Trish headed for the kitchen, and Tiffani and Jamie gravitated toward friends their age. He took Mallory by the hand and wandered over to the nearest booth, decorated to look like a Polynesian grass hut, with some kind of red tropical flower blooming around the front. He had to touch a blossom to determine that it was silk and not real.
“Talofa, Bishop,” greeted Brother Tuapetagi, smiling as he deposited a platter of shredded pork next to a tray of something that smelled fragrant but didn’t quite resemble anything the bishop was accustomed to eating.
“Evening, brother,” the bishop responded. “Things are smelling mighty tempting around here. What are those?”
“Fried banana pieces. And we’ve got Kalua pig, pineapple chicken, and rice.”
“Oh, boy! I’m going to need three stomachs tonight because I know I’m going to have to try everything.”
“Not me,” piped up Mallory. “I’m not eating a pig! I’m having cake and ice cream.”
Her father chuckled. “Doubt if I’ll even make it to the desserts tonight. Your booth is looking mighty pretty, Sister Lani,” he added, as one of the Tuapetagi daughters placed a large container of rice on the table. She smiled shyly.
“She’s dancing tonight,” her father said proudly. “She and Hika and their mother. The boys, too, unless they chicken out. Ruth will help me sing.”
“We’ll look forward to that,” the bishop promised, as he moved toward the Cisneros’s booth, which had been built to resemble the rounded-corner, adobe structures typical of the American Southwest and Mexico.
“Wow,” he murmured, peeking under the foil cover of a large pan of enchiladas. “I’m in trouble, for sure.”
The Arnauds’s booth suggested a white frame house with lacy wrought-iron grillwork across an upper balcony.
“Evening, Bishop, and little Mallory,” said Camelia Arnaud, as they paused. “You folks hungry for gumbo tonight?”
“Sounds good to me. Only problem is, Camelia, so does everything else. What’m I going to do?”
She chuckled. “Well, you just eat a little, rest a little. Eat something else, rest a little. They tell me we’re keeping the food out for the whole evenin’, so folks can try this and that.”
“A feast, for sure. Who made the booths?”
“Well, Sister Winslow, she designed them, and her husband figured how to make them stand up, and we all helped work on our own. I did that railing up there, with black poster board and an Exacto knife, and I tell you true, Bishop, it plumb took forever!”
“I just bet it did, but you did a wonderful job—it looks like the real thing. I sure hope somebody’s taking pictures of all this.”
“Reckon they will. We brought our video camera, too. Joe wants to record this for posterity, he says. Although right now, I don’t reckon posterity cares about much except running around and causing mischief!” So saying, she grabbed her five-year-old son, Currie, as he raced by. “Where are your sisters, boy?”
“They’re tendin’ the nursery babies,” Currie said, struggling to escape his mother’s grasp.
“Well, do I have to put you down there with them? Or are you old enough to stay out here and act like a big boy?”
“I ain’t no baby!”
“Well, then—you stop that running around, or I’m going to have to tie you up here like a puppy dog. Maybe somebody’ll throw you a bone, if you get lucky.”
“No way, Mama! I want gumbo, and a praline!”
“Then you stay right here by me, ’cause I’m the one handing out those goodies.”
The bishop grinned at Currie and moved toward the last booth, the only one that didn’t feature food. The Lipa family was into art, and their booth included a display of watercolors and oils of scenes from their native Philippine Islands, as well as a table-top village of small native-style huts cleverly built of sticks and twigs, which enchanted Mallory.
“They’re so little!” she said. “I could play with them, couldn’t I, Daddy?”
“I don’t think they’re to play with, are they, Fabiana?” he asked the Lipa’s graceful, fourteen-year-old daughter.
She shook her head regretfully at Mallory. “I’m afraid not. I used to want to, when I was little, too, but I wasn’t allowed. So I tried to build my own to play with. They weren’t as neat as these, but they were better than nothing.”
Mallory looked up at her dad. “I could do that, couldn’t I, Daddy?”
“Well, sure, we’ll have to try. Get your brother to look at these—maybe he’ll help you make one.”
Mallory pouted. “He’ll make it a fort and smash it with rock bombs.”
“Well, maybe he could make one for each of you, and I’ll tell him yours is off-limits,” he soothed. He glanced around the hall, in which the decibel level was rising by the minute as families arrived and children found each other. He saw the Jernigans sidle in and stand at one end of the room, looking around apprehensively. He made a beeline for them and shook their hands.
“How are you folks this fine evening?” he asked.
They didn’t reply, as if his inquiry didn’t signify, but Linda looked shyly at Mallory.
“Pretty little girl you’ve got,” she said softly.
“Yeah, this is Mallory, and we kinda like her,” he replied, giving his daughter a squeeze.
“Keep her with you at all times,” Ralph said. “Always in sight. Can’t be too careful, you know.”
“That’s true,” the bishop agreed, remembering what Brother Smedley had said about a picture in their living room of a little blonde girl. Should he ask? Maybe not now—not if she turned out to be a sad memory for them. This was a happy occasion, and he wanted them to relax and enjoy it.
“Smells great in here, doesn’t it? I can’t wait to try some of everything.”
