“Wonder how they’d feel about a room air-conditioner? I’m sure we could get them one,” he suggested.
“Sometimes, older folks who aren’t accustomed to them find them too cold,” Brother Patrenko offered. “They might prefer something like a window fan, to draw the hot air out of the house and let the cooler evening air come in. When it is cooler, that is,” he added with a shrug.
“I’ll check with them,” the bishop said. “Do we have any other older folks who might suffer from the heat?”
“Well, Junious and Nita Mobley are getting up in years, but they have all them shade trees around their place, and they sit up on a hill, so if there’s any breeze to be had, they’ll get some. I don’t know if they’ve got any kind of cooling, though.”
The bishop made a note. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll check with them, too. How about the Minshews?”
“They’ve got a couple of air-conditioners,” Brother Perkins said. “I home teach them, and it’s always cool in the living room, at least.”
“Good. Now, I see the Rexfords listed here. What’s the concern with them?”
Bob Patrenko spoke. “I put their names on the list, Bishop, because Brother Rexford’s out of work still, and I’m not sure they have everything they need. Reason I think that is that my wife sat beside Sister Rexford at Relief Society last week, when they were passing around a sign-up sheet to help with desserts for Enrichment night, and Sally said Lula Rexford passed the list right on, whispering something about how she couldn’t even afford to make dessert for her own family these days.”
“Believe I’ll have Sister Reams check that one out. Lula might open up to her. Thomas mentioned to me that his dad was looking for work, but he seemed to think they were doing okay still.”
“Well, Bishop,” Sam Wright put in, “if they was down to their last crust, they’d give it to T-Rex, they’re that proud of him, and never say a word about needing more. They plumb dote on that boy and his football career, and I reckon they’d mortgage the farm, if they had one, to meet his fees and all.”
“Does T-Rex have a summer job lined up, I wonder?”
“Nothin’ but football practice, I’d wager. Do him good to earn a few bucks, though. That young’un’s had his way greased for him a bit too much for his own good, I’m afraid.”
“I could probably use him at the store a few hours a day, if he’s willing.”
“Be careful how you approach him or his family about that,” Bob Patrenko advised. “They’re pretty independent folks.”
“Okay, thanks for the tip. I’ll be careful. By the way, the name’s not on our list, but I keep thinking about the Jernigans. How are Ralph and Linda doing?”
“I hatn’t seen ’em out of late, have you?” Sam asked the group. No one had.
“Who’re the home teachers there?” asked the bishop.
“Um—that’d be Brother Smedley and young Leland Exum,” Brother Patrenko advised, and the bishop knew the appellation “young” was to differentiate Leland the deacon from his uncle, Leland Exum the high priest.
“Would you give Brother Smedley a call, Bob, and see what he knows about those folks? I keep having an uncomfortable sort of feeling about Ralph’s state of mind. He seems to be a little—I don’t know . . .”
“Paranoid?” supplied Bob. “You know what the kids in the ward call him? ‘Brother Hunker in a Bunker.’”
The bishop couldn’t suppress a smile, but it quickly faded. “I got the impression the man’s dealing with a load of anxiety—why, I don’t know, but it looks like he’s transferring it into fears for the Church. He warned me about our enemies.”
“He’ll warn anyone who’ll listen with a straight face,” Joseph Perkins said. “I think he’s got his poor little wife scared half out of her wits. She jumps if you say hello to her.”
The bishop nodded. “Have Brother Smedley call me directly, would you, Bob? I wonder what we can do to help those folks.”
“Maybe some counseling?” suggested Bob.
“Don’t reckon Ralph’d take kindly to that suggestion,” Sam put in. “He’s convinced he’s right and gets real offended when folks don’t take him serious.”
“Let’s all make that a matter of prayer, brethren,” the bishop suggested. He looked down at the last two names on the list. “How’re things with Brother Dolan, Bob? You’re their home teacher, aren’t you?”
“Doing better. His leukemia appears to be in remission, at least for now, and he’s back working half-days.”
