The Shepherd’s Song

by Betsy Duffey

  You anoint my head with oil.

  She stepped forward toward the plane and into her future with a newfound confidence she had never known.

  AH, FIRST CLASS.”

  Roland Shelby was tilting back in his first-class airplane seat, filled with the warmth of wealth and success, when his worst nightmare came true. Her name was Judy.

  It had been a great trip. He had sealed the Wilson-Chamberlain deal in Chongqing. It looked like it was going to be a great flight home. The first leg to LA had been easy, and now on the final leg to New York the seat beside him was empty. That was the great thing about first class; you were away from the riffraff. No one to bother you. Time to contemplate the next deal. That’s when he heard the voice beside him.

  “Excuse me, young man. I believe I’m in that seat.”

  She was carrying no less than four bags. What happened to the two carry-on policy? He rose and stepped into the aisle to let her pass.

  She squeezed past his seat and collapsed with a thud into hers.

  “Let’s see, now.” She fumbled through the bags. “This one needs to go under the seat.” She dropped one bag on the floor and pushed it under the seat in front of her. “And this one I’ll keep here, then I can . . .”

  Oh great, he thought, she’s going to give a running commentary on everything she does and every thought she has.

  He looked around hopefully for an empty seat, an escape from Judy. All around he saw men in expensive suits, businesswomen in heels and perfectly coiffed hair, already typing on their computers or cell phones. Even the casual people wore expensive clothes. Every seat was taken.

  She’d likely been upgraded because coach was full. Just his luck. He’d be stuck here beside her for five hours, all the way from Los Angeles to New York.

  “Judy,” she announced, extending an unwelcome hand.

  “Roland.” He shook her hand, but it was a very light handshake. He smiled as he thought of all the “power” handshakes he’d experienced in his life, each person trying to grip a little firmer, a little stronger—to show greater strength, power—to intimidate. He had even once considered getting a gym membership, just to strengthen his right arm for handshaking.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” the flight attendant asked.

  “Amstel Light in a cold mug.” He’d need a beer for this flight.

  “Hmmmm,” Judy said. “Sweet tea?”

  Roland did a double take. What planet is she from?

  The words “sweet tea” took him back, way back to his grandmother’s house in Georgia. Sweet tea. It made his mouth ache to think of the taste of sweet tea.

  He took in her worn, embroidered sweater. Her small hat. Brother. He was flying halfway across the world with his grandmother!

  The attendant was shaking her head no.

  Roland rolled his eyes.

  To stop further conversation, he pulled the stack of documents and financial magazines out of his briefcase. A folded piece of paper fell out onto his lap. It must have belonged to the Asian girl who’d sat beside him in the waiting area in Chongqing. They had both piled their things on the chair between them. Curious, he unfolded the paper and read.

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  That’s right, he thought. I don’t want for anything. He thought of his new BMW Z4 and how good it made him feel.

  He continued to skim the psalm until he came to “my cup overflows.” Yes, my cup does overflow. My bonus this year will be double last year’s. Overflowing!

  The attendant handed him his beer.

  “My cup overflows,” he said to Judy, lifting his beer glass to toast.

  To his surprise, she laughed and returned the toast with her Diet Coke.

  “Indeed,” she said.

  Roland tucked the paper into the seat pocket and leaned his head against the back of the seat as the plane taxied down the runway. The plane lifted off, and there was blessed silence until they reached cruising altitude.

  For him, life was like a chessboard with one complicated move after another, and he always managed to win. He was drawn to deals like a moth to a flame. And he could sniff out the good ones. He could read people, too, so deals were easy. He smiled as he thought of the Wilson-Chamberlain deal and how he had spotted the slight squint in the eyes of the opponent at a crucial point in the negotiation . . . and how he’d moved in for the kill. Ah. It felt good.

  “Do you have any children, Roland?” Judy interrupted his thoughts.

  “I have a daughter.”

  “I have five children, and a wealth of family and friends, too. They are all coming.”

