Through Cloud and Sunshine

by Sharon Downing Jarvis

  “No thanks.”

  “A-agh! Brothers! Buddy, I don’t suppose you’d . . .”

  Buddy blushed and shook his head. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “What is it?” asked Pratt Birdwhistle. “I’ll do it for you.”

  “Would you? That’s so cool! All we need is a bunch of balloons taken over to Billy Newton. You know who he is?”

  “Kid that just joined the Church? Sure. Where’re the balloons?”

  “Come with us. We’ve got somebody hiding them under the end of the bleachers.”

  Pratt followed Tiffani and Claire—and so did the bishop, Moroni, Buddy, and Jamie—at least with their eyes. Soon Pratt emerged, holding aloft a bunch of blue and white balloons as he marched along the front of the bleachers and climbed up to where Billy Newton sat with his group. Pratt said nothing to Billy, but grinned and bowed ceremoniously as he presented him with the balloon bouquet. Billy looked totally taken aback and rather alarmed. Pratt proceeded back to join the group, while Tiffani and Claire hid at the end of the bleachers, peeking around to watch Billy’s reaction.

  The bishop peeked, too. Billy’s brother reached up to capture one of the balloons, drawing Billy’s attention to the fact that there was a word printed on it in black marker. Quickly they ascertained all the words, which the bishop assumed added up to something like, “Will you be my date for Preference?” One balloon apparently had nothing written on it, and one of Billy’s friends indicated that it should be popped. Billy produced a key from his pocket and after a few pokes, the balloon disintegrated with a satisfying pop. A tiny piece of paper fluttered downward. Billy and his brother made grabs for it, but it found its way through the open part of the pull-out bleacher and was lost to view.

  The bishop could hear Tiffani’s and Claire’s concerted gasp of “Oh, no!” as they realized what had occurred. He kept his eyes on Billy. The boy tried to peer down into the shadowy under-the-bleachers area, with little success. He conferred with his brother and their friends. They all looked confused. The bishop peered under his own bench. It was no use. There were strong expanding supports every so often, and they weren’t constructed so that a person could squeeze between them. Only at the ends of the bleachers were there a few feet of open space. Billy wasn’t going to be able to retrieve the paper that way. What would he do? And perhaps, more to the point, what would Tiffani do? Would she confess to having sent the balloons?

  He glanced toward Tiffani and Claire. Tiffani was shaking her head, her hand over her mouth, while Claire was apparently trying to convince her of a course of action.

  He read Tiffani’s lips. “Not now!” she said. Then she and Claire began to giggle at the absurdity of it all. The bishop smiled, too, as the basketball teams ran back onto the floor. Too bad, he thought. Half-time was definitely more interesting.

  * * *

  Tiffani and Claire were able to persuade Pratt to deliver another slip of paper bearing Tiffani’s name to Billy, just as the crowd was breaking up after the Mariners’ close loss on the hardwood. This he did with less ceremony, handing it to him with a smile and “Looks like you might need this,” as the boy made his self-conscious way outside with his fistful of blue and white balloons. The bishop paused in place to watch Billy’s reaction, which was a surprised grin when he read Tiffani’s name. His friends and brother crowded in then, peering to see the name and teasing Billy good-naturedly. The bishop drew a sigh of relief. This might actually work out.

  * * *

  Tiffani got her answer the next evening at Ward Game Night. The party was one of LaThea Winston’s less-imaginative efforts, she still being in a semi-depressed state after VerDan’s precipitate marriage and the embarrassment that had accompanied it, but it was still a fun occasion with various table and party games going on simultaneously. The bishop and his wife kept a discreet eye on Tiffani, who had started to fret because she hadn’t received an answer. She had threatened to boycott the party, saying she preferred to stay home and read a good book rather than take part in such childish activities. Claire, however, had prevailed, telling Tiffani that if she had to go, then so did Tiff. Plus, Claire reminded her, it was entirely possible that Billy might be there and planning to give her his answer. Billy indeed was there, but he was totally involved in a game of Foosball that someone had lugged in, and he acted as though none of the girls in the ward existed.

  Come on, guy, the bishop encouraged silently. Be a gentleman! Don’t ignore my daughter. Be man enough to tell her yes or no!

