“No, that’s a hundred.”
“Does it say in your book what fifty is?”
“I don’t know. I’m looking,” Jamie said.
“Hang on, kiddo, there’s somebody knocking, here.” He went to the door and admitted Ralph Jernigan, who glanced up and down the hall before entering the office.
Ralph gestured toward the door to the clerk’s office. “Anybody else here?” he asked quietly.
“No, no—they’ve all gone. Let me just say goodbye to my son, here, and I’ll be right with you. Jamie? Did you find what fifty is?”
“I think it’s L. So do I just stick a one on the end?”
“I think so, Son. I’ll double-check when I get home, but I’d better go, now. Hey, run and tell Tiff I said to be sure to wash Mallory’s scratch, and put antibiotic ointment on it, okay? Thanks, buddy.” He put down the phone and gave his attention to his visitor. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk.
“How are you, Brother Jernigan? It’s good to have a chance to get to know you better.”
Ralph Jernigan took a seat. He didn’t smile. “Bishop, I’m here to ask what your plans are for emergency preparedness in our ward.”
“Ah. Well, certainly that is a very important topic. I’m afraid we’ve been so busy organizing and staffing the ward that we haven’t had time to do much planning in that direction, but I’m glad you brought it to my attention. I know the stake has a master plan, but—”
Ralph grunted and shook his head. “Way behind the times. It’d be too little, too late, if you take my meaning.”
Bishop Shepherd wasn’t sure he did. “Do you have some suggestions we might consider?”
“Bishop, do you mind if we close your window and the drapes? We’re kind of exposed, sitting here, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, it’s a warm evening, but if you’ll be more comfort-able . . .”
In a moment the windows were shut and locked and the drapes drawn, shutting out the sweet smell of cut grass and the light of the setting sun. The bishop turned on a desk lamp, feeling stifled and slightly annoyed. He tried to ignore the discomfort.
“So what course do you propose we should take, Brother?”
Ralph Jernigan’s narrow eyes narrowed even further, it seemed. “We can’t be too careful,” he said softly. “We have enemies, you know.”
The bishop had been fanning himself with a copy of last Sunday’s bulletin. He stopped.
“Enemies?” he asked. “What exactly do you mean?”
Ralph nodded knowingly. “They didn’t all disappear with Carthage and Nauvoo.”
“Enemies of the Church. Around here? Have you heard of any problems?”
Ralph gazed narrowly past him. “I have my sources. Have you had any work done on your office since you took over? Any new telephone lines, computer lines, and so forth?”
“Um—no, nothing. Why?”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you. I think some of them work for the telephone company.”
“Them?”
Ralph nodded. “The enemy. They want to destroy the Church. Inspired by Satan, of course. Rotten scoundrels. They hold meetings, to see how best they can get to us.”
“Maybe, if you know anything specific, you should tell me, or the stake president.”
“President Walker? He’s a babe in the woods, when it comes to this stuff. Good man. Too good, you know what I mean? Hard for him to comprehend evil. Got any protection, here? Gun?”
Bishop Shepherd shook his head. “You know, Ralph, the only protection I feel I need here is that of the Holy Ghost. There’s no way I’d keep a gun around.”
Ralph shrugged. “Your choice. Thought I’d warn you. But you’ll need a plan of action. Evacuation routes. Safe houses. Food stashes, and weapons to protect them. Mobs’ll try to take our food from us, you know. They’ll kill for it. I’ll tell you one thing: they’re not gettin’ mine.”
The bishop drew a deep breath. “You have your year’s supply, then?”
Ralph laughed. “Way more, Bishop. Way more’n a year. Me’n Linda, we got cans of wheat holding up the bed we sleep on, and cans of honey under our end tables in the living room.” He lowered his voice even more. “I got a false back built into my clothes closet, hiding a stash of canned meats and stuff. We got powdered milk, and barrels of water. We could withstand a pretty good siege, I can tell you. And I’ve got guns and ammo aplenty. Let ’em come! They’re not gonna get nothin’ that’s mine.”
“Well, Ralph, I sincerely hope things’ll never come to such a point that you’ll have to defend your supplies.”