“That’s great. How’re they doing, financially?”
“They insist they’re fine. He has good insurance, and they had some money and some food storage put away. Cassie’s working part time, too. They’re quite a remarkable young couple.”
“Be a good thing if we were all as prepared as they are, wouldn’t it? But keep tabs on the situation, Bob, if you will. Those medical bills can be overwhelming, even with good insurance. Now, I see Melody Padgett’s name here. What’s happening with Melody?”
“I added her name, Bishop,” said Dan McMillan. “She and my wife are friends, and Joanie said something the other day that kind of bothered me. I’m sorry if I shouldn’t be butting in, being just the executive secretary—”
“No, no,” interrupted the bishop. “I want your input on things right along with my counselors’ and clerks’. You’re a part of this bishopric. What did Joanie say?”
“Well, sir, she hinted that she thought Melody was being physically abused by her husband. She had just seen her at some kitchenware party.”
The bishop had a sickening feeling, even contemplating the idea of slender, suntanned Melody Padgett being slapped around by her husband, Jack, who was three times her size. “Did Melody say that had happened?” he asked.
“No, sir. Apparently she just hemmed and hawed when Joanie asked about some bruises on her face and arms. Made up a story about getting hit with a softball. Acted nervous, left the party early without buying anything or having any dessert. Said she shouldn’t have come.”
“I see. Would you go ahead and make an appointment for Melody to come in and see me, Dan, whenever’s convenient for her? Needless to say, this has to be kept between us, brethren. Jack may be perfectly innocent. I, for one, surely hope so.”
“Yes, sir,” echoed Dan. “So do I.”
The bishop glanced around the group. They were each frowning or looking sober, not meeting each other’s eyes. He knew they must all be assessing what they knew of Jack Padgett’s character, asking themselves if he seemed like a wife-batterer. He didn’t know Jack well, himself, the Padgetts having moved into the Second Ward area a couple of years before. They were attractive, in their early thirties, with one small daughter, and attended meetings on a fairly regular basis. Jack was an elder and a former Marine, who now managed several in a chain of automotive supply stores and seemed to do well at it. Melody was quiet in mixed company but seemed to mingle well with the sisters and to have a ready laugh when she felt at ease. He hoped beyond hope that things had not come to the point between them that Jack would lose control and hit his wife. What could prompt a man—a member of the Church and a priesthood holder—to do that? He could understand anger and frustration, jealousy, arguments, and harsh words between couples who were at odds with each other, unfortunate and regrettable though those things might be. But he had real difficulty imagining the kind of rage that would prompt a man to raise his hand against the woman he had married. He tried to imagine hitting Trish and couldn’t do it, but somehow he could imagine the heartsickness and sorrow and self-loathing he would feel if he ever deliberately hurt her or one of their children.
He shook the images away and continued with the business of the meeting. It would soon be time for the priesthood and auxiliary leaders to join them for ward council meeting.
* * *
Bishop Shepherd sat on the stand, listening to the soft pre lude music from the organ, watching the congregation as it gathered for sacrament meeting. Those
participating in the meeting were already seated on the stand, and it was his practice to have everything as much in order ahead of time as pos sible, so that the members could observe a tranquil, reverent example in their bishopric and clerks, and hopefully allow themselves to be soothed by the gentle music into a similar state, ready to worship. It wasn’t easy. People were friendly, wanting to greet each other, to take care of last-minute bits of ward business before the meetings started—even to ask him questions or turn in tithing envelopes. He, himself, had been as guilty as anyone in times past, but now it was as if his sensitivity had been heightened by sitting up front for the past seven or so Sundays, observing the situation. Periodically, he knew, the full-time missionaries complained that when they brought investigators to church, the newcomers were appalled by the lack of reverence and quiet in the chapel, so unlike the services they were accustomed to attending in other denominations. He knew the problem was not peculiar to his ward—but, of course, his ward was the only one in which he had the opportunity to solve it. But how?