Ralph nodded, and Linda ventured, “Looks pretty, too. Real colorful.”
“Bishop,” Ralph asked, leaning in close, “you got anybody patrolling outside? I’d be glad to take that on, if you don’t. Just to keep watch on things—make sure nobody’s car gets messed with, or nobody who doesn’t belong is hanging around.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Ralph—I’m not real sure that’s necessary. I’d rather see you in here relaxing and enjoying yourself.”
“Tell you the truth, I’d rather be out doing that, than sitting in here wondering if everything was all right. I could take a plate out with me, and eat as I walk around and observe. It’d be no bother.”
“Well, bless your heart, if you’d really like to do that for us, I suppose it’d be fine.”
“Yessir, thank you, Bishop. I’ll just go out now, and Linda can run me out a plate when everything’s ready.”
“Now, Linda,” said the bishop, “if Ralph’s going to be outside, then I’d like you to come and sit with our family. Will you do that?”
Linda’s large pale blue eyes darted a look at his face, and her small mouth relaxed briefly into a smile. “I’d like that, thanks,” she said, whereupon Ralph turned and marched out the door.
The bishop looked around the hall, where families were gathering at the long tables. It came as no surprise that the north end of the hall seemed to be attracting members of the former Fairhaven First Ward, whereas Second Ward members gravitated toward each other at the south end. He and his counselors, as well as the Relief Society presidency, began to execute their plan. The Shepherd family, being former First Warders, would elect to sit among Second Ward families, while Sam and Dixie Wright and their children, for instance, would invade First Ward territory. The bishop watched Bob Patrenko as he uprooted his ten-year-old son, Reynolds, from the spot he occupied beside his good friend Joey Thomas and settled his family in the other end of the room. He caught Bob’s eye and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Then he found space for his own family plus Linda Jernigan, across from two families he didn’t really know very well, and leaned over to greet each person with a smile and a cordial handshake. “Operation Unity,” as he had come to think of it, was underw
ay.
When the hall was full and the food was all displayed, Sister LaThea Winslow stepped to a microphone and asked for quiet, then welcomed all to this first social of the new ward and thanked the committee and many others who had worked so hard to make it a memorable occasion. She was flushed and beaming with pleasure as she invited Bishop Shepherd to offer the invocation and say a few words.
Bishop Shepherd hadn’t known that invitation was forthcoming, but he offered a brief and sincere prayer of thanks and a blessing on the food, then stood silently for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
“Brothers and sisters, most of you are aware that Brother Roscoe Bainbridge passed away yesterday after a long bout with cancer. We considered postponing this event, but Sister Hilda Bainbridge urged us to go on with it as planned, and we felt it was the right thing to do. Please be aware that Brother Bainbridge’s funeral will be here in this building tomorrow at eleven, with a one-hour viewing prior to the service—and we extend our sympathy and love to Hilda in this difficult time. She is a wonderful lady—one whom I’ve come to respect deeply.
“Now, you know, folks, it does my heart good to see all of you here together, sitting mixed together as former First Warders and Second Warders, reaching out in friendship and love to one another, looking for new and rewarding associations as well as enjoying the associations we had with one another in our former situations. I’m grateful for the way you’re pulling together to make our ward a cohesive unit, a true extended family, as President Walker advised us to do. I’m grateful for the opportunity I have to get acquainted with the folks I haven’t known before, and an occasion like this is so valuable because it gives us the opportunity to visit with one another—and I happen to know that Sister Winslow and her committee have a couple of activities planned for us tonight that should help us with that getting-acquainted process. Now let’s remember that we are no longer ‘strangers and foreigners,’ but fellowcitizens of the Fairhaven Ward of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. That said, I’ve got to admit I can’t wait much longer to begin sampling the delicious foods prepared by members of our ward and so attractively displayed for our enjoyment! Sister Winslow, where do we begin?”
He sat down amid scattered applause, as Sister Winslow began to describe the various culinary offerings and how best to access them in an orderly manner.
He enjoyed the food and probably ate too much of it, he admitted to himself, as he tried to live in the moment and be warm and accessible and friendly, and as he listened and watched and admired the dancing and singing, and as he participated in the games and activities. One activity included listing all the countries and cultures represented in the ancestry of those present.
“Tonight we’re celebrating and enjoying four of the cultures represented in our ward,” Sister Winslow explained. “But you can see from the list we just compiled that we have folks who have either lived in or descended from a total of forty-eight different countries. The ones most frequently represented are those of the British Isles and Scandinavia, but you can see all the others listed here, from Poland to Japan to Nigeria and Canada and France. Perhaps another time we can enjoy contributions from these places.”
“Just don’t ask me to prepare haggis,” called out Dan McMillan. “I’m not that Scottish!”
“What’s haggis?” whispered Tiffani, amid the general laughter.
Trish looked about to explain, then thought better of it. “Trust me,” she whispered back, “you don’t want to know.”
Tiffani frowned, but knowing his daughter’s sensibilities, her father thought his wife’s discretion was wise.
