Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen

by Susan Gregg Gilmore

  “Now go get your coat because I'm really not leaving without you. And it really is cold out there. Besides, I sure would hate to have to call the sheriff out in all this snow to come and put you in that car, and you know good and well he'll do anything for Reverend Cline's little girl,” I said with a big grin on my face.

  “Well, in that case,” she said, crying again so that I could hardly understand what she was saying, “I guess I better get my coat.” As she walked past me, she reached out to hug my neck but suddenly lifted her head as if she had heard a frightening noise. “Oh Lord, Catherine, what about your mama? What's she going to think about me showing up at Marshall's service?”

  “I'm sure she's feeling a bit out of place herself. Ida Belle and Brother Fulmer thought it was best we forewarn the congregation, for fear somebody might have a heart attack seeing her alive and all. So don't worry, she'll be fine with you being there. Who knows, seeing you two together may be enough of a shock to leave even Roberta Huckstep speechless, for once.”

  By the time Miss Raines and I pulled into the church parking lot, we could hear the piano playing inside the church. Thankfully, Mrs. Gilbert was in town and she had arranged a collection of Daddy's favorite hymns. I could hear the last notes of “I'd Rather Have Jesus” trail into the beginning of “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder.” Miss Raines and I helped each other climb up the cement steps to the door. Brother Fulmer had carefully scraped off the ice and sprinkled the steps with rock salt. We could hear the salt crunching underneath the weight of our bodies.

  As I pushed on the door of the church, I saw Martha Ann standing guard in the entry. She grabbed the door from the inside and pulled it open, and there in the entry of my daddy's church stood Miss Raines and me and Martha Ann and Lena Mae, the four women Daddy loved the most. We walked toward the center aisle and I could see my daddy's casket covered with a blanket of red roses. I took a deep breath, needing a moment to remind myself that my daddy was the one we had come to bury. Then we stepped into the sanctuary, standing side by side.

  The church fell completely silent. Mrs. Gilbert even missed a few notes on the piano but quickly picked up her place and continued to play. As we walked down the aisle, I could feel everyone staring at us. I could hear Roberta Huckstep's familiar gasp, but I just smiled. I reached for Martha Ann's hand, and she squeezed it tight, reassuring me of what I had come to do.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  You Will Be Like a Well-Watered Garden

  Gloria Jean and Miss Mabie and Flora were already sitting in the first pew. Gloria Jean stood as we approached, hugging each one of us as we reached the front of the church. When she wrapped her arms around Lena Mae, you could hear everyone's surprise rush through the air. For Gloria Jean, that was nothing more than encouragement, and she opened her arms even wider toward Miss Raines.

  I waited for the music to soften, then I walked up three final steps and, for the first time, took my place behind the pulpit. I stroked my hand across its top, feeling its uneven surface where years of Cline men pounding their fists had left an impression. When I was little, I would sit at the base of the pulpit waiting for Daddy to finish talking to anyone who needed his ear. But I had never stood here with some thing to say, and in that moment, I realized what an ominous responsibility it was being Ringgold's preacher. I looked at Mrs. Gilbert the way my daddy used to do, and she softly brought the hymn to a close.

  “Good morning, everyone, thank you for coming today. I hope you feel like I do, that I'm here not to say goodbye to my daddy, but to celebrate his life. I'm sure some of you are struggling with my daddy's death—and his life—right now. Heck, you may be even questioning your own faith, a little uncertain of what or who to believe anymore.

  “My daddy liked to preach the parables. Of course, you all know that as well as I do. He always told Martha Ann and me that Jesus understood that children, even the grown ones, learn best when listening to a story. One of Daddy's favorites was the Parable of the Weeds, and it was always one of my favorites because Daddy told it in a way that I could really understand. I want to share that story with you now if you don't mind.

  “You all know that my granddaddy loved his garden. He loved to tend to each and every one of his plants almost as much as he loved and tended to all of you, but most of you probably know that, too. But did you know that his garden was his secret hiding spot, where he went to think and rest and praise the good Lord? I'm not sure if my daddy told me that or if I just figured it out for myself.