Trish had given him a suggestion, which he had passed along to Sister Margaret Tullis, the ward organist. Whenever the congregation seemed especially noisy coming in, she was to finish the phrase of the music she was playing and then switch to the Primary song “The Chapel Doors.” Anyone, Trish had reasoned, who had ever been a Primary student or worker, would recognize that song and its message: “ . . . We gather here on the Sabbath day to learn of Jesus, to sing and pray. So when we come through the chapel doors, ‘Sh, be still.’” It had seemed a suggestion worth implementing, and he had watched with some amusement as certain people would suddenly recognize the song and its import and settle down, quieting their children as best they could. Others remained oblivious and continued to chat, and after three Sundays he had made mention of the reverence effort from the pulpit, asking the people to listen for the “reminder song” and conduct themselves accordingly. Then a group of Primary children had sung the song twice through, the congregation joining in the second time. Now it was the children who noticed when the song was being played and hushed their parents. He smiled to himself. A little child shall lead them, he thought.
He was pleased with the way the sacrament meeting talks came together on that particular Sunday. Ida Lou started hers, reading stiffly from cards held in her trembling hands, but she soon gave that up and just talked, allowing her humility and love to shine through her simple words. Sister Talbot was her usual enthusiastic self, bubbling about projects and events that were being planned for the sisters, and Rosetta McIntyre’s talk was, like herself, quiet, meaningful, and thoughtfully organized. He smiled throughout Trish’s remarks, as she used her sense of humor and her experience in the Church to give examples of how the sisters could make a real difference in the lives of those they served. It was evident that the four women complemented each other and worked together well.
Thank thee, Father, for choosing these sisters for this time, he prayed. What a strength they are to us all—and especially to me.
* * *
Ida Lou Reams lost no time in speaking with Lula Rexford and reported back to the bishop that Lula admitted they were having some lean times, but that her husband was totally opposed to accepting any help from anyone.
“So, basically, I reckon they’re living out of their garden, and she says they’ve got plenty of squash and beans and tomaters, but she reckons she’s going to have to sell off her mama’s silverware pretty soon if her husband don’t find work. But she won’t tell him about that, ’cause he wouldn’t let her. I don’t know, Bishop—I’d be glad to share my bottled beets and carrots and apples, and some meat from our freezer, but she says no, thanks, that Brother Rexford would know it wasn’t hers and ask where it come from. I reckon they hatn’t never done much about food storage, and that. What should we do?”
“Well, I’ll talk to young Thomas, and see if he’ll accept some summer work at my store, and I’ll talk to his dad, too, and check with the stake employment specialist to see if there’s anything going that Brother Rexford’d be willing or able to do. For the short term, I don’t know. For one thing, try to coax Lula out to Enrichment meeting this Tuesday, will you?”
Ida Lou cocked her head and looked at him like a bright-eyed sparrow. “You have an idea for that?”
He regarded her with a tired smile. “At the moment, to tell the truth, I don’t have a clue why I even said that. But it can’t hurt—and maybe by Tuesday, I’ll be able to come up with something.”
“The Lord’ll bless you, Bishop. I’ll pray for the Rexfords, too.”
“I’m sure you already do—and for all the other folks who are struggling as well. Thanks, Ida Lou.”
* * *
He caught up to T-Rex that very evening, pulling up in front of the Rexford home just as the boy was backing out of the drive. The bishop honked and beckoned with a large motion to let T-Rex know he was the object—or one of them—of the bishop’s visit. The boy left his truck running and sauntered over to the bishop’s vehicle, sporting his hail-fellow-well-met grin that was so effective in winning him friends among both genders and all ages.
“Well, hey there, Bish—what brings you around? Checkin’ up on me? I was at church t’day!”
“I saw you were, Thomas, and it did my heart good. No, I’m not checking up on you, not at all. I just wanted to catch you before things get crazy again on Monday. I don’t normally talk business matters on Sunday, but I’ve been wondering if you might be interested in helping us out at the store this summer, bagging and stocking? I sure could use a strong guy like you around.”
“Love to help you out, Bishop, but no can do. Coach won’t let us work.”
