Addie took the only seat left – right behind Evelyn Ann. The song leader announced the page number for the first hymn. The three girls in front of Evelyn Ann raised their heads to turn around. They saw Addie, and from the looks on their faces, she knew she had been the topic of their whisperings. Evelyn Ann noticed their looks and turned to face Addie.
“Well, look who’s here,” she whispered. “Didn’t you bring Donnie?”
Addie was busy finding the page in her songbook. She ignored the girl.
“You might need him,” she taunted. “We wouldn’t want you screaming in church.” The girls giggled.
Addie wished she hadn’t come.
“Girls, we’ve been using the wrong tactics,” Evelyn Ann went on. “All you have to do to get a boy’s arms around you is to run screaming hysterically.” Then she threw up her hands, shaking then wildly.
Addie’s face turned red with embarrassment as the director was pleading, “Girls! Girls! Please! It’s time to get started!”
Addie wanted to hit Evelyn in the face with the songbook. Instead, she stood up to leave the room. The girls were laughing with Evelyn Ann, and the director was pleading with them to settle down as Addie walked out of the room.
She couldn’t go home, she thought as she straddled her bike. She would have to explain to her mother, and it would hurt her to know how the girls had treated her. And she had caused her enough hurt and unhappiness already. She would ride around until ten-forty-five, when Sunday school was over, and then head for home, since she had said in the note that she wouldn’t stay for worship services.
For some reason, her bike seemed to be headed for River Road. Funny, she thought. She had had no intention of going in that direction, but she supposed that was as good a choice as any. Yes, she would take River Road until she came to Forest Lane, her favorite street in the whole town. It would take her back to the Square and then home by twelve-fifteen-- if she didn’t spend too much time admiring the big oak trees that made an arch over the street for several blocks, and the beautiful homes.
Thinking about Forest Lane made her peddle faster. Her mother also loved that street. Sometimes they would drive down it in the summertime just to enjoy the cool of the shade, but in the fall it was their favorite Sunday afternoon activity. They would be so undecided as to which block was the most colorful, most beautiful, that they would double back to get another look. And the houses – her mother was always changing her mind about which one she was going to buy when she got rich.
But the stately old homes, mostly brick and stone, on Forest Lane, were never for sale. Not that it mattered. It was one of the oldest residential streets in Riverbend. The people who lived in those beautiful houses had been born and raised there, according to her daddy, who sometimes was called to do some little repair job in one of them. Ben said the owners treasured them, and treated them with loving care.
The land was mostly level around Forest Lane, and when Addie turned off River Road, she could see straight down the Lane for block after block. The trees were just beginning to leaf out, and it was a beautiful sight. The fresh green of the leafing limbs matched the new green grass of the well-kept lawns. They looked freshly mowed and trimmed. It reminded her that she needed to mow their front yard.
Some of the houses had blooming azaleas in a variety of colors mixed in with the evergreens around their foundations, and there were flowering trees scattered about the lawns. Addie wished her mother was enjoying it with her instead of sitting in that house waiting for the phone to ring, or for Ben to come home.
Her daddy knew who lived in a lot of the houses. Even the Johnsons lived on Forest Lane, she thought. The best she could recall, from Ben pointing out as to who lived where, they lived in one of the few frame houses, but she could be wrong about that. Since the mailboxes were on the porches of the houses, she had no way of knowing which house Donnie lived in. She hoped he remembered to ask his grandfather if he could recall who had lived in the Log House, or the house on South Street.
The thought of the people in the picture made her stop her bike beside a driveway entrance in the sidewalk and take it out of the pocket of her good corduroy jacket and look at it. She was beginning to feel a strange attachment to the little girl. She supposed that was only natural since the two of them shared the same mind and memory, and according to her mother, the little girl must have been her aunt. She looked at the man in the picture. Was he really her grandfather? What kind of a person was his son who could hypnotize her mother and put words in her mind? It was all so strange – so unbelievable. And the girl whose spirit refused to go to where it belonged after she died? Why? She wondered. And how had she died? There was so much she wanted to know about these people.
It had been dawn before Della had fallen asleep, and the digital clock on her bedside radio said nine-ten when she awakened. She struggled through a wave of nausea to get up and go see about Addie. When she got to the kitchen and found Addie’s note, she returned to her bed to lay back down, to see if the nausea would lessen some. And she lay there wondering much the same as Addie, and wondering where it all would end? She thought of Brother Morris. Could he really be of any help? Did he know of people who could help her child? And she thought of Ben. This was their first real rift. How serious was it?
Where was he? Where had he spent the night? Why didn’t he come home so they could straighten things out? She needed him right now, but knowing Ben, she knew he wouldn’t be any real help in this matter with Addie. Still, she wanted him – wanted him beside her – in bed. Her body ached for his this morning. As sleepy and as nauseated as she was, she wanted him. She needed to feel the hardness of him inside her, feel the weight of his body on hers, to whisper to him how much she loved him, and to tell him that she was now sure she was going to give him a child of his own – hopefully a son.
“Oh, Ben, Ben, Ben,’ she moaned as she drifted off into a sound sleep again.
