by Lisa Samson
The Masquerade had been just the same. My whole life was like that. I took minor pains and pricked and prodded and pulled them until they reached the supreme amount of pain per square centimeter, inch, foot, or yard they could possibly reach.
Things seemed to be going so well now. Paisley had e-mailed me almost every week since the trip to Baltimore. Mother and Daddy had been helping out with the scholarship fund and were calling every other day. Robbie’s grades came in above average, and he was still a virgin. Or at least I thought that since his latest girlfriend had broken up with him because, as she put it, “You’re such a square, Rob.”
Angus seemed to be settling into his brain a bit more. Honestly, he didn’t seem quite so far ahead as he had as a three-year-old. Maybe I’d succeeded in stifling him back into some normal mode of human development. Duncan still worked a lot, but he was trying. Chris, while not going so far as a latte, still seemed to be budding under the sunshine of purpose.
“Hi, Mr. Winfred!” I hollered as I walked up Miss Mildred’s driveway.
“Hello, Penelope.”
Now I hadn’t had a whole lot of contact with Herman Winfred. But, I reasoned, he must have been something in his day. His face must have undergone some type of permanent smile wave, and if he was a little odd with his hole digging and whatnot, well, he more than made up for it with his tall good looks and perfectly starched, blue button-downs. Hard to believe someone could be that wrinkled and still be handsome.
“How’s it coming?”
He leaned an elbow on the top of his shovel, his light brown eyes skewering my dark brown ones. “I’m not as crazy as I seem, you know.”
“I never said you were crazy.”
He wagged a long, jointy finger. “You’d be lying if you said you didn’t think it.”
“Okay. You’re right.”
He leaned forward, looked back at the house to see if Miss Mildred was about, then said in a whisper, “It’s not unfounded.”
“I’m not following you.”
“These holes. I got a really good reason for digging them.”
This should be good.
He jerked his head toward the house. “I was cleaning out the attic for Mildred when I found a journal written by her ancestor.”
“Really?”
“Sure did. He really did bury gold out here, Penelope.”
“Why didn’t you tell Miss Mildred that then? You know she thinks you’re a nut, Herman.”
“I’d rather have her think I’ve got a screw loose than to get her hopes up and then disappoint her. It’s terrible when Mildred gets disappointed.”
“I’ve never seen her disappointed.”
“She hides it pretty good. But I remember ten years ago, when we thought we might be getting a recording contract, and then we didn’t. She didn’t sing for a month.”
I couldn’t imagine Miss Mildred not singing.
Herman lifted up his felt fedora and scratched his white hair. “And she never tried for another contract either.”
“That’s a shame, Mr. Winfred.”
“Yep, it is. Seems to me a woman her age with that much talent should have made it bigger somewhere along the line.”
“Seems to me you’re right. But who knows about these things. You hear some of the awfulest voices these days.”
“Mmm, hmm.”
“Well, I won’t tell her what you’re really up to.”
“I’d be glad if you didn’t.”
I said a few more words, wished him well, and walked up onto the porch. The stroll from town left me deflated and sweaty. My hair had constricted into tighter curls that lined my skull like some black, sheepskin helmet.
I rapped on the screen door, and Miss Mildred answered a few seconds later looking cool and more relaxed than I had ever seen her with a green caftan on her body and a glass of iced tea in her hand.
Maybe relaxed wasn’t accurate. Maybe subdued fit her mood.
She handed the tea to me. “Saw you from the kitchen window.”
“Thanks.”
“You walked all the way over here?”
Boy, she looked tired, too.
“Just from town.”
“Still.”
“I know. I had to talk to you.” I thought maybe if I confessed first to Miss Mildred, she’d help me with what I should say to Duncan.
Mildred led me back to a part of the first floor I had never seen. It was a small room, paneled in pine and furnished with just two peach-colored la-z-boys and a two-tiered lamp table between them. The light from a TV vibrated from the corner, but the sound was low and overpowered by the air conditioning unit in the window. Childish drawings papered the walls.
“Have a seat.”
“This is a nice, comfy room.”
“I call it my ‘boudoir.’ ”
I pointed to the pictures. “Sunday school students?”
“Uh-huh. Taught for thirty years. Vacation Bible School, too. But you didn’t come here to hear about these children, Penelope. Is it about the gala?”
“No. I need some good advice.”
“Well, sometimes I’m not in the mood for giving advice.”
I raised my brows. “Did I actually hear those words come out of your mouth?”
“You did.”
“Why?”
She looked away. “It’s Saundra. She miscarried early this morning.”
“Oh no. Oh, Miss Mildred. Poor baby. How’s she doing?”
“Not good. She started bleeding last night. Went to the hospital for an ultrasound early this morning, followed by a D & C around eight.”
“Were you there with her?”
Mildred nodded slowly. “I thought sure the Lord was giving her that baby. That He was giving her someone down here to call her own.”
“I’ll take a meal over this afternoon.”
“Don’t bother, baby. We got plenty of our own resources for that.” Mildred’s eyes teared over. “I don’t know why this has got me so upset, Penelope. But it does.”
“Well, you’ve been taking her to the doctor, haven’t you? You’ve been with her every step of the way for the last few weeks.”