  “Anyway, what you might not know is that one day a real Cherokee Indian came over from the Sequatchie Valley to give my granddaddy a purple tomato plant. That's right. A real Cherokee gave him that plant as a gift for praying his little Indian boy, who was sick with a high fever, back to health. Granddaddy loved that vine because, as Daddy told it, it had come from the goodness that can be done in the world.

  “But when he planted it, even though the tomatoes were sweet and plentiful, hundreds of weeds sprouted up around the vine, trying to strangle it to death. Every day Granddaddy pulled the weeds that had grown up during the night. Every day he pulled the weeds that were trying to choke the life right out of it. He never turned his back on that vine.

  “I think we're kind of like that garden. Some of us here at Cedar Grove are trying to grow strong beautiful tomatoes, and some of us are like the weeds, trying to choke the life out of everybody else. My daddy was a good man. He was a good father. And he was a good preacher. Brother Hawkins, you know that firsthand. Daddy stood by you when your daughter went down to Texas to birth her little baby. And, Deacon Evans, wasn't it Daddy who went and smoothed things over with your wife when she locked you out of the house after you lost all your savings at the dog track down in Florida?”

  I could see each and every person sitting before me starting to squirm for fear I was going to continue calling the roll of sinners, so to speak. But I didn't need to. They knew they were in no position to be casting any stones.

  “But one thing's for sure, my daddy wasn't perfect. Miss Raines's growing belly is testament to that. My daddy loved Miss Raines. He had loved her for a long time. It's just a shame he couldn't have loved her honestly. I think when my mama left, well, my daddy just wasn't able to admit to all of you that his sweet young wife wanted more than he could offer. I don't know, maybe he thought that if he couldn't make things right with his own wife, then none of you would ever trust anything he had to say about loving one another. So he let us all think she drowned.

  “And now I wonder, with an innocent little baby on the way, if up and dying wasn't the only way my daddy could keep from disappointing all of you here at Cedar Grove. That's how much he loved each and every one of you. And I think if we turn our backs on our sisters, on Lena Mae and Miss Raines, then we are no better than the weeds choking the life out of those beautiful vines.”

  When I looked up, Mrs. Roberta Huckstep was holding her head in her monogrammed handkerchief. Everybody was tearing to one degree or another. So I just stood there for a moment, just like Flora would want me to do, giving everyone a chance to let the sadness pour out of their bodies.

  I looked to Mrs. Gilbert, and she began to play “Just As I Am.” At first the sound of the piano merely muffled the noise of a crying congregation. Then one by one, people began to sing, finding comfort in the words that surely now, more than ever, were a comfort to my daddy.

  Just as I am, and waiting not

  To rid my soul of one dark blot,

  To Thee whose blood can cleanse each spot,

  O Lamb of God, I come! I come!

  Just as I am, thou wilt receive,

  Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve,

  Because thy promise I believe,

  O Lamb of God, I come! I come!

  I could hear Brother Fulmer's deep baritone voice roll through the room, and even Mrs. Gulbenk's wavering soprano sounded pretty today. In fact, the entire congregation sounded different, sweeter, purer. And slowly one voice among a
ll the others became stronger and clearer, one beautiful voice that belonged to my mama.

  All these years, I couldn't remember what Mama's singing voice sounded like. Lord knows I tried to remember, but the voice I kept hearing in my head all these years was just one I had heard on the radio. Turns out, my mama sounded like an angel, a heavenly angel. Mrs. Gilbert started playing real softly so her voice could be heard above the others. And one by one, every voice at Cedar Grove grew silent, leaving my mama alone to serenade my daddy as he made his way through the Pearly Gates.

  The sound filling the church that day surrounded me completely. I felt warm and comforted. I felt loved, the kind of love that comes only from your own flesh and blood—and those who love you as their own. I had spent a lifetime trying to get away from this place. Funny thing, you can run away from your family, and you can run away from dreams, but, like Daddy kept trying to tell me, there's just no running away from your destiny. I knew where I needed to be.