“Oh, they will,” Ralph said with certainty. “Prob’ly sooner than later, too. It’s prophecy, Bishop—you know that.”
“I’m aware that things could get pretty rough, all right. But I don’t think we’re there, yet. I really don’t. Fairhaven is a remarkably peaceful place, and I don’t know of any serious animosity toward the Church here, do you?”
Ralph gave him a knowing look. “Don’t ask if you don’t want to know,” he said.
“I’m not sure I do,” the bishop mused, half to himself. “Tell me, Ralph, are you a military man?”
“Had some training, here and there.”
“I see. Well, maybe we can do this. Will you be on the lookout for trouble, and keep me posted? Just in case, you know . . .”
Ralph stood. “Be glad to do that for you, Bishop. Watch your back, now.”
The bishop stood, too. “Will do, Ralph. Thanks for stopping by.”
“I consider it my duty, sir.”
The bishop watched as his visitor slipped quietly out of the building and circled his truck, checking his tires and who knew what else before he got in. He also appeared to be making a careful survey of the surrounding neighborhood as he drove slowly away.
The bishop shook away a chill from the back of his neck. He thought he knew, now, the reason behind Linda Jernigan’s habitual resemblance to a startled rabbit.
Chapter Four
* * *
“ . . . when there’s love at home”
His two daughters lay asleep on the family room sofa, Mallory lying loosely in Tiffani’s arms, her platinum hair gleaming against her older sister’s antique gold, which lately was worn parted and twisted into interesting but tight shapes and braids that made her father wince. He set down his briefcase and picked up the library book that had fallen from Tiffani’s hand.
“Tiff.” He shook her gently. “Tiffi, you wanted a bath. I’ll take Mal up to bed.”
He lifted the unresisting Mallory into his arms as Tiffani stirred and opened her eyes.
“Oh, hey, Dad. Did I fall asleep? I was reading.”
“Yep. Better get your bath, and when Mom gets home we’ll have family prayer. I think Mallory’s down for the count.”
He carried his youngest up the stairs, shucked her out of her play clothes, and pulled a nightgown over her head. Samantha the kitten was curled up on Mallory’s bed. With her claws hooked into the spread, she resisted his lifting her and unceremoniously dumping her onto the floor.
“Scat, you! You’ve caused enough trouble tonight.”
“No, I want Samantha,” Mallory protested sleepily, as he tucked her in.
“Even though she scratched you?”
“Yeah. I forgived her.”
He allowed the kitten back into the room, where she jumped on the bed and settled beside Mallory, purring.
“Should we say a little prayer, Mal?”
“M-hmm,” she agreed, but her breathing became deep and regular.
“I thank thee, Heavenly Father, for this beloved child,” he whispered. “Bless her in every way and keep her from harm and evil.” He dropped a kiss on her hair and pulled her door partially closed.
He heard Tiffani’s bathwater running, and went across the landing to Jamie’s room.
“Jamie, my man! Did you figure out Roman numeral fifty-one?”
Jamie was sitting up in his bed, reading a Harry Po
tter book. “Yeah, you were right. It was the L and a one.” He yawned. “Is Mom home, yet?”
“Not yet. Want to come downstairs and have a treat while I grab a bite of dinner?”
“Sure. Dinner was just meat loaf, but dessert’s that cold lemon stuff. Pie, I reckon.”
“Lemon ice-box pie?”
“That’s it.”
“Hot dog! Climb on.” He carried his son piggyback down the stairs to the kitchen, where they raided the refrigerator. Jamie chose a nut-covered ice cream bar rather than the pie. His dad, knowing his likelihood of getting heartburn from eating a full dinner this late, took a couple of antacid capsules and threw caution to the wind. Trish’s moist meat loaf with the sweet-sour topping, mashed potatoes and gravy, and cabbage-banana salad—who could resist?
“You know, I married your mom for her meat loaf,” he confided to Jamie.
“Yeah? I didn’t think it was that good.”
“Oh, yeah, it is. I’m a meat loaf aficionado from way back.”
“What’s a—what you said?”
