Dearest Dorothy, Help! I've Lost Myself!

by Charlene Baumbich

  “Yes.”

  “This is Pastor Delbert. I mean Delbert. This is Delbert. I’d like to talk to you, privately.” He looked at the clock on the church wall; it was 1:00 P.M. “I just got back in my office, but I have a quick check-in meeting every Tuesday at one-thirty. So since it’s Tuesday . . . how about right after that, say a few minutes after two, maybe a little earlier if there aren’t any unexpected hot-button issues? And would it be okay if I came out to the farm?”

  “I’ll see you when you arrive. Should I call Dorothy, or do you want to?”

  “I’d rather it was just the two of us, okay?”

  She hung up and went to work tidying up the kitchen. She wondered, heart racing as she wiped down the table, if, when Delbert was young, he’d ever longed for a sibling, too. She forced herself to dismiss such thoughts, after having been blindsided by them to begin with. She couldn’t decide if the idea of cultivating a blood relationship with a relative stranger was romanticized, wishful, corny, dreadful or impossible. For now, hearing what he had to say would be enough.

  “Katie,” Delbert said, resting his forearms on the kitchen table and leaning across toward her, “I have been off at a retreat center for a couple of days, trying to make sense out of . . . I mean, I don’t know if you can imagine what this is like for me. My whole life as I know it feels turned upside down.”

  “Yes. I imagine I do know what it feels like,” she said with a little more edge in her voice than she’d intended.

  Delbert swiped at his nose, adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. When Katie looked in the mirror-of-her-eyes sitting across from her, they both realized they were clearly struggling with a vast range of emotions. “I am so sorry,” he said with gentleness. “Of course you do. Please forgive such a careless and self-centered statement.”

  “I’ve had a few more days with it,” she said, her voice now softening, identifying with his topsy-turvy state of mind. “Time helps a little. But the whole thing can still throw me for a terrible loop.”

  “Time. The great healer, so they say. ‘Time, prayer and God’s sovereign hand in our lives,’ my dad used to say.”

  “Delbert, if your dad used to say that, then so did mine.” Her eyes veered off toward the kitchen counter, landing in a faraway land. “Time, prayer and God’s sovereign hand in my life . . . ,” she repeated in a whispered voice.

  He could see by the look on her face that she was filing the words away, perhaps grasping for pieces of the man whom she had never known. For a moment, she was transparent enough to allow him a peak into the depths of her pain and he felt a remarkable tug on his heart to tell her the things he knew to be true about his dad, things that would help paint a picture of the man who had raised him with such love.

  It was then he knew he was done wrestling.

  By the time Delbert left the farm, they had entered into their own new covenant: there would be no more secrets. They could each, including Dorothy (Delbert would call her about this), feel free to tell whomever they felt they most trusted and with whom they shared the greatest intimacies. This included Delbert telling his wife, which he was embarrassed to admit he had not yet done. “No wonder this all got buried,” he’d said to Katie, who completely understood his sentiment. They would give themselves two days for this private sharing as they gathered the support and prayers of their best friends. It would also give them at least some idea of what initial reactions would be.

  Then they would stand strong for each other when he broke the news to Partonville. Sunday. During church. Sunday during church when Pastor Delbert Carol, Jr. would preach what he would refer to as the second and most personal revelation of his two-part message on God’s awesome grace and forgiveness. Of course, he didn’t know it then, but he would go on to preach a sermon impassioned to the point of his own tears, just like his father before him.

  Tuesday night’s Centennial Plus 30 meeting was . . . unusual. Gladys arrived ten minutes tardy, a first. Where she got the gumption to finally enter that room, she and many others would never know. Then again, she was Gladys.

  Sharon had threatened to stuff her entire handbag down Arthur’s throat if he verbally jumped on Gladys, when, and if, she ever arrived. He’d done nothing but rant on about somebody having to keep a closer eye on that woman “lest she turn the dern celebration into a three-ring circus clown.”

  “I’m sure she’s embarrassed enough, Arthur.”

