“So what do you think, Brother Smedley—is Ralph okay, or do you think he’s dealing with some irrational fears?”
“To tell you the truth, I get the feeling the man’s purely plagued by fears, and I suspect Linda’s caught the same outlook from him. I find I’m always giving them messages of comfort and faith and trust in the Lord, but I’m not real sure any of it sinks in.”
“Wonder what brought Ralph to that point, and what, if anything, we can do to help him.”
“I wonder, too. If they could just once relax and be at ease, somehow—but I don’t know how to bring that about.”
The bishop sighed. “Neither do I, Brother. But let’s pray for them, and keep working with them the best we can, okay? I’d sure hate to see Ralph lose it one day and whip out a gun to protect his wheat and honey against all comers.”
“Amen to that, Bishop. And he does have quite an arsenal.”
“Are you comfortable continuing to visit them?”
“Yes, sir, pretty much. I’ve learned how to approach Ralph and to take his concerns seriously. I do believe his heart’s in the right place, you know? But his paranoia, or whatever, gets in his way.”
“Do you happen to know if they’ve ever had any children?”
“Well, there’s a photograph of a little blonde girl in their living room, but I don’t know who she is. She looks something like Linda, but she might be a niece or something. It’s funny I’ve never asked, come to think of it, but somehow Ralph always seems to drive the conversation down his own roads.”
“I hear you. Okay, thanks, Brother Smedley. I appreciate all you’re doing.”
The conversation over, the bishop rose to stretch his legs and get some air. He wandered toward the kitchen of the meetinghouse, from which emanated the unmistakable fragrance of baking bread. Sisters were gathered in a corner of the cultural hall, watching dark-haired Magda Warshaw demonstrate kneading the dough and then rolling three strips of it to braid into a round pan. Magda and her husband, Levi, were Polish Jews who had emigrated to the United States after joining the Church in Germany. The bishop smiled, listening to the instructions she gave in her pronounced accent. Trish always said she loved to listen to Magda’s lessons or talks because her accent made her comments easier to remember. He suspected that was because the listener had to pay closer attention to understand the remarks, to begin with.
He walked around the building and strolled outside, enjoying the approaching twilight and the care with which the grounds were maintained. The Fairhaven meetinghouse was located in a nice neighborhood and did nothing to detract from it. He was grateful that the Church maintained quality, well-designed, and well-kept buildings, both for the sake of the members and for the good impression they gave to the general public.
He could recall going to his first meetings of the Church, which were held in the social hall of a local business and charity brotherhood. The missionaries who picked him and his mother up for the meetings explained that they needed to go a little early to have time to sweep up the cigarette butts and other debris from the Saturday night parties and to set up chairs for the meeting. It had grown to be a natural thing for him to help them throw open the windows to dispel the tobacco and stale-beer odors and to push the broom or set up the rows of folding chairs. He was glad he had been around in those early days of the Church in Fairhaven, glad that he had those memories—but even more glad that now they had their own building, dedicated to the purposes of worship and learning, that they could fill it every Sunday, and that it never had to reek of offensive odors from substances the Saints didn’t even use.
Still, he remembered, the Spirit had managed to distill upon those small gatherings in that musty hall. Hadn’t he felt it there, and his mother, too? How brave those young missionaries had been, inviting visitors and investigators to such simple meetings under such un-church-like circumstances—many of them people who were accustomed to robed choirs and professionally prepared sermons! Surely it was a testimony of the truthfulness of the restored gospel that hearts had been touched and testimonies engendered under those conditions. It had been better when they had outgrown the social hall, and they had, while their own meetinghouse was under construction, been kindly invited by the Seventh-day Adventists to share their building. It had seemed only right and natural, years later, when the Adventists’ church had gone up in flames, to offer them a home for their services in this chapel, and to help them to rebuild. Though they differed in many points of theology, there was still a friendly relationship between the two congregations.
He went back inside, passing by the kitchen just as the sisters were slicing the golden loaves they had taken from the oven, and they called out to him to sample the product. Sister Warshaw handed him a thick slice on a napkin and gestured to the dishes of butter and jam just ready to be taken out to the cultural hall.
“Have some,” she invited. “Is good.”
“Thank you,” he said warmly. “There are perks for being here on Tuesday evenings after all!”
“At least, once a month there might be,” agreed Joanie McMillan with a smile. “The other Tuesdays, you brethren might just have to order in pizza. Have a glass of cold milk, Bishop.”
“Ve should send food on Tuesdays, why not?” said Magda brightly. “Ve could take turns, it should not be hard. Is too far for all to go home and come back. Your Dan does not, does he?” she asked Joanie.
“No, we live too far out, so he comes right from work, and stays as long as needed, and I’ll bet you do the same, don’t you, Bishop?”
“Well—yes, usually I have interviews that start shortly after I leave the store. I’ve run home in-between a couple of times, but usually I just grab something quick from the store and head straight over here.”
“And who else is here on Tuesdays—both counselors, and Brother Perkins?”
“Not always all of us, but usually one of the counselors or the clerk—depending upon what needs doing. There are generally three of us here.”
