Fern Hampton, despite being healed of her warts, was still aloof. When Krista had volunteered to help make noodles for the Friendly Women’s Circle annual Chicken Noodle Dinner, Fern had loftily informed her that noodle making was something one aspired to, a rank to be attained after years of service by women whose moral character was beyond reproach.
Bea Majors had intervened, pointing out that Krista was a minister, but Fern had held fast. “Minister or not, we’ve known her less than a month. What if she turns out to be a fraud? There goes our reputation. She can make tea, but she doesn’t touch the noodles.”
The morning of the Corn and Sausage Days parade, Krista was bustling around her apartment, readying herself for the grand event, when she heard a knock on her door. She opened it to find a man and woman with unusually prominent teeth and carrying lawn chairs, standing in the hallway.
“We’re the Newharts,” they said, entering her apartment. “Perhaps you know our daughter, Buffy.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“She’s this year’s Sausage Queen.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m sure you’re quite proud of her,” Krista said pleasantly.
“We certainly are that.”
They were standing in the middle of Krista’s living room by now.
“Don’t mind us,” they said. “We’ll just take our seats on the balcony.”
“Excuse me?”
“The balcony. The parents of the Sausage Queen get to sit there, along with the members of the town council.”
No one had mentioned this to Krista, though she was starting to realize she’d been uninformed about many of Harmony’s more curious customs.
“Help yourself,” she said. “I’m off to the meetinghouse. If you use the bathroom, be sure to jiggle the toilet handle.”
“Will do,” they said.
She was late, so she hurried, the faint strains of parade music pulling her along.
When she arrived at the meetinghouse, Fern was waiting at the door, a frown on her face, peering at her wristwatch. “You’re an hour late,” she snapped.
“Sorry, Fern. I had to finish my schoolwork.”
“Don’t let it happen again,” Fern said, then handed her an index card. “This is the recipe for the iced tea. Follow it precisely.”
Krista began boiling water for the tea, then added the tea bags to let it steep, giving it an occasional stir. Fern peered over her shoulder the entire time, cautioning her to slow down. “Careful, careful. That’s tea you’re making, not a milk shake.”
As in most dictatorships, Fern’s subjects were too cowed to intervene and busied themselves with other tasks, lest they draw her attention and then her wrath.
Fern was momentarily distracted when Opal Majors dropped a bowl of ice cubes and Krista, in sheer defiance of the recipe, used the opportunity to add a tablespoon of sugar to the tea.
Fern turned around just in time to see Krista set the sugar bowl on the counter.
“What did you just do? You just did something. What was it?” she demanded.
“The tea tasted bitter. I thought a little sugar might take the edge off.”
“Pour it out. You’ve ruined it,” Fern ordered, then turned to Bea. “This is exactly what I warned you about. First she was late, and now she’s changing things.” She turned back to confront Krista. “We never put sugar in the tea. We have sugar packets. One per customer. Now you’ve gone and ruined everything. Pour it out. It’s no good now.”
“Fern, that would be wasteful,” Krista said. “It’s perfectly good tea.” Fern gasped, clearly not accustomed to having her orders ignored. The other women fell silent, glancing warily at the unfolding drama, like a herd of sheep whose most vulnerable member was being singled out by a wolf.
“Out!” Fern demanded, drawing herself up to full height, jutting her chest out, and pointing to the door. “Out of the kitchen! I knew this would happen.”
Krista began to laugh and said, “Oh, Fern, relax! As my students used to say, ‘Chill out!’”
Miriam Hodge, apparently emboldened by Krista’s bravery, tittered. Then Bea Majors tried to stifle a snort but failed, and finally all the other Friendly Women began cackling like crazed hens.
“Hush!” Fern screeched, which caused the women to laugh even harder.
Dictators can suppress individual acts of defiance, but collective mutiny is not as easily squashed, and laughter in the face of tyranny is an especially potent weapon.
“Enough of this insubordination,” Fern snapped. “I won’t have it.”
“Oh, Fern, settle down,” Opal Majors said.