As much as he enjoyed the festivities, it came as a relief to slip into his office for a few minutes of private contemplation while the cleanup committee did their thing, with the help of Trish and the kids. He wanted to reread the remarks he had outlined for Roscoe’s funeral the next day. It was to be his first funeral—the first he had conducted—and, he realized, except for his father’s, the only LDS funeral he had ever attended. His mother had asked the Church to conduct the services for his nonmember dad, but he remembered the procedures only vaguely. The fact was, nobody in the Fairhaven First Ward had died for years. A lady in the Second Ward had passed away a couple of years before, but he hadn’t known her and hadn’t attended the funeral. There had been Brother Lodger, of course, but he had gone to live in a rest home in Florida, close to his daughter, and his funeral had been held there.
It had been a new and humbling experience earlier that afternoon to go to the Humboldt Funeral Home with Sam Wright and Brother Arnold Collins, the high priest group leader, to dress Brother Bainbridge’s body in the temple burial clothing. Sister Hilda had lovingly laundered and ironed the same clothing Roscoe had worn when they were sealed in the Atlanta Temple, and given the articles to the priesthood brethren with a tremulous smile.
“I thank ya’ll, brethren, for doin’ this for Ross—and I know he ’preciates it, too,” she had said. “I like to remember him wearin’ these in the temple when we was sealed. It was the handsomest I ever saw him look. Better even than when we was married.” She chuckled. “I know what Ross would say to that. He’d say that’s just ’cause of my eyesight goin’ bad. But it wadn’t. It was because of him gettin’ better and better through the years. Don’t you think that when folks do better, they look better?”
Bishop Shepherd smiled, remembering that. There was truth to her statement, too, he thought, although the ravages of disease had left Roscoe wasted and wrinkled since that happy day in the temple. In spite of this, it struck the bishop with some surprise how heavy the emaciated body still felt as they turned and dressed it—how firm and cold the flesh. Death became very real in those moments. Once they were finished, he asked the other two to go ahead, saying, “I just want a moment alone with Brother Roscoe, if you don’t mind.” When they had gone, he took out his wallet and removed the worn little picture of the young Hilda.
“I tried, Roscoe, to return this as you wanted me to,” he whispered to the still form. “But the lady at the library told me that those old yearbooks had long been stored in the basement of the old library, where they were burned up in a fire about twelve years ago. I’d forgotten all about that fire, and I reckon you had, too. So, since this has been precious to you all these years, why don’t you keep it, my friend?” He slipped his hand under the pleated robe and put the picture into the pocket of Roscoe’s white shirt. “God be with you, brother,” he said, and went to tell the funeral director that the body was dressed, except for the cap, which would be put on just before the funeral.
* * *
Lying beside Trish on Friday night, his mind reviewed the events of the ward social.
“Good turnout, don’t you think?” he asked.
“I thought so. Best of all, lots of interaction between First and Second Warders.”
“Yeah—even if we had to be sneaky and engineer some of it. I was glad the Jernigans came—wasn’t sure they would.”
“Linda was sweet, I thought, sitting by Mallory and listening so seriously to all her prattle. What was Ralph doing?”
“Patrolling the perimeter.”
“Really?”
“Well, I don’t think he sits down and relaxes easily, and he’s not much for small talk. So he was probably happier walking around outside and munching Polynesian chicken, protecting our cars and our property from . . . whatever.”
Trish giggled. “Maybe from the zucchini elf—although it’s a little early for him.”
“Zucchini elf? That’s a new one for me.”
“Haven’t you heard the old joke—‘Why do Mormons always lock their cars while they’re at church?’”
“No, why?”
“So nobody’ll fill them with zucchini.”
“I’m not sure that’s funny,” he replied, chuckling in spite of himself. “We didn’t plant any this year, did we?”
“Goodness, no! Hestelle keeps us supplied. I grate and freeze it for zucchini
bread, I pickle it and put it in soups and stir-fry it and stuff it and—”
“Maybe you should write a cookbook. Call it, ‘How to Stuff a Wild Zucchini.’”
“Funny man. Um . . . Jim?”
“M-hmm.”
“I didn’t see the Padgetts at the party, did you?”
“Nope. I hoped they’d come, but I wasn’t too surprised they didn’t.”
“It’s all fixed up with Ida Lou. Starting in June, I’ll be Melody’s visiting teacher.”
“That’s great. I love you, Sister Bishop.”
“Love you, too, Brother Bishop.”
Chapter Eleven
* * *
“ . . . every day some burden lifted”
All in all, it had been a very satisfying funeral, Bishop Shepherd reflected, as he pulled his truck into its accustomed spot behind the market on Saturday afternoon. President Walker had given a comforting talk on the spirit world and the resurrection, Roscoe’s younger brother had traveled from Tennessee to give the life sketch (which Hilda had helped to write), and the chapel had been full of people, Church members and others, who had known and loved Roscoe Bainbridge. Hilda seemed to have withstood it all very well, for which her bishop was abundantly grateful, and the Relief Society sisters had swept her along in a cloud of love and warmth and service, staying by her side as much as possible through the whole experience, somehow trying to do anything daughter Carolyn might have done, including preparing a delicious luncheon for relatives and out-of-town participants.
A Fresh Start in Fairhaven Page 13