The constant ringing of the phone awakened Della out of a sleep so deep she had trouble getting oriented. She struggled to get up and make her way to the kitchen. She answered the phone with a fuzzy, “Hello.”
“Della, this is Morris. Are you all right? When none of you were in services this morning, I was worried.”
“Oh, yes, yes, I’m fine.” Did he worry about everybody who didn’t show up on Sunday? “I’m still not sleeping much at night, and I just wasn’t up to getting there this morning.” Did he say none of them? Addie was at Sunday school. He probably hadn’t seen her.
“I’m sorry, Della. Surely, you’ll be getting your strength back soon, and you’ll be able to sleep. How is Addie? Any further developments?”
Della thought of the photograph – the man in it who was so like Addie and the little girl whom Addie was sure was the person inside her.
“Della?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Morris. I’m afraid it’s gotten worse. Addie now knows who the other person is inside her. She even has a picture of her. It’s an old photograph that I think Ben found in the rental house on South Street.”
“Oh, Della, this is really getting out of hand. I hope you’re not encouraging her in this in any way,” he said.
His question, his tone of voice irritated Della. “Of course not,” she answered, trying not to let the annoyance show in her voice. “She tells me what happens to her, and I certainly want her to.”
“Oh, of course you do, Della. That is very necessary. But, tell me, how does she claim to have found who this person is?”
“She doesn’t know the little girl’s name, but it seems she has seen a man and a woman riding horses in a pasture where the shopping center parking lot is. You remember. I told you about it.”
“Yes, yes, I recall it,” he answered.
“They’re the same people who are in this picture with the little girl, who appears to be about six or seven years old. Each time she sees the scene, she has the impression that a pony is present also, but she hasn’t seen the pony. So she now realizes
that she is seeing the scene through the eyes of the little girl who is riding a pony.”
“Now, Della, my dear, can’t you see how fictitious this all is? Addie is weaving this whole thing out of pure imagination. Young people Addie’s age have very active imagin...”
“Brother Morris!” Della exclaimed in exasperation, “Addie is not imagining all this! I wish she were! It’s beginning to frighten me terribly,” she added wondering why no one would believe her – not Brother Morris, not Ben. If no one would believe her, how could she find help for her child?
“Now, Della! Please don’t get upset,” he hastened to say. “I’m sorry, Della. I didn’t mean to sound like this is not all very real to Addie. I’m sure it is, and we must get to the bottom of it. I just don’t want you to worry so about it. We’ll meet at the parsonage tomorrow afternoon. We’re going to help Addie to get through this, together,” he added.
After a moment, Della said, “I’m hoping that we can before it’s too late. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, discouraged, and she was sure it showed in her voice. She couldn’t help it. He had just destroyed what little faith she had in his ability to help Addie. Still, he was all she had right now. Perhaps through him she could find the right help. They would keep the appointment.
“I’ll see you then, Della. I hope you feel better soon.” He wanted to add ‘my darling’. He was going to have to be really careful. Otherwise, he would find himself making such slips of the tongue. He laid the phone down, disappointed with himself, and knowing that he had to do something about this issue, this lust for another man’s wife – and soon, before it wrecked his career, his very life.
Chapter Fourteen
Reverend Morris Kirkland stood by his desk in the church study, his hand still on the phone. He really shouldn’t have called Della, he thought. He hadn’t handled it every well at all. He would help with this problem with Addie the very best he could. He wouldn’t leave her when she needed him, but then, he knew it would be best for him to seek a transfer – another church – another congregation. Yes, that was the only answer. He would go someplace where he could forget Della Martin, forget the hunger to feel the warmth of her lips, the longing of his arms to feel the softness of her body, and that body pressed against his. Running his hand through his thick brown hair, he told himself he had to get her out of his mind – to quit worrying about her making herself sick over this matter with Addie. He had a luncheon date at Stonegate. He needed that check even if it wasn’t as much as he had hoped it would be.
He left the church and headed for his car, but he couldn’t push Della from his mind. He had to admit he really didn’t know what to make of all this with the girl. What on earth did possess her? Was that it? Was Addie possessed? How would he know? There was one thing he did know. He was sure he’d have to have help with it. He had never been confronted with anything like this before.
He was inclined to agree with Della, he thought as he guided the white Buick out of the Church parking lot, it wasn’t schizophrenia. It couldn’t be. From all he knew, and had read, about people who developed multiple personalities, it stemmed from some horrifying abuse or trauma in their childhood. Ben and Della were incapable of abuse. He was sure of that, besides, their whole life centered around their one child. So, what was it all about? And who did he know who could give him some insight into it?
As he drove across town to River Road, he wasn’t in a mood for frivolous banter with Miss Willy. And try as hard as he could, he couldn’t get Della off his mind. She was always there in the back of his thoughts regardless of what he was doing, where he was going, or who he was with. He hoped it wouldn’t take long to initiate a transfer.
