“They had one, from their preacher. It was glowing. Good Christian family, totally responsible and dependable and honest—all positive.”
“Uh-huh. I see. Okay. Thanks—oh—did you meet them, in person?”
“Just the wife. Kind of a no-nonsense lady, I thought.”
“M-hmm, that’d be Mrs. Lowell. Thanks so much.” He hung up.
It looked as though the fence couldn’t be stopped. What was it the poet had said? “Good fences make good neighbors.” Well, maybe so. His personal feeling was that good neighbors shouldn’t need such good fences.
* * *
The ward choir sang in sacrament meeting. Bishop Shepherd was gratified at both the quality and the quantity of the singers and how well they blended—although he did think he could detect LaThea Winslow’s soprano above the others. By and large, considering their reluctant origin as an organization, he thought they were great and complimented them extravagantly in his remarks. He was pleased that six of them were participating in the stake choir for the upcoming conference in Birmingham.
He was also pleased to see in attendance, for the first time since the Sunday before Christmas, Tom and Lula Rexford. He had greeted them in the hallway before meeting, where they were mobbed by a crowd of well-wishers and inquirers about T-Rex.
“He told us to come,” Lula had proclaimed happily. “He says, ‘Y’all, get on out of here and go to church! You been slackin’ too long, hangin’ around this boring old place.’ Besides, now that he’s in rehab, they won’t allow us to stay there twenty-four-seven.”
Tom added his bit. “Boy’s doin’ real good; they’ve got him up walkin’ around the place. He’s still kind of dizzy and off-balance, and his vision’s kinda fuzzy, but his mind seems clear, and he’s gettin’ better every day. We’re just real grateful—to the good Lord and to all y’all folks.”
The bishop was just real grateful, too. This was the most he’d ever heard Tom Rexford say at church.
* * *
He caught up to Buddy Osborne as the boy was mounting his bicycle to ride home—home probably being “Deddy’s” place, this weekend.
“Hey there, Buddy—been wondering how your weekend up with the Birdwhistles went.”
“Way cool,” Buddy said, standing over his bike. “They got the neatest place. You seen it, Bishop?”
“I have, just once. Lots of space, and animals, a big, nice log house, and plenty of company, right?”
“That’s about it. Had a good time showin’ them some stuff about their computer, and then them kids pulled me all over the place, showed me ever’thing. And their mom—she’s just about as good a cook as Sister Shepherd! She makes ever’thing from scratch, Pratt said. I hatn’t eat that much fer a long time.” He glanced wistfully away. “They sure know how to have fun, them Birdwhistles. I mean, they work hard, and all, but it’s like they—they like each other.”
“Exactly. Well, I reckon they need to because it’s a long way to any neighbors, except deer and rabbits.”
“So cool,” Buddy repeated. “Didn’t know anybody around here lived like that.”
The bishop stood and watched as the boy rode off in the cold breeze. Was it a blessing to Buddy, to see what a happy family life could be—or was it a cruel reminder of what his own was not?
* * *
In the bishop’s own home, there was a flurry—nay, a frenzy—of activity of a new kind over the next few days. Trish and Tiffani were doing some building of their own—hammering out an agreement as to what Tiffani should wear to the Preference Dance on the tenth of February. If Billy Newton had been her second choice of escorts, that fact was long forgotten in the effort to find exactly the right dress for the occasion—her first formal dance. Claire was wearing red, so that was obviously out, even though the occasion was close to Valentine’s Day. Lisa Lou had mentioned light blue, and that took one of Tiffani’s best colors. Trish was opposed to black. They searched the local stores, even made an after-school expedition to Birmingham but found nothing that they could agree on with regard to cost, modesty, degree of sophistication, or flattery of Tiffani’s figure or coloring.
“Tiff, I don’t see anything for it. We’re going to have to sew you a dress,” Trish said wearily one night at the supper table.
“Homemade! I might just as well wear flannel pajamas or jeans and a sweatshirt,” Tiffani wailed and burst into tears.
“Home-sewn doesn’t have to mean tacky,” her mother said patiently. “I’m not all that bad at sewing; it just isn’t my favorite thing to do. And Ida Lou will help me if I get stuck. She made her girls’ wedding dresses. She made a dress for Sister Buzbee, that fit her just right, just by looking at her. She’s amazing. She even makes up her own patterns.”
“And I’m just so sure they’re wonderful—for Sister Buzbee! Mom, I’m sixteen!”
