The Church Ladies

by Lisa Samson

  Her wide smile dazzled me. Mildred’s smiles are like gift-wrapped little packages from the Almighty, sent down as if to say, “See, as long as people are smiling like this, how bad can it be?”

  Gosh, I love that woman.

  “Mmm, mmm. Billy Holiday. Sarah Vaughn. Don’t feel like listening to those other women. What else we got?” Her fingers flipped the discs. “Oh yes. Oh yes, here is the one. Cookin’ with the Miles Davis Quintet.” She slid it out of the sleeve and opened the glove box, the still clean glove box. “Now where in the name of heaven do you put this thing in?”

  I began to chuckle.

  “What are you laughing at?” Mildred asked.

  “I’m not laughing. I’m basking in the moment.”

  “What for?”

  “I think this is the first time that you’ve got the question and I’ve got the answer.”

  “Well, enjoy it then.” Mildred shut the glove box. “But don’t get so happy you forget about this CD.”

  I took it from her and slid it into the narrow, horizontal slit just above the radio’s face.

  The sweet trilling piano began to speak, a soft base undergirding its mellow dialect. And then the tenor sax arrived and took over the conversation. “My Funny Valentine.” Soft, candied strains of love. Taffy notes, chocolate timing, conversation hearts all wrapped up in a papered box with a bow the size of St. Louis.

  Mildred oozed back into the seat. “Now this, Penelope Huebner, is what I call classical music.”

  The piano responded again to the sax. I love you, too, baby.

  The sax was still emoting when we arrived at the boathouse. The lot brimmed with cars and trucks, and other stragglers scurried in with blank faces designed to hide sheepish embarrassment.

  Mildred made us finish out the song. “You don’t just leave off in the middle of ‘My Funny Valentine,’ Penelope,” she said. “It’s like playing a seven-note scale.”

  The Crazy Days of May ushered in the tourist season. Sort of. Summer locals from around the state who came to clean up their condos and air out their vacation houses before the renters began trickling in during early June spent a lot of dough at Crazy Days. Travel agencies scheduled bus trips around the festival as well. Twenty-thousand attendees would mill around during the day. The town clogged with people; the streets seethed with visitors. But the local churches and businesses raised big money, with 15 percent of the proceeds going to a selected charity. This year we’d chosen Parents without Partners. A few of the more legalistic churches had raised a fit at that particular planning meeting last fall. Thankfully, Miss Poole had felt good that day, and I didn’t have to sit through it alone.

  “Why should we condone divorce?” the wife of the pastor at Oakwood Road Holiness said.

  The priest from the Episcopals, India’s boss, had shot the dissenters down in a very sixties, hippie manner as he stood up in his hiking sandals and climbing shorts, crowned with a priestly shirt. Talk about a fashion faux pas. But the “Hey, mans” and the “social justice” bit seemed somewhat over the top. The guy desperately needed a vocabulary overhaul, judging by the look on the old-timers’ faces, who seemed to have no earthly idea what he was even talking about.

  When they’d tallied the votes, the majority went for Parents without Partners anyway.

  As Mildred and I walked into the meeting room, the sun setting over Lake Coventry enflamed the sky to a fuming hue. I love that brilliant, glowing shade of red-orange more than any other I ever use for my paintings. It speaks to my soul, matches the fire, the agitation. But yet, it is a God color, so it soothes in a way, telling me God loves me even at my most difficult. It tells me that God actually uses difficult, sore colors like bloody reds and bruised purples to His glory, so why couldn’t He use people like that?

  He could. I saw evidence all the time that I was being used by Him despite my appalling attitude and my secret sins. So why were the Holiness people any different? When that verse talks about vessels used for dishonor and vessels used for honor, it doesn’t say the honorable use vessels are necessarily gorgeous, and we know for sure, since there are none righteous, no not one, they aren’t perfect either.

  Of course the room had been set up backwards, so we walked in just behind the podium. Good grief. All eyes fell upon us as we entered the room.

  The entire “who’s who” of Mount Oak suddenly stared at us as we slithered in late! Talk about humbling.