When he turned onto River Road, he slowed down. He still had plenty of time to get to Stonegate. Sunday lunch was served promptly at one-thirty. The sun was shinning, the wind was still, and the air was warm. It was a perfect spring day. For the most part, March had been cold and windy, still spring had come in all of its glory.
He noticed that the wild buttercups in the fields and on the hillsides were now fading, while the cultivated ones in the lawns of the houses were just opening up their big yellow blossoms. The golden masses of forsythia created a beautiful contrast with blooming red bud trees and a few rain trees with their mauve blossoms. On some lawns there were tulips, of various colors, around the evergreens and in beds of periwinkle, whose violet blooms reminded him of Della’s eyes.
“Della, Della, Della,” he muttered. Would he ever be free of his obsession with her even if he removed himself from her? He needed to get outside this week – jog, play tennis, maybe some golf if the course was in condition. He would keep physically active out in the fresh air as much as possible. Perhaps that would help some. He breathed deeply of the clean air coming through the open window as he turned slowly onto Stone Drive.
As the car climbed the rise to the Stonegate Estate, he saw the tall iron gates begin to swing back. Old Anson’s weepy eyes might not function well anymore, but there was nothing wrong with his hearing, Morris thought. He waved and called out a greeting to the small, stooped form as he drove through the gates.
Wilhelmina Stone received him in the library where a small fire crackled in the big marble fireplace. This was his favorite room in as much of the mansion as he had been privileged to see. Her cheerful greeting seemed a trifle forced. Her arm was still in a sling, and the bruise on her left cheek still showed through her skillful makeup job.
“How are you feeling?” he asked after they were seated on fine maroon leather, wing back chairs that flanked the fireplace.
“Still sore, but pretty good,” she answered solemnly.”
He had a feeling this was going to be one of those quiet meals that he wished he hadn’t shown up for – except for that check. “Did you catch me on radio this morning?” he asked with forced cheerfulness.
“I wasn’t feeling that good,” she said flatly.
Two hours of this wasn’t going to help his own depression, he thought. “I love this room,” he said, ignoring her reply, and looking at the portrait of Eli Gates over the mantel, then around at the polished, dark, mahogany paneling, the two opposite walls of shelves filled with books – some very old, and probably rare, and some rather new looking. The woman seemed to read on every subject from economics to the world’s religions.
“You’re welcome to use it anytime,” she said, as Hayes announced that lunch was ready to be served.
They crossed the big entrance hall, passed the living room to the open pocket doors of the dining room. The massive table seated for eight in the center of the room seemed lost in comparison to the size of the room. He was sure the table could extend from the ornately carved, white, marble fireplace on the inside wall to the large glass window on the outside wall to seat at least twenty-four. He had at one time counted the matching chairs arranged at various places around the room.
As soon as they were seated, Wilhelmina at the head of the table and him on her right, she said, “You’ll find the check in an envelope under your napkin. I’d like to see one of the new robes when you get them, and don’t forget, the present robes are to be made into robes for the children’s choir by Della Martin.”
“Of course, Miss Willy. You know I’ll bring one of the new robes for you to see, and I can’t tell you how grateful the congregation will be. This is so generous of you, and when the children’s robes are made, I’ll bring one of them also. However, Della, Mrs. Martin just came up with the idea for the children’s robes. Other ladies in the church will be helping with the project.”
“Is your Della Martin a very versatile young woman?” she asked as Hayes placed steaming bowls of fresh seafood chowder in front of them.
Now why did she say ‘your Della Martin’? Oh, if only she were his. How long would it take for him to get over her, or would he ever? Wilhelmina was waiting for an answer. “I suppose she is. I’ve never known her to refuse to help with any project the church has going,” he answered as he
made a point to savor the chowder. “This has to be the finest chowder I’ve ever tasted. Mattie is such an excellent chef.”
“The best, or she wouldn’t be at Stonegate.”
Yes, he thought. You won’t leave these walls, but you make sure they contain the best the world has to offer for your own comfort and pleasure.
They finished their first course in silence, and as they were waiting for their salads, Wilhelmina said, “You know, Morris, if there is anything to reincarnation ...” She paused.
Now why on earth did she bring up a subject like that, and at this time? He wondered.
“And I’m not saying,” she continued, “that I do, or I don’t believe in reincarnation. I’m just saying if there is anything to the idea, then you and I must have known each other in another life – known each other very well, I’d say.”
“Miss Willy! You can come up with some of the wildest ... Honestly! Why do you say a thing like that?”
“Because I know you so well in this life,” she answered with a smile on her face for the first time since he had arrived. The woman knew she had rattled his composure, and it amused her.
“For instance,” she was saying, “I know that you are uncomfortable when I bring up the name of Della Martin, yet you try very hard not to show it. What’s your problem there? If I may ask?”
He was surprised and unable to conceal it, and he knew it. “I – I’m not uncomfortable with the mention of Della and her family,” he said in his own defense, but he knew from the smile that continued to play about the woman’s lips, that she knew he was not being truthful. It was almost as though she had maneuvered Della into the conversation and was pleased with herself for doing it. “It’s just that they are facing a very trying situation right now,” he said.
The Daughters of Julian Dane Page 14