“Aficionado? It means—um—somebody who really likes something, or knows about it. Sort of an expert.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“So who d’you think’s going to take Talladega this weekend?”
Jamie considered, looking at his ice cream as if it held the answer. “I reckon Dale Jr. will. It’s about his turn.”
“You think? I kinda think Jarrett is due.”
Jamie shrugged. “Sure wish we could go see a Nascar race sometime. That’d be so cool.”
“It would be. Wish they didn’t usually race on Sundays. Oh, well—that’s why VCRs were invented, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I reckon. Nascar and the Superbowl. And Monday night football.”
“You may be right. But one of these days, Talladega’ll hold one on a Saturday, and we’re there, buddy!”
“Cool.” Jamie gave him a wide, ice-creamy grin.
They ate in peaceable silence for a few minutes. The bishop sampled the tart smoothness of the lemon pie.
“Mmm,” he said. “This is great. You know, I married your mom for her lemon ice-box pie.”
“No way! You just said you married her for her meat loaf.”
“And her pie. And her pineapple tapioca. And her chestnut dressing on Thanksgiving. And her enchiladas and clam chowder and—”
“And chocolate cake!” Jamie interrupted.
“That, too. And the fact that she was the sweetest, prettiest girl I’d ever met, and Heavenly Father agreed with me that she was my best choice. Between us, we somehow fooled her into thinking I was an okay choice, too.”
Jamie chuckled.
The kitchen door opened, and the lady in question entered, laden with grocery sacks.
“Sorry to be so long,” she said. “I stopped by the store for a few things and got talking to Muzzie. She was there getting stuff for her Brownie troop. Hi, honey—how long’ve you been home?”
“Just long enough to tuck Mallory in and tempt Jamie to a second dessert.”
“So I see.” She ruffled her son’s hair.
“Mom—did you know Dad married you for your meat loaf and lemon ice-box pie?”
Trish’s green eyes crinkled at the edges when she smiled, in a way her husband loved. “Is that right? That’s funny, since he hadn’t tasted my cooking at all before we got married.”
“Dad?” Jamie’s head swung toward his father, his grin echoing his mother’s.
“Well, but you see, I could just tell, looking at her, that her meat loaf and lemon pie would be terrific.”
“Uh-huh!”
Tiffani breezed in, wrapped in a robe, trailing flowery smells of scented shampoo and conditioner. “Hey, Mom. Did you remember to pick up my graph paper and pencils?”
“I did, and it’s a good thing. When I talked to Mr. Warren, he said you were supposed to have had them with you Monday morning.”
“I know. I kept forgetting about it. But I’ll catch up. What else did you find out?”
“Well, parent-teacher conferences are always enlightening,” Trish said, raising her eyebrows.
Tiffani sat down at the table and cut a sliver of pie, which she began eating with her fingers.
Trish frowned. “Use a fork, Tiff—and get a plate if you want some.”
“That’s all I want. I’m done. So, um—”
“So what do you think your Mom found out?” the bishop asked, regarding his daughter with a suspicious gleam in his eye. “What was there to find out?”
“Umm—I’m getting straight A’s?”
Trish paused in putting away her purchases and took a small notebook from her shoulder bag. “Well, let’s see. There is a possible A in P. E., but I can’t be sure, because Miss Patman wasn’t there to consult. Everything’s pending in Algebra, because you’re several assignments behind. Your book report was due yesterday in English, and you could stand to do some extra credit in that class, because your test score on A Tale of Two Cities was pretty low and is pulling your grade down. In World History you’re doing pretty well, if you’re satisfied with a C, which your mother is not, because—oh, no, how could this be—you haven’t turned in your last two worksheets?”
Jamie groaned. “Oh, boy—you’re in trouble, big time.”
“Hush, Jamie. Mom, I’m almost caught up on all that stuff, honest I am. Did you—uh—was Mr. Pickard there?”
“Mr. Pickard. Oh, yes. Biology. What’s this about refusing to dissect a frog?”
“He told you that?”
“Is it true?”
“Mom, it’s way gross! I can’t do that—I’d throw up!”
“Cool!” said Jamie.
