The Healing Quilt

by Lauraine Snelling

  “I hate to drink and run here, but.

  “Oh, Pastor Garth, you are such a comedian. You remind me of Harold, my late husband, bless his soul, he…”

  Garth broke in before she picked up speed again. “I hope you two have a good time.” He turned and dropped a kiss on his wife's forehead. “Have fun,” he whispered, his eyes twinkling.

  “I shouldn't be late.”

  He answered her question before she could ask it.

  “Such a fine young man. Our church is certainly blessed to have found him. Why, the things I could tell you about some of our former pastors, we have about run the gamut. I remember the time.

  Beth set her coffee cup down on the tray with a bit of a clang to get Mrs. Spooner's attention. Calling her “Harriet” just didn't seem at all possible. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, no thank you, not at all.” A glance at her watch and the flagpole woman rose, brushing imaginary crumbs off her brown polyester knit pants. Crumbs that might have been there, had there been cookies.

  “We must be on our way, the traffic, you know, my car is right out front and I…”

  If only I could drive myself. Beth smiled around the thought and took her purse from the table under the hall mirror. She turned in time to see Mrs. Spooner picking up the tray to carry to the kitchen.

  “I'll get that later.”

  “No, no, can't be an imposition, not after that lovely coffee. You must have ground the beans yourself—it tasted so fresh and good.” The words trailed behind her, like everything else, unable to keep up.

  By the time they reached the meeting hall, Beth knew most of the history of the Jefferson Community Church, who had married whom, the two divorces and who was at fault, a baby or two born a bit premature, the trials of earlier pastors, the wonders of the former pastor and how, due to health, he'd been forced into early retirement.

  Beth felt like clapping her hands over her ears, but no matter how she tried to change the subject, doing so was like stopping a roller coaster in free fall—with one hand. They arrived at the meeting just as it was due to start, and Mrs. Spooner hustled her down the aisle to the front row.

  “So we can see better,” she insisted.

  A four-foot banner hung behind the table, and the speakers podium proclaimed the name of the group, WECARE, in green capital letters.

  “What does WECARE stand for?” Beth whispered, but Mrs. Spooner just made a shushing motion as the leader stepped up to the microphone.

  “Welcome. Welcome. Glad to see you all here.” His voice matched his shape, round and fully packed. His megawatt smile flashed around the room.

  Beth couldn't resist smiling back. Talk about contagious energy.

  “Before we introduce our speaker for the evening, let me just get a show of hands. Did your tilth improve with our new methods, which are really ancient methods being brought back?”

  Beth glanced over her shoulder to see indeed a raise of hands, including her hostess. Tilth? What is tilth? And what kind of meeting is this?

  “Your compost bin, have you aerated it properly?”

  Someone from the back announced, “It gets more air than I do,” causing laughter to ripple around the room.

  “Good, good. However, Arthur, maybe you should go back to manually turning yours, gives you more wind thataway.”

  Another ripple of laughter.

  “How many of you took Lesley's barrel-and-crank pattern home and built that model?”

  “Yes, even egg shells decompose fast with that method.”

  By now Beth was getting whiplash from turning to see who responded.

  “Good, good.” Mr. Moderator rubbed his hands together in what looked like glee. “I can see we will make a difference here in Jefferson City and our entire county. Now I'd like to introduce our expert for this evening, and then we will have a Q and A session following, so keep your questions for the end, and if he can't solve your problems, perhaps some of our master gardeners here will have answers for you.”

  Gardeners? I thought. Beth sucked in a deep breath. Her house-plants grew up in a silk flower factory. With her minimal interest in digging in the dirt, she shuddered to think what the evening might contain. Shame she didn't bring that quilt square along that she'd started piecing so long ago. At least then her entire evening wouldn't have been wasted. If she could have found it, of course.

  But ifyoudstayed home, you most likely would have assumed the fetal position either in front of the television or in bed, now, wouldn't you?

  Admitting to the accusing voice, she made herself sit a bit straighter in the chair.

  “Isn't he just the most darling man?” Mrs. Spooner's slight overbite and pink nose made Beth think of a rabbit, a rabbit's head on a lean race-horsy body, that was her hostess all right.

  Beth turned her attention back to the front to catch the last of the speaker's credentials.

  “And here he is, the foremost advocate of God's original recyclers, red worms, one of the earthworm family, scientifically known as rnegadrili”

  A tall man, weathered of face and hands and with the lanky build one often associated with cowboys, took his place behind a bank of boxes lined up on the table. “Good evening, friends. Thank you for inviting me to speak on my favorite subject.” He clicked a pointer on and turned to a slide that filled the screen off to the side. At the same moment, someone dimmed the house lights.

  Beth lasted about the first three minutes of the slide presentation on buying, growing, caring for, and sharing red squiggly worms.

  The song from her childhood that meandered and wiggled through Beths mind had something to do with nobody loves me, everybody hates me, think I'll go eat worms and die, including all the various worm descriptions. None matched the can of red wrigglers that was passed around for everyone to look at and touch if so desired.

