but not so fast like they do now. They gave their minds enough time to get the signal it was time to stop, time to pass out so no more alcohol could get in. But these days, it didn’t work like that.

  “I checked out Maryland’s hazing laws, Popp. If I pressed charges, those boys will only pay five hundred dollars and spend six months in prison.”

  “That can’t be right, Chris. Wouldn’t they at least get manslaughter? Are you sure those statutes aren’t just for hazing, you know, when the person hazed survives or something?”

  “Maybe.” Chris pushed the old boat faster. “I need to find out more, I guess.”

  “Yeah. Maybe you do.” I wasn’t going to try to talk her out of it. Stitched up with purpose, crusader’s boots walked the path of pain with a bit more cushion.

  “Would you tell me what it was like for you, Popp? In the sorority and stuff?”

  I slipped a pair of sunglasses and some sunblock out of my boat bag, thinking it ludicrous how one went out for a day in the sun and then did everything imaginable to avoid it. “What do you mean? I never went through a hazing. Not like that.”

  “Okay, hardhead. Your initiation then. Tell me about that.”

  I thought about my hell night experience and began to laugh. “It was really just silly, Chris.”

  “Were you drunk?”

  “No. Just one beer. It wasn’t like today, all that binge drinking they do now.” I began to slather on the lotion, comparing my freckled, rounded shoulders to Chris’s tanned, sculptured ones. I pulled down my sunglasses and looked frankly at my friend. “Why do you want to know this? Are you sure you want to hear all of this? Maybe you had better slow the boat down and let us drift for a while.”

  Chris nodded and did as I suggested. She sat down, fingers still tripping along the steering wheel. “I don’t know why I want to know, Popp. Maybe I’m trying to reconstruct his last minutes on earth; maybe I’m trying to understand why he’d subject himself to all that. If it was good, I want to know that, too. I’m just trying to answer a few of the thousands and thousands of questions that won’t stop running through my mind.”

  Dropping the sunblock back in the bag, I pulled out two bottles of Nestea, opened mine and handed one to Chris. “Well, I’d be lying if I said hell night wasn’t scary, Chrissy.”

  She unscrewed the cap, the metal lid popping as air rushed beneath it. “What did you have to do?”

  I felt sick to my stomach, remembering the embarrassment, wondering what Chris would think of me after I told her. I’d always been proud I’d been a sorority girl, but hadn’t ever divulged the facts surrounding my initiation. Well, here goes, I thought, remembering how I’d said to Chris, over and over again, if you need anything, I’m here. “It was stupid, I guess. We had to go to the bathroom of the sorority house and strip down.”

  “Naked?”

  I nodded, feeling even more ridiculous. I’d had a sweet, lithe, pert body back then, but I couldn’t help remembering the scene as though I possessed my present, more dimply state. “They threw cans of fruit and soup and well, anything canned all over us.”

  “Soup?” Chris’s face wrinkled. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I know that because I remember a blob of cream of celery condensed hitting me right on the forehead.”

  Chris nodded and sipped her tea. “I’ve always wondered why you hated cream of celery.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s why. So in between the food and all, they doused us in ice water.”

  “That must have been the worst.”

  I shook my head. “No, the food was worse. And when you’re naked …” I let that sink in. “All slimy and stuff. I was actually relieved when a good bucketful hit me.”

  “So you were scared?”

  “Yeah, I was. Because I knew it was the first pass, and there was more to come.”

  Chris gripped the steering wheel. “You know, I guess the question we outsiders always ask is, why? Why would you try to get into a sorority in the first place if you knew you’d have to be embarrassed like that?”

  “I guess it’s because it’s an honor to be in a sorority It’s exclusive by its very nature. We were only able to be humiliated because the house thought we could cut it.”

  “I don’t understand that kind of thing.” Chris shook her head. “Maybe it’s a rich girl thing.”

  “Oh, Chris …” I sighed.

  “Sorry. But you are a snob, Popp.” Chris grinned. “So what did they do next?”

  “Well, we were allowed to get on our bras and underpants, and one at a time we went down to the basement and sat on tubs of ice. And they screamed obscenities at us and ridiculed us.”

  Chris’s mouth dropped open. “Wasn’t it horrible?”

  “Yes! A couple of the girls were really mean about it, too. They were sophomores.” I winked.

  Chris laughed. “Now that I understand.”

  “Didn’t you experience anything this excruciating at Liberty?”

  “Yeah.” Chris nodded. “Having to listen to the LBC Singers week after week in chapel.” She rolled her eyes and looked like herself for the first time in months.

  I stood up and hugged her. “Oh, Chrissy,” I whispered. “I love you.”

  “Well, I love you, too, Poppy.”

  “Was their singing that bad?”

  “Oh no. They sang great! It just looked like their features were doing gymnastics, they tried to put so much expression on them. Like, what does a nineteen-year-old really know about grace?”

  “I guess we all have our trials.”

  Chris slugged down the remainder of her tea. “So did it work?”

  “What, hell night and all?”

  “Yeah. I mean, what was the upside to it?”