For over sixty years, the Hampton women had ruled the Friendly Women’s Circle with an iron fist, crushing dissent lest it give birth to liberation. Their chief weapons had been gossip and slander, but when those failed to subdue, martial law was never far behind.
“That’s it, no Chicken Noodle Dinner this year,” Fern said. “We’re shutting it down.”
“What do you mean, we’re shutting it down?” Jessie Peacock said. “We can’t do that. People will be here within the hour. We’ve cooked all these noodles. We even advertised in the Herald.”
“Then you’ll have to choose. It’s either her or me. But if you pick her, I’m taking the noodle cutters with me.”
The women waited a few seconds before answering to give Fern the impression they were considering her ultimatum, then Bea said, rather timidly, “Fern, she is our pastor…”
With that, Fern Hampton harrumphed, collected the noodle cutters, and stormed from the kitchen, vowing aloud that Krista Riley’s time at Harmony Friends Meeting would soon be coming to an end.
Jessie Peacock was the first to recover. “It’d serve her right if her warts came back.”
“Don’t you worry, honey,” Miriam Hodge said, hugging Krista. “She’s always like this on Chicken Noodle Day.”
“What do you mean? She’s like this every day,” Bea Majors said.
“Fern seems really upset. Maybe I should go apologize and ask her to come back,” Krista said.
“Let’s quit while we’re ahead,” Bea said.
The women returned to their labors, and Krista joined them, appreciative of their support, but suspecting a bull’s-eye had been planted firmly on her back and that Fern Hampton was practicing her aim.
Fifteen
A Miracle, Sort Of
The Chicken Noodle Dinner was a stunning triumph, owing to Buffy Newhart’s plug at the end of the parade in an interview with Bob Miles of the Herald.
“What are you doing next?” he’d asked her. “What are your plans for the future?”
“I’m going to the Chicken Noodle Dinner,” she’d said.
Over the years many a Sausage Queen has been confounded about what to do after the glory of queenship. A few moved on to further glories, most notably Nora Nagle, who starred as a dancing grape in an underwear commercial. But many more struggled, having peaked early. It is the unspoken shame of Harmony that of the forty-two former Sausage Queens, fifteen of them required psychiatric treatment, twelve moved to the city, five of them took to drink, and one became a Buddhist.
Still, young ladies all over town aspire to that high office, knowing it might spell their ruination; they seem to be willing to risk their future in hopes of achieving that fleeting honor.
As was the custom, the freshly crowned Sausage Queen Buffy Newhart gave the blessing of the noodles, thanking God for first one thing and then another—the privilege of representing the town at the state Sausage Queen contest, the food they were about to partake of and the hands that had prepared it, and the opportunity to live in a free country where they could worship anywhere they wished or not worship at all, if that was their choice, amen.
Dale Hinshaw was pleased until she hit the last line, when he became visibly upset, having labored for years to make worship mandatory, lobbying the Honorable Henry Tuttle to sponsor a bill requiring every citizen to worship each Sunday, ideally at
a Protestant church, unless one couldn’t be found, then at a Catholic church, so long as one didn’t make a habit of it.
He wanted to admonish Buffy but couldn’t get near her for the entourage that surrounded her, attending to her every wish. Instead, he recorded her transgression in his pocket notebook, lest he forget her sin amidst the rapture of noodles and general excitement.
With Fern Hampton gone, Krista Riley served the noodles, spilling not one noodle the entire afternoon. This was akin to pitching a no-hitter her first time on the mound, and when she laid down her spoon two hours later, the Friendly Women broke into applause.
Sam’s entire family was present in the meetinghouse basement, including his brother, Roger, who’d driven out from the city for the day.
It was Charlie Gardner’s first foray into public since his heart bypass, and he was stuffing himself with noodles.
“Best noodles anywhere,” Charlie Gardner said, scraping his plate with a flourish.
His wife beamed with pleasure.
Krista, moving from table to table to chat with the lingering diners, approached Sam’s table. “How are the Gardners?”
