The Church Ladies

by Lisa Samson

  The other two Hopewell children, boys younger than Victoria, pounded Nintendo handsets wired to an older TV across the room.

  “We just had the kitchen redone last year.”

  White Eurocabinets.

  “Nice and bright,” I said, thinking that didn’t sound complimentary enough.

  “Mama.” Charmaine laid a hand on her mother’s back. “This here is Poppy Fraser. Remember me talking about her?”

  “Mama” nodded and smiled and looked back into her pan. Obviously more than the cartilage at the end of her bones had deteriorated. Poor dear. “Hi, there, Mrs … what’s your maiden name, Charmaine?”

  “Whitehead. And don’t you say nothing about it, Poppy. I got rid of it the day I married Harlan, and I’ve never been regretful.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Whitehead.”

  Charmaine poured me a cup of coffee. “Have a seat at the table.”

  I sat down in the upholstered, swivel chair and set my bag on the white, melamine table. “Any news from Josef’s yet?”

  Charmaine handed me a cup. “I don’t usually make my own coffee, so I hope it’s all right.”

  Words a coffee drinker hates to hear.

  I took a sip, grimaced automatically … then, hey, “This is good, Charmaine!”

  “Then I’m as surprised as you are! I just guessed on the proportions.”

  Mama continued to spread the cherries on top of the pineapple.

  Charmaine yanked open the refrigerator door and pulled out a Diet Coke. She sat down in the chair catty-corner from me. “I talked to Josef yesterday. Practically needed an interpreter, though!”

  “So what did he say? Yes? No?”

  “He said he might could do the appetizers, but no main course. And, to be honest, Poppy, he’s not the kind of guy to provide sliced prime rib and ham.”

  “I can’t picture him under those red lights myself.”

  Charmaine sighed. “Well, maybe we can get Jeanelle to do it.”

  I winced. “Oh, man, Charmaine. After the way we all acted at Crazy Days about the food and all? I don’t know.”

  “Well, your son works there, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but, that doesn’t make it any easier to ask.”

  Charmaine waved a hand. “Oh, shoot, Poppy, they can get a tax deduction, can’t they?”

  “I have no idea.”

  She patted my arm. “Well, I’ll go and ask her. You know me, I’m not the type to take no for an answer.”

  Well, that sure enough was true. Seemed like golden pipes went hand in hand with lead heads if Charmaine and Miss Mildred were any indication.

  We went over a few more details, and I readied myself to go when Harlan Hopewell himself walked into the room.

  Bald as a watermelon!

  I really thought I had succeeded in not reacting. I didn’t move a muscle, didn’t gasp, didn’t even change expression, or so I thought.

  “I know, it’s some wig, isn’t it?” he boomed.

  “You’d never know you were bald!” I blurted.

  Oh, man! I shook my head. “Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry. It’s just such a shock!”

  Charmaine was sucking in air so hard, she couldn’t get out any laughter. She looked like a child who had just stubbed her toe and was winding up for the big cry.

  Finally, it spilled.

  And Harlan Hopewell joined right in, his forehead wrinkling up, his face deepening to maroon. “It’s amazing how they even did that preacher flip at the front of it, isn’t it?”

  He held out his hand, and I was glad to shake it.

  Victoria ran in to see what was so funny, but nobody noticed. She went back to the overstuffed couch in the family room and hollered. “Shut up! I’m trying to watch Saved by the Bell!”

  Are all TV people different than they seem? I wondered. What was it like to see a different face in your own morning mirror than what the world saw every day?

  Hmm.

  I stopped in at the church to pick up Angus. I fully admitted my surprise to Duncan. “Harlan Hopewell was a really nice guy.”

  “He’s so scary on that show.”

  “I know! But he’s so funny. He just sat right down with us and gave us some really good ideas.”

  “I thought you said Charmaine said he wouldn’t want to help out.”

  I shrugged. “Well, she was wrong, I guess. He said he’d be glad to talk about it on the Port of Peace Hour.”

