A Fresh Start in Fairhaven

by Sharon Downing Jarvis

  “She’s just faking,” put in a teenage boy behind the counter, nudging Lisa Lou as he passed behind her. Lisa Lou blushed even more as she turned to swat at him.

  “You hush, Tommy G.,” she told him. “This here’s my bishop.”

  “What’s a bishop?” he asked.

  “Like a preacher, only better,” she told him.

  “That right?” The boy flashed a grin at the customers. “Looks to me like Mr. Shepherd, that runs Shepherd’s Food Mart.”

  “Yep, he does that, too. Now, make him one of your real good strawberry-banana malts, Tommy.”

  “No, no,” protested the bishop and grocer. “I’m full-up on ice cream, from our little girl’s birthday party. I’ll have a large fresh lime and a double bacon cheeseburger. How about you, hon?”

  “You’re living dangerously,” Trish told him, snuggling against his arm. “Lisa Lou, I’d like a grilled chicken sandwich with all the trimmings, and just a little mayo. And a small fresh lime.”

  “How about some fries or onion rings with that?”

  “No,” said Trish.

  “Both,” said her husband.

  Trish overruled. “He’s got enough fat and cholesterol in that burger, thank you anyway. I have to keep an eye on him, you know. We all need him.”

  “Well, we sure do. Sorry, Bishop. Maybe another time.” Lisa Lou grinned at him.

  “But, hey—I love fried food! I can’t help it; I’m a true son of the South,” the bishop protested.

  “Too many sons of the South die early from heart attacks,” Trish told him. “You’re not allowed to do that.”

  “I’ll be back,” he promised Lisa Lou, as his pretty wife steered him away from the counter. “You’re bossy, sometimes,” he groused with a fake frown.

  “I know,” she agreed, “but you love it.”

  He regarded her. She was right; he did love it when she took care of him—even when it meant he was deprived of favorite foods.

  “I’m a conquered man,” he told her, and kissed the tip of her nose.

  Chapter Seventeen

  * * *

  “ . . . be with us in our homes, we pray”

  Riding in Bob’s Honda, Bishop Shepherd and his counselor Bob Patrenko bumped along the dirt lane that led to the Ralph and Linda Jernigan home, ignoring the “Posted—Keep Out” and “Private Property—No Trespassing” signs that adorned practically every fence post they passed.

  “It isn’t that Ralph and Linda mind having visitors from the Church,” Bob explained. “You just kind of have to go about it their way. Call ahead of time, let them know exactly when to expect you, and whatever you do, be prompt.”

  “What’s made these people so paranoid, Bob?”

  Bob shook his head. “Darned if I know. They don’t talk much about themselves—not so you could really get to know them. They’ll talk about their garden, and their food storage, and his guns, and the threats to the government, and perceived threats to the Church, even—but hardly a word about where they came from or why they feel the way they do. Very closemouthed folks, and yet—I dunno, Bishop—I do feel they’re goodhearted, if a bit wacky. They give generously to the Scouts and to other good causes. They’re even helping to support Donnie Smedley on his mission, though that’s privileged info. They don’t want it known.”

  “I didn’t even know that. Brother Smedley never mentioned it.”

  “No—that’s just their way. He’s been their home teacher ever since they moved here about eight years ago, and they think a lot of him, but even he can’t get real close. Poor folks—it’s kind of sad the way they isolate themselves.”

  The house, a small frame rambler, sat in the middle of a fenced area, with no trees or shrubs to give it shade from the sun. All the windows looked dark, as if they were hung with black drapes. Linda had planted a few zinnias around the porch, and the grass, though spotty, was green and trimmed. The fence was chain-link, topped with three rows of barbed wire.

  Bob pulled his truck up to the driveway gate, which rolled smoothly back on it wheels to allow them entrance, then closed behind them with a clang. The bishop shivered. The word compound came to mind.

  “Now we wait,” Bob instructed. “Watch for the dogs.”

  “Dogs?”

  “You’d better believe, dogs. Here they come.”

