* * *
“ . . . bless our efforts day by day”
The Osborne home was a narrow frame house of what was known as “shotgun” construction, supposedly from the notion that a person could open the front and back doors and shoot a shotgun clear through from front to back without hitting any walls. The siding was green—a faded shade that managed to clash with the riotous greenery of the surrounding trees. There was no lawn to speak of—just patches of weeds of varying heights. A truck with no rear tires sat on concrete blocks toward the small, detached garage at the back of the lot. Buddy’s bike was tethered to a two-by-four that served as a support for the small overhang—too small to be called a porch—that covered the front steps.
The bishop grabbed the sack of goodies he had brought from the store, hoping that Buddy liked corn chips and salsa and chocolate and vanilla sandwich cookies and root beer. He knocked on the frame of the tattered screened door. A couple of holes in the screen were filled with cotton balls. He smiled, remembering the old belief that cotton would deter flies. At least they wouldn’t find entry in those two spots.
Buddy came to the door and pushed it open.
“Hey there, Buddy, how you doing?” the bishop asked.
“All right.”
“I brought us some stuff to snack on. Don’t know about you, but I get kinda hungry about this time of day.”
“Okay. You want it now?”
“Up to you, my friend. Whenever. Here you go.” He handed the sack over to the boy, who took it without any apparent curiosity.
“Computer’s in here,” he said, making a sort of gesture with his free hand that the bishop interpreted to mean “follow me.” He stepped across the miniature living room with its much-used looking sofa that faced a television on a metal stand. Another chair slouched in a corner. There was little of cheer or color in the room—no pillows, books, plants, or pictures—not even curtains or drapes at the windows—just bent, aluminum-slatted blinds that were closed to keep out the light but raised at the bottom to let in some air. The next room was a dining room, with an enameled metal table to the right that served as the dining table, or so he deduced from the salt and pepper shakers, the jar of hot peppers in vinegar, the box of saltines, and squeeze bottle of ketchup that stood against the wall. Across the room a card table sagged under the computer components. One chair was pulled up to the monitor and keyboard, and the bishop appropriated another from the dining table.
“Why don’t you open up that root beer, Buddy? I hope it’s still cold—it’s been chilling in the cooler, but it was pretty hot in my car. You like root beer?”
“Reckon. Be right back.”
He returned shortly with two open cans and set them on the card table, then tore open the bag of chips and twisted the lid off the salsa. “You want cookies now, too?”
“Hey, friend—it’s all for you as much as for me. Just dig in to whatever you like.”
“I’ll go get some money then.”
“Buddy! No way—just call it payment for the lesson you’re about to give me.”
“Deddy don’t like us to be beholden . . .”
“Don’t worry, you’re not. We’re just bartering here. Stuff from my store for stuff from your brain. Deal?”
“Reckon. So—what do you wanna know?”
“Son, I don’t even know enough to ask questions. Start with turning it on.”
“Booting it up? Right here—this green button.”
“Just lead me through it.”
For the next hour, the bishop concentrated on the unfamiliar terms and procedures, and found Buddy to be knowledgeable, if less than forthcoming as a teacher. He learned to find his way around the desktop and how to use the basics of a word-processing program. “It’s for, like, if you have to write an important letter or something for school,” Buddy explained. The bishop also learned to play a couple of games, which he enjoyed so much it surprised him.
“Man, it’s a good thing we didn’t have computers and games like this when I was in school,” he said at last, leaning back and finishing the last of his tepid root beer. “I’m afraid I’d never have got around to graduating.”
Buddy grinned slightly. “I’m only allowed an hour a day during the school year,” he said.
“’Course, Monday to Friday, I’m with my mama, and like I said, she don’t have a computer. So they ain’t much problem there.”
“But then you don’t have it available to help with homework, either, do you?”
Buddy shrugged. “I use one at school, when I can. We didn’t get into the Internet. Did you want to see about that now, or another time?”
