The Church Ladies

by Lisa Samson

  My gosh, how could I have used this poor young man like I did? How could I cast him aside so easily as if he had been nothing more than an amusing game?

  “Yes.”

  I was lying, but sometimes a woman forces herself to lie. For the good of all concerned.

  So Duncan agreed to let the Boston cream pies rest where they were. “I really liked doing steak-on-a-stick,” he said, as he climbed into bed that night. “I really miss our big charcoal pit in Maryland.”

  “Me, too.” I remembered all the parties we’d thrown when we first moved in, all the kids splashing in the pool, music playing on the unbelievably boss sound system. Underwater speakers even.

  “Now who in the world needs underwater speakers?” I said out loud.

  Our eyes met, and we laughed like fools.

  Duncan took me into his arms, even though it was Thursday.

  Twenty

  The 2 P.M. sunshine warmed our conversation spot in the front bow window. Chris chose this exact place for her first official coming out. Breakfast at Bill D’s and coffee at Java Jane’s at 6 A.M. was one thing, but an afternoon outing deserved a different tactic.

  “I really want to go up to Hopkins soon, Poppy. According to the police report, there was another boy who climbed the tower, too. I want to talk to him. The fraternity denies having anything to do with it. But I just can’t believe that.”

  “Still want me to go with you?”

  Chris nodded, tucking some hair behind her ear. The same ear hadn’t been impaled by an earring in months.

  “I’m sure Daddy and Mother would be glad to watch Angus for a couple of days.”

  “That’d be good.”

  “After Crazy Days, though, okay?” I asked, then downed the last sip of my Guatemalan, wincing.

  “That’s fine.”

  I stood to my feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  I walked up to the counter for a refill. Ellen sure was dressed up today. I heard she and the town’s only divorce lawyer had been spending time together. Just above a pair of ivory and linen spectator pumps swirled a full skirt of fine linen, the good stuff, and those drop earrings looked like real aquamarines.

  I handed over my cup. “You guys still going to do the coffee and tea stand at the festival?”

  Ellen nodded, but she rolled her hazel eyes dramatically. “We’re pretty much stuck. We’ve decided that this is going to be the last year we involve ourselves in such a circus, though.”

  “Why?” I felt obligated to feign oblivion. The Proper Christian Ladies’ Handbook, chapter 6, “Dealing with Other Women Not of the Faith.”

  Ellen flung an errant, coiled auburn lock back over her shoulder. “I’m afraid the answer might be offensive to you, so I’ll decline if you don’t mind.” Her tone, chilled around the edges like Lake Coventry on a mid-January day, caused me to realize that both Ellen and Margaret had been a bit standoffish lately. Ever since that horrible meeting Duncan and I had dubbed, “The Boston Cream Pie Massacre.”

  “It’s the Boston cream pie thing, isn’t it?”

  “That’s just part of it.”

  I felt myself blush, and my mouth tightened in the same way it did when I posed for a picture. My nostrils went horsy as well. “I’ll have to admit, it’s all gotten a little out of hand.”

  Margaret walked out from the back of the store. “You talking about Crazy Days?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just for the record, I thought I was doing the Mount Zion ladies a favor by taking on the Boston cream pies.”

  Ellen snorted. “Oh, please, Poppy. That’s just the tip of the iceberg, and you know it. Do you think we really care who it was that did what?”

  I felt stupid and petty. Maybe that Proper Christian Ladies’ Handbook was right about the oblivion thing. I should have taken it further obviously. “I guess not.”

  Margaret opened the small fridge beneath the counter and leaned down on her haunches. “I think the churches should just take it over completely if you ask me. We could have our own thing in June.”

  “I agree,” Ellen said. “If the churches in this community got along even half as well as the business community, we’d be having a lovely time of it.”

  I took the coffee from off of the counter and walked away. Ellen was wrong. The businesses made an art of stealing customers from one another. But why argue? People saw things as they saw things, and you could do nothing to make them look at life through your own glasses.