  In silence, three large animals rounded the corner of the house in tandem and swarmed around Bob’s car, sniffing at the tires and undercarriage, the hood and trunk. One, with a wolfish look about it, raised slightly on its hind legs and gazed briefly into the bishop’s eyes, its nostrils working overtime. The bishop was startled by the intelligence that met his own in the encounter.

  “What are they doing, checking our blood types?” he asked, only half-kidding.

  “I think they’re trained to sniff out explosives.”

  “Sure glad I didn’t bring any firecrackers. Why don’t they bark?”

  “I s’pose that’d mean they’d found something suspicious.”

  Finally satisfied, the dogs went to sit by the porch steps. Ralph Jernigan came out the front door and tossed some kind of tidbit to each of them, after which, the bishop thought, they finally began to act like real dogs, vying for Ralph’s attention, whining and wagging their tails and thrusting their heads against his hands for a caress as he came down the steps. He beckoned his visitors forward. Cautiously the two men climbed out of the car.

  “How do you like my troops?” Ralph asked, fondling each animal’s head in turn.

  “They’re not going to have us for dinner, are they?” the bishop called.

  “No, sir, they’re good soldiers.”

  The dog who had examined the bishop through the car window now wagged its way toward him, a silly doggy grin on its face instead of the feral but savvy expression it had exhibited before.

  “At ease, Corporal,” Ralph said, and the dog turned aside to flop in a patch of shade by the steps. “He tends to fraternize a little too much,” Ralph explained. “You brethren come on in. I figure the wife’s got something cold to drink for you.”

  “Thanks for letting us come see you folks, Ralph,” the bishop said, extending his hand. “Sorry it’s taken me so long to get out here. I’m trying to repent and get around to see all the members, now that things are a little more organized.”

  “Good to have you, Bishop. Brother Patrenko.”

  “How’s it going, Ralph?” Bob asked.

  “Things’re stable on our four acres. Garden’s growing. Not much enemy activity of late—at least that I’ve been aware of. Middle East’s a mess, of course.”

  “Isn’t it always,” the bishop murmured, wondering if the man referred to enemy activity on a national, international, or local level—or if he differentiated.

  Ralph showed them into a small living room with a picture window that gave a slightly grayed view of the front yard. The bishop realized the glass was covered with a film that allowed them to see out but prevented anyone outside from seeing in—hence the black drape effect. An oscillating floor fan stirred the air, which otherwise seemed close and warm. The walls were lined with stacks of boxes and large food-storage cans. Linda had made an effort to soften the effect with tablecloths and houseplants. A photograph of a small blonde girl stood beside a lamp on a makeshift table that was actually four cases of powdered milk covered with a crocheted doily.

  Linda served them tall glasses of limeade and passed around a plate of sugar cookies, then perched on the edge of a chair, her lips pursed, her eyes large and watchful, as if it were a matter of national security to be sure their glasses were refilled and the cookies handed around again. Except for her initial greeting, she didn’t say a word.

  Ralph did the talking. As the bishop had been warned, he steered the conversational ship, speaking of things he had read or heard pertaining to arms shipments to Cuba or Central America or Afghanistan, and a new and desolating strain of virus that he feared the Iraqis were about to unleash upon the world. He v
oiced his opinions that the international banking community exercised far too much power in world affairs, and he didn’t like the cutbacks to the military that had taken place during the last administration. Finally he stood, obviously showing his visitors to the door, and spoke in a lower tone to the bishop.

  “Concerning what we talked about in your office, Bishop—things are fairly quiet right now, but I expect they’ll heat up a little later in the summer. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Um—thanks, Ralph. Appreciate your concern. Say—who’s the cute little girl in that picture?”

  “Relative. Thank you, Brethren, for coming to see us. Let us know if we can be of any help to you. Don’t worry about the dogs, and I’ll open the gate for you. Good day, now.”

  The bishop didn’t say a word all the way back down the bumpy drive to the farm road. Finally, when they were on state pavement again, he looked at his counselor.

  “I’m speechless.”

  Bob Patrenko nodded. “Has that effect, doesn’t it?”