  Beth desired to touch the nest of moving threads in the can about as much as a nest of garden snakes, or perhaps rattlers. She'd never seen either, but the thought alone made her shudder.

  When at the end of the interminably long meeting they passed out baggies of red worms, she started to refuse hers, but when Mrs. Spooner announced that surely she didn't want to miss out on such an opportunity, she took the bag with only a slight shiver.

  “Here, you may have these.” She passed the bag to Mrs. Spooner as soon as they got outside the door.

  “No, no, you keep them.”

  “Harriet, how are you?” A tall woman with a smile warm enough to melt snow turned around to greet them.

  “Good, good, I saw that you put that composting idea to use.”

  “Anything to make things easier, but I have learned to just bury much of the garden and house refuse between the rows and let the earth itself do the work.” She smiled at Beth.

  “Teza, meet our new pastor's wife, Beth Donnelly. Teza Dennison has a wonderful little farm outside of town where most of those who don't grow their own can go and get fruit and vegetables.”

  Beth shifted her worm sack to her left hand and stuck out her right. “I'm pleased to meet you.”

  “Ah, you love gardening too?”

  Beth slightly tightened her mouth and sucked in her bottom lip. “I…uh…”

  Harriet stepped in. “I invited Beth so she could get to know some new people, and so I'm really glad you came by and I think we better go now, so we will see you later.”

  “Good.”

  Was that a wink in Teza's eye? Beth smiled too. “I hope we have a chance to meet again.”

  “Oh, we will. Jefferson City isn't so large people lose sight of each other like big cities. Come out to the farm. My strawberries are wonderful.”

  “And they are,” Harriet added as someone else spoke to Teza.

  “My, that was a good meeting, wasn't it? Did you get the handouts as we left?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “That's all right. I picked up a set for you, too. I thought maybe you weren't feeling too well, the way you looked there
at the end.”

  “Why, uh, thank you.” If only you knew.

  “And I'll just spread these little fellers among the rosebushes out front of your house along with some alfalfa leaves I brushed up from the barn floor out to my son's farm. Roses do love alfalfa sweepings. Banana peels, too. You just dig them in around the roots.”

  “Oh, really?” Beth nearly collapsed against the car seat. She stared at the paper that had appeared in her hand. “What did you say that WECARE stands for?”

  “Why, it means ‘Where Everyone Composts And Recycles Enthusiastically’ I thought you knew that.” She glanced toward her passenger. “I get the feeling you aren't much into things of the soil.”

  “Oh. Oh no, I enjoyed the meeting tonight and I learned a great deal, but you see, Ga—Pastor Garth is the one with the green thumb. I… I wouldn't want to take away one of his pleasures, so I leave the gardening to him.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I'm really glad you invited me.”

  “What do you like to do then?”

  “I sew and quilt, and I've discovered I like refinishing furniture.”

  “Inside stuff, eh?”

  Beth did not need the accusations. Someone has to keep the house and make a home for the pastor too, you know. “I love arranging the flowers Garth grows,” she said instead. When he can find the time to grow any.

  “Well, if he wants any help with his composting, he can come to me.” Harriet reached over to pat her arm. “In the winter I like to sew, too, along with start all my annuals from seed, of course.”

  After this evening's entertainment, Beth now knew what composting was, but she also knew for a solid fact that Garth had never evinced the slightest interest in building a compost heap—bin, barrel, or whatever.

  “You know God is the original recycler. He never wastes anything. He calls us to be good stewards of this earth he gave us, and recycling everything we can is one way to do it. Even to those newspapers I saw stacked up by your kitchen door. I use all mine for mulch.”

  Thank you, God, were home again. Beth smiled as warmly as possible.“Good night, and thanks again.” She got out of the car and saw Harriet do the same, then bend down to the flowerbed.

  “You are most welcome. You go on in, and I'll just give your roses here in front the treats that we have for them. Roses respond well to loving conversation, too, you know. Why, you must come over one day and see my rose bed. Tell Pastor I'll bring goodies for the staff meeting in the morning. ‘Night.” Mrs. Spooner climbed back into her car, the roses sufficiently fed with worms and alfalfa leavings, reversed, and was out on the street before Beth made it halfway to the front door.

  I'm sure Garth will be delighted to see you in the morning. She chuckled to herself as she let herself in the front door. Since the garage light was still on, she knew Garth wasn't yet home, so she left the empty Baggie on the hall table where he would see it first thing. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she paused. The ghost of the last weeks seemed to have disappeared. Her cheeks had some color, her hair curled softly on her shoulders as it used to, and the woman in the mirror stood straight like the former Beth. Had getting out to one meeting where she'd been more repulsed than invigorated worked magic after all? Or was the other Beth lurking in the bedroom, ready to come out and grab her?

  SEVEN

  “It wasn't so bad after all, was it?”

  Teza lifted one shoulder in the way she had of disparaging something that was said. “Just took time away from the important things, that's all.” She slid from the car and bent back down to look in again. “You've got your mammogram scheduled for Monday. See how much you like it.” She shut the door and stepped back, waving Kit out of the yard and down the lane to the road.