  “Well, just goes to show you. You never know.”

  That was sure the truth.

  Thirty

  Ira!”

  There he stood on the other side of my kitchen screen door.

  Just standing there in the July heat. Come Monday, the fourth would rain down upon the vacation industry of Mount Oak. No holiday for the locals. But they faced the fact that the Fourth of July financed the whole month of December later on in the year.

  “Hey, Mrs. Fraser. Sorry to be disrupting your Saturday.”

  “Why are you just standing there?”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you. Just thought I’d wait by the kitchen until you came to refill your coffee.”

  Oh, not the coffee thing again!

  A lot of people took this kind of thing as a sign from above. Heavenly behavior modification. But I was waiting for something more physical, like fibroid cysts in my breasts or a rapid heartbeat.

  “Well, come on in. We’ve got the air conditioner going in the living room.”

  I pushed open the screen door and ushered him into the sweltering kitchen.

  He looked around him appreciatively. “I love this room. Was telling Mag—Miss Poole—that we should do something like this to one of our rooms at Poole Point.”

  “I’d even do it for you!”

  “No kidding?”

  “Nope. I love painting murals.”

  I pushed through the swinging door and into the family room where Angus watched The Wizard of Oz. Still. A year from point of purchase. This had to be some kind of record. He saw Ira.

  “Mr. Ira!” He jumped to his feet and leapt into Ira’s robust arms.

  “Gus!”

  Nothing prettier than an old person and a young person smack dab together and happy to be there.

  “Sit down, Ira, and I’ll get you some sweet tea.”

  “I sure wouldn’t refuse a glass of tea, Mrs. Fraser.”

  As I turned to go into the kitchen, I saw Magda Poole’s gentleman’s gentleman pull a long register tape of candy dots out of his suit coat pocket.

  I smiled and thought how terrible it was that he’d never had kids of his own. Well, he had Miss Poole, and surely that was even more of a challenge!

  Wonder what she wants?

  And to send Ira over for her. Must be big.

  I poured the tea and added a slice of lemon for old Ira. If anyone deserved a fresh slice of lemon, Ira did.

  Already plugged back into the movie, Angus had comfortably settled himself on Ira’s lap. I handed him the tea, then sat down in the nearby Stickley armchair I refused to let Duncan sell. “So what does Miss Poole want you to tell me, Ira?” I made my voice sound light and airy, friendly.

  He shook his head. “I came on my own, Mrs. Fraser. She’d never have asked you this herself.” He took a large sip of the tea. “That’s just what a hot day like today is asking for.”

  “What’s your dilemma, Ira?”

  Did Miss Poole actually need a favor? That would be the day!

  “It’s about the Zeta Chi gala. She really wants to be involved.”

  Man.

  “Oh, Ira. Things are going so well with this. We haven’t had any major glitches so far. Of course, there have been some minor trip-ups,” I heard myself beginning to bleat, “but nothing out of the ordinary. And the community is agreeing to help, too. And after Crazy Days I thought for sure we’d totally severed ties with everyone. It was all so un-Christian and all. Well, to be honest”—I stood up and leaned over to cover Angus’s ears—“you know she always stirs
up trouble.”

  “Hey!” Angus cried.

  I sat back down. “Sorry, bud.”

  “Nobody knows that better than me. But I don’t think she wants to do too much. I know she won’t take over the gala, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “How can you be sure of something like that?”

  “I just can. Now, you know I know Miss Poole better than anyone.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “If I promise, on my own word of honor, that she won’t cause trouble, will you let her help?”

  I shrugged. “What is it she wants to do so badly?”

  “She wants to manage the fund.”

  “What?”

  This was too much.

  “Think about it, Mrs. Fraser. Look what she’s done with her daddy’s money! She’s more than quadrupled the estate since he died, and it was something then, let me tell you.”

  “She’d have nothing to do with the actual gala?”