  “For what?”

  “Thanksgiving. Isn’t that why you’re flying home?”

  Roland shook his head. He hadn’t realized it was Thanksgiving. He remembered the message from Sarah inviting him to dinner and cringed to think that he had never called her back. Thanksgiving was Thursday. He would be having dinner at the Fleur de Lis with his financial advisers. Tournedos of beef and béarnaise sauce—a good Cabernet.

  “Roland, you reminded me of something important. My cup overflows.”

  “Mine does, too.” Roland thought of the good Cabernet. “Especially when I can get some sleep,” he added as a hint. He pulled out the eye cover that the airline provided and put it on.

  He didn’t want to hear about her cup overflowing. He liked his own cup, with a luxury car and a big house and first class and big business deals. He thought about his penthouse. He loved the way they treated him when he walked in the door.

  “Good morning, Mr. Shelby.” The doorman was quick to open the door and stand at attention while he walked into the building.

  “Good, Mr. Shelby.” The attendant would hurry to press the button on the elevator. Now that was success. Not having to press your own elevator button.

  Upstairs his place was spotless, expansive, immaculate. Gleaming granite and polished wood. No one to mess it up. It was empty most of the time. Sarah had her own place now, and he didn’t have time for relationships.

  He had done it. He had accomplished everything that he had set out to do in his life.

  “Um.” Judy again. “Um, excuse me.” He lifted up one part of the eye shield and saw her rising.

  “Can you excuse me? I need to, um, powder my nose.”

  Suddenly she was almost on his lap. He tried to help her over but didn’t quite know where to touch. Mercifully, she finally made it to the aisle.

  He straightened his glasses, which now hung sideways on his face. His tie was askew. He fixed the knot. He looked at her empty seat and shook his head. Some people are satisfied with so little. He was thankful that he appreciated the finer things in life. He sipped his beer and planned his evening. He would have the driver stop at The Browning Club. They had a great porterhouse steak on Wednesday nights. He looked down at his pile of potential deals. He could review those some more tonight.

  Memories of the old house in Georgia crept into his thoughts. He cursed Judy under his breath. She had reminded him of the old days with her talk of sweet tea and Thanksgiving, and now he was stuck with memories that he had avoided for so long.

  Growing up, there had never been enough of anything—food, money, stuff. He remembered his mother trying to stretch the food at the end of each month, how he and his two brothers would often share one package of ramen noodles. They were always hungry. Thanksgiving was the only meal he remembered where he could eat all he wanted. He had vowed that he would never be hungry again.

  He thought of his penthouse and the cook who prepared his meals. He rubbed the soft cashmere of his jacket sleeve and straightened his fine silk tie. Yes, he decided, his cup was overflowing, over and over. The past was the past.

  “Excuse me.”

  Judy was back. Roland jumped up quickly to let her get to her seat. As she settled in, he closed his eyes to discourage conversation.

  “Ta-da!” Judy interrupted his nap. Roland opened his eyes to find a small pastry on his s
eat-back tray.

  “Pecan tassie!” Judy said, “Happy Turkey Day!”

  Roland eyed the small tart. The buttery, flaky crust looked light. The filling glistened in sugary wonder, and crushed nuts rode atop.

  It was so pedestrian. So old-fashioned. So . . . He looked at the flakiness of the crust. So delicious looking.

  He popped it in his mouth.

  He was overcome by the sensations exploding in his mouth—the butter, the hint of maple, the nuts, the filling. The taste of the tart swept him back to his grandmother’s kitchen table, the only place he had ever been full.

  “Mmmm,” was all he could say. The taste of the tart had broken down something inside him, and he was six years old again.

  “Mmmmm,” he said again, running his tongue around his mouth to get every bit of sweetness.

  “Mmmmmm,” he said one more time, before he realized that the man across the aisle was looking at him.

  He tried to concentrate on the financial sheets for the Wilson-Chamberlain deal, but he kept thinking about the tart. The idea of Thanksgiving brought back so many memories.

