by Lisa Samson
Grandma Min starts to cry and I don’t know what to do. “Good-bye, then, Mrs. Whitehead.”
I leave the house, hoping against hope that someday she’ll call that number.
16
Mark is the Rodney Danger-field of the gospels. People go on and on about the book of John, not that I blame them. Matthew, well, he was an apostle and gets a good deal of exposure from the pulpit. And Luke, the physician, wrote such a beautiful account of the nativity, and anything written to someone named Theophilus must be good. But Mark? You just don’t hear too much about Mark.
But I’ve been reading there and I do believe I found a new female Bible hero. The lady with the issue of blood. I’m not quite sure what an “issue of blood” is, but it’s a woman so I figure it must be she’s bleeding vaginally. Can you imagine having your period for all those years? Twelve years?
That poor, poor thing.
Too bad Mrs. Evans wasn’t there to comfort her.
I think I’d have spent all my money on doctors, too, so I cannot blame her there. In fact I can’t find anything to blame this poor woman for, not like the Woman at the Well who slept with all those men. I admire her for stepping through the crowd like she did, for falling on her feet, for reaching out and touching His hem. I don’t think I would have had her courage.
Harlan preached on this passage the night before. Now sometimes my husband can be a little bit forthright about things and this current series, “What’s Really Eating at You,” has given me food for thought, pardon the pun.
Ha.
He talked about how we’re looking for a pill to cure everything. Don’t I know it! And darn that sister-in-law of his who hand-delivered this bone for Harlan to pick.
He said, “We need to be bold in our faith! Not rely upon man. Do I hear an ‘amen’?”
And of course, all the men amened.
“We need to step forward in the crowd, we need to kneel, yes, we need to kneel!” “Amen, brother!”
“We need to kneel at the feet of the Savior. We need to grab hold of the hem of His holy garments. We need to want His power enough to do that, amen!”
“Amen!”
“Hallelujah!”
“We need to grab hold.”
And he reaches into his pocket and wipes his brow. “Yes, we do,” his voice quiets and he leans forward, the silence of the building suddenly deafening. “Grab hold of that hem. Grab hold of that hem.”
His voice intensifies. “Grab hold of that hem!”
He shouts now, “Grab hold of that hem!”
The ladies in the front start chanting, “Grab hold of that hem. Grab hold of that hem. Grab hold of that hem.” And since it was an Assemblies church, I hear a couple of people speaking in tongues.
Harlan continues, now in full sway. “Jesus says ‘Come to Me all ye that are heavy laden and I will give you rest! Take My yoke upon you and learn of Me for I am meek and lowly in heart and ye shall find rest for your souls! Rest for your souls!’
“Are you sin-sick and weary?”
He claps.
“Are you laid down with the cares of this life?”
He claps.
“Have you a sickness that you’ve tried to heal? Have you spent money on doctors? Have you been disappointed by the workings of man on your behalf? Are you ill in body and soul and nothing anyone ever does heals your ailments?”
He claps twice. “Lay them down! At the feet of Jesus! Lay them down and lay yourself down while you’re at it, beloved, and grab the hem of Jesus! Grab that hem!”
Henry Windsor begins to play and the group works itself up into a frenzy.
“You’ve been trying! You’ve been trying to dig yourself out of the miry clay. Give Jesus a turn! Grab hold of that hem!”
I felt the Spirit fill me, telling me to grab hold of that hem. Grab it Myrtle Charmaine Whitehead! Now is the hour of your healing.
From what, Lord?
Grab the hem, Myrtle Charmaine.
What hem, Myrtle Charmaine? What a bunch of crackpots!
Oh, Jesus.
Now is the hour of your healing, Myrtle Charmaine.
Suddenly, I came to. I was on the floor and Harlan stood over me, fanning me with Sunday’s old bulletin.
“Honey, you okay?”
But I couldn’t speak. All I could do was cry.