  “Nope. And let’s be realistic, Mrs. Fraser. How much money is this little thing really going to raise? Maybe enough to put this Jason fellow through for his senior year, but then what happens next year? Another gala? One more year of money and then back to the drawing board?”

  He did have a point.

  “Did Miss Poole say all of this?”

  “Yep. I’m telling you, she’s a whiz.”

  “Let me talk it over with Chris.”

  He set Angus gently beside him on the couch and stood to his feet. “That’s all I ask.”

  He stuck out his hand and we shook.

  Miss Poole really did have a point, I had to admit. I couldn’t imagine having to put together one of these fundraisers every year.

  “Also, Mrs. Fraser, she’s got quite a few cronies with lots of money. I’d be willing to bet they’d put a good amount into the fund as well.”

  We walked into the kitchen, and Ira rinsed out his tea glass and set it on the drain board. “So, once you know, will you come out and officially ask her to do this?”

  “Ira!”

  “I know it’s asking a lot—”

  “You’re doggone right!”

  “But I can’t tell her! Then she’d know I’d been meddling on her behalf.”

  “Okay. I’ll ask her. But you owe me one big time on this, Ira.”

  He waved a hand. “Oh, I owe everybody big time, Mrs. Fraser. I’ve been running interference for Miss Poole for years!”

  Thirty-one

  When I awoke at five-thirty the next morning, the heat had already begun to constrict the area. July could be oppressive here, even worse than Baltimore in August. The air conditioner Duncan had propped up in our window spoiled the look of the bedroom I’d lovingly whitewashed when we first moved in. It didn’t match the white iron bedstead or the secondhand furniture I stained white, then antiqued with a wire brush and a speck of sadism.

  However, on days like this, who cared what the Sears special looked like? Sometimes form really did mean nothing when function at a low price was necessity.

  No sense in trying to go back to sleep. I put on my walking shoes and decided to take a leisurely stroll by the lake this morning. Java Jane’s didn’t open until seven-thirty anyway on Sundays.

  By the time I went to the bathroom then examined my tired, middle-aged, looking-more-like-Mother-everyday face and my oh no—more-gray-hair-by-my-left-ear mop, it was almost six o’clock. Flipping off the light seemed to be the best idea.

  Duncan sat on the bed in his running clothes. “G’morning, Popp.”

  “You’re going running in this heat?” I pulled my walking shoes out of my closet.

  “Better do it now. It’s not getting any cooler. You going out walking?”

  “Yeah, just by the lake today.”

  He stood to his feet and shook them a little. “I’ll get the coffee going while you head out. Then we can have breakfast together before the kids get up.”

  “Really? On a Sunday?”

  “Maybe it would be a better start than our usual routine.”

  “Well, that’s the truth.” I peeled off my nightshirt while he walked out of the room. His progress was easily heard by the progression of squeaks in the old hardwood floor.

  Two minutes later I crunched a path toward the lake. Duncan whizzed by me with a wave and a wink. What a good man. I wasn’t sure what else I could expect of him. Why didn’t I think I had a good marriage? He was nice, courteous, did the chores, took care of the kids when he was home, and provided for us in a way that provided for his own well-being.

  I looked back on the day I succumbed to temptation, and for the first time in seven years, found no rationalization, found no excitement, and found nothing to which I could cling.

  Grace! Grace! My head screamed down the long, dark empty tunnel to my heart. But just then, I found no comfort.

  Elder Barnhouse handed me the communion plate and smiled his wonderful grin. “Jesus died for you,” he whispered, as he always did. I love that so much.

  I took a cracker from what looked like an offering plate.

  A cracker? What happened to the big loaf of brown bread? I’d always loved the way Highland Kirk just passed around the loaf and each participant pinched off pieces. I liked the intimacy of our shared time as the body. All eating the same loaf, all touching it, unconcerned about cold germs and the like.

  My gaze circled the congregation. Where did Bercie go? I had seen her sneak in the side door with the plate during the prayer Duncan always offered up at the end of the sermon. But she didn’t tiptoe back to her seat as usual.