  “You wish.”

  May Belle greeted Gladys with a warm hello and a hot mug of coffee she’d kept on standby. “We’re all ready for you,” she’d said, immediately wishing she’d just kept quiet since it made them sound like a firing squad. After May Belle scooted back behind the partition, Gladys was left standing alone before the uncomfortably silent and seated group. She cleared her throat and sat down, then just stared at her hands for a few moments. She looked at her watch, nodded her head, stood again and said, “Well, now, we’re late getting started. As you know, it is my goal to keep these meetings running on time. So let’s just get to it. I believe my traffic idea was . . . an excellent one. Still is. Admittedly, it wasn’t executed very well, but if I would have had more support and . . .”

  “Gladys,” Doc said, jumping in before Arthur did, “that is behind us now, and I think it’s best we leave it there and just move on to our reports. Eugene and I will begin. Go ahead, Eugene.” Gladys, sensing a possible mutiny, slammed her mouth closed and sat down.

  Eugene had obviously been thrown an unexpected curveball, but he reached out and bunted just the same. “Right. Here’s who we’ve already collected stories from,” he said, unfolding his paper and reading the list he and Doc had put together while they were waiting for Gladys, “and here’s who’s still working on them.”

  “Although Harold couldn’t make the meeting this evening,” Doc said, “he assured us that what’s getting turned in is just dandy. Said he’ll only need a couple days lead-time to roll it out.”

  The rest of the meeting was pretty perfunctory and Gladys remained low-key. The only real downside was the unanimous reporting that advertisers and patron donations, which they had all been trying to gather, were sorely lacking. They decided they could defer some of the chili proceeds to cover expenses if they ultimately fell short, and Gladys—verging on Gladys the Gladiator, but overtly stifling herself—encouraged rather than demanded them to keep vigilant records so bookkeeping matters could never come under fire.

  Katie stopped by the Lamp Post at eight-thirty Wednesday night, which was the first chance Jessica said she would have time to visit, hopefully without interruptions, if everyone got checked in early and Sarah Sue went down on time. At eight-twenty-five, Jessica flipped on the NO Vacancy sign, which would also indicate to Katie she should come right to their home entrance, which was a modest three rooms attached to the motel. Wouldn’t you know Sarah Sue had cranked around half of the afternoon, and Jessica was just settling in to nurse her when Katie knocked on their door. Paul greeted Katie, then settled down in his chair in the living room and went back to reading his paper.

  “Katie!” Jessica tried to exclaim in a quiet voice to express her joy yet not startle her baby, who she wanted to nurse and go down. “I need to hug you, but it’ll have to wait.” Katie didn’t want to chase Paul out of his own living room, so she quietly said to Jessica, “Would you mind if we go sit in your office lobby? I have something personal to share.”

  “Oh, Katie! ” Jessica stood from her chair, the office lobby lit only by the pale blue glow from the new neon Lamp Post sign outside the office door. “Stand up here, Katie, so I can hug you! Now I’ve got to hug you!” With one arm, Jessica, who was still nursing since her daughter had kept craning her neck to watch Katie rather than nursing, hugged Katie, who had poured out her whole story. Jessica backed off and looked at Katie’s tear-laden face, then hugged her again. After standing in silence for a minute, during which time Jessica, without words, unquestionably affirmed Katie and their friendship, the wom
en sat back down again.

  Jessica looked down at Sarah Sue’s face and stroked her cheek. “All children are children of God! How sad Pastor Delbert Senior never had a chance to hold his beautiful daughter. I can’t help but believe he knows about you in heaven, Katie, and is just so proud of you.” Such simple statements. Such gifts of continued healing for Katie’s mending heart.

  “Thank you, dearest friend,” Dorothy said to May Belle as they sat at May Belle’s kitchen table, Dorothy having wound down from what was now her fourth recital about the Core Four Covenant. “Bless you, bless you, bless you for your prayers. No doubt they made a world of difference. I can’t imagine what I would ever do without you!”

