The Church Ladies

by Lisa Samson

  “Yep.” I reached into the fridge and pulled out a plate of grapes and cheese cubes. “Sit down, buddy. I’ll pour you some milk.” It was my newest mission. The “Get Protein inside Angus” crusade.

  “I don’t think we should pull out,” Duncan said. “But I do have a mind to go to Mount Zion and tell them we’d love for them to have the Boston cream pies back.”

  “Isn’t that something to bring before the session?”

  “It should be. But you know Calvin Jesters is right there in Miss Poole’s back pocket. And George May is his best friend.”

  Man, I thought.

  We Presbyterians are always so proud of our church government, but at times like this, well, I wished for a more Baptist, patriarchal kind of system. I wished Duncan had some ex cathedra kind of power, possessed blazing, intimidating eyes, a strong voice, and weak deacons. And hair swept up in a pompadour wouldn’t be all bad either. “Are you willing to take a risk like that? You’ve always been so careful.”

  And he looked up at me then, his eyes peering into mine, then widening, then going back to normal. The right side of his mouth lifted a bit, and he took my hand. “I’ll be okay.”

  “It could mean your job.”

  “Maybe. But I’ve been around the block a few times, babe. This one isn’t a field they’ll be willing to die on.” He picked his sandwich back up. “You know, Popp, from what I can tell, this stuff has always been running under the surface in this town. Does all this really surprise you?”

  “Well, no. But that makes it even worse.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s like it’s expected of us to act like this.”

  Duncan nodded. “Well, we don’t have to feed into the stereotype, do we?”

  “With Miss Poole around, you just might not have a choice.”

  Angus sat up straight. “We always have a choice, don’t we, Mama?”

  I shook my head. “Sometimes we think we do, but that’s pretty much all you can really say for sure.” I turned toward my husband who was shaking his head at my fatalism. “Go over to Mount Zion.”

  “All hades will break loose,” he said.

  I dug my spoon into the chili. “Or all heaven will. Maybe God’s going to surprise us.”

  Duncan laughed. “He’s good at that.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said with a nod. “Much too good for the likes of a girl like me.”

  Duncan shook his head. “You say the weirdest things sometimes, Poppy.”

  I make it a rule never to interfere in my husband’s business. But how could a quick visit to Poole Point hurt? I’d go as “one of the girls” with a “Well, you know” attitude. Conspiratorial. A “Duncan would kill me if he found out I was here” thing.

  Which was actually quite true.

  Bringing Angus should provide some sort of buffer, I reasoned after lunch. So after calling Miss Poole, I told him to grab one of his little history biographies, Molly Pitcher or something, and wash his face and hands. A smidge of guilt crept over me, but I figured that a bit of payback was fine once in a while. After all the diapers I’d changed, the baths I’d given, the meals I’d fixed him, the social events I’d missed because everyone else was busy and I couldn’t find a sitter, after all of that, he could be a warm body, reading in a chair, oblivious to the fact that he was being used as a human shield, warding off the fiery darts of Miss Magda Poole.

  “Cool,” Angus said from the back seat. “Her name wasn’t really Molly Pitcher at all.” We drove down the wooded, private lane to the end of Poole Point. The house had been sitting there for one hundred and fifty years, a quarter mile from Tweed Creek.

  Magda Poole’s father, a real jokester according to the townspeople, had renamed it Poole Hall when he’d bought it. Before that it had been something like Haddonhurst or Thistlethwaite or something old English, dreary, and likely to be found in a Victoria Holt or Frances Hodgeson Burnett story.

  Obviously, Miss Poole had been desperately in favor of the man-made Lake Coventry idea, for the old mansion now hovered on blue waters. I heard tell that time period had been the most vulnerable in the old woman’s life. She ‘made so much money just on the real estate deals alone.

  “I always thought that Molly Pitcher was her real name, Gus.”

  “Nope, that was her nickname from giving the soldiers water and all.”