  About halfway through the evening, Billy’s brother and one of his friends strolled in. His brother carried a bouquet of multi-colored balloons. They stood at the entrance to the cultural hall, looking around until they spotted Tiffani. She saw them about the same time, and her face suddenly flamed. They marched over and silently presented her with the balloons, then turned and left with barely a glance in Billy’s direction. They evidently had their instructions.

  Several girls gathered around Tiffani, chattering excitedly, and a number of adults looked on curiously as well. Lisa Lou joined the group, peering over Tiffani’s shoulder. Once again, the balloons were read. The bishop learned, much later, that the message read, “Sure—I’d like to go—to Preference—with you. From . . .”

  Again, the blank balloon had to be popped, but this time the slip of paper wasn’t lost. It read, “B. Newton.”

  “Cool!” Lisa Lou’s enthusiasm rose above the cheers and congratulations of the other girls. “Yay! Good for you!”

  Tiffani threw Lisa a raised-eyebrow look that, as Trish said later, spoke volumes. Trish informed him that it should be interpreted, “Yes, you’d better be glad that I’m willing to ask the boy you just dumped, since you moved in on the guy I wanted to ask.” In any case, the bishop was glad that it was only the look that was expressed and not the sentiment in spoken word. She also tossed a shy smile in the direction of the Foosball game, and shortly afterward, Billy Newton found a reason to exit the party.

  The bishop stretched tiredly at home later that evening, after receiving Trish’s interpretation of The Look. “You know what?” he asked. “It’s fun watching them, but I wouldn’t want to be that age again for all the balloons in the world.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  * * *

  “ . . . more longing for home”

  The new deli counter at Shepherd’s Quality Food Mart was shaping up nicely. The proprietor watched with satisfaction as the refrigerated, glass-fronted display case was being set in place and an area of dark red and green vinyl tile-flooring laid around it. The colors set it off nicely and would call the shoppers’ attention to the new wares.

  “What d’you think, Mary Lynn?” he asked as she stood nearby, chewing on the end of one lengthy strand of brown hair and watching the floor bloom in color.

  “It’s way spiffy,” she commented. “Onliest thing is, it makes the rest of the old gray floor look dull.”

  “We’ll give it a good shine once they’re done with all the construction.”

  “I think maybe—what about having a coupla nice leafy plants on top of the case? Green stuff always makes a place look friendly. And we’re puttin’ out a platter of different samples every day, ain’t we?”

  “We are,” he agreed. “And I’ve taken out some ads in the Lookout, to let people know about our new products. I’m hopeful it’ll be a success. We’re not as fancy as the big guys, but that was never our intention.”

  “You know, I ain’t sayin’ you should do this, Jim, but lots of folks shop the big places purely because they can get their booze and smokes there, same time they shop for food.”

  He nodded. “I know. But that’s something we haven’t done since I took over the store. You know me, Mary Lynn—I figure it’s a matter of conscience. I don’t condemn anybody who smokes or drinks, but on the other hand, I don’t want to contribute to anybody’s lung cancer or death by drunk driving.”

  “Uh-huh. Figured it was that. Lady was in here the other day, fuss
in’ about it, and Yvonne told her something along those lines. She was real snippy, this lady, and she says, ‘Well, then, he shouldn’t oughta carry anything with preservatives or saturated fats, either! He doesn’t advertise to be a health food store.’”

  “Wow. What’d Yvonne say to that?”

  “Somethin’ like, ‘Well, we specialize in good, fresh food—locally grown, in season. There are other stores in town that do carry tobacco and alcohol. In fact, there’s a liquor store just around the corner, there.’”

  “Good for Yvonne!” He made a mental note to give that checker a little bonus for good customer relations.

  “She’s real nice, Yvonne is,” Mary Lynn agreed. “Oh, hey—I’m sorry, I plumb fergot! That guy—the one who abused his wife? He was in here the other day, askin’ fer you. It was when you was at the hospital with that one lady.”

  “Oh—Jack Padgett? Thanks. I’ll try to get in touch with him.”

  “He seemed a little nicer, or somethin’, than the last time he was here. Perliter, or somethin’.”

  He smiled at her. Mary Lynn was a perceptive person. “I’m glad,” he said.