“Finer than a frog’s hair,” Charlie Gardner said, his mood elevated by the surfeit of noodles.
“I’m Roger,” Sam’s brother said, standing up and smiling broadly, his bachelor radar on high alert in the presence of an attractive single woman.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Roger,” Krista said, shaking his hand.
“Please join us,” he offered, holding out an empty chair conveniently located beside his.
“I’d like nothing more,” she said. “But there’s still a lot of work to be done.”
“Oh, rest for a spell,” Gloria Gardner said. “You’ve earned it.” She turned and spoke to Sam. “You wouldn’t believe how hard Krista’s worked. I don’t know what we would have done without her.”
“Better watch out, son. She might take your job,” Charlie Gardner teased.
“You know us women, we’re sneaky that way,” Krista said, poking Sam’s shoulder.
Sam frowned. A look of alarm crossed his face.
“So how do you like being a minister so far?” Gloria Gardner asked.
“I’m having a ball,” Krista said. “But, Sam, I don’t know how you do it. Every time I turn around, there’s something else to do. They told me you’ve been pastoring eighteen years now. How have you lasted so long?”
Sam smiled modestly, started to speak, but was interrupted by his father.
“He doesn’t work very hard, that’s how he does it,” Charlie Gardner said. “Frank does most of the work.”
That’s the last time I buy him Cheetos and Dr. Pepper, Sam thought.
“So how do you find time for your boyfriend?” Roger asked Krista. Roger was still single, fast approaching forty, and had lost all sense of subtlety.
“Easy,” Krista said. “I don’t have one.”
“If I’ve told Sam this once, I’ve told him a hundred times, don’t be so busy with your career that you forget to love.”
Sam rolled his eyes. Roger had never told him any such thing.
Krista blushed and began gathering empty plates onto a tray to carry to the kitchen.
“Let me help you,” Roger offered, ever the gentleman.
“Somebody better hose him down,” Sam whispered to Barbara, who snorted, then began to laugh.
In the midst of her laughter Sam glanced across the table at his father, who was holding his chest, his face the color of a radish.
“Dad, you okay?” Sam asked.
“My chest,” his father gasped.
Sam turned to his mother. “Call for an ambulance. Quick.”
He ran around the table to his father and helped him to the floor, loosening his shirt collar.
The Friendly Women gathered around, concerned, their hands clutched in prayer.
“Dad, where does it hurt?” Sam asked.
“Chest…arm…neck,” his dad answered weakly.
“Oh, Lord, he’s having a heart attack,” Bea Majors said. “Lift his legs. If someone’s having a heart attack, you need to lift their legs.”
“That’s if they’re having a stroke,” Jessie Peacock said.
“No, Bea’s right,” Opal Majors said. “You got to lift their legs.”
Jessie Peacock, always one for compromise, said, “How about just lifting one of his legs.”
“C-c-cold,” Charlie Gardner chattered.
“Barbara, run and get the blanket from our car,” Sam said.
“Probably heartburn from all those noodles,” Opal said, then absolved herself of any blame. “I told him not to eat so many. He had three plates.”
Gloria Gardner returned to her husband’s side, crouching on the floor beside him to smooth his hair and comfort him. “Johnny Mackey’s on the way. You just hold on, honey.”
The uninitiated might rest easy to learn an ambulance was on its way, but those familiar with Johnny Mackey’s history of procrastination were not at all comforted by Gloria’s report. Johnny had been known to stop for gas, groceries, and even lunch on his way to a medical emergency.
Barbara bustled in, carrying a blanket, which Sam spread over his father.
Dale Hinshaw knelt beside Charlie. “Times like this, a man needs to get right with the Almighty. You got any sins to confess before you meet the Lord?”
“Dale, don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Sam asked, gently nudging him aside.
“Adultery? Lying? Cheating? Anything at all you need to repent of?” Dale persisted, oblivious to Sam’s hint.
Some men dream of illicit romance, others of vast fortunes. It seemed Dale Hinshaw had long fantasized of leading a dying sinner to the Lord. Unfortunately, Charlie Gardner wasn’t cooperating.