She sniffed. “Even went out and bought a few little sleepers.”
“How’s Pastor Phelps taking it?”
“Hard.”
“I guess so.”
“You ever have a miscarriage, Penelope?”
“No. Chris did, though. She had two before finally conceiving Josh. And then only the medical establishment kept him in there for the next seven months.”
Mildred plucked a Kleenex from a box on the end table. “You think she’d talk to Saundra?”
“I think it would do them both some good.”
A while later, after Mildred’s tears vaporized, I said, “Did you tell Herman? He didn’t say anything about it when I pulled up.”
“Nope.” Mildred shook her head and blew her nose. “Sure hope he doesn’t find Grandpop’s gold right now, though. It wouldn’t even be fun.”
I arose and fixed Miss Mildred her own glass of iced tea.
Mildred took it with a “Thank you” and said, “I’m sorry I don’t have any advice for you today, Penelope.”
I put my hand on Miss Mildred’s knee. “Can I just ask you to pray for me then? I’m going home to take care of all that business with Duncan.” How I could speak so calmly, I didn’t know.
“God will give you strength. I’ve been praying for you for a long time.”
“Then pray just one more time, Miss Mildred. Pray as hard as you’ve ever prayed.”
Mildred’s eyes filled with tears again. “I will, baby.”
I kissed Miss Mildred’s cheek, turned up the sound on the Lawrence Welk Show, and turned to go.
“Penelope?”
“Yes, Miss Mildred?”
“You know I love you, don’t you?”
“I do. Do you know how much I love you?”
“Yes, I do. Life’s too short not to say the important
things that a woman feels.”
“Oh, Miss Mildred.” I felt myself beginning to tear up, too.
“Now you get on, Penelope. Go do what you got to do.”
I returned outside to the stifling heat and the long road home that seemed shorter than it ever had before.
By the time I finished my walk to the bungalow, the temperature had reached 102 degrees, and I was soggy with sweat, lightheaded, and exhausted. Everyone was sleeping in the living room. Duncan’s body, stretched out on the couch, supported Angus. Robbie lay on his back on the floor, his breathing steady and deep.
See?
They did perfectly fine without me.
Feeling more alone than I could remember feeling before, I finally knew it didn’t really matter if they could survive without me, they would simply never have the chance to find out.
The moisture in my clothing began to cool. Going into the bedroom to change, I wondered how to broach the topic with Duncan. Maybe Robbie would watch Angus while Duncan and I took the boat out on the lake.
How does one start such a confession, Lord?
My foot brushed my suitcase beneath the bed. So I laid it on the bed and sat down beside it breathing in the smell of leather and lining. I began to weep soundless sobs as I said good-bye to the thoughts of escape, the musings of flight from a guilt that would never die in any place but the arms of Christ and the forgiveness of my husband. I said good-bye to New York City, the Colorado Rockies, and any other place to which I may have gone. I said good-bye to anyplace but home with Duncan, Paisley, Robbie, and Angus.
“I know about it, babe.”
I jerked my head back at Duncan’s words.
“I know about the affair.”
He stood there, still in his church clothes, tie now rumpled, a large streak of sweat down his front where Angus had lain. His hands hung at his side as his eyes filled with tears. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, what to even think because standing before me now was the way out of this. One way or another. After all of these years.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I can’t bear to see you torture yourself any longer.”
“How long have you known?”
“I’ve always known.”
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter, Popp. I’d really rather not say.”
“I need to know.”
“Paisley.”
Oh, God. Oh, GOD!
“I’m sorry!” I screamed the words. “I’m so sorry, Duncan.”
My heart shattered—an explosive pain so deep, so widespread, like an eight-foot-by-eight-foot square of glass dropped from a twelfth story window and landing flat, shards and splinters sliding and tumbling across the asphalt in an outward wave. I stood to my feet, swayed, then fell forward into my husband’s arms. And he caught me in a tight grip saying, “I’ve got you, Poppy. I’ve got you.”
Seven years.
“Don’t leave me, babe,” he whispered as I sobbed. “Please, Poppy.”
“How can you say that?” I wailed.
“Because I forgive you.”
With a strong hand he lifted up my chin, a prying motion against my will. “Do you hear me?” His eyes, red and weeping, drilled into mine. “I forgive you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you.”
“I know, but—”
“I forgive you. Listen to me, Poppy. I forgive you. I forgave you years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I rasped once more, the sobs returning.
Duncan led me to the bed, threw the suitcase to clatter loudly upon the wooden floor, and sat me down. “Look at me, Poppy.” He reached down and took both of my hands in his. “Please.”
I looked up into a face so devastated my breath caught, imprisoned within my lungs. Duncan slipped to his knees in front of the bed. “Poppy, do you honestly believe the fault is all yours?”
Words wouldn’t come. All I could see was his face, the eyes so brown and familiar I knew each speck of gold, each glimmer of bronze, eyes broken with grief.
“Poppy, the blame is mine.”
“But I own the shame, Duncan. I do.”
“Not any longer. Oh, Popp, if I had been the husband you needed, you deserved, Joe Callahan would have meant nothing to you.”