Now, a day later, I am sitting at the dinette, rereading the Mark passage as Melvin drives us away from Suffolk. It is midnight. Harlan is always exhausted when we pull away. I tell him he doesn’t have to help Mel and the boys load up, but he insists. So he’s asleep in the back of the motor home. Little Leo is asleep in my loft. He has a little nose whistle that is so cute. I can hear the pace of his breathing and I am comforted.
We are heading back west on 58 where we’ll hit 1-85, then head on south to Atlanta. Melvin and Randall slept all day in their truck camper so they’d be fresh to drive. I’d hate to have their schedule.
So here I sit. I took my sleeping pill and I’m pulling a Martin Luther of the mind on myself and wondering why I have such little faith. Didn’t the Spirit say I was healed and yet I swallowed that pill anyway.
Of course you did, Myrtle Charmaine. You think you’re so spiritual.
That’s not true, Mama! I’m a struggler like everyone else.
So I pray in the dim light of my little lamp and I watch the lights go by. Not many of them out here. And I am glad God can see me. He knows I took that pill and in a strange way that comforts me. Imagine how horrible life would be if we could hide things from God.
I called Bee’s this morning and no messages came in. I called her this afternoon and still nothing.
17
I wonder what that demoniac did when he went back through the Ten Towns, as it says in the book of Mark? I mean, first of all, people were probably pretty scared of him to begin with even though he was clothed and I cleaned up. Crazy they said about him, I’ll bet.
“That guy is crazy!”
Then he shows up, after being healed by Jesus as this normal guy. Imagine that. One day he’s more animal than man. The next he’s experienced the touch of the Divine and is probably more fully human than I’ll ever be.
Nevertheless, he went to the towns.
Too bad it couldn’t have happened like this for Mama. Too bad God didn’t just reach out and perform a miracle.
The bad thing about meeting Grandma Min is that now I know she doesn’t know a thing about Mama’s whereabouts, even though Mama is probably dead. I’m thinking that maybe I can find Mama now that I’m a little older. Of course, I don’t have a lot of money for a private detective.
I figure I’ll send away for a D.C. phone book and call hospitals. Maybe they saw her years ago when she went up there. Maybe they have her on record. Maybe they can tell me how she died or where she ended up.
Maybe they can tell me something.
“Bee?”
“Oh, hey, Charmaine.”
“Any messages?”
“Nope. None today.”
I hop back up into the motor home and we are on our way from Spartanburg, South Carolina, and back on 1-85 toward Atlanta.
Melvin fixed me up a way to put my sewing machine on the side table and anchor it to the wall so it doesn’t slide around. I just sew and sew on the road. Right now Hope is strapped in her car seat at the dinette and Leo sits belted in. They are listening to a Robin Hood tape and looking at the picture book together. Leo tickles me. Hope kept grabbing the book so he unbuckled himself, got a lollipop out of the kitchen cabinet under the silverware drawer, and gave it to her.
It worked. They’re looking at that book so nicely now.
That boy’s so smart!
Harlan, sitting in the captain’s chair next to Melvin’s, swivels around. “How’s the dress coming?”
I take the pins out of my mouth. “I’m not sure. Maybe I should have gone a little more plain Jane.”
“For an event called ‘Gospelganza’? You must be kidding me, Shug.
I think magenta with orange trim will knock ‘em dead!”
“You do?”
“Oh, come on. You’re the prettiest thing going.”
I smile and he smiles and swivels back to study from his concordance and reference books. The smiles stays on his face all the way around.
To tell you the truth, after only one day I’m already tired of being the one to rush and get the messages from Bee. I’m going to tell Harlan about Grandma Min tonight.
Harlan was able to get a church to speak at in Atlanta. It may not be much money, but it should go far in helping us. Thank You, Lord, the church in Suffolk reached out their arms of generosity. We not only made payroll, but Harlan told me yesterday his surprise is around the corner! “Pretty soon we’ll really be living, Shug!”
I can only think it’s going to be a house. I imagine we’ll settle around Tennessee near Bee. And that would be fine with me. I’m not going to be picky, either. As long as there’s walls I can paint, I’ll be one happy camper.