  “You make that?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’m cooking the rest at my son’s house. What a feast we will have.” Her eyes took on a dreamy quality.

  “My son thinks it’s all about the turkey. He’s bringing it, and he will be up at the crack of dawn to start cooking it. But it’s not about the turkey.”

  Roland was nodding.

  “It’s the other stuff.”

  “Yes.” He was amused that he was actually agreeing with her.

  She handed him another tart. Crumbs fell down onto his silk tie, but he didn’t notice.

  “Mmmmm.” He didn’t care who heard him this time.

  “You want to know how I make the gravy?”

  “The gravy?” All his thoughts of béarnaise sauce and tournedos of beef were suddenly gone, replaced by the thought of gravy—glistening, steaming, brown gravy.

  “Thanksgiving is all about the gravy,” Judy continued. “Now, first . . .”

  “Giblet gravy?”

  “Of course.” She took a breath. “Now, first, you brown the flour. That’s the secret. It removes all the moisture so you don’t have lumps, and the gravy is silky smooth. You put half a cup of flour in a skillet, and stir it and shake the pan till it turns brown. Watch close, though; you could burn it. Then set it aside, and boil your giblets.”

  Roland was spellbound.

  “When the turkey’s done, you pour a cup of drippings into your browned flour in the skillet. It will sizzle, and you stir it into a paste. Mmmmmm, the smell of those drippings.

  “Then you start adding your broth, one cup at a time, till you get six cups in. Then stir, and watch it thicken. Add salt and pepper, and it’s the richest, creamiest, savoriest.”

  Roland closed his eyes. His mouth was watering. He was back at his grandmother’s table. All he could think about was gravy.

  “You know the best part of Thanksgiving food?” Judy asked.

  Visions of turkey and dressing, cornbread and gravy filled his mind.

  “Best is the leftovers.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, rubbing his hand together, “the leftovers.”

  “My grandkids can’t even wait for the next day before they make a turkey sandwich. You ever heard of the moist maker?”

  He shook his head, the papers forgotten. “Go on,” he said.

  “You make your sandwich with three slices of bread instead of two.” She paused.

  “Go on.”

  “One slice you soak in the leftover gravy.”

  His stomach growled.

  “That slice goes in the middle—makes the sandwich moist. Then you put on your turkey slices, stuffing, cranberry sauce, a little mayo, and barbecue potato chips for crunch.”

  He thought of his empty Sub-Zero refrigerator, clean and gleaming. He hadn’t had leftovers since he had left his wife.

  They both leaned back in their seats, as though they’d just finished the Thanksgiving meal themselves. Roland closed his eyes. Time passed. Roland’s mind drifted to business and his deals and his plans. But somehow his mind kept returning, like a homing pigeon, to food.

  “Cranberry sauce with berries?” he asked. “Or jellied?”

  “Both!” she answered.

  He remembered the table, the turkey glistening, ready to be carved. The lima beans resting in their oval bowl, a pat of butter melting on top.

  “Stuffing? Or dressing?” he asked.

  “Both!”

  Both! He loved both stuffing inside the bird and dressing, crunchy cornbread dressing in a casserole. He could see his grandmother’s hands clasping two thick pot holders, bringing the dressing to the table.

  “Rice? Or mashed potatoes?”

  “Both!”

  He remembered mashing the potato chunks with butter and dollops of sour cream.

  He could hardly ask the next question.

  “Pecan? Or pumpkin?”

  “Pies! Oh pies,” she said. “Pecan, sweet potato, chocolate cream pie, and vinegar pie. Like my mother used to say, ‘gracious plenty.’ ”

  He could hardly stand it.

  The flight attendant placed a small oval dish containing a piece of dried chicken and some green beans in front of him. He took a bite, then pushed it aside.

  Judy looked at him. “You sure must love Thanksgiving.”

  “I haven’t had a Thanksgiving dinner in years,” he said. “Never enough time.”