That he was so sure of that stirred something inside of me. I saw his strength as though for the first time, and I can only describe it as a filling of love, a new river of emotion surging and rising and flooding over the bulwarks built up over the years.
“Do you forgive me, Poppy?”
This was grace.
“I need to hear you say the words. I promised to protect you when you pledged to keep yourself only unto me. I failed. I left you wide open and alone.”
Only God’s Spirit gave me the strength to say what came next. “I forgive you, Duncan.”
He pulled me into his arms, and we cried together. Man and wife. Our hearts once more placed firmly in each other’s hand.
Thirty-two
I woke up early the next morning, tied up my shoes, and made for Java Jane’s. The world felt new again. I felt reborn. Healed. Ellen had just unlocked the door as I walked up. “Come on in, Poppy.”
Margaret waved from behind the counter. “Hey!” She started to make my Red-Eye. “So, is there anything you want to ask us about?”
I picked up the Washington Post. “About what?”
“That gala.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with the churches anymore.”
Best to play this one cool.
Ellen crossed her arms. “Well, from what I hear, you all sound like you’re starting to get your act together on this one.”
I laughed and forgot about my cool. “I’m as surprised as you are!”
Margaret smiled. “It sounds like a good cause. For that boy and all.”
“Yeah.”
“So, do you need coffee and tea?” Ellen asked.
“We sure do. Can you set up an espresso bar right there during dessert?” I sat down in my purple chair.
“Absolutely!”
“Stuff like this is tax deductible,” Margaret said. “So we’ll do the good stuff: cappuccinos, mocha lattes, the whole bit like that.”
“How much are the tickets per head?” Ellen asked.
“Five hundred bucks for the diamond patrons going on down to thirty.”
“Ooh, yeah, we should do the fancy stuff then.” Margaret turned to Ellen. “Maybe we should bring all kinds of syrup.”
“Absolutely, and we could …”
I tuned them out, picked up the paper and turned straight to the comics.
The church ladies gathered for their weekly Monday meeting. I looked around at my friends. I used to feel so alone in my role. Not any more. And really, I never was. It seems stupid that churches isolate themselves from each other like we do. We need each other so desperately.
Miss Mildred went all out with the food. I’m talking layered salad. I’m talking real creamed corn. I’m talking fried tomatoes and chicken fried steak with brown gravy. “We have a lot to celebrate tonight!”
“Such as?” Chris asked.
“All the bases are covered for the gala now. Right, Penelope? Here, pass the bread.”
I took the narrow basket. “Yeah. And we still have three weeks left.”
“And Saundra and the pastor are trying again to have a baby. She says she’ll be back in a few weeks and would appreciate your prayers until then.” Obviously about to pontificate, Mildred sat in her chair at the head of the table. “So we’ve got something else to pray about now.”
Chris bowed her head. “Josh will take care of that little lost baby.”
India nodded, and so did Sunny, who also added a “Yes, ma’am, he sure will.”
But Joanna stood to her feet. “I don’t understand you people. One boy dies in his prime, and a perfectly healthy woman miscarries, and you can thank G
od for that?” She leaned down and grabbed her purse. “This is too weird for me.”
Before anyone could say much of anything, the screen door banged behind her.
India said quietly, “I wonder the same thing at times. How can we thank the Lord for these things? The world is so bad, and if God is so personal and so perfect and all …”
Mildred nodded. “Yes, it is bad, India. But sometimes the perfection of God isn’t seen in what happens, baby, but in how we as His children respond.”
“That’s hard to live up to then,” India said, doubt heavy in her voice.
I laid a hand on her arm. “But that is what grace is all about. And that’s what living by grace, by faith, means.”
“We’re not in this alone,” Sunny said.
“ ‘We have a Friend who sticketh closer than a brother,’ ” Charmaine said.
Mildred took her hand. “And we have each other.”
Maybe Robbie was right in a way. To question the inevitable always leads to anger and disillusion. But to trust, to be used to right the wrongs, to deliver God’s deliverance, well, that was a blessing indeed.
Later than night I had a long talk with India on the front porch of Mildred LaRue’s. And some good praying went on afterwards. Really good praying.
Mildred LaRue style.
Thirty-three
God blessed; that was certain. No other explanation remained for the fact that a thousand people bought tickets to the gala, a gala that cost the Joshua Reynolds Knight Scholarship foundation absolutely nothing. What a great town.
We had to move the affair from the courtyard of the Episcopal church to the grand ballroom at the old Mount Oak Hotel. Harlan Hopewell himself convinced the owner. We’d thrown open the French doors that surrounded three sides of the room, and the party became an indoor/outdoor gathering. And not one major dispute erupted other than the fact that a few people thought Miss Poole shouldn’t control the purse strings, until someone pointed out that she didn’t need any more money herself and was quite adept at managing what she had.
God blessed in the sunset that night. The sky threw on a peach gown with a pink shawl for the gala and did it so easily as if to say, “Beautiful? This silly old thing?” And the breeze was enough to dry our sweat but not mess up our hair. Well, God made women, after all, so it isn’t surprising to realize He understands our wrinkles and our ways.