“How about drinking? Stealing? Did you ever murder anyone?”
Charlie shook his head, albeit feebly.
“Lust? Greed? Gluttony?” Dale pressed on.
“He’s got you there, Charlie,” Opal Majors said. “Three plates of noodles. If that isn’t gluttony, I don’t know what is.”
“Gluttony it is,” Dale cried out gleefully. “I knew there was a demon in there somewhere. We just had to root him out.”
The whole time Dale was working feverishly to exorcise Charlie’s demons, Krista stood with her arm around Gloria Gardner, unsure of what to do.
When Dale paused to catch his breath, she suggested they pray for Charlie, in hopes it would silence Dale.
“Good idea,” Dale said and began to beseech the Lord to forgive Charlie for overindulging. “Lord, we ask your mercy here on Charlie, even though he’s disobeyed your Word and made a pig of himself—”
“Actually,” Krista interrupted, “I was hoping we could have Quaker silence.”
“Pipe down, Dale,” Bea Majors said, then turned to Krista. “Since you cured Fern of her warts, why don’t you have a go at Charlie.”
Krista knelt, laid her right hand upon Charlie’s chest, and began to pray quietly. People pressed in, straining to hear, but her voice was so soft they couldn’t make out the words.
“For crying out loud,” Dale groused. “I can’t hear a word she’s saying.”
“Zip it, Dale. She’s not praying to you,” Bea Majors said.
At that precise moment, as if to punctuate Bea’s counsel, Charles Gardner emitted the loudest, longest belch that had ever been heard in the environs of Harmony.
“Well, Dale, looks like he expelled that demon you were talking about,” Bea Majors observed.
Charlie’s eyes fluttered open, and he sat up. “What’s everybody doing looking at me?” he asked. “Hey, what am I doing on the floor?”
Opal Majors, though not of the Roman persuasion, crossed herself. “My Lord, she’s done it again. First, she cured Fern, then she didn’t spill a noodle, and now she’s gone and healed Charlie. We got ourselves a miracle worker.”
The Friendly Women studied Krista silently, not certain what to m
ake of such powers and the woman who held them.
Sam stepped back away from the crowd and regarded Krista quietly, torn between deep appreciation for her ministry and a rising envy for her gifts.
Sixteen
Dark Days
Johnny Mackey arrived at the meetinghouse an hour later. Charlie was working on a fourth plate of noodles to build his strength, Gloria was washing dishes, Sam and Barbara and their sons were mopping the floor, and Roger was glued to Krista’s side, tighter than a tick.
“Sorry I’m late,” Johnny said. “Couldn’t find my keys.”
Over the years, Johnny Mackey’s ambulance keys had been found in a number of interesting locations, including the counter of the Coffee Cup. Frank had hung them on the bulletin board in hopes someone might claim them, which Johnny did a month later, though not before transporting the sick and lame in the bed of his pickup.
“It’s all right,” Sam told Johnny. “Dad’s better now.” He had to bite his tongue to keep from stating the obvious—that with Johnny Mackey manning the ambulance, it behooved the populace to pray for divine intervention.
“Say, those noodles sure look good,” Johnny said. “Got any left?”
“Help yourself,” Charlie said as he served himself his fifth plate.
“So how you feeling?” Johnny asked, in between bites of noodles.
“Terrific. It was the craziest thing. One minute, my chest is killing me, and I’m stretched out on the floor thinking I’m gonna die. The next minute I’m feeling tip-top.”
“What happened?” Johnny asked.
“Don’t know and can’t remember. Gloria said Krista laid her hand on my chest, said a prayer, and here I am. That little missy sure is something.”
Sam was relieved when his father’s description of Krista’s many virtues was interrupted by a panting Bob Miles, camera slung around his neck, his notebook at the ready. He looked rather startled to see Charlie Gardner in the full bloom of health.
“I heard you were dead. I was going to take your picture for the Herald.”
Almost Friends Page 10