“My old brain couldn’t handle one more thing today. How about next week—same time?”
“I reckon, if you want to.”
“I do, and I’m surprised to say that, because I’ve kept myself computer-free all this time. I figured it’d be just one more thing to take my time and complicate my life, but I can see the appeal now. I had fun, Buddy! Thank you. You’re a great teacher.”
Buddy shrugged again, but there was a touch of color in his cheeks. “Ain’t nothin’ to it.”
“Now, don’t tell me that, ’cause I feel like I made great strides today. You taught me a lot.”
“You done fine.”
“Thanks. You just keep the rest of the goodies for today’s pay—you and your dad enjoy them. What’s your favorite snack? I’ll bring that next time.”
Buddy considered the question seriously. “You wouldn’t want to eat my favorite thing.”
“Try me.”
Shyly, the boy named a fruit-flavored dry cereal that was a favorite with Jamie as well.
“Heck, yeah, I eat that,” the bishop assured him. “I’ll bring a big bag of it and a gallon of milk to wash it down. How’s that?”
“That’s cool. Deddy, he don’t like to buy it—says it’s junk, and too expensive. He makes hot oatmeal most ever’ morning, even in the summer.” Buddy’s expression showed what he thought of that.
The bishop laughed. “Oatmeal’s good for you, sure enough,” he said. “But we’ll have a junk cereal feast next week, okay?”
“Sounds okay to me.”
* * *
A few evenings later, he and Trish lounged lazily in their chairs after the children had left the dinner table to enjoy the last of the evening light.
“So,” Trish said, as she collected the empty plates he handed her, “I went visiting teaching today—my first visit to Melody Padgett.”
“How was she?”
“She seemed okay. Maybe a little nervous. Her house is gorgeous. All brand new and beautifully decorated. She showed us through. I think she’s really proud of it.”
“I don’t reckon there would’ve been any whips or instruments of torture in evidence.”
“Jim!” Trish stopped wiping the plates with napkins to frown at him.
“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said darkly. “I just can’t bring myself to trust that fellow.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Did you see little Andi?”
“No, we didn’t. She was playing at a friend’s house.”
“Um.”
“I invited Andi to Mallory’s birthday party. I figured they’re close enough in age to get along, and Mal knows her a little bit from Primary.”
“That’s cool. Did Melody agree?”
“She said Andi could probably come. Then I asked her if she could possibly stay and help me with games for the kids, thinking that it’d give me a chance to get to know her better, but she said she’d be busy that day. I suppose I was asking a bit much, since I don’t know her all that well. She did sound really sorry to say no, though.”
“She seems good with kids—I expect she’d be a big help. Too bad.”
“Well, I can get Muzzie to help—her girls are invited, too.”
“When’s the party?”
“Two-thirty next Wednesday. Can you make it?”
“Should be able to
. Remind me, though, okay? You know how I am these days.”
“The absent-minded bishop? Not surprising, given everything on your plate.”
“What’re we giving Mal?”
“I’ve got that Barbie house she’s been yearning for, and some summer play clothes and cute hair things and a couple of new books. And I thought she could join a little dance class that Sister Strickland is starting. She’s always twirling around and trying to be a ballerina. Jamie’s building her a version of those little Philippine stick houses she saw at the ward social, and I don’t know what Tiffani has in mind. Oh, and Merrie left a wrapped present for her—it’s in the top of our closet. I suspect it’s a new Sunday outfit.”
“What a lucky little girl.”
“I just want her to know she’s cherished. All our kids, for that matter.”
“I’ll bet they know.”
“Do you think? Or do they just take it all for granted, as their due? I’ve always thought that there’s so much meanness and violence in the world that if I could do anything as a mom, it would be to make sure that my kids know there’s also love and kindness and decency. But I don’t know if they’re getting the message. Maybe I’m just making them materialistic.”
“Well, it’s not as though you give them material gifts instead of love and discipline and good teachings,” he comforted. “That’s how they learn that there’s goodness and love in the world. They see and feel it from you.”