“No reason why ve should not bring dem food,” Magda persisted. “Will that be acceptable, Bishop?”
He grinned. “It’s not necessary, but you bet it will. It needn’t be fancy, full-course meals, though, ladies. Just a simple bite of something—whatever’s on hand. You could take it to the clerk’s office—maybe in disposable containers, so we don’t have to worry about getting dishes back to people, would that be good?”
“That would be simpler, wouldn’t it?” Joanie agreed, wiping her hands on a towel.
“And no pressure on anyone to participate, okay? Just those who would really like to.”
“Ve will tell Sister Reams and send around a list to sign, before we leave tonight.” Magda’s no-nonsense voice settled the matter, and she went to push in the cart of bread and jam and milk and to consult with Ida Lou.
The bishop ate his bread contentedly, then watched from the hallway as the coolers of fish were emptied. He was gratified to see that, among others, Lula Rexford went home with two heavy, icy bags in her hands.
“I thank thee, Father, for the kindness of near-strangers,” he whispered as he headed back to his office, thinking of the man, a mere acquaintance, who had brought the fish to him at his store, saying, “I just figured you could find someone who could use them, if you don’t want them all yourself.” The donor was a man he had met at a community planning meeting months earlier, and they had struck up a conversation about the fish population in the local waterways and lakes. They had discussed the care that had to be taken in purchasing fish from fisheries around the country for sale in his store and the problems certain areas had with pollution from industry. The man had remembered his interest.
“Bless that man for his generosity,” he continued his prayer. “Bless him and his family to always have what they require.”
Chapter Nine
* * *
“ . . . seasons of distress and grief”
On Wednesday afternoon he arrived home to find Trish
on a ladder in the guest bedroom, applying water to the wallpaper with a dripping sponge. From this activity he read that preparations for the advent of her family were in full swing, and he knew that there would be certain expectations of him along the way.
“Hey, babe—how can I help?” he asked cheerfully.
“Oh, Jim, you’re home. Good. Check the paper in the corner there by the door—see if it’s ready to strip yet.”
He whistled. “We’re stripping, are we? Sounds interesting.”
His wife didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s interesting to me because I can’t wait to get this old paper out of here. I’ve wanted to for years, and this is the perfect excuse. I tried to steam it off, but that was too slow.”
He regarded the paper, which was a pale pink with an occasional sprinkle of small white flowers. He rather liked it, but this was obviously not the time to say so.
“What’s the new paper like?”
“Sage green with tiny beige stripes, and I’m putting up a coordinated border with several kinds of birdhouses on it.”
“Birdhouses.”
“You’ll love it; it’s really cute. And I’ll group three birdhouses on one end of the dresser to continue the theme. I have that little barnwood one with the silk flowers twining around it, and I’m sure I can find a couple of others to go with it.”
He nodded. He was sure she could, too.
“Then I’ll have to decide what goes on the bed. Obviously that ruffly thing has got to go. And I’ll want coordinated towels and rugs in the bath, there.”
Briefly, he wondered how much his in-laws’ visit was going to cost him—and why. Did coordinating towels and rugs and sage-green wallpaper somehow say to them that their daughter was in good hands—that she was happy and cherished and well cared for, while the pale pink walls and ruffly thing would scream of neglect and penury? He had to trust her instincts; his own were apparently comatose from disuse in such matters.
“Is that piece ready to come off?”
“Let’s see. Yep, I do believe it is.”
“Just let it fall onto the drop cloth. If it sticks anywhere, I’ll throw you the sponge.”
“Okay. Just don’t throw in the sponge—whatever that means.” The strip of paper came off, a wet, curling, unwieldy thing that tried to flop in all directions at once. He made a face. Wallpapering—or unwallpapering—was one of his least favorite occupations.
“How’re the kids?” he asked.
“Good. Mallory’s playing at Kirsten’s house, Jamie’s at Cub Scouts, and Tiffani is supposed to be starting dinner.”
“She all caught up with her assignments at school?”
“Far as I can tell she is, and I think we’ll finish the year in pretty good shape. She did some extra credit work in English to help balance out that test grade—and, of course, you helped her with the frog.” She threw him a smile.
“Well. The Lord helped, actually.”
“True. How are things with the ward—any appointments tonight?”
“Um—no appointments, but I can always visit people. I don’t think there’ll ever be a time when I shouldn’t be doing more than I am.” He sighed.
“You don’t want to burn out, though, almost before you get started.”
“I know. ‘Take an even strain,’ my dad used to say. He never explained exactly what he meant, but I think I’m beginning to get it. Just a slow, steady pull—no jerks and stops and rushing headlong downhill with the load.”
“Makes sense. Check that next panel, okay?”
The panel came off, except for a section in the middle that clung to the wall and began to rip. “Sponge,” he called, holding up one hand. “Scalpel. Whatever works.”
She tossed him the sponge, which he used to saturate the sticky portion of paper until he could coax it off the wall.
“I’m sure glad this is strippable paper,” Trish remarked, as her husband stepped around the mess on the floor and the covered bed to return the sponge. “Everything okay at the store? Any good melons showing up yet?”