  “Like they say, Dorothy—whoever they are, and sometimes I think they wouldn’t recognize a hill of beans if they saw it in front of them, but in this case they’re right when they say it”—May Belle briefly chuckled at her own silly self, “With God, all things are possible, so I reckon you’d still get along just fine.”

  Dorothy looked around May Belle to the pie tin on her counter. “But like they also say—and I’m talking about the same they as you are—with May Belle, all things are baked. How about a nice big slice of pumpkin pie and a hot cup of cinnamon tea to celebrate the end of the secret? I don’t know what’s going to happen after church on Sunday, but that’ll give us both something else to pray about while we’re eating it!”

  Alex,

  When’s a good time to call you? Be home tonight? Have I got a story to tell YOU! (It’s on the QT for now, though.) Talk about Cinderella in reverse! You have no idea, man!

  Josh

  “Delbert, when I married you, it was for better or for worse. You are exactly the same man to me as you were before you learned all of this.

  “I agree with you, Dorothy’s role in this does not need to be revealed; she was just caught up in it, really, as a go-between. All that really matters is that a man and a woman each willingly made a mistake, a child was conceived, a secret was kept, and in the end, God loved everyone through it—including you and Katie now. And I can’t help but believe that your, our, new relationship with her and her son isn’t going to bless us all in a very special way.

  “But, Delbert, if Dorothy continues to insist she ‘fess up to the public,’ as you said she put it, and you think it will help her to fully heal . . . and she’s determined to own her part . . . what else are you to do but let her?” Delbert sighed.

  “Something I am kind of sorry about, though, is that you didn’t feel you could come right to me rather than running off to a retreat center, but one of the reasons I love you is because you first love God. I’m happy being the pastor’s wife, Delbert, even now when it means our private lives will be paraded in front of an entire congregation. But I stand beside you. And if you should ever feel a need to step down, or somebody forces you to do that, know I will still be a very proud Delbert Junior’s wife.”

  If only everyone in town would respond with the same grace and love. But, of course, they wouldn’t.

  23

  For maybe the first time ever, Gladys McKern and Cora Davis found themselves on the same side. Their behavior was shameless, Doc decided, several times trying to divert their conversations. The two jabbering women were all but working the early Monday-morning crowd at Harry’s in an attempt to rally support to have the Carols’ family name omitted from the centennial booklet, and to stir up trouble about Dorothy.

  “I tell you,” Gladys said to anyone who would listen, and a few who wished not to, “after what that man told us about his father at church on Sunday,” and she prattled on with the short version for those who didn’t attend the United Methodist Church, “standing up there as big as you please, talking about grace and forgiveness as though there was nothing more to all of this than a nice story, when proof of his own father’s failure was sitting right there in church with us. . . . Why I have never seen or heard anything like it!

  “And Dorothy Jean Wetstra standing up and giving what she called a testimony! I’d call it nothing short of disgrace! I mean here we are trying to let folks know what Partonvillers are made of, and we sure do not want them to think that’s the kind of people we are!

  “And that Katie Durbin, or Katie Carol, or whatever we’re supposed to call her now, owning Crooked Creek Farm, the very land that our new park is going to be named after! And her sitting right there in church, an illegitimate . . .”

  “That is ENOUGH!” Arthur’s voice thundered throughout the small restaurant as he banged both fists on the counter and stood. He walked over to Gladys and got right up in her face, stretching himself to his fullest stature.

  “Now you listen to me, woman! I don’t care if you ARE the mayor! You are plumb out of line and that is ENOUGH! You are trying to create a soap opera nothin’ short of historical—and hys-terical—potions here, and I tell you I will not STAND for it!” Gladys’s eyeballs were pasted to the back of her head, he yelped so loudly right in her face. Cora walked up behind Arthur, looking like she might be intending to bean him, but Eugene stepped in front of her, facing her square on. He’d been on the verge of intervening right before Arthur stepped in anyway.