  And there sat Chris, alone in the window. A real live person with real live pain, bigger than a May festival and Boston cream pies. They were all over town, too, people just like her. And here we all were, worried about some stupid, stupid booth. What are we doing here on this earth? People are hurting, dying inside and out, and we are worried about desserts, hymnbooks, windows, service times, drums, dramas, and drachmas. Shame on us. Shame on me. Visit the widows and the fatherless in their afflictions. Love your neighbor as yourself. Do good unto those that hate you. To him who knows to do good and doeth it not, to him it is sin. In as much as you’ve done it to the least of these, you’ve done it unto Me. Pray without ceasing. Give thanks in all things for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you. Concerning me.

  The old hymn writer knew the truth about trusting and obeying.

  There’s no other way.

  The plate glass window was egged again, and this time the vandals added flour to the recipe. I had no idea how they managed such a feat, especially at the upper portions of the window, but they’d done a great job. You had to admire their thoroughness, if nothing else. We hurried to get it down before it became a soufflé worthy of the Guinness Book of World Records.

  “We used a hose with the nozzle turned onto the thinnest stream. Just shot that stuff right off of there,” I told the church ladies that Monday night.

  All of them had come. India and Joanna arrived first via ladybug. Charmaine picked up Sunny on the way, and Chris rode with me in the Subaru. After fried chicken with rice and gravy, Sunny’s squash casserole, and my cucumber salad, Mildred sat us all down at the dining room table for shortcake with blueberries and real whipped cream. Sweet tea, too.

  “I wonder who’s doing it?” Joanna asked, already on her second round of dessert. India volunteered the fact that the woman ran five to seven miles a day. Oh, brother, I thought. Women like this make me sick. And pass that whipped cream while you’re at it.

  “I’m not sure, but if they squeeze chocolate glaze up there next time, I’ll know for sure it has something to do with those Boston cream pies.”

  We yakked the whole time we ate. Well, everyone ate but Charmaine who sat there with a Java Jane’s triple Red-Eye, clicking her retainer, talking about vices. “You know caffeine is a wonderful thing! I just been drinking these Red-Eyes like crazy lately, and boy, do I get stuff done now. I’m not in bed until three, and since Harlan gets the kids off to school, I’ll tell you, it’s just been a lifesaver! I’ve lost two pounds, too.”

  I wanted to tell her I found them and stuck them on my tummy in case she decided she wanted them back, but stayed quiet.

  Joanna crossed her legs and said in an innocent voice, “Must be tough having to parade yourself before the masses each week like you do.”

  Charmaine pasted her TV smile on. “Oh, you’d be surprised, Joanna. It’s not all about the singing and the clothes.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve watched your show. It’s very entertaining.”

  Chris rolled her eyes at me in disgust just as carnal me thought the conversation was getting interesting. Chris was miles closer to God than I would ever be until I got to heaven and had, say, about two whole crowns to cast at His feet because my attitude has always been so horrible.

  Charmaine kept her cool. “You should read some of the letters I get. Some from the dearest people all over the country. Down-home types mostly.”

  “But you’re so smooth on camera. And your production level is so high, not ‘down-home’ at all re
ally.”

  Charmaine sat up straight, her green eyes deepening. “Well, no matter where they live, people expect a certain level of professionalism on TV. Cable TV made everybody more sophisticated along those lines.”

  “Didn’t you all just move to town, Joanna?” I interrupted, trying to save the gathering according to chapter 21 of the Handbook, “Rules of Conversation at All Female Gatherings,” the part that says insinuations should be frowned upon.

  “Don’t change the subject, Poppy, please.” Charmaine wiped her mouth and set down her napkin. Her tone sounded weary, soft, and hurt. “I’m so tired of all the veiled accusations I’ve been buried with ever since the mideighties, but I guess I can only set my own record straight. Joanna, honey, my life is an open book. Come take a look at our financial records any time you’d like. Right now, if you want.”

  I couldn’t blame Charmaine for being defensive.