  For a while after Daddy's funeral, everybody in Ring-gold was real nice to one another. Ruthie Morgan's mama and some of the other ladies at church even hosted a baby shower for Miss Raines. Ida Belle spent two whole days making little cookies in the shape of baby bottles. Ruthie Morgan, who I started calling by her first name only, crocheted a white blanket for the baby, using a design Mrs. Gulbenk found in an old Simplicity pattern book. Brother Hawkins built a rocking cradle for the baby, and his wife painted Noah standing in his ark across the headboard. They laughed that it wasn't as good as a felt board, but they figured a Sunday-school teacher wouldn't want to waste any time in teaching her little one the Bible.

  Mrs. Huckstep stopped by regularly for a month or so to bring a macaroni casserole or a vase of fresh flowers, just to brighten our day, she said. And oddly, it did. But it seems that people can only act right for a little while before their old ways get a hold of them. Probably for the best anyway. I imagine Mrs. Huckstep might have combusted herself if she hadn't finally opened her mouth and let all that gossip she had been bottling up since the day Daddy died drain out. She tried her very best to convince every churchgoing lady in town, which would be everyone but Gloria Jean and Mrs. Dempsey, that their dear departed preacher was seduced by the beautiful Sunday-school teacher nearly half his age. Women from Alabama are like that, she'd say.

  Miss Raines said she had expected that kind of talk, and I think sometimes, late at night, she wondered if it was true. I kept telling her that Daddy loved her and she needed to hold her head high. Besides, I told her, no one pays Mrs. Huckstep half a mind anyway, especially now that she is consumed with planning Emma Sue's debutant party. Heck, when I was little, I figured everybody believed every word that came out of that woman's mouth. Now I know that there are very few people in this town who really pay much attention to anything Mrs. Huckstep has to say; even her precious little Emma Sue seems to ignore her most days.

  Flora and Miss Mabie stayed for another three weeks or so. And even though they may not be living under the same roof with us on a daily basis, Flora and Miss Mabie are part of our lives for good now. They drive up from Atlanta every month for a visit. Miss Mabie always stays with Gloria Jean, and Flora sleeps with me, just in case there's a thunderstorm. As soon as Flora walks through the door, she heads straight to the kitchen to warm up the stove, then spends the day cooking biscuits and pineapple upside-down cake.

  Miss Mabie and Gloria Jean have become real good friends. Truth be told, I think Miss Mabie is the first true friend Gloria Jean has had in a long time, since Lena Mae floated away. The two of them sit around the kitchen table and talk about old times for hours on end. I saw them drink an entire bottle of Boone's Farm wine one night when they got to talking again about old boyfriends down in Birmingham, a very favorite subject of theirs. Gloria Jean even invited Meeler up from Dalton just so he could meet her dear friend Miss Mabie.

  Miss Raines settled into the Cline house rather nicely. She and the baby have Daddy's room, although it hardly looks the same with her pine furniture and pink chintz curtains hanging on the window. Flora loves tending to Miss Raines as if she were her own daughter. Heck, she doted on that woman every minute when she was expecting, rubbing her back and feeding her tummy. When that little baby finally came after one very long night in June, Flora was there to catch her. Miss Raines took one look at her baby's sweet round face and named her Flora Grace Cline. Flora took that little girl in her arms and cried like a baby. She said she never dreamed she'd know the day when a white mama would name her baby after a black woman like herself.

  Even now when Flora comes to Ringgold, she makes Miss Raines eat and rest, and while Miss Raines does what she is told, Flora rocks the baby in her big, strong arms, comforting and soothing her just the way she did me the day my daddy died. Flora and Miss Raines are the two best mamas little Flora Grace could ever hope to have.

  Martha Ann didn't go back to school till the first of February. She said she wanted to spend some time getting to know her mama, and who could argue with that? She and Mama took long walks and spent hours looking at the same old baby pictures of the two of us. Sometimes we'd play a game of Monopoly or stand in the kitchen and cook. But the rhythm of our bodies being together never beat quite right, and most of the time, Martha Ann kept to herself, reading her books. Mr. Boyce stopped by faithfully every week to give my sister a new book or two, mostly ones written by famous women like Jane Austen and Sylvia Plath. Mr. Boyce said their lives were filled with angst and he thought Martha Ann might find it helpful to read what they had to say.