“Not even part-time?”
“Nope. We have two-a-days for all of June, then one-a-days through July, and back to two-a-days about the second week of August. Plus, he expects us to lift weights in our spare time. He says jobs are too demanding, take too much of our energy.”
“Is that right? Well. Sounds like he has plans for you, all right. But heck, Thomas—I really am disappointed! And I was hoping you could use the money.”
“The money’d be cool, but Coach is pretty tough on us, all right. He don’t even want us going camping or on vacation trips, and I’m not supposed to ride my motorcycle till after football season, either. Sure, like I’m giving that up, on these summer nights—not!” Thomas laughed, and slapped the door of the bishop’s truck. “But, hey, I’m sure sorry, Bish. Tell you what—why don’t you ask Rick Smedley or Jason Ezell? Reckon they could use something to fill up their summers.”
“Hmm. Well, thanks anyway, Thomas. Say, is your dad home?”
“How come? You gonna offer him a job baggin’ groceries?” Thomas hooted with laughter again. “I don’t reckon he’s that desperate, yet!”
Little do you know, my boy! He just may be, the bishop thought wryly.
Aloud, he said, “Nope, just want to hand him a list of positions that’s circulating in the stake, see if there’s anything up his alley.”
“Okay, cool. I think he’s out back, if you want to just walk around the house. Mom’s not home. See ya, Bish!”
The bishop waved to the boy, got out of his truck, and headed around the corner of the one-story frame house. It was well kept, and the yard was groomed to a fare-thee-well— nothing overgrown or weedy or languishing from neglect. He found Brother Tom Rexford relaxing in the deep shade of a huge old pecan tree, apparently amused by the antics of a pair of squirrels that raced in fits and starts around the limbs of the tree.
“Well, howdy-do, Bishop! Come and set,” he invited, sitting up straight in surprise.
The bishop reached to shake Tom’s hand, then plunked himself into a white lawn chair. “How are you, Brother Rexford?” he asked. “This is sure a pleasant scene. Wonderful old tree.”
“We like it out here, of an evenin’. What can I do for you? Lula’s gone over to her mama’s place. The old lady ain’t doin’ too good. Needs a lot
of help anymore. Wears Lula out, but her one sister lives down in Pensacola, and the other one that’s in Birmingham ain’t worth a damn. Pardon my French, Bishop, but she don’t take hold at all, where her mama’s concerned.”
“Quite a burden for Lula, then,” the bishop observed. “Does her mother live alone?”
“Does, and won’t budge. She could come here, we got a room for her, but no, she’s gotta stay in her own place that she’s used to. I dunno—maybe it’s best. Sometimes you hear of old folks wanderin’ off, when they’re put somewheres they’re not used to.”
“That’s true. Is there any help from the county or state available—home health people, and that?”
“A nurse checks in twice a week. Old lady’s got real minimal Social Security, is all, and long as she’s in her own home, that’s all she can get. And don’t even want that! Thinks they’re gonna steal her blind.”
“Well, now. That is rough. I know she’s not LDS, but does she have a church that could have folks check in on her, sit with her, or whatever’s needed?”
“Nah. Never did affliliate with any church that I know of. Pitched a fit when Lula got baptized a Mormon, but hatn’t never taught her any other way, so I don’t see where she had cause to interfere.”
“I see. Well. How’re things going for you, Tom? I know you were affected, like a lot of other folks, by the base closure. Any prospects in sight for work in your field?”
“Nah. Don’t reckon I’ll find the same kind of work I was doin’ there. There just ain’t any call for it, other places. But I’m lookin’ around. Somethin’ll turn up, sooner or later.”
The bishop unfolded a paper from his pocket. “I brought along a list of available jobs put out by our stake employment specialist, in case there’s anything you’re interested in. It’s a recent update—I just received it yesterday, so I assume the jobs are all still open—but if there’s anything that interests you, I’d suggest you call about it first thing in the morning. Lots of folks are looking for work.”
A Fresh Start in Fairhaven Page 9