  * * *

  Saturday morning, the Relief Society was hosting a brunch at the bishop’s home in honor of the visiting teachers in the ward. Tiffani, the proud owner of a new driver’s license, carefully pulled away from the curb in Trish’s car, bearing the precious cargo of her younger siblings off to an early children’s movie. The bishop stood at the window, his arm around his wife, as both of them took deep breaths. He squeezed her shoulders.

  “We prayed,” he reminded her. “And she’s been a good, careful driver, so far. She’s real precise and smooth, just like I tried to teach her. The weather’s nice, roads are dry. I believe they’ll be just fine.”

  “I sure hope so. It’s just . . . she’s still so inexperienced.”

  “Only way for her to get experience is to drive.”

  “With Mal and Jamie, though . . .”

  “I know. All our dear little eggs, so to speak, in one moving basket.”

  “I’ll try to have faith. Oh, good—here’s Ida Lou, and it looks like she’s brought Hilda and Sister Mobley. I hope everybody carpools—we’ll be taking up a lot of street parking as it is.”

  “Hello, all!” called Ida Lou as she held the kitchen door for the older ladies. “Hope y’all don’t mind us comin’ in the back. It’s closer to the car. Is that okay, Trish, that I pulled right up to the garage?”

  “It’s fine. Jim’s already got his truck out on the street, so we could get as many cars in the drive as possible. How are you, ladies?” Trish gave each of them a hug and escorted Hilda to a chair.

  Ida Lou went back to her car and brought in two covered baskets of muffins.

  “I made these here oat and fruit muffins. I hope people like ’em. Barker and me, we think they’re real good. Countin’ the applesauce, they got five kinds of fruit.”

  “Sounds yummy to me. Thank you! I made some blueberry and some cranberry orange, and I’ve got the juice and cocoa ready to go. Sit down, everybody.”

  “And, hey there, Bishop, how’re you this mornin’?” Ida Lou greeted, vigorously shaking his hand.

  “Doing just fine, Sister Ida Lou,” he returned and went to shake hands with Hilda and Nita. “Nice to have you ladies here.”

  He reached to scoop up a curious Samantha who was eyeing the muffins on the counter with interest.

  “Oh my, y’all have got you one of them cute Siamese kitties!” Ida Lou exclaimed. “We used to have us one of them, and I’ll tell you what, he was the smartest thing I ever did see. Is this one real smart, too?”

  “She’s smart enough to think she should be in the middle of everything we do,” the bishop confirmed. “I can’t compare her to other cats ’cause she’s the first one I’ve ever owned.”

  “Or been owned by,” Trish said wryly. “Sometimes I feel like she thinks it’s her house, and we’re allowed to live here and be her servants and playmates.”

  “Well, yes, that’s about right. But let me just tell you what my cat did, one time. Two young missionaries had stopped by the house to visit. They did that a lot—still do, for that matter, on account of they know I’ll feed ’em at the drop of a hat!” Ida Lou chuckled. “But, speakin’ of hats, this was back when the elders had to wear a straw hat in the summer months, and one warm day these two fellows come in to have a cool drink and rest their feet for a spell, and one of them boys—he watn’t the brightest star, let me tell you, and he watn’t the sort should’ve been out teachin’ the gospel, either, ’cause he had no manners nor testimony neither, that I could see—well, anyway, he comes in and grabs my Siamese cat—ol’ Sultan, we called him—by the tail and holds him up in the air! Well, you can imagine how many points that won him, with Sultan and with me. I says, ‘Elder, put that cat down! That hurts him, and hurts his dignity, too. You oughta know better’n that! Where’s your manners?’ And he says, ‘I got no use for cats. Where I come from, we shoot ’em on sight.’ Well—that tells you his mentality.