  A loosely buckled lane flowed newly tarred beneath the wheels of my car. Black walnut trees on either side held hands overhead like a long square dance line of dryads. Do-si-do and a hey nonny no.

  Or something like that.

  Poole Point reminded me of a shrunk Tower of London, as though someone had transported it across the pond and dropped it onto the mossy lawns. Miss Poole deserved a lot of credit. The woman knew how to make the most of her heavy stone house. Trumpet vines in a broad range of animated hues clung to the stones, hiding much of the drear and attracting hummingbirds. Fruit trees placed near the corners of the building shed their final petals in perfumed flurries. It must have had a wonderful display just a couple of days ago when the grasses looked as if the tender greens of spring had suddenly been overtaken by a snowy quilt of pink and white.

  And then an idea arose.

  “That’s it!” I snapped my fingers as the car came to a stop.

  “What, Mama?”

  “I’ll offer to do a watercolor of Poole Point.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Angus couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice. I wasn’t about to ask what he thought I was going to say.

  The door opened before we’d climbed the hewn stone steps. Miss Poole herself greeted us. “Penny! Come in! Angus, sweet pea! I was hoping you’d come, too. Ira’s got Nintendo set up for you in the library.”

  Ira, her large, dependable servant, was actually her “gentleman’s gentleman.” “I know I’m a woman,” Miss Poole explained the first time we’d gone to Poole Point for dinner. “But Ira served Daddy, and I can’t imagine calling him anything else.”

  I love Ira. There he stood in his crisp suit at the back of the foyer with a huge, swirly lollipop in one hand. To my surprise he handed it to me.

  “Ira! You old sweetie.”

  “Hey, what about me?” Angus cried.

  Ira picked him up and set him on his shoulders. “Just wait until you get into the library. I’ve got an entire tray of goodies set up for you.”

  “Stellar!” the boy cried, and I felt my skin redden. We’d been studying about outer space lately. Unfortunately, Angus didn’t really understand what rang truly cool and what didn’t. “Stellar” sounded nerdlike, plain and simple, but I couldn’t bear to tell him otherwise.

  Miss Poole led me back into the conservatory that overlooked the lake. What a shame she felt obliged to run things at Highland Kirk, because other than that, I admired this old soul. She never married, and how incredibly wise was that? She lived her life completely on her own terms. And those outfits! Well, today she wore one of those long, full denim skirts, espadrilles that tied around the ankle, and an oversized, white linen shin that came from the men’s department or more probably, some tailor’s shop up in New York or down in Atlanta.

  The earrings, some kind of Indian head nickels hanging low down from her lobes, strung onto a silver nail with lapis lazuli and rudely carved amethysts, brushed the soft folds of her neck.

  “I had Ira fix us some coffee. I’m normally a tea drinker; love that extra bit of civilization; however, when someone’s a coffee drinker, well, that’s that, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, I like tea, too.”

  “But you prefer coffee.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, then.”

  The afternoon sun warmed the conservatory, a glass room with an India-style dome. Massive planters bubbled over with ferns and fronds and palms and plants I’d never seen but looked as if one touch would draw blood. Just by walking in the room I experienced what I supposed a hot flash might feel like.

  And there rested two cups of steaming ho
t coffee!

  Concentrate on the view, Popp. That cool lake, the pines, the blue sky, how much cooler life will be once the Boston cream pies are back where they belong.

  I plucked a handkerchief out of my purse and wiped my forehead. “Thanks for agreeing to see me right away, Miss Poole. And you really didn’t have to go to all of this trouble.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble.” She indicated a heavy, forged iron table and chairs in the corner that looked like they belonged in an Italian garden.

  We sat down.

  “Now, what’s this about? Or are you here to apologize for being late to the meeting the other night?”

  “Well, no. I—”

  “You know, it makes our church look bad when someone is late like that. Especially to a community function.”