  I lifted the cracker to my nose.

  The smell was familiar, something from my childhood. But I couldn’t place it.

  Duncan stood at the front, no big loaf of bread—the kind he used for the “breaking of the bread”—sat on the table. I made eye contact with him and discreetly held up the cracker. Barely shaking my head, I raised my eyebrows in a big question.

  He responded in kind. Unnoticed by anyone else.

  He took a cracker when the four elders returned to the table. Then he turned his back on the congregation. I knew he must be tasting it.

  People threw questioning glances at each other. Why the change? Of course, other churches used wafers, they knew. Some used grape juice; some used real wine. There was no set way to hold communion. But this seemed wrong, or at the very least a strange departure.

  Duncan began. “On the night He was betrayed, He took the bread and broke it.” He lifted a cracker and broke it. Face unsmiling, solemn. And he said the familiar words, “Take, eat, this is My body, which is given up for you.”

  We all seemed to be waiting for the “Do this in remembrance of Me.”

  But Duncan hesitated. He came around to the front of the table and leaned casually against it, his robe billowing with air. “You’ve noticed by now that this isn’t our normal fare for the Lord’s table.”

  A hum of agreement, relief as well, buzzed around the nodding heads of the congregation.

  “When Jesus conducted supper on that final night, I imagine it was the bread of the day. The Passover supper. We know that it was unleavened, like this cracker. We know it was simple fare.”

  He held out the cracker.

  “It’s not about the cracker, is it?”

  No, I said within.

  “Or what kind of cracker, is it?”

  No again.

  “I’m not sure what happened downstairs this morning, but we’ve got a savory cracker for our communion.”

  I sniffed it again and figured it out. Chicken-in-a-Biscuit.

  Oh, dear.

  Oh, Lord Jesus.

  Poor Bercie.

  “But this is the Lord’s table. He was a common man who ate common food and wore common clothing. If His ministry were mirrored here on earth in our time, He probably wouldn’t be eating free range chicken with truffles, now would He?”

  A couple of people chuckled.

  He shook his head and smiled. “He’d
be eating food like this. Simple food like Chicken-in-a-Biscuit crackers.”

  Duncan turned back around and resumed his place behind the communion table. “It’s the Lord’s table, beloveds. And He invites us to eat. Remember now why we do so. To remember Him, to show Him our devotion. It’s not about the food itself, and it never has been.”

  He bowed his head, his thinning hair on top exposed to the entire congregation. He looked up, raised the cracker, and said, “Do this in remembrance of Me.” He snapped it in two.

  After the service, I found Bercie Barnhouse crying in the basement. “Who’s ever heard of the like?” she wailed. “Chicken-in-a-Biscuit! It was all that was in the cupboard down here. I thought I could do it at the last minute. We were running late this morning, and all I could get done was the juice, but that’s another story. But when I went to get the loaves a few minutes before communion, they were gone! I had taken them out of the freezer and set them on the counter after Sunday school. I have no idea what could’ve happened to them!”

  In utter truth I replied, “It was the most meaningful communion of my life.” I put an arm around the older woman and let her cry.

  And I cried with her.

  Duncan came down about ten minutes later. “You weren’t upstairs, Miss Bercie.” He handed her his handkerchief.

  “I just couldn’t. I’m so embarrassed!”

  Duncan said, “I’ll be right back.”

  Two minutes later he returned with a cracker and a small plastic cup of grape juice. And he gave Bercie Barnhouse communion right there in the basement. My Duncan. The loving shepherd of this flock.

  I wept some more knowing now that I would never leave this man, and that fact left me with only one alternative.

  Duncan took Angus and Robbie home after the service, and I walked my navy blue pumps right up to Mildred LaRue’s house.

  Those shoes definitely weren’t made for walking, I realized as a blister began to form on my heel. And, shoot, I couldn’t help but pop it, then peel the loose skin. How painful was that? Talk about going from bad to worse.