“Oh, baby, I’m well aware of that.”
Tiffani sniffed. “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means that I’m knocking myself out trying to help you find the perfect dress, and I don’t think it exists around here. It means that you’re going to have to come down off your high horse and cooperate with me, or there won’t be a dress, perfect or otherwise. We have to work within a framework of reality here!”
“High horse! How can you say that? I thought moms were supposed to enjoy helping their daughters get ready for special occasions! All you do is gripe and criticize me.”
“And all you do is ask for unsuitable dresses and ignore my wishes.”
“There was nothing wrong with that black lace dress—it was darling!”
“Tiff, it made you look like a thirty-two-year-old cocktail waitress.”
Predictably, Tiff threw down her napkin and stormed off to her room. “I just won’t go to the stupid dance, then, if I’m that much trouble!”
There was a moment of deep silence at the table.
“Wow,” said Jamie reverently. “That was the best one yet. She’s getting good.”
Trish sighed. “Guys, I’m sorry,” she said shakily. “I shouldn’t have brought the dress thing up during supper.”
The bishop looked at his wife with concern. She looked worn out, hollow around the eyes. “Try not to stress too much over this, sweetheart,” he counseled. “You know how Tiff is. Kind of volcanic. She erupts and lets off steam, and then she settles back into being her sweet, reasonable self.”
“She’d better settle soon,” Trish said. “Because I sure haven’t seen much sweetness or reason, lately.”
They ate quietly for a minute, and then Mallory asked plaintively, “Where’s Samantha?”
“Samantha?” her mother repeated. “I don’t know, honey. She was around, earlier. She’s probably sleeping somewhere.”
“She never sleeps when we’re eating.”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe Jamie’ll help you look for her after dinner.”
“I’ll bet that weird Marguerite next door’s got her,” Jamie said. “She’s always calling her over when she’s outside. Even that stupid, ugly fence doesn’t stop her. She peeks around the front of it and looks for Samantha. I see her, all the time.”
“Mom!” Mallory looked ready to erupt next. “Mar-greet likes Samantha. Let’s go see if she’s over there.”
“Um—no, honey. We’re not going over there. Samantha knows the way home. But I bet she’s here, tucked up somewhere, snoozing away.”
“No she’s not!”
The bishop felt he should say something wise—that the currents of family conflict were swirling around him faster than he felt comfortable with. He tried to think what that wise something might be.
“Why don’t we have a family prayer?” he suggested.
“Dad,” Jamie said patiently, “we just had a blessing on the food ten minutes ago.”
“Right, my man, we did. But we didn’t pray about Tiffani’s dress or getting along in our family or finding Samantha.”
“You’d better say it,” his wife advised. �
�I’m not quite in the proper spirit to pray right now.”
“Brigham Young said that when we don’t feel like praying, we should get down—”
“Jim,” his wife warned, “I know what Brother Brigham said. Pray till you do feel like it. It’s good advice, but I don’t think we want to take that long in the middle of a meal.”
The bishop said a prayer and, subdued, they finished their supper in silent thought.
* * *
By nine-thirty that night, the cat Samantha had not been found, and Mallory was in a state of desperation. They had called her inside and out, searched the house from top to bottom, and the bishop had, without announcing it, gone out for a walk with a flashlight and looked for a still heap of beige and brown fur along the street, mentally trying to prepare something comforting to say to his little girl in case he found it. He reviewed the dogs he knew of in the neighborhood, wondering if any of them had chased her away or even caught and mauled her. Chilled, he went back into the light and warmth of his home with a hope that the cat had been found, but it was not so. Mallory was hunched in a corner of the family room sofa, sniffling and red-eyed. Jamie sat on a hassock nearby, earnestly trying to make her feel better.
“She’ll be back in the morning, when she gets hungry,” he assured her. “She’s probably just out running around, having fun.”
“It’s dark and cold,” Mallory objected. “She hates to be cold. She sleeps under the covers with my feet when it’s cold.”
“Well, maybe when you wake up in the morning, that’s where she’ll be.”
“Nuh-uh! How could she, unless somebody lets her in?”
“I’ll try to listen and hear if she’s meowing, if I wake up during the night.”
Mallory sniffed. “You never wake up. Neither does Tiffi.”
“Well, Mom and Dad do, a lot. And they’ll hear Samantha if she meows.”
“Nuh-uh.”
Mallory’s dad could see sleep creeping up on his youngest, even as she struggled against it in her concern for her pet. He lifted her in his arms.