  Miss Poole glared at me, plunking down her cavernous, black woven leather purse on the empty seat next to her. Why she didn’t inhabit one of the chairs behind the podium, I didn’t know, but I knew by the set of the maven’s jaw that she was clearly unhappy about it. To make matters worse, the chairs of honor supported Methodists, a sure thing to put Highland Kirk’s hip resident control freak into a real old-fashioned tizzy.

  Joanna Jones-Fletcher sat facing the group, wearing something very Talbotish in charcoal gray. She winked smoothly at us.

  Mildred, of course, walked in like the Queen of Sheba making half the people in the room feel as if they had been too early. Too bad she’d chosen a scarf and not a boa. If I had half her panache, I’d be selling at galleries in New York.

  “Is that Jeanelle up at the podium?” I asked Mildred as we sat down.

  “Sure is.”

  “She got all of her hair cut off this winter. Now why didn’t Robbie tell me that?”

  “Because he’s a twenty-one-year-old boy?” Mildred whispered.

  A practical woman in a flared aqua skirt and a white polo shirt, the lady who ran the dunking booth the year before for the Catholic church, turned around and shushed us. Oh, shush, yourself. This isn’t a national summit or anything.

  “I’ll read out who’s doing what,” said Jeanelle, in charge of the food stands this year. “Barnacle Bill’s will be doing crab cakes again. I’m doing burgers and dogs, of course. Josef is going to do French pastries and croque monsieur.” She pronounced it mon-sire. “And two churches asked to do the Boston cream pies.”

  Asked?

  I could smell trouble burning like dried leaves in a rusty old barrel.

  A buzz erupted within the group of ladies from Mount Zion Christian Church. What could this woman be saying, I imagined their inner thoughts. We’ve been doing the Boston cream pies for twenty-five years! Or however long it had been.

  Jeanelle, a self-proclaimed New Ager, cleared her throat. “I’ve always thought change isn’t a bad thing. So I’ve given the chance to do the Boston cream pies to the Highland Kirk.”

  What? Given the chance? This wasn’t some competition! I thought we were just being nice! I thought I was doing the Christian thing back in September when I volunteered Highland to take the food stand with the most grueling preparation. I felt my heart speed up, and I stole a look at Miss Poole, whose chin had tilted up, a smug smile pulling her mouth down.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I mumbled. “She’s actually enjoying it.”

  Mildred chuckled.

  “Yeah, you go ahead and laugh, Mildred LaRue. Just you wait until you find out the Hallelujah Baptist has been bumped from doing the fried chicken!”

  “They wouldn’t dare!” Mildred whispered harshly.

  A minute later Jeanelle said, “And since the ladies at Hallelujah can make the best fried chicken this side of the Mason Dixon, we’ll keep them just where they are.”

  That, naturally, made one of the Mount Zion members spring to her feet. I couldn’t believe no one had given them a heads up. The tiny woman with a case of severe scoliosis and hair the color of old snow in a coal town, cried in a New York City accent, “So then, you’re saying we didn’t do a good job on the Boston cream pies last year? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Wow. How in the world did this woman end up in Mount Oak?

  “No, Miss Betty,” Jeanelle said, “I’m not. It’s just that I thought it was time for you all to get a little break—”

  “But the Hallelujah ladies have been doing fried chicke
n for just the same amount of time! Am I right or am I right, Missus LaRue?”

  And she sounded like a female mafia don, too.

  Mildred said, “Mmn, hmn.”

  Jeanelle reddened, her fingers clearly itching for a cigarette. “Look, we had our reasons. Nothing you should take personal offense over.”

  “Well, how else are we supposed to take this?” the little lady said. She turned and pointed a finger at me. “You should be ashamed of yourself! Stealing people’s booths like that. It just figures the Presbyterians would do something like that! You think that just because God chose you, you can walk all over people!”

  I felt my eyes swell to the size of lemons. Doctrinal accusations in a public forum! And in front of nonbelievers to boot! I looked at Mildred with a “What in the world do I do now?” expression. Mildred laid a strong hand on my arm.