“I hope so. And from you, Daddy dear. But sometimes I think Tiff’s getting pretty high-maintenance in her wants and wishes. She can think of more videos and CDs and shoes and clothes that she just has to have than you can imagine.”
“Yeah, she’s getting to that age—when her wants are becoming adult-sized and adult-priced. I remember my sisters constantly wanting new clothes and new record albums and makeup and so forth. I thought I was pretty low-maintenance. All I wanted was a basketball, and later an old truck to work on. And I earned the parts for that.”
His wife nodded. “I remember that old truck,” she said with a smile. “And so far, Jamie’s pretty reasonable, too. He loves his electronic games, but he doesn’t seem to want new ones all the time. He’s such a good kid. I hope he stays reasonable!”
“Oh boy, so do I. And I hope he doesn’t discover girls till he’s through college.”
Trish chuckled. “’Fraid that’s not likely. And Tiff’s already well aware that boys exist and are interesting. In fact, I think Mallory knows that, too. She’s always saying she’s going to marry somebody named Nickleby, who’s really cute.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, Nickleby’d better be a darn fine fellow!”
“I’m sure he is. I suspect he lives in her own sweet little mind, so he must be nice.”
“Trish—d’you ever wish you could just . . . infuse the kids with testimony of the truth and love for the Lord? I know it isn’t right, but sometimes I wish we could sort of bypass all this free agency business and guarantee that they’ll be good and happy.”
“Now, now, Bishop—whose plan was that?”
“I know, I know. But sometimes it seems to have a little merit.”
“I’ll betcha we’ve only begun to deal with the free agency issues.”
That wasn’t a bet he cared to take up.
* * *
“Brethren,” he told his counselors and clerks at their Tuesday evening meeting, “we’ve got the ward pretty well organized for the moment, and I’ve been feeling lately that we need to make more of an effort to get out of the office and into people’s homes. There are still lots of folks I don’t know as well as I’d like, and there’s that whole list of less-active people that none of us seems to know much at all. I think we need to reach out and be a little more proactive.”
“Would you like me to make a list and set up appointments?” asked Dan McMillan, readying a sheet of paper on his clipboard.
The bishop smiled. “You bet, Dan, thanks. Now, we don’t want to neglect the active folks, and assume all’s well just because they show up every Sunday, so I’ve been thinking and praying about the matter, and what I’d like to have happen is for us to kind of rotate as to who visits who—or is it whom? What I mean is, sometimes I’ll take Brother Bob with me to see a couple of families, and another evening, I’ll take Sam. I’d like us to visit the members who are less active, or experiencing some obvious difficulties. Then, on other occasions, I might want Bob and Sam each to pair off with our clerk and executive secretary, if you brethren don’t mind being pressed into service in this way, to visit our more active families and be my eyes and ears there. We can be flexible, according to your schedules and the members’—but eventually I’d like for all the ward families, active and less-active, to have received a visit. Then, on a need basis, we’ll start over and rotate who goes to the same homes. Some, I expect, I’ll need to see by myself, though I’d prefer to have one of you along.” He passed a list across to his executive secretary. “Dan, this is a list of the folks I want to see—and this first time, I believe I’d prefer to drop in unannounced on those with asterisks. I’m afraid if we call for an appointment, they’ll turn us down flat. But the others, I’d appreciate if you’d set up appointments for us—two per evening, and on Wednesday or Thursday if possible, according to everybody’s schedules. If necessary, I could go on a Sunday evening.”
“Yessir. I’ll get right to work on it.”
“Thanks, Dan. When you call, don’t make it sound too formal or intimidating. Just tell folks we’re trying to get around to visit everyone in the ward and that we’d sure appreciate the chance to see them when it’s convenient. Okay?”
“Yessir, understood.”
“Sam and Bob, is this going to be too great a burden on your time?”
“No indeedy, Bishop, there’s nothin’ I love better than a good visit with the Saints,” Sam agreed.