  * * *

  Mrs. Martha Ruckman’s neat white bungalow with dark green shutters was apparently an inspiration to her neighbors, Bishop Shepherd observed as Bob Patrenko eased to a stop at the edge of the road. Those houses closest to hers were neat, with cared-for yards and gardens. The farther afield he looked, the untidier the places became. Mrs. Ruckman’s front yard reminded him of his own, except that he could see that the flowers were mixed with vegetables. Pole beans on a trellis formed a backdrop for rose bushes, and collard greens nestled among orange nasturtiums. Lush tomato plants, heavy with red and green fruit, shared space with what appeared to be pumpkin or melon vines.

  “Think the car’s okay out here?” Bob asked uneasily, looking around the neighborhood.

  “Trust me, nobody’s going to bother any car parked at Miz Ruckman’s house,” the bishop assured him. “She’s a force to be reckoned with. Got your storm gear on?”

  Bob chuckled. “That’s right—she was your teacher, wasn’t she? What grade?”

  “Fifth. She was a great teacher—she took no nonsense whatever, from black kids or white. We were all scared silly of her. I still am,” he admitted with a laugh. “But I respect her now even more than I did then.”

  “She seems to be doing a great job, raising Tashia.”

  “Well, she’s a lady who takes her responsibilities very seriously.”

  They knocked at the green-painted screened door. A delicious aroma of frying onions and peppers emanated from the back of the house, just tickling their nostrils and reminding them of their own suppers waiting at home. Mrs. Ruckman appeared, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

  “Welcome, gentlemen, to my home, and Tashia’s,” she said warmly, unlatching the screen to admit them. “Come on in and be comfortable, and I’ll get her for you.”

  The bishop smiled. “Thank you, Miz Ruckman. We’d be delighted if you’d sit in on the visit, too, if you have time.”

  “I’m preparing dinner, but I’ll join you if I have a chance. And I’ll listen in from the kitchen, in any case.”

  “Um—of course, certainly. And this is my counselor, Brother Robert Patrenko. Miz Martha Ruckman, Tashia’s grandmother.”

  Mrs. Ruckman shook Bob’s hand politely. “Counselor? You brought your attorney? My, my, James—you don’t expect that much trouble from me, do you?” Her smile was serene, but he detected a bit of a challenge in it.

  “My counselor in the bishopric,” he explained. “My assistant. My right-hand man.”

  “I see.” She went to the kitchen doorway. “Tashia! Your guests are here.”

  “Your yard is wonderful, Mrs. Ruckman,” Bob ventured. “I like the way you’ve mixed vegetables and flowers.”

  “I thank you. They seem to enjoy it that way, too. I like to combine beauty and utility in my surroundings. Sit down, if you will. Tashia will be right in.”

  They sat, the bishop swallowing an impulse to say, “Yes, ma’am,” as he’d been required to do at age ten. Mrs. Ruckman had combined beauty and utility in her home as well as her yard, he noted, looking around at the decorative plants, the crocheted afghans and hooked rugs that gave color to the small living room with its white walls and gleaming hardwood floor. One wall was covered with well-stocked bookcases, except for two long windows, draped with sheer white curtains. He saw two sets of encyclopedias, a large dictionary, a set of children’s classics and numerous other interesting-looking volumes. It was a room that invited serenity and study. He stood, moving to examine an intriguing watercolor print above the white leather sofa, turning when Tashia came into the room, her dazzling smile in place, her head bent slightly as both hands busily finished braiding a pigtail and tying it off with an elastic.

  “Hey there, Tashia,” he said, going forward to shake her hand. “How are you this evening? You know Brother Patrenko?”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Mr.—um, Bishop—Shepherd. Hey, Brother Patrenko. Ya’ll sit down.”

  They sank back onto the sofa, and Tashia curled her feet under her in a rocking chair by a window. She made a picture that the bishop wished he could somehow capture and take home to Trish.

  “So, how’s your summer going, so far?” he asked.

  “It’s good,” she said shyly. “Grandma keeps me busy.”

  “That right? What’s she got you busy doing?”

  “Well—I’m learning how to crochet, and how to put up fruit and veg’ables—and I help out in the yard, and I read a lot. And she’s teaching me Bible stories.” She indicated a large white family Bible on a side table.