I am about to audition right here in Atlanta. MaryAnna Trench meets me on the steps to the auditorium at Kennesaw State College.
“Oh, Char, you look great! Where did you ever find orange high heels?”
“Lottie’s in Greenville. Half price.”
I don’t hug MaryAnna. She’s not the type of person who inspires hugs and I’m a huggy sort so what does that say?
I must admit my magenta dress is wonderful. Full skirt, ‘50s style, an orange sequined belt, and a jacket with orange lace that falls from the elbow length sleeves. Nothing like anything you’d ever find in the department store, I can tell you that! Harlan thought a hat would add the finishing touch but we couldn’t find one to match so I made a bow for my hair.
“You ready?” MaryAnna flattens her own full skirt. Only hers is plaid and she actually wears a tarn. The pompom on top nods back and forth, mimicking her own movement as she mimics mine. Scotland forever!
“Harlan’s parking the truck. Then we can go in.”
We made camp yesterday at a KOA near Cartersville. The boys are going to do routine maintenance on the equipment this week and Ruby will baby-sit when I need her. Melvin built a campfire last night, so we sat around and sang some of our favorite songs. It’s times like these that bring us members of the crusade together. We really are a family.
Even now Ruby watches the kids in her travel trailer.
I know I said I would tell Harlan about Grandma Min last night, but I haven’t yet. I think if this audition goes well, I really will tell him tonight. That way at least we’ll have had a good day behind us.
Great. They’ve got the lights going and everything in this place. I can’t even see the guy. I didn’t meet him beforehand. His assistant said, “Just get out on stage and start to sing.”
Henry Windsor begins the opening strains of “This Old House” and I do my best not to clear my throat. I opt for a big grin and a wave of my hands as I begin.
We really go, Henry and I. Of course, this song is made for a quartet, but we take a different spin on it. I sing it bluesy-like. Like nothing I’ve heard before. And Henry just goes with it. I sneak a glance over at the piano and he’s swaying like Ray Charles! And we begin to feed off each other’s energy. Our sways unifying, our souls flowing in the same groove and I am stunned for a moment, blinded by the lights, the sound and the stream of notes.
I am in ecstasy. If I was a man I’d be guilty of having a mistress, I’d have sold out to a different love, my heart given over to another lover.
The song lasts ten minutes if it lasts a second. By the time we finish, both Henry and I are covered in sweat. I reach into my skirt pocket and pull out the handkerchief I keep handy during every concert. We wipe our brows in tandem.
18
A day later MaryAnna bursts into the motor home where we are consuming chicken salad on potato rolls. “You’ve got it! They want you on the tour this summer!”
I turn to Harlan. “Oh, Harlan! I can’t believe it!”
“Congratulations, Shug!”
We hug. The kids clap their chubby hands.
“You need to be back in Atlanta in mid-May for practices. They’ll be forwarding your song selections as well as tapes with the orchestration after Christmas.”
I jump a little. “Whoo-hoo!”
Harlan unfolds to his feet and kisses me. “Now this is cause for celebration! I say we poke into the savings a little and have us a steak dinner!”
“Okay!” I hug him to me tightly.
MaryAnna says, “Not too much steak, Charmaine. You don’t want to pack on the pounds between now and then!”
“What?” Harlan pulls back. “This woman is perfect in every way.”
My agent shakes her head. “You two are too much. If you weren’t my client, Charmaine, you’d make me sick. But as it is, a client with a healthy marriage is much easier to manage than someone who not only wants representation, but a marriage counselor, too.”
“You been married before?” Harlan asks.
“Four times. I could write a book on marriage.”
Harlan and I look at each other and don’t say a word.
“How about some lunch, Ms. Trench?” Harlan shows her a seat.
“No, thanks. But I’ll sit with you.”
Under her watchdog eye the chicken salad I’d made earlier turns into sawdust. “I’ll just get myself another Diet Coke.”
“Good girl, Char.”
I want to growl at her.