  When she started back at school, I got in the habit of walking her there myself, not that she needed an escort or anything. But it is the one time of the day when we are completely alone. We talk about Mrs. Gulbenk and football and Daddy and anything else that comes to mind, but mostly we talk about Martha Ann's dreams. She says she wants to live in a world of words. She just hopes it's not that far from home.

  Mr. Boyce thinks Martha Ann needs to start thinking about college. He wants her to talk to a friend of his at Vanderbilt. He thinks she could get a scholarship.

  Mama left, again. She didn't drown, not this time. She just got on a bus and headed back to Willacoochee. She tried to stay and make a life with us, but too much time had passed. The more Martha Ann and I talked about our memories, the more she realized what she had missed. Our childhoods were gone, and she could never have them back. I doubt Mama is ever going to forgive herself. That happens sometimes, Flora said. “The good Lord is full of grace but sometimes a person will just whip himself senseless before taking the forgiveness that He offers up for free.”

  Daddy always said he was working overtime to save God's children from a life of eternal damnation. But now I'm thinking Daddy may have been wasting his time because it sure seems like some of us spend most of our days walking through hell right here on earth.

  I keep Lena Mae's special box in my room. It blends in with all the other treasures that have found their place back on the top of my dresser. Our mother still sends us a card on our birthdays, and sometimes she even calls us on the telephone. But our mama drifted away a long time ago.

  After she left, I spent more time with my friend Lolly. I finally told her that she deserved more than a crystal vase, and then I gave her my three blue vinyl suitcases. I told her I didn't need them anymore, but I thought maybe she did. It took her five whole weeks to pack those bags. Slowly and deliberately she chose each and every piece of her life that she wanted to take with her. I've heard that her mama hasn't been doing well since Lolly left town, but I don't know if she really misses her or just misses beating up on her.

  As for Catherine Grace, well, I decided it was time I planted me a garden.

  After Daddy's funeral, something drew me back to the land my granddaddy loved so much, right behind Cedar Grove church. I still say a little prayer before stepping into the dirt, just like I did that very first time so many years ago. I planted one tomato vine in Daddy's honor and one purple tomato in
Granddaddy's honor. That's right, Catherine Grace Cline is growing her very own tomatoes.

  I also planted some corn along the garden's western edge. I water and fertilize that corn so it's certain to grow thick and tall, the perfect spot where I can go and think about each and every passing day. It's not a hiding spot or a place to run away from fears and painful memories. I let those go the day we put my daddy in the ground.

  I don't even need to sit on top of that picnic table anymore. Oh, I still stop by the Dairy Queen every now and then and eat a Dilly Bar, but mostly I just talk with Eddie Franklin. We have a patient ear for each other. We talk about profound things, like the meaning of life and how to form the perfect curlicue on a chocolate-dip cone. He let me try making my own one day, but the ice cream fell out of the cone and into the pot of melted chocolate. We had to empty the entire pot. Eddie hasn't let me try that again.

  But most of my garden is planted with strawberries, beautiful, red, juicy strawberries. Brother Fulmer let me borrow a little land from him where I've planted another couple hundred plants, maybe more. I harvest strawberries all summer long, freezing thousands of them by the time the first frost forces me to stop. By the end of the day my hands are blood red, permanently stained with the juice of my berries. Gloria Jean says my hands may remain a bright shade of pink till the day I die. That would be fine by me.

  Come September, I spend most of my days in the church kitchen, where I've found the space I need to work making some sixty jars of Preacher's Strawberry Jam every single day. Gloria Jean taught me how to make jam, but my time at Davison's department store taught me how to make it special. And now my jam is shipped to gourmet food stores throughout the South, including the specialty food department at Davison's department store. Mr. Wallis said he was proud to carry my jam in his store. He said he knew I was going to make something of myself someday. He even invited me down to Atlanta to greet the customers and personally sign my jars of jam.