  “Now, that’s great, isn’t it, Bob?”

  Bob nodded. “Wish I knew that my kids were having that productive a summer. I’m afraid they’re swimming and watching TV and playing with the neighbor kids.”

  “Oh, I watch some TV, too, and Grandma and I play on the Internet some, and look up fun stuff. And we play games. She’s so good at chess and checkers I don’t know if I’ll ever get to win. And I’ve been over to the Arnauds’s a couple of times, to play with Angeline and Tamika.”

  “I saw you sitting with them at church,” the bishop remarked.

  “Yessir. They’re real nice. And I have a couple of other friends that I get to play with, once in a while. I just wish’t they lived closer.”

  “Nobody right around here, to play with?” Bob asked.

  Tashia shook her head. “Well—there’s lots of kids, but Grandma won’t allow me to play with them, much.”

  “I expect your Grandma knows best,” the bishop assured her. “Did you know she was my fifth-grade teacher?”

  He enjoyed her wide-eyed, surprised grin. “No! Grandma, you didn’t tell me that!”

  Mrs. Ruckman put her head around the door. “I taught hundreds of students over the years,” she commented, smiling. “But, yes, I remember James Shepherd well enough. You liked history, as I recall.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s true. I’m amazed you remember that.”

  “I remember a great many things.”

  “Uh-oh,” he said, winking at Tashia, who laughed in delight.

  “Mrs. Ruckman,” Bob called, “how many years did you teach?”

  She came a few steps into the room. “Thirty-two,” she replied. “I started in a little country school out by Boaz. One room—all black children then, of course. Segregation ended after my twenty-first year, so for the last eleven years of my career I had more-or-less mixed groups.”

  “It must have been a challenge, making that adjustment,” the bishop suggested.

  She smiled serenely. “I believe it was as much an adjustment for my colleagues and the administrators as it was in the actual classroom. Most of the children took it in stride. For me, it was a pleasure to have access to newer and better materials to work with. I don’t care how much they said about ‘separate but equal,’ there was a whole lot more separate than equal going on in the school system in those days.”

  “I’m not surprised,” the bishop said. “But I
know one thing—and that is that we were mighty fortunate to have you come and teach in our school.” He smiled at her. “In fact, I wish my children could each spend a year in your classroom.”

  “Now, James, you’re flattering an old lady, and that’s not fair. Tell me about your children. You have three, I believe?”

  “I do indeed. Tiffani is fifteen, Jamie’s nine, and Mallory just turned five. They’re good kids, Miz Ruckman, but I believe they’d benefit by your no-nonsense, no-excuses approach to schoolwork.”

  Mrs. Ruckman gazed out into the still-bright evening. “Was I too strict, James? From your grown-up point of view?”

  “No, ma’am! You were fair, and we always knew exactly where we stood. Well, to tell you the truth, we were all shaking in our shoes when we found out we were going to be in your class, but before long, we were proud to be there. You gave us something—I don’t know—a sense of honor, maybe. We all felt like it mattered to you, personally, whether we mastered fractions or diagramming sentences or whatever.” He looked at his hands. “I’m not saying this very well, but you were a great teacher.”

  “M-mm, you’re kind. But I’ve always wondered—did the children know, did they ever suspect—how much I loved them?”

  “Um—well, I reckon we’d have been a little surprised at the time to think of it that way—but we knew you cared about our progress.”

  “And isn’t that love, James? Isn’t that how you feel about your children? Don’t you care about their progress, how they grow, how and what they learn, what kind of character they develop along the way?”

  He nodded. “That’s exactly how I feel.” He looked up and smiled. “And you know what? I believe that’s exactly how our Father in Heaven feels about all of us, as his children.”

  “So do I, James. So do I.”

  He looked at her granddaughter. “And how about you, Tashia? Do you feel Heavenly Father’s love for you?”

  The young girl beamed shyly. “Yessir. And if he loves me as much as my grandma does, that’s good enough for me.”

  “Oh, child, he loves you so much more than I can, because he’s God, and he’s love itself. He loved us all enough to suffer and die for us. Your church teaches that, doesn’t it, James?”