  “That won’t be necessary. So why do you do it then? The fame?”

  Give it up, lady! For pity’s sake!

  But Charmaine said, “I sing to folks who need a song, who might have lost their own somewheres along the way. I encourage people who need a little hand to help them get back on their feet, and I try my hardest to show them Jesus. Oh, I know I get in the way sometimes, like we all do, but I love the people I minister to. And I’ll tell you another thing. They don’t have to invite me into their home every week, but when they do, I just count it an honor to be there.”

  I waited a few seconds for Joanna to respond, but nothing came from between her earth-colored lips.

  Mildred said, “Do you sing, Joanna?”

  “Not really. I wasn’t raised in the church.”

  “Music is God’s gift to His people. It touches a spot that nothing else can reach, brightens corners so dark the person hearing might not have even known they existed within her own heart until a song comes in.”

  Sunny nodded. “His throne room is filled with singing. I think that’s what I’m looking forward to about heaven the most. Hearing the angels sing.”

  Chrissy reached for my hand, and we squeezed.

  “Well, ladies, let’s petition that throne.” Mildred wiped her mouth. “Prayer is another divine gift. And this whole town needs a good praying over if you ask me.”

  “Can we start to add other prayer requests then?” Sunny asked.

  “Fine by me.” Chris gathered up plates. “In fact, it would be good not to have to concentrate on my own troubles every once in a while.”

  “Well, amen to that, Christine. ‘Bear one another’s burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ,’ ” Mildred quoted, breaking into the song “ ‘Be not dismayed whate’er betide.’ ”

  The covering of prayer that was about to descend was something we all needed desperately.

  Duncan came home early the next night with a pound of backfin and a pint of coleslaw.

  He busied himself crumbling the heel of a loaf of bread into one of the pottery bowls I had made during my master’s work. “Well, I smoothed things over at Mount Zion,” he said.

  “You didn’t give them the Boston cream pies back, did you?”

  “No. But I met with the woman in charge of Mount Zion’s booth. I think she was at the meeting.”

  “The don?”

  “Popp!”

  “Sorry.” I was still angry about the way I’d been singled out at the meeting by that lady.

  “Yes. Her name’s Betty.”

  “I know. So what happened?”

  “I told her we were sorry about the misunderstanding. That we were just trying to be nice.”

  “Good. What did she say?”

  “Oh, she went on and on about ‘that Miss Poole who thinks she can just run roughshod over the entire town’ and all. Would you get me a couple of eggs and the mayonnaise?”

  “Sure. Well, it sounds as if there’s history between the two.”

  Finished crumbling the bread, Duncan dumped the crabmeat into the bowl. “Could be. Magda’s never cared about having friends, though. It might just be animosity from afar on the part of Betty.”

  I handed him the eggs and the mayo. “I guess. Jealousy maybe, too. Miss Poole is so stinkin’ rich. So, do you think the mess has blown over?”

  “No, the businesses are just downright sick of us.”

  “You should have heard the conversation I had with Ellen and Margaret over at Java Jane’s. They wanted to divide the festival next year in two. I don’t blame them. Sunny’s church and the stricter Bible churches have decided to have their own little festival, right across the street from the town square in the municipal parking lot.” I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table to watch Duncan cook. The strains of “If I Only Had a Brain” filtered in from the living room.

  “ ‘Please be patient, God is not finished with me yet,’ ” I quoted the familiar saying, the words less tasty than a dried out turkey sandwich with no butter or mayonnaise.

  “Bumper stickers create more problems than they solve.”

  “Well, you’ll never see one on my car. Not with the way I drive.”

  Duncan shook a little Old Bay Seasoning into the bowl. “It’s more than that, though, don’t you think? I mean, the other day I saw a T-shirt that said, ‘This Blood’s for You.’ ”

  “That’s awful.”

  “I know, taking a beer slogan and inserting the precious blood of the spotless Lamb of God. No wonder nonbelievers don’t take us seriously. If we don’t take something so beautiful seriously, if we hold no respect for it, no awe, why should they?” He chopped up fresh parsley and chives.