  “Always has to have the last word. Always.” Kit watched her aunt through the rearview mirror. And no, she was not looking forward to it either, but duty called. Besides she had to live up to her own word. “Oh, chicken feathers.” She thumped the heel of one hand on the steering wheel. “I forgot to ask her about the picnic.” The Fourth of July celebration was only four days away, and Jefferson City went all out to have an old-fashioned celebration, not only patriotic but reminiscent of the early years of the city, now well over a hundred years old. People dressed in period clothing, mosdy turn-of-the-twentieth-century, and rode in antique cars, horses and buggies, and big-wheeled cycles. The parade could be counted on to bring in entrants from all over Jefferson County and those surrounding it. As far as local folks were concerned, the Fourth of July parade equaled the Daffodil parade in Tacoma in the spring or the Rose Parade in Pasadena, California, at the New Year.

  This would be the first year in a long time that she had no offspring taking part in the parade in some fashion. Ryan had played tuba in the high-school band, Amber belonged to a clown group from the time she was twelve, and Jennifer had been a member of the high-school drill team. For years Kit helped with uniforms and grease paint, always assisting whichever group she was mothering at the moment, then driving farther down the parade route and joining the cheering section before helping again at the end.

  “Another milestone.” She took in a deep breath to calm the tension zinging out to her fingertips and buzzing the backs of her eyes. Back in the early days, before his job took him on the road so much, Mark had helped build floats or booths or whatever needed a man—or anyone for that matter—who was good with a hammer. Glue gun had been her specialty, so the both of them were in high demand. Ah, Mark, where are you? How are you? Are you thinking about the hometown parade? You could come home, you know. Like a shooting star, hope flared and died when she saw the still-empty driveway. Missy met her at the door, demanding attention. After pats and ear rubs, she fled out the door into the backyard.

  Kit set to making the pies she had promised for their church women's booth, storing three rhubarb and two apple in the freezer and baking crusts for both chocolate and lemon meringue. She'd bake the frozen ones the morning of the festival, since she didn't need to be at the parade at sunrise or thereabouts.

  Three days later Kit rearranged her clothes after suffering through her yearly mammogram. Her chest still stung from being smashed between the two cold plates. She turned as the technician nurse reappeared and hung the films on the viewer.

  “So, Marcy, how am I doing?”

  “Clear as far as I can see. Doctor will have to read them to be sure.” The woman with dark hair, cut cap-style, smiled over her shoulder. “You have been doing self-exams, right?”

  “Yes, I do. Thank goodness, I'm done with this for another year.” Kit finished buttoning the front of her white cotton camp shirt. “You know, I've got some questions if you have a minute.”

  “Sure do.” Marcy snapped off the viewer and removed the films, sliding them into a folder in one smooth motion. “Now, how can I help you?” She perched on a wheeled stool and faced the tall casual woman who leaned against the wall.

  Kit searched her mind for the right way to bring up a subject growing more painful by the day and more confusing. Just jump in. Why do anything other than normal?The voice in her mind sounded exasperated.

  “Why…?” She rolled her lower lip, rubbing it with the tip of her tongue. “Now, Marcy, please don't take this personally, okay?”

  “Me? Take something personally? Come on, Kit, think who you're talking to.” Marcy's eyes crinkled at the corners.

  “You're right. You know Annie Nelson has advanced-stage breast cancer?” The nurse nodded. “But yet she had her yearly mammogram less than six months ago. And she was always faithful about that, especially after the previous mastectomy.” Kit felt a flicker of anger somewhere in her middle. “Her mammogram came back clear.” No way should Annie have had cancer. Or at least not to such a degree. Kit thought about her neighbor several doors down, a young woman with two school-age children and a husband who looked as though he'd been given a terminal sentence himself with the news. They were talking radical mastectomy again with certainty n
ow that the cancer had metastasized.

  “I know.” Marcy glared at the hulking machine that took up most of the room. “That's the reason right there. This machine is so old, Noah might have had it on the ark. It just doesn't pick up the minute clusters of cells that the newer, state-of-the-art machines do. And…” She paused as if considering how to continue. “Now mind, if you ever tell anyone I said this, I'll deny it till I die. These old machines use so much radiation that they can be harmful.” She stared down at her clasped hands. “I'm sorry.”

  “So why didn't someone tell us this before? Why do we have to learn about it in the newspaper? Why don't we have one of the new ones? It's not like we're close to a major teaching hospital or anything. We count on Jefferson Memorial Hospital to take care of us in this town.” Kit paced to the window and stared out. “So why is there no new machine here when we've had so many breast cancer reports? I've even heard the word cluster bandied about.” She stopped pacing to look directly at the nurse. “You read the articles in the paper.”

  “Of course.” Marcy stood, taking a step back, and ducked her chin. “Same old, same old. Money or lack thereof. And something most people don't know, Medicare and other insurances have cut back on what they pay for mammograms and the radiologist to read them, so our department has become a serious drain on the operating budget.”

  “But it's so important!”

  “Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just telling you what I know.”

  “Sorry.” Kit resumed her pacing. “Then why the new look? That hospital refurbishing cost thousands of dollars.”