  “Actually—”

  “Naturally, I made apologies to the food committee the next day. I told them you’d been a bit frazzled lately, what with having to deal with that husband of yours and all, day after day.”

  “Miss Poole, please.” I felt heat not only from the outside in now, but from the inside out. Sweat shellacked my back, slicking up the smooth surface beneath my shirt. “I’ve come to talk about the Boston cream pies.”

  “Oh, that!” The maven waved a hand. “It’s all been taken care of.”

  “You mean with the ladies of Mount Zion?”

  “Who cares what they think? They’re not even a mainline denomination.”

  “Well, they are sisters in Christ.”

  “Oh, pah! The truth is, Highland Kirk had Boston cream pies years ago when we called the festival May Days in Mount Oak. They were the ones that stole it in the first place.”

  “But that was twenty-five years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Which makes it high time we get it back!”

  “But Miss Poole—”

  “No, Penny. It’s time to have it back! Besides you were the one who started this whole thing anyway.”

  Whoa.… I decided to try a different tack. “Well, what about our Christian testimony with the townspeople?”

  “Oh, come on, Penny.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s time we started treating each other with a little more respect.”

  “That’s all well and good, my dear. But you’re new to this town. You have no idea how far this all goes back.”

  I took a sip of my coffee. “Which just goes to show that maybe it’s time for it to stop.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “It is if you want it to be.”

  “Well, maybe I enjoy a bit of controversy.”

  I sighed, trying to find a new angle. Not that it would matter. So be it then. Duncan could just go on over to the Mount Zioners, give them back the Boston cream pies and live to rue the day. So be it. He was on his own. “All right then. Just trying to keep the peace.”

  “That’s not your job, Penny.”

  I didn’t like Miss Poole at all right now.

  “Shall we talk about something else?” the elderly lady asked.

  “I just have one question. What started all of this dissention, or doesn’t anybody know?”

  “Oh, that’s easy to answer! It was the annual all-church Christmas concert back in 1968.”

  “What all-church Christmas concert?”

  “Precisely. It doesn’t exist anymore because no one could agree on what to sing. Some people thought anything written after 1950 was sinful; others wanted to sing Gaither music; and one man had written a song that was to be accompanied by electric guitars of all things. Well, you can just imagine.”

  “Unfortunately, I can. When it comes to Christians and their music …”

  “Indeed. And then church splits always fuel the fire, troublemakers leaving and disbursing into existing churches or starting their own, which immediately puts them at odds with the original congregation. It’s quite complicated, Penny.”

  “There’s something to be said for the parish system, I guess.”

  “It’s certainly easier that way,” Miss Poole agreed.

  I sipped my coffee. “No wonder the town doesn’t want us involved.”

  Miss Poole smirked. “Oh, please! They fight, too. They just expect better of us.”

  “And so they should. Don’t you think?”

  “Maybe, but we are, after all, only human.”

  Christians aren’t perfect, just forgiven. Like that holds any water with the nonbeliever. Like that’s a viable “out,” a worthy excuse for sin.

  Magda Poole reached over and patted my hand. “I thought you might be proud of me, for giving in about the window and all.”

  “I hate to admit it, but it’s nice to see the lake.”

  Miss Poole sniffed in through her nose. “You know, I was very instrumental in the lake being there in the first place.”

  “So I’ve heard. We sure do enjoy it.”

  “Good. And the tourist business has been wonderful for the town.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  I had a million questions I wanted to ask this woman. Where did she go to school? Why had she never married? What did she do out here all day, just her and Ira? Did she have any other family? Was she ever lonely?

  “Penny?”

  “Yes?”

  “I gave in on the window and the songbooks, too. It was a good start. Please, I need to have those Boston cream pies.”

  “But why?”

  Magda Poole’s shuttered face told me I’d never know the answer to that one.

  Later that day, I found that Duncan had failed to make it over to the Mount Zion church. What a relief!