  I took a sip of my drink. “Yeah, I know.”

  Duncan started to gently blend the delicate crab mixture with a wooden spoon. I watched his hands.

  “I really am glad God isn’t finished with me yet, though.”

  “What do you mean, babe? Other than the obvious.”

  “I’m not one of those naturally spiritual people, Duncan.” I set down my cup and reached across the hoosier for the mail. I needed something to hide behind. “I just don’t like to do the things Christians are supposed to do. I hardly ever pick up my Bible. I only think about praying when I climb into bed at night, and by then I’m so tired. And even when there’s something big I need to pray about, I can’t get out of bed and get onto my knees.”

  No bills today. Just a couple of circulars and a card from Mother. I’d better go to the store tonight and buy a Mother’s Day card. “It shouldn’t be like this, should it? What’s wrong with me?”

  “What about the stuff you do at church?”

  “It feels like a chore.”

  “I thought so. I’m glad you felt you could tell the truth.” He smiled, set the bowl down on the table, and sat down next to me. His hands worked quickly as he formed the crab cakes. “It’s a battle, Popp. It really is. It’s why they’re called disciplines.”

  “But it’s pretty basic, isn’t it? Shouldn’t a Christian really love to be in the Bible and be praying and everything? Should it be this much of a struggle if God really lives inside of you?”

  “Everybody struggles, Popp. God didn’t fool us in telling us what we were getting ourselves into. Denying yourself and taking up your cross was never meant to be an easy task.”

  “I know. But shouldn’t there be some satisfaction in the doing?”

  He wiped his hands on a tea towel and reached for my hand. “Poppy, all our works are as filthy rags.”

  “I know that. My head knows that. But I look at myself and see someone falling down day after day after day. I don’t have the strength to get up anymore, Duncan.”

  “Not on your own, babe.”

  “But do you know how many times I’ve prayed that God would give me a thirst for Him?”

  “I know how that is. I was that way for years.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And I’ll tell you another thing. I’ve already seen a change in you since you’ve been praying with those ladies. God reveals H
imself in a lot of ways, Poppy. He’s not limited to the Bible in drawing us closer to Him.”

  “Mildred and Charmaine have taught me a lot. Chris, too.”

  “Then rest in that now.”

  “I was hoping it would get easier as I got older. Isn’t it supposed to?”

  Duncan resumed forming the cakes, his hands slimy with the concoction. “Maybe. If there’s something that’s come between you and God, it can make it more difficult.”

  But I had to wonder if Jesus really lived inside of me at all. “Would it be that hard for God to send me even a teaspoon of desire?”

  The next morning, Duncan turned on the lamp at five o’clock, half an hour before I left for my walk.

  I blinked against the thick, intrusive light. “What are you doing, Duncan?”

  “Come on. I timed the coffeepot last night. It should be ready.”

  “But it’s only five o’clock.”

  “It’s French Roast,” he said proudly.

  I said nothing. French Roast. He must have bought it at the IGA when he went out to buy the Mother’s Day cards last night. Angus and I had fallen asleep in front of the TV. We had been watching a show about a bear family with a kindhearted yet bumbling father, an overbearing mother, a bratty daughter, and a normal son.

  Well.

  Duncan was already sliding into his running shorts and an old T-shirt. “Just come into the kitchen, all right?”

  I threw back my sheet and yanked on my walking clothes. Why this togetherness thing this morning? Maybe he worried I was going off the deep end. And just how did one go off the deep end anyway? Didn’t one go into the deep end? Wouldn’t that be a better way to say it? Water covering the head and all. No air. Trying to swim farther than one could actually swim. Now that made much more sense.

  As I expected, he had already poured my coffee, leaving it black while he lightened and sweetened his own. His Bible lay open on the hoosier table.

  I sat down and sipped my coffee. “So we’re going to try and study together again?” We’d been down this path at least ten times in the past six years.