  “Now, ladies,” Jeanelle said. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

  Colonel Bougie of the Colonel’s Kitchen stood to his feet and swept an arm over the entire group. “I don’t know why we have to have the churches involved at all! It’s the same thing every single YEAR! These people are nothing more than a four-star pain in the patooty. You people are more trouble than you’re worth, that’s for sure.”

  “Now just a minute, Colonel,” the hip Episcopalian said. India’s boss man. “To castigate the entire Christian community of Mount Oak because some misguided women—”

  “Misguided!” yelled Lady Mount Zion of New York. “Well, who gave you the right to judge?”

  Joanna Jones-Fletcher stood to her feet and politely moved Jeanelle aside. “Excuse me, folks.” Her voice was modulated with a womanly firmness. “I know how competitive the churches are around here, but this is for a good cause. If we could maybe just put aside our differences for an hour, please? Remember, this is all for a very good cause.”

  I felt sick.

  And then Marc Tipton stood to his feet. “I’d just like to say something on that note,” he requested respectfully.

  Joanna pointed to him. “Yes, Marc.” Then she shuffled her notes.

  I gazed at him in wonder. Just plain huge, this guy weighed in at a good three hundred and fifty pounds at least. And I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. I had pictured Sunny’s husband along the Southern, athletic boy kind of line.

  “A few of us more conservative churches have gotten together and discussed the possibility of our proceeds going to a different charity besides Parents without Partners.”

  “I’m sorry.” Joanna shook her head. “But that really isn’t possible. We’ve already discussed this.”

  “What about Big Brothers and Sisters?” he asked, and I had to give him credit for at least trying.

  “It will be twice the paperwork, and quite frankly, Marc, I have to wonder whether or not you all can actually agree on an alternative charity anyway.”

  Colonel Bougie clapped, and several others joined in.

  “Preach it!” someone yelled from behind me.

  Oh, brother. Kingdom living at its finest.

  Marc stood to his feet. “Well, then,” he said with a sigh, “I guess we won’t be participating this year.”

  “Us either.” The pastor from Calvary Independent spoke. “I don’t mean to cause such friction, but it’s just a matter of principle. I hope there aren’t any hard feelings, y’all.”

  They walked out a minute later, their wives trailing behind, red faced and looking down at their sensible shoes. Poor Sunny. I don’t know how she bore the embarrassment. Unless of course, she agreed with Marc and felt if she didn’t take a stand now, when would she?

  “What do you think of that?” I whispered to Mildred.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, baby. And that’s just the fact.”

  When I walked out later hearing some guy holding a motorcycle helmet say, “I wish those church people would just butt out of the public domain,” I almost yelled a hearty, “Amen to that!” I whispered it to Mildred instead.

  But Mildred wiped away a small tear. “People got a right to live by their consciences, Penelope. Just ’cause you think you’re right doesn’t give you the right to disrespect your brothers and sisters in the Lord.”

  “But they’re dragging us all down with them!”

  “No, they’re not. The only person that can drag you down is yourself. If the town decides to use a broad brush to paint us all, that’s their own narrow-mindedness. Narrow-mindedness works both ways, Penelope.”

  Well, that sure enough was God’s honest truth, and I literally meant that.

  It all still made me mad, though.

  When I pulled into the drive, Mildred laid a hand on my arm. “ ‘Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought,’ ” she quoted, “ ‘but rather think of yourself with sober judgment.’ ”

  “Where’s that found?”

  “Romans 12:3.”

  See, Miss Mildred knows where verses are found, which pretty much explains why she was the one telling me what God wanted me to hear.

  I persuaded her to come in for a cup of Lipton tea and some slice and bake Toll House cookies. Duncan joined us in the living room, taking a cookie from the plate as he sat down on the couch next to Miss Mildred. “So you survived, huh?”

  “Barely. Want some tea?” I asked him as I poured out a cup for Mildred.

  A chuckle from Mildred accompanied his nod. “What happened?”

  We told him.

  “How come you’re not up there on the executive committee, Miss Mildred?” he asked. “You’ve been in Mount Oak all your life.”

  Mildred set down her cup. “Did you see any black folk up there, Penelope?”