Trish turned to her husband. “Did you ever dissect a frog in Biology?”
He well remembered the smell of the formaldehyde, the jokes and bravado of the guys in his group, the rubbery texture of the frog’s underbelly as they sliced through it. “I sure did,” he admitted.
“So did I,” said Trish. “True, it was kind of disgusting, but it was interesting, too, to see how everything was placed, how the ligaments and muscles worked together. We did it, and you can, too, Tiff.”
“Yeah, just think,” Jamie put in, “the people who go to school to be doctors, they have to cut up dead human bodies!”
Tiffani turned on him. “They do not!” she cried. “That’s not right, you don’t know.”
The bishop remembered a fishing trip with Tiffani when she was Mallory’s age, when she had cried so hard over the “poor fishies” he caught that he’d had to release them, and they’d come home empty-handed. Later, when the realization had clicked in that tuna really was fish, she had refused to eat it for a year. His eldest was a girl for whom reality came hard.
“They do, too,” Jamie was insisting. “I can prove it!”
His dad winked at him. “It’s okay, Jamie. We don’t need to worry about that. This is just a frog problem. Now, Tiff—is there any alternative assignment you could do, instead of the frog?”
His wife and daughter both shook their heads. “I asked,” they said, together. He had to laugh.
“Dad, it’s not funny!”
“Right.” His thoughts roamed back over the interview he had just conducted at the church. Fears needed to be faced, to be addressed, or they could overwhelm a person, cloud his judgment. He looked up. “Tell you what, Tiff—we’ll pray about the frog problem, for you to be strengthened to be able to handle it. In fact, I’ll give you a blessing before you have to do it. How’s that?”
“A blessing about a frog?” His daughter looked skeptical. “Why would Heavenly Father care about that?”
“I believe he cares about all our needs and feelings. I think he’d want to help you overcome your fear and meet this challenge.”
Tiffani looked miserable, but her green eyes flickered toward his in an appeal he recognized as hopeful.
“When do you have to do it?” he asked.
“Friday.”
&
nbsp; “All right, then. We’ll start praying about it tonight, and Thursday night I’ll give you the blessing.”
“Okay,” she agreed in a small voice.
“I wouldn’t be scared of a dumb old dead frog if I was you,” Jamie offered. “I can’t wait till we get to chop one up!”
“That’ll do, James, old friend. Trish, will you offer our prayer tonight?” he asked.
* * *
The bishop was propped up in bed, reading from the book of Isaiah, while Trish creamed her as-yet wrinkle-free complexion. Maybe that is why it stays so smooth, he mused. Aloud, he said, “Honey, do you know Sister Jernigan?”
“Linda? Wispy blonde hair, big eyes?”
“That’s the one.”
“I know who she is. I served with her on a stake Primary committee one time. Why?”
“How does she strike you? Personality-wise, I mean. Attitude, and so forth.”
“Um, she seemed sort of nervous. And anxious to get home, I remember that. I wondered if her husband was kind of impatient or something.”
He nodded. “Something. Well, I just wondered. Oh, and—I’m not sure exactly how to go about this, but how would you feel about serving in Relief Society?”
She frowned. “I’ve been in Primary for eight years. I don’t even get to go to Relief Society, except for Enrichment meeting. It’d be weird.” She flashed a look at him in the mirror. “Are you just asking, or are you calling me to something?” She swung around on the vanity bench and faced him, her face half-creamed.
“Well, I reckon I’m calling you to be Relief Society secretary. Sister Ida Lou Reams asked for you.”
“Ida Lou! Are you telling me she’s going to be president?”
“It’s looking that way. The Lord and her husband approved the choice, and she popped right out with the names of her counselors and secretary, so I think she must’ve had a little advance warning.”
“Ida Lou—that’s amazing! I never would have thought of her. But she’s wonderful, of course. Totally kind and helpful and unassuming. You couldn’t find anyone nicer. I don’t think she’s had a lot of experience with conducting meetings, and all. But she’s sweet. Sure, I’d love to work with her. I guess I could use a change of pace.”
“Thanks, hon.”
A Fresh Start in Fairhaven Page 5