“Yes and yes. I’ll bring one home tomorrow. Hey, Trish, what do you know about Melody Padgett?”
“Not much, except she’s gorgeous, with that tan and that beautiful hair of hers. I’ve never had occasion to get to know her. Don’t think I’ve ever seen her in Relief Society—has she been serving in Primary or Young Women?”
“Primary. Seems to enjoy it—been there five years.”
“Ah—a woman after my own heart.”
“The funny thing is—and I hope I’m not telling tales out of school here, so please don’t mention this—but her husband seems to want her to stay in Primary, in the worst way. Totally stonewalled my suggestion that she might enjoy a change.”
“Huh. Why is that—just taking her side in the matter?”
“I don’t know. Wondered if you had any insight.”
“Well, maybe he likes the idea of her serving in the auxiliary where their little girl is.”
“That’s a thought. You know, I haven’t visited Primary much, except to slip in the back and watch our kids give their talks and that—but it seems to me that the teachers don’t have a whole lot of time to visit and talk with each other.”
Trish smiled. “There’s generally not much free time. It usually took about all I could do to keep track of my own little class and help them settle down and be reverent. If I even said hello to the other teachers, I was doing good.”
“M-hmm. So not a whole lot of interaction between the teachers that hour. And, of course, the next hour, they’re in their classrooms.”
“Right. About the only socializing we had as Primary workers was at the leadership meetings. Sometimes we’d combine those with potluck suppers or Saturday brunches just to have time to visit.”
“I see.”
“So, what are you thinking—that Brother Padgett doesn’t want Melody to be where she can visit with other people?”
He looked at his wife. “The thought occurred to me.”
She stood still, the dripping sponge in her hand. “Wow,” she said softly. “That’s scary.”
He nodded. “It sure is.”
“Is he the type to be abusive or something?”
“Is there a type?”
“I guess you can’t always tell, can you?”
“I do think he’s pretty controlling.”
She made a face. “I couldn’t tolerate that. I’m grateful you’re not that way.”
He grinned at her. “Maybe I’m just so subtle about it that you don’t recognize my strategy.”
“Maybe you’re not that subtle about anything, Mr. Guile less, Open-faced Bishop.”
“Aw, you really know how to hurt a guy.”
“I’ll make it up to you. But seriously, Jim—what do you think he’s doing to her?”
The bishop shook his head. “Don’t really know anything. Possibly hitting her, definitely controlling her—I don’t know what else. I’m hoping she’ll tell me—or somebody in authority.”
Trish dropped her sponge into a bucket and leaned back against the ladder. “I imagine it’d be hard for her to talk about stuff like that. It’d be really embarrassing.”
“Yeah. Ironic, isn’t it? If he’s the abuser, then he’s the one who should be embarrassed. Yet we both realize that she’s the one who would be.”
“I guess it’d be tough to admit you’ve been putting up with abuse. You might be afraid people would wonder what you’d done to deserve it, or why you hadn’t got out of the situation.”
He sighed. “I sure hope I’m wrong about the whole thing.”
“What are you supposed to do if you’re not?”
“Well, anytime you suspect abuse, or child endangerment, anything like that—you’re duty bound to report it to the authorities. But—I feel like I should be a little more certain than I am before I do that. After all, she didn’t tell me anything—didn’t ask for help. Didn’t tell anyone else that I know of, either. I thought I saw an old
bruise on her face, but it could’ve been an accident. And I am Jack Padgett’s bishop as well as Melody’s. Oh, boy. I believe I’m going to talk to President Walker—just in general terms at this point.”
“Good idea. He might already know something about the family, for that matter.”
“Could be. Bishop Collins didn’t mention anything about them, though—at least, not anything that I remember or wrote down.”
“Do your counselors know what you suspect?”
He nodded. “It came up in bishopric meeting, but I think they’re all like me—just hoping it ain’t so.”
“Do you want me to discreetly check around among the sisters?”
He smiled. “No, babe, but thanks. I want you to be the perfect bishop’s wife and see, hear, and say no evil.”
“Okay, I’ll be a good little monkey. But, tell you what—Ida Lou’s busy trying to revamp the visiting teaching list so that people from the two wards can get acquainted. I could easily get Melody added to my list. Then, if I happen to learn anything, I promise I’ll mention it only to you.”
“I can’t think of any objection to that,” he agreed, grateful once again that he’d had the amazing good fortune to marry that shiny-haired girl. She had never been a gossip, but she was actively interested in people’s welfare. It was a good combination.
* * *
He was relaxing after dinner in a lounge chair in the shade of the backyard, nearly asleep, when his son called him to the phone.
“It’s that preacher friend of yours, I think,” Jamie said. “The guy with the really low voice.”
“Mac?” He pushed himself up from his seat, physically reluctant to move but delighted to hear from Peter MacDonald, which was a rare occurrence. Mac was a busy pastor to a large so-called nondenominational Christian flock in Atlanta. It was a tribute to the strength of their lifelong friendship that it had survived and flourished despite their many doctrinal discussions and disagreements over the years. He took the call in his and Trish’s bedroom.
“Big Mac! How’s it going, man?”
A Fresh Start in Fairhaven Page 11