  “No.” I set down mine. “None.”

  “And you won’t either.”

  “But you’re an institution around here,” Duncan said.

  “That doesn’t matter. There’s an old guard here in Mount Oak, Pastor Fraser. And I’m not going to beat my head against a wall trying to sink to their level.”

  Go, Miss Mildred.

  “How come you’ve never moved away? To Memphis or New Orleans or someplace?” I asked.

  “This is home. Grandpop didn’t leave Mount Oak, and he had good reason to. If he could stick it out, so can I.”

  “Don’t you feel like fighting, though, sometimes?”

  “Sometimes standing firm is fighting, Popp,” Duncan said.

  “You got that right, Pastor Fraser.”

  It’s hard for me to imagine anyone disrespecting Mrs. Mildred LaRue. And it’s hard for me to imagine anyone consciously deciding not to make good use of her wisdom. Surely it was their loss. But not mine. God spoke to me through Miss Mildred’s wisdom, and I wouldn’t trade her friendship to sit next to anyone in this world, but Jesus.

  Nineteen

  To say that the Crazy Days of May went downhill from there would be like saying Picabo Street does a little skiing. The Highland Kirk woke up two mornings after the meeting with its new plate glass window dulled by a patina of egg.

  I couldn’t imagine the Mount Zion people resorting to such mischief. Not even Don Betty.

  “I think it was Miss Poole’s doing,” Duncan said with a glint in his eye.

  Arranging grapes on his plate, next to the Fritos of course, I said, “Oh, Duncan, get serious for a minute.”

  He winked. “She’s always been against that window, Popp.”

  “Well, so have I, but that doesn’t mean I threw a bunch of eggs at it.”

  “Hmm. Now that you mention that, I guess you are a viable suspect.”

  I set the plate down in front of him and yanked open the refrigerator door. It just wasn’t a tuna salad day for me. Duncan loved it, and normally I did, too, but … ah, there it sat behind the Nestles Qwik, a Styrofoam container of chili, laced with sour cream and grated cheese and some chopped green onion for color. Duncan had taken Angus out to Chuckie Cheese the night before so I had gone over to the IGA’s hot food bar. I’d run into Sunny, as I hoped I wou
ld, and the two of us ended up having coffee and pie at Bill D’s.

  Duncan shoved at least seven Fritos in his mouth as I shoved the chili into the microwave.

  “But you gotta admit, the timing is just too perfect.” Duncan carefully picked up his sandwich so the tuna salad wouldn’t fall out. “She just jumped on the chance to do it and have it seem like it came from an outside source.”

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest and laughed. “Can you just picture Magda and Ira out there winding up? But when it comes right down to it, does it really matter who did it? I would think that the best scenario would be Miss Poole.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because then it means our entire town isn’t beyond hope.”

  Duncan took a big bite of sandwich and pushed it into the side of his mouth. “I heard things were a little tense yesterday at the softball game between Mount Zion and St. Edmund’s Episcopal. And Gary told me it wasn’t much better at their game with the Methodists.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. One guy pushed the catcher on Gary’s team.”

  “What was that all about?”

  Duncan shrugged. “He told me the two were sports rivals going all the way back to junior high school.”

  “Still.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve never much cared for church league sports anyway.” I watched the cheese beginning to melt into the chili. “I’m not quite sure of the reasoning behind their existence.”

  “Just allows for some camaraderie, I guess. A place to set aside doctrinal differences and just fellowship. It’s not much different than you ladies getting together for dinner and such.”

  “Maybe I just don’t understand it because I’m not the athletic type.”

  “Don’t be too harsh on it. Church league is the kind of place where a guy who can’t play ball really well can drive up from work, get out on the diamond in his hard shoes and find some acceptance.”

  “Too bad the world can’t see that then.”

  “Now city league, that’s the cutthroat place.”

  I shook my head. “Maybe we should just pull out of the festival altogether.”

  Angus walked into the room, trailing a silky scarf behind him. “Is my lunch ready?” He stuck his thumb in his mouth. Never mind that he’d never been a thumb sucker before this. Oh, well.