Bob Patrenko nodded. “Count me in, Bishop. My time is yours.”
“Well, I’ll try not to presume too much on that. Gotta be careful myself, or Trish and the kids’ll feel abandoned, too, and we don’t want that in any of our families. But I do feel strongly that we can’t serve people we don’t know, and who don’t know and trust us. So, thank you, Brethren, for your support. This Church couldn’t operate without all of us doing our parts, and I sure do appreciate and love you men for your willingness to do yours.”
* * *
He stood on the patio in the shade of the house and watched eleven small girls being shepherded through lawn games of various kinds, squabbling over whose turn it was and whether it was fair that someone won a prize. Mallory was beside herself with excitement, spinning from friend to friend and activity to activity, being silly and loud and thrilled to be five. Her father watched her fondly, enjoying the gleam of sun on her platinum hair, hoping Trish had remembered to slather sunblock on her fair skin. Muzzie and her two daughters, Chloe and Marie, helped Trish and Tiff with crowd control. His job was to monitor the ice cream machine, which was making the groaning noises that indicated the process was coming to its conclusion. Trish had made peach, and he could hardly wait for the first creamy, fruity taste of it. She had also borrowed Muzzie’s machine, which had already produced a container of chocolate, now waiting in the freezer. Mallory’s cake, an elaborate concoction that acted as the skirt for a new Barbie doll, held the place of pride on a paper-covered picnic table. He had also been instructed to guard it from little fingers or curious kittens. Samantha, in her usual sociable way, was springing and bounding among the little girls, absolutely certain of her invitation to this party—and probably, he thought, assuming it was being given for her pleasure.
He looked over the company—there were eight girls from Primary, and the rest were neighborhood playmates. Little Andi Padgett squealed and dived for an oversized beach ball that they were supposed to keep from touching the ground. She seemed happy and not at all shy around the other children, which was encouraging. He had greeted her when Trish showed her into the b
ackyard and had said, “Hi, Andi! Welcome to Mallory’s party. Too bad your Mommy couldn’t come, too.”
“Yeah,” she had responded, matter of factly. “She couldn’t come, ’cause Daddy had to go back to work.”
“I see,” he had said. But he hadn’t seen at all. He was still working on what she had meant when he reached over to flip the switch on the ice cream maker and put it out of its misery. He knew Melody Padgett drove, and he knew the family had two cars. Why would Melody need to stay home from the party, just because Jack had to go back to work? Was there, perhaps, some appointment—someone coming to the house? A repairman, maybe, that someone needed to be there for? It was the only thing that made sense to him. Whatever, he decided, he wouldn’t ask little Andi about it. She was their invited guest and not here to be pumped for information—no matter how tempting it might be to get a child’s-eye view of the Padgett family life.
He signaled to Trish that the ice cream was done, and she passed the word to her helpers that after the current game was finished, it would be time for refreshments. Things were a little hectic for a while after that, and he was kept busy pouring lemonade, wiping up spilled ice cream from the flagstones (with the help of Samantha’s eager pink tongue), and manning the video camera to record this event for posterity. But nothing kept him from reveling in his first taste of Trish’s fresh peach ice cream.
That evening, with the festivities over, he wouldn’t allow Trish to prepare supper. The children each had their choice of a place to go out to eat on their birthdays, or a special food to request at home, and on this occasion, Mallory declared that she was much more interested in staying home and playing with her new presents than going to a silly old restaurant. In the end, he took Trish out for a hamburger, and they ordered three more sandwiches to take home when they were done. They ate at the Dairy Kreme, and, it being Wednesday, Lisa Lou Pope was on duty, looking flushed and harried, but cheerful.
“Hey, there, Bishop! Hey, Sister Shepherd. What can I do for y’all this evening?” she asked.
“Hey, Lisa Lou,” he greeted, grinning at her. “You look mighty busy and official.”
A Fresh Start in Fairhaven Page 20