  “The next morning we were all sisters. The girls that had been so mean threw a big party, and we dressed up and danced, and it was wonderful. And we pledge sisters had really bonded in our adversity.”

  “I still don’t understand it, Popp. I guess I probably won’t. How could you not feel animosity toward those who had ridiculed you?”

  “Maybe it was because they had gone through it, too. I don’t know. Thing is, Chrissy, some girls and boys can take that sort of thing, and others can’t. I’m not sure why that is.”

  “I guess it’s like anything.” Chris threw her bottle into the trash bag. “Can I drive fast again?”

  “Go on, lady.”

  Chris sped the boat around the lake until the gas meter sagged low against the left side of the dial.

  “You wanna go down to Java Jane’s for a latte?” I asked.

  Chris stiffened and turned on me. “Good grief, Poppy. What makes you think I’m ready for a latte?”

  Chris’s comment haunted me the rest of the day. What does a nineteen-year-old really know about grace? I guess it’s true overall, but if I look back at myself at age nineteen and compare it to myself right now, I think I knew more about grace then. I trusted more, and I was willing to give of myself freely and with joy.

  There’s that verse in the Bible that says we are justified freely by the grace of Je
sus through the redemption He provided. I’ve heard the saying “the greater the sin, the greater the grace.” I used to believe it. But now, I believe grace is always great. It can’t be made lesser because we’ve acted a little bit better than someone else. Does Chrissy still hold fast to grace like she did before? I don’t know how she feels about it now. And I’m afraid to ask.

  God’s grace is manifested everyday, though. I know that. When I picked up Angus at the church, I asked Duncan if there was anything I could do to help him. The overt surprise in his eyes was my shame, the delight that replaced it my glory. Well, God’s glory. Only His grace would have made it possible for me to even ask the question. So he asked me if I could address the cards he had to send out that week. My goodness! I had no idea. Birthday, anniversary, get-well, sympathy to a member’s mother on the West Coast, and a couple of congratulations cards.

  I read each note penned inside by my husband’s hand. Talk about grace.

  Duncan certainly knew what he was doing in buying me the Subaru. Angus loved being able to climb in easily, Robbie rode along with us more often, and Duncan suggested drives now.

  Every morning when I left for my walk, I’d pat the little green car on its hood and be on my way. Chris joined me now, post Java Jane’s. Though I walked twice as far now, I ate twice as much. Always behind the weight curve.

  Man.

  Tomorrow, May began, always a milestone for me, like spring had finally stuck. I slugged down my coffee and met Chris in the town square. It was the first time for such open walking. Usually we’d go down Route 45, past Miss Mildred’s homestead and on up Tweed Road toward Highland Kirk. But today I suggested we meet at six-thirty, walk for a while, and eat breakfast at Bill D’s. Chris had surprisingly agreed.

  It would be her first meal out.

  She looked beautiful walking across the park to where I sat on the steps of the octagonal bandstand. The yellow sundress Chris wore pierced the dimness of the early morning, echoing the first bit of sunrise. It promised to be a pale sunrise today, not raging or glorious. Just regular and nice. I have a lot to say for regular and nice.

  She waved from about ten yards away. “Hi, Poppy!”

  I got up. “Ready?”

  She breathed in deeply. “Yeah.”

  “Big step.”

  “I know.”

  So we began to walk.

  “Can we still go out Route 45 and just end up in town this time?” Chris asked.

  “Yeah. But you’re not going to back out on breakfast are you?”

  “No. I promise. I just don’t want to run into any church people. Or not many, anyway. They won’t understand how I can be out walking and still not coming to services.”

  “Forget about them,” I said with a laugh.

  Chris shook her head. “One day you’re going to accept the parameters of your position as a pastor’s wife, Poppy.”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t see how I can. Not like that, anyway.” I thought about that duck with the water rolling off its back. Like that would ever happen!

  Ten minutes later we walked along Route 45, a two-lane road with farms on either side. Some woods, too.

  “Who’s going to watch Angus during breakfast?”

  “Robbie. He doesn’t have class until eleven today. Duncan will get him his breakfast and all before he leaves.”

  “Okay.”

  I understood her concern. Chris was still a mother, but without someone to worry about. If she wanted Angus for that, well, fine with me.

  Mildred LaRue suddenly blew by us in her green Impala. She slammed the brakes on the cyclone, the car screeching in response. And then she backed up with a jammed down accelerator. It took all of my self-control not to jump into the ditch beside the road.

  “Hey, Miss Mildred!” I called as the passenger side window of the iguanamobile rolled smoothly down.

  “Hey there, you all. Hey, Christine. How you doing?”

  “Hi, Miss Mildred. I’m doing all right.”

  Chris knew Miss Mildred from Creator’s Corner.

  “We been praying.”

  “Yeah, I know, thanks. Poppy told me.”

  “Maybe you want to come along with Penelope sometimes. It’s good to hear the prayers firsthand. You know?”

  Chris smiled. “Yeah, maybe I’ll just do that sometime.”

  Mildred cocked an eyebrow at me. “Doesn’t sound like much commitment in that remark, does it, Penelope?”