  Dinner conversation was interesting. Robbie actually graced the table with his jovial presence. A good thing because Angus was now steeped in Benjamin Franklin, Man of Science, Man of Letters and wouldn’t be much good for this meal’s discourse.

  He talked about his newest girlfriend, a freshman at the community college named Ashley. I didn’t feel a speck of worry. Robbie had yet to truly fall in love.

  And then the Boston cream pie topic rolled around.

  “I agree with Mom.” Robbie forked pork barbecue into his mouth. “Besides, Miss Poole is one of your members, Dad. Don’t you have more of a responsibility to minister to her, rather than to the town?”

  “But she gives Highland a bad name, Rob,” Duncan said.

  I piped in. “I think she’s really lonely. How long has her father been dead?”

  “Twenty-five years or so,” Duncan answered.

  Robbie snickered. “We’ll probably find out that Boston cream pie was his favorite dessert, and in his memory she wants to finally get it back to Highland.”

  I threw a roll at him. “Or, we’ll find out she’s just a controlling biddy who wants to stir up trouble!”

  Even Duncan chuckled. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve been fighting with this woman for three years, and it hasn’t done a thing. Maybe I need to actually be her pastor.”

  “It’s what you’re best at, Dad.” Robbie devoured the coleslaw.

  I wasn’t about to argue with his comment about his father. “Just turn on that Fraser charm.” I ran a finger down the back of his hand.

  Duncan blushed.

  “Just like that,” I said, thinking him more attractive just then than he’d been in weeks. Man. It wasn’t even Monday. I loved it when he blushed.

  Jody called me in Outer Banks.

  “What did I do?” he asked.

  “You breathed,” I said. “That’s all it took.”

  “I don’t believe that, Poppy. You care about me; you know you do.” His voice held a youthful nervousness, but more virile. “It wasn’t about the sex for me.”

  “Well, it was for me.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Oh, I could picture him there on the other end of the line. “Where are you?” I said to change the subject for just a minute.

  “I’m in your driveway.”

  I groaned. “You’ve got to get out of there, Jody.”
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  “Don’t worry. I just came to adjust the panels on the refrigerator. Mr. Fraser called and said they’d come loose.”

  Mr. Fraser.

  I breathed in deeply. “Okay. Look, I’m sorry I left without talking to you. I should have called.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  I wanted to laugh. So people really said that? I’d thought it was only in movies. “I could say the same thing, but it’s probably not like you’re doing.”

  He coughed. “You’re feeling guilty. Well, so am I.”

  “You should.”

  “Maybe you were right to go away.”

  “You’re a beautiful young man, Jody. You could have any young woman you want.”

  “But you’re the one I love.”

  Help me, Lord. I’m trying to do the right thing here. “You don’t love me.”

  “I do. You’re so pretty. And you do such beautiful artwork. And you’re nice, Poppy. How many twenty-two-year-old girls are nice?”

  “I’m not nice. I had an affair.”

  He stayed silent.

  “I’ll be gone all summer,” I said.

  He sucked in his breath loudly. “So that’s just it?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  “What will you do?” I asked, expecting some pat “Oh, don’t act like you care what happens to me,” response, but instead …

  “I’ll keep working.” Yes, he was still a young man of Irish-Catholic descent. And I was the mother figure. He wouldn’t sass me back.

  “So this is it then?” he asked. “Forever?”

  “Oh, Jody. Don’t you get it? I’ve got children, a husband—”

  “Who’s never home. If I was your husband, I’d never let you out of my sight!”

  “With good reason,” I snapped back “If I cheated on Duncan, I’d cheat on you, too.”

  “No!” he wailed like a wounded animal. “You wouldn’t. It was different with us.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Did you ever love me, Poppy. At all? Even just a little.”

  I remained silent.

  He cleared his throat, unable to hide his pain. “Answer the question, and I’ll stay away from you.”