  “I’ll admit,” Arthur said, facing Gladys, then scanning the rest of the folks at Harry’s, “when I first heard Pastor tellin’ the story, I thought, ‘Now this is a disturbin’ new sitchiation.’ But dad gum it!” He turned to have his next words drill right into Gladys again. “Here you are blatherin’ on about what we’re made of, when the fact is, no doubt most of us right here at Harry’s have lived long enough to collect a few of our own rascally stories.” Many folks looked away from Arthur, as though hiding from the sear of his conviction.

  “What are we really made of?” he asked. “It BETTER (he reached his fist past Gladys and banged it on the counter again) be stuff that holds us together, and tearin’ folks down AIN’T (pause) HOW (pause) THAT (pause) WORKS!”

  Eugene looked straight at Cora and began to clap. Within a few seconds, so was everyone else in the restaurant, aside from Cora, who stormed out, and Gladys, who suddenly felt ashamed of herself.

  Gladys nearly whispered into the phone. “Father O’Sullivan?” she asked, never revealing who she was and speaking a few notes higher than her usual voice so as not to be recognized. “I am not a Catholic, but I’m wondering if you would listen to me . . . well . . . I have to . . . Can I just phone my own . . . Do Catholics still do confessions?”

  “Yes. Would you like to . . .”

  “Well, I confess,” she said, then she hung up.

  Thursday night’s run-through of the opening events went pretty much without a hitch, but definitely it was crunch day. At least traffic thankfully circled the square the way it had been circling ever since there’d been a square, which was not too many years after the Parton family—who received liberal coverage in the official Centennial Plus 30 booklet—first settled there.

  Of course, the chili makers, who consisted mostly of guild members from all the Partonville churches, plus both genders of scouts, their parents, the 4-H club and Lester, had been chopping and dicing up a storm since Wednesday. Nearly every Tupperware bowl in town was filled and readied for action at Friday’s 5:30 A.M. “sizzling, stirring and stewing kickoff” (Sharon had just adored inventing that phrase in her recent Meet Your Town festivities recap column) which would be under May Belle’s able direction in the park district building’s kitchen. May Belle was the only one who knew the secret formulas for multiplying recipes, which was trickier than one might think. Wilbur would, as usual, arrive with the ground chuck. The chili makers’ brief Thursday meeting consisted of a check-off list of ingredients, condiments (including several degrees of hot sauce and two kinds of jalapenos) and paper goods. All seemed to be in order, including two large bottles of antacids donated by Richardson’s Rexall Drugs, dollar-off coupons attached. “Just make sure we get a mention under donations along with the advertisement we paid for in the booklet.”

  The
new digital clock and temperature were right on the money; Edward Showalter had outdone himself working nearly around the clock (literally and figuratively) on installations, although not for free, and Gladys was actually receiving congratulations for the long-overdue update.

  Jessica, who was on the verge of a nervous breakdown after getting a combined seven hours of sleep the last two nights, had managed to please the fine mayor with her special archway with “We Proclaim” written across the top in vibrant red letters (paint left over from Dorothy’s ceiling), then splattered with multicolors to look like confetti. Although Gladys wished the archway could be more mobile so it could be moved center stage for her proclamations and pronouncements, she acquiesced when it was pointed out to her that the band would be taking up a portion of the stage once they set up, and that the archway, which was constructed out of chicken wire and bailing twine, might not hold up too well if it was shuffled around. Once Jessica showed Gladys her sketch, complete with streamers and balloons that would hide the framework, Gladys was satisfied—although a little worried about the balloons all being blown up and in place on time. “Oh, that can’t be done today,” Jessica said, brushing her bangs off of her eyebrows. “We don’t want to risk possible deflation before your big moment!”

  With much gratitude, several days ago Dorothy had made the decision to turn over most of the talent show responsibilities to Sheila, one of Maggie Malone’s grand-daughters, saying she just didn’t have it in her this year. “It’s time someone brought more youthful ideas and energy to the annual event anyway. Yes, things have gone alrighty and some say don’t fix what isn’t broken, but Sheila, I know things can be improved and you’re just the woman to do it!”