  “I didn’t say no more about it, and poor old Sultan, he goes off a-shiverin’ his fur and switchin’ that tail, and I knew he was fit to be tied. I was, too, but I served them boys some lemonade and cookies, and they sat on the sofa and put their straw hats up behind ’em, on the back of it. Well, purty soon, here comes Sultan, sneakin’ around the other way, real quiet. And he leaps up on the back of the sofa, so’s they don’t see him, and goes and sniffs each hat. Then he picks the one that belongs to that elder, takes it in his teeth, and drops to the floor, quiet as you please. I’m watchin’ this, mind you, and not sayin’ a word, on account of I figure it’s well deserved. Time comes for them to leave, and the one says, ‘Where’s my hat? I put it right up here.’ And I says, ‘My goodness, I don’t know. Let me look around.’ So I track down ol’ Sultan, and he’s got that hat under the bed, just plumb chewed and ripped to smithereens! I whisper ‘good boy!’ and take it back to the elder. He says, ‘That blasted cat done this!’ and I say, ‘I’m afraid so, Elder. I reckon he didn’t ’preciate your treatment of him.’ And I didn’t offer to pay for that hat, nor nothin’, ain’t that awful? Reckon I oughta repent of that. But land, it was funny!”

  The bishop laughed heartily. “Cover your ears, Samantha,” he advised. “Don’t get any ideas of revenge just because I put you in timeout.”

  “And you know what else, about that missionary?” Ida Lou added. “Not too long after, he got packed off home in disgrace, for somethin’ or other, I never heard what. I don’t reckon it was for mistreatin’ animals. But I watn’t at all surprised.”

  * * *

  When more sisters had arrived and the brunch was well underway, the bishop slipped out to his truck and ran a few errands—one of which just happened to take him by the movie theater where his children were supposed to be in attendance. Sure enough, there was Trish’s car, appropriately parked and locked. He drew a sigh of relief.

  “You big fake,” he chided himself as he drove away. “You were just as worried as Trish.”

  When he had completed his errands, he drove to the town of Oneonta, where he had arranged to meet Jack Padgett for lunch at a small café. Jack was already there, seated in a booth and reading a newspaper when the bishop entered and slipped in across from him. They shook hands across the table.

  “How are you, Jack?” the bishop inquired.

  Jack shrugged. “I’m getting by. Well, actually—I’m kinda having a tough time, if you want the truth.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but you bet—I always want the truth. What’s going on?”

  Jack glanced away, out the window to the parking lot, where the winter sun was glinting off windshields. He blinked at the glare and turned back. “Been eight months, you know. Since I’ve seen them. Except for that one time, by mistake, when they were shopping on the south side of town and I was on the way to my store. That’s been six months—and we didn’t talk or anything, then.
I don’t think Andi even saw me. Mel snatched her away real quick.”

  “You’ve been real faithful about obeying the restraining order.”

  “Yeah. It’s okay, you know, during the week, because I stay real busy, going from store to store. Opened another one, did you know? In Gadsden.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah. Business is real good. But weekends—man, they’re the pits! Nothing to do, nobody to be with. I see every movie that comes out, whether it’s something I’m interested in or not. I go to church on Sunday, but it’s not like I’m a permanent part of the ward. Went to a ward dinner over there one time and swore I wouldn’t do that again. I mean, everybody was nice and all—but that was the problem. They ask questions, you know what I mean? They see my wedding ring, and it’s ‘Where’s your wife, Brother Padgett?’ Or, ‘Do you have any kids?’ Or, ‘How long do you expect to be with us?’” He shook his head. “I don’t know how to answer any of that! What do I say? ‘Well, my wife and daughter live over in Fairhaven, but I’m here because I’m not allowed to go near them. See, I was so rotten and abusive the police issued a restraining order.’ Yeah, that’d go over real well, wouldn’t it?”

  “The bishop there knows, though, doesn’t he?”

  “Right. He said he wouldn’t tell anybody the situation, so that I could feel okay about coming to church. And I appreciate that. You know what’s funny? I feel closer to Mel and Andi at church than anywhere else. I s’pose that’s because it’s something we did together—going to church, hearing the same teachings and all. It kinda makes me feel good, to hear those things now. Except, you know—guilty as hell, too.”

  “Hey!” said a young waitress brightly. “Y’all ready to order?”

  They gave their orders, the bishop taking Jack’s word that the chicken-fried steak was the best thing on the menu.

  “And see, that’s another problem,” Jack said, watching the slender, swaying retreat of the server. “I’m starting to look at women. I mean, I think about Mel all the time—but she’s untouchable. There are women available, all over the place, who’re very touchable. Man, I mean—the Lord was right when He said man shouldn’t be alone. I haven’t done anything, though, Bishop—no dates, nothing. But I’m afraid I’m looking—with interest.”