  “You know what’s the real best thing about Thanksgiving?” she asked.

  She had Roland’s full attention now.

  “The people. The people around the table.”

  Then Roland saw them. Unbidden, they came into his mind. His grandmother and grandfather. His mother and his little brother, wide-eyed at the bounty before them. His aunts and uncles. His father—the one time a year Roland saw him.

  Suddenly Roland’s eyes filled with tears. He coughed and pretended he had something in his throat.

  “Coffee?” The flight attendant handed each of them a cup of coffee, and Roland held his.

  Judy smiled. “Maybe you could join us for dinner?”

  He looked at her. She was inviting him to Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Oh, never mind,” she said. “I know you are much too busy.”

  She smoothed out her sweater.

  He thought about himself at her table surrounded by her family and her neighbors and her friends. He thought about the leftovers he would take home, her leftovers. Her cup overflowed.

  The small airline coffee cup, now empty, rested in his hand.

  He could have the finest food that money could buy. He could have the most expensive wine in the world. But people, that was different. People could not be bought.

  “Tray tables up,” the attendant reminded them.

  The plane landed.

  As they taxied to the terminal, Roland reached for his phone. He remembered the message earlier from Sarah: Come by if you can. We are having a few friends over for Thanksgiving dinner, and we’d love to set a few more places.

  He looked at the phone. Why was it so easy to call the most powerful financial giants in the world but so hard to call one young woman? He took a deep breath and pushed her number.

  “Sarah,” he said.

  “Dad?” She sounded surprised. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m coming.”

  Silence.

  He continued. “For dinner—for Thanksgiving.”

  Still nothing from the other end of the phone. It’s too late, he thought, too many years have gone by. Too many dinners have been missed.

  “It’s okay, Sarah. I understand.”

  He found that he could not move.

  The Lord is my shepherd, he thought, but my cup is empty. God, please fill my cup.

  “Sarah?” he asked.

  He heard a sniffle on the other end of the phone, and he realized that she was crying.


  “I’m here, Dad.”

  “Can I come?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Dad. I’d love for you to come.”

  His breath released in a long whoosh, and he was filled with a feeling of goodness that he had not felt for a long time—a gracious plenty that had nothing to do with food or things. It was the kind of overflowing that made leftovers.

  Judy pulled a card out of one of her bags.

  “Well, if you find you can come, here’s my address.”

  Roland took the card and glanced at it.

  “Judith Willingham Castleman.”

  He smiled. Judith Willingham Castleman was one of the wealthiest women in New York City. Her real estate holdings alone were massive.

  As they taxied to the gate, Roland found himself pondering the overflowing cup. All the things he had thought were so valuable—business deals, possessions, wealth, Judy’s real estate—didn’t really make your cup overflow.

  Simple words on a paper from God had pulled his life into perspective. And a simple “Yeah, Dad, you can come” had made his heart so full it seemed to overflow. His cup overflowed, and it had nothing to do with his possessions.

  “Thanks, Judy,” he said. “I’m having Thanksgiving with my daughter this year. My cup overflows.”

  “Gracious plenty?” Judy asked, looking at his contented smile.

  “Yes,” he said. “A gracious plenty.”

  Little Bunny lived all alone in a lavender cave in the dark woods.

  CORNELIA LOOKED at the sentence on her computer screen. Good start. She congratulated herself by eating a Hershey’s Kiss. The first sentence of a book was the most satisfying to write. Actually, the first sentence was the only thing that she had written.

  What next? Cornelia thought about her story. She felt Little Bunny’s loneliness. Her own world had been shrinking and was now reduced to one room in Happy Acres Assisted Living.

  The room hadn’t turned out like she’d hoped. At her house she had decorated each room with such care. She had always loved the color lavender. Each room needs a touch of lavender, she had read once in the Ladies’ Home Journal, so she had accented each room in her home with a touch of it. Now it seemed that all those accents had come with her, making her room into one big Easter basket of lavender.