  “Nope.”

  “You listen here, Christine. Penelope here can’t push you much, you being her best friend and all, but I’m telling you this, you need to allow yourself some more support.”

  “Yes, Miss Mildred.”

  “I mean it!”

  “So where you heading off to, Miss Mildred?” I asked.

  Mildred shook her head and jerked a thumb at me. “There she goes, changing the subject on me again. I’m headed down to church. Ladies meeting with the Reverend Mrs. Thing leading. Talking about submitting to authority. And guess who’s the authority? I’m gonna try and put out any fires before they hit full blaze.”

  “Good luck.”

  Mildred leaned forward. “Will you be there tonight?”

  It was Monday. “Of course.”

  Mildred shook a finger at Chris. “You should listen to me. I’m not this old for nothing. What’s your favorite dinner?”

  “Roast beef with mashed potatoes and green beans,” Chris said.

  “Well, funny you should say that, because that’s what’s for dinner. Six o’clock!” She sped away, rolling up her window as she went, dust puffing from underneath the wheels.

  “If my memory serves me correctly,” Chris said, “that woman doesn’t quite know how to take no for an answer, does she?”

  “You got that right.”

  “And if I don’t come, she may very well be on my doorstep at 6:10 asking why I’m not there yet.”

  “You’re right there, too.”

  Chris sighed and we walked on. “Maybe it would be good to come. Do you think Gary would mind?”

  “I think he’d do back handsprings.”

  Chris laughed. “He could, too, you know. He can still do all that stuff.”

  “I know.”

  Silence enfolded us. There had been a lot of silence the past few months, but this felt different. It was back to the same quiet togetherness we’d known since we were three years old.

  “Chrissy?” I asked later at Bill D’s where we sat in the deserted back room.

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you think of God now?”

  She stared at me for a moment. “I know I should say the spiritually mature thing here, Popp. But it would be a lie. Have you ever read the book of Job?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, you know how he curses everything but God? The day he was born, the light, the this, the that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m sorry for asking, but—”

  “It’s okay. But from anyone else but you or Gary or Duncan, I would have been offended.”

  I knew what she meant. Only a lot of years earned anyone the right to ask questions like that. “Does it scare you that you may always feel this way?”

  “Sometimes. But there are more books than Job, Poppy. And even Job’s life is restored tenfold.” She pushed away her half-eaten plate of food. “You want to know the only thing that gives me any comfort these days?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded.

  “It’s that I’ll see him again. I’ll see Josh again. I know that as surely as I know he isn’t here with me now.”

  Heaven must be a wonderful place, I’ve always reasoned. I’ve got a list a mile long of saints I want to have a conversation with during eternity. David, Paul, Peter, Jonah (I really relate to Jonah), Pascal, John Calvin, C. S. Lewis, and especially Rembrandt. And now I’ve got Josh to add to this list. Eternity is a long time. We’ll have many more conversations together, me and Josh. If only
I could talk to him now and have so many of my questions answered.

  Seventeen

  I picked Chris up at five-forty-five, tooling along to an old Billy Joel CD. One of the kudos of the new car I had failed to foresee was the renewed ability to belt out my favorite songs at the top of my lungs. It had never really been about having the technological capacity for such an activity so much as not looking like an idiot. Who wants to scream out “Allentown” in a putty-patched van? I certainly didn’t, but now, well, I’d taken my little zippered CD case out of my studio and put it in the Subaru.

  The studio was little used anyway these days.

  Jesus said, “Take up your cross and follow Me.” But sometimes I think taking up our cross means laying something else down. Like paints and brushes. Who was I trying to fool anyway? Yes, I’d laid down my paints, but the cross I carried was pretend, for show even.

  Of course, all the women welcomed Chris, and she became the star that night, and well she should have been. India still didn’t pray, but she did bring along a friend, a friend with a white Saab convertible.

  Oh, well, it wasn’t as if my Subaru ever had anything over the ladybug.

  “This is Joanna,” India said when Chris and I walked into the room.

  Joanna held out a slender hand from where she sat at the dining room table. Good, we’d outgrown the kitchen. I noticed the nails brushed with a very soft, pearlescent pink. Understated yet feminine. Definitely the work of the Korean man down at Love Nails in the tiny strip shopping center across from the mall. “Joanna Jones-Fletcher. And you must be Poppy Fraser. India’s told me a lot about you.”

  I couldn’t imagine what that could be. “It’s good you could come.” I turned to face the rest of the women. “Everybody, this is Chris.”

  Chris gave a little wave, her face reddening. “Thanks, you guys,” she said softly. “For praying and everything.”

  “Of course you know Miss Mildred. This is Charmaine Hopewell.”

  Charmaine squeezed Chris’s forearm. “Hey, Chris. Praise the Lord you’re here with us tonight.”

  “This is Sunny.”

  “Hey, ma’am.”

  Chris turned to me at the “ma’am.”

  “This is India.”

  India stood to her feet, her chair felling back onto the floor. “Oh, brother!” she cried cheerfully and bent to pick it up. “I’m a klutz. Nice to meet you.”