It’s five P.M. and I stand in line to use the phone at the campground. Why there’s a big line at this time of day this time of year at the KOA in Cartersville, Georgia, is beyond me, but there you have it. I can’t get my mind off Grandma Min. I figure she actually may not call the number. She actually may write a letter, which is what I would probably do. It would be hard to get all your thoughts across well in a phone call, but in a letter, that would make all the difference.
So the first guy talking on the phone had problems with the hitch on his RV. He said they’ve been towing a little AMC Hornet on the back.
The second guy ordered a pizza.
And right now a lady goes on and on about her grandson Carl to, I presume, her sister.
Carl this. Carl that.
Oh, my lands.
I find out Carl walked at ten months, said his first words at eight, and I’m sure this poor lady has heard this all before.
I clear my throat.
She doesn’t turn around.
I thank God that at least I don’t wear those ugly thick-soled shoes like the ones she’s got on. And those brown elastic-waisted stretch pants are just an eyesore. Kind of like the clothing equivalent of the industrial part of a city the main interstate always runs through.
I hope Bee is home.
Finally Granny Brown Pants hangs up, turns and displays a set of “Miracle Ears.” She smiles like a sunbeam as her eyes meet mine and I feel so bad about criticizing her like I did. “Aren’t you just the prettiest thing?”
And I feel even worse.
“Thanks, ma’am.”
She slides on by.
I pick up the phone and dial Bee’s number.
“Hey, Bee. It’s me.”
“Hey, Charmaine.”
“Any calls?”
“No. Just some mail.”
The phone feels hot and hard in my grasp. “Anything interesting?”
“A bill from the propane company, two invites to speak. One’s a church in Richmond and the other’s in a town called Mount Oak.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“There’s also a personal letter for you.”
“Oh, yeah? Who from?”
“No first name. Last name is Whitehead.”
I try to breathe but feels like my lungs have filled with Cheez Whiz.
“Char?”
I manage a breath. “Sorry. Got something stuck in my throat.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Listen here’s the address of
the church Harlan is speaking at this Sunday. Just forward it there as soon as you can.”
I give out the information.
“You got it, Char. I’ll put it in the mail right now.”
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here under the picnic pavilion. Someone’s fired up their charcoal grill somewhere and pretty soon campfires will glow. I wonder what Granny Brown is cooking tonight?
My life is at such loose ends. My career is moving forward, but where to? I’ll be receiving a letter from my grandma soon, but what does it say? And Mama? Well, that’s one loose end destined never to be sewn into much of anything. And then there’s Leo and Grace.
I head back to the phone and dial the number of Grace’s rehab place.
She never arrived.
Doggone it! She never even arrived!
I run back to the motor home and pick Leo up in my arms.
“Hey!” He squirms. “It’s too tight!”
But he settles in soon and my tears baptize us into a new life for the both of us.
Tonight is the night of reckoning. I have to tell Harlan about Grandma Min, because most likely he’ll see her letter at the church before I can intercept it. I’ll only raise his suspicions if I offer to get the mail first.
Oh, my lands, he’s been talking about hairpieces lately! But that’s another story altogether.
We’re still at the KOA as Harlan doesn’t speak in Marietta until Sunday. The pastor there is an old friend of his from the seminary days and when Harlan called after we finished up in Suffolk and offered his services, he just said, “Praise the Lord! After the corker I gave them last week, the congregation and I need a vacation from each other.”
“What did you speak on … tithing?”
“Yep.”
And they laughed so hard I had to find out what all the commotion was about.
Melvin’s got a campfire going again tonight. It’s chilly. I cocooned the kids in heavy sweaters and they’re sitting out there bundled together in a quilt. The pool is, of course, winterized, but I’ve been staring at it a lot while I’m here. I don’t know why.
The depths are strangely inviting. But then, they always have been. Heights are, too. I’ll never forget the time the Evanses took us all for a climb up Crab Apple Falls in the Blue Ridge. I wanted to jump down the rocky face of the falls. In fact the urge came onto me with such vigor, I clung to Mrs. Evans’s hand.