“Let’s go up and say a special prayer for Samantha,” he said. He carried her up the stairs to her bed and snuggled her in it. “Fold your arms, sweetie, right where you are, and talk to Heavenly Father about things.”
“H-heav’nly Father, I don’t know where my kitty Samantha is, and I’m scared. Please help us find her, ’cause she hates to be cold and she wants me. Please give her back to me. Please . . .” Her breathing grew even, except for one little gasp of a sob that touched her father’s heart. He whispered a prayer that her faith would be rewarded and that she would be comforted if it turned out that her cat was forever gone.
Trish came out of Tiffani’s room as he emerged from Mallory’s, and they went back downstairs with their arms around each other.
“A dance dress and a missing cat,” Trish mused. “Small, unimportant things, you’d think, in the big scheme of things. But, boy! What a tempest they stirred up. What strong feelings!”
“How’s Tiff? Feeling any better?”
“Kind of repentant about how she talked to me at dinner but still certain that I’m going to make her wear something dowdy and tacky.”
“What’ll you do?”
“Shop for patterns and look at fabric, first thing. Talk to Ida Lou. Pray.”
“Sounds like a plan. What do you think really happened to Samantha?”
Trish shook her head. “I can’t imagine. Well, I can, but . . . I’d rather not. Poor baby Mal. Did she settle down?”
“Said a sweet little prayer and dropped off in the middle of it.”
Jamie walked through the kitchen, headed upstairs. He pointed toward the house east of them.
“They’ve got Samantha over there. I’ll bet you anything,” he said quietly.
“You really think so, Jamie?” his mother asked, smothering a yawn. “Mercy, I’m exhausted.”
“I wasn’t kidding about that Marguerite lady. She’s always out there, calling ‘kitty, kitty, come here, kitty.’”
“Well, if Samantha hasn’t shown up by morning, I’ll go ask if they’ve seen her,” his dad promised.
They put the house to bed and went upstairs themselves. It was funny, the bishop reflected, how the absence of such a small creature as a family cat could cast a pall over everyone’s spirits. There had been times, when Samantha was being too boisterous or obstreperous, that he’d regretted allowing Mallory her pet. But he had to admit that Samantha was also funny and affectionate and made herself very much a part of any family gathering or project. He had to admit that he missed her, too. She should be curled up under the covers, warming herself and Mallory’s little feet.
He lay awake for a time, half-listening for Samantha and half-pondering the unpleasant feelings being engendered in himself and all of his family by the Lowells. He didn’t like harboring such feelings and knew that they were harmful to the others as well. There had to be a way to make friends of those foes—and if not, to deal with their own feelings. He prayed for wisdom and patience and forgiveness. Finally, he slept.
Chapter Twenty
* * *
“ . . . our hearts beat high with joy”
The bishop dawdled the next morning, putting off going to work, hoping that his little girl’s missing cat would show up alive and well and expecting breakfast. Mallory herself couldn’t eat hers. She toyed with it, mouth drooping, saying little. Jamie, standing behind Mallory as he hoisted his book bag onto his shoulders, caught his dad’s eye and again pointed significantly toward the house next door. His father nodded and winked to show that he understood.
“Jamie, how about I give you a ride to school this morning?” Trish asked. “I’m going over to Sister Reams’s house first thing, before she heads down to the temple. Dad can take Mallory to school on his way to work.” She looked questioningly at her husband, who agreed.
“Soon as Mal and I finish our breakfast, we’ll spend a little time looking for Samantha before we have to take off,” he affirmed. Mallory began to eat with renewed purpose.
Trish hugged and kissed them both, whispering, “Good luck,” in her husband’s ear.
“I’ll let you know,” he whispered back.
He and Mallory presented themselves at the front door of the Lowell house promptly at nine o’clock—the earliest hour that it was considered polite in Fairhaven to knock on someone’s door. He knocked twice. Finally, the door swung open, and a small, bent man leaned forward to peer at them. He had rheumy blue eyes and wisps of white hair both above and in his ears.
“Yes?” he asked, in a cracked voice. If this was Mr. Henry Lowell, the bishop thought, he was obviously older than his wife. Or perhaps, a cynical part of his mind suggested, living with her had aged him beyond his years.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “Mr. Lowell? I’m Jim Shepherd from next door. We wondered if you folks might have seen my little girl’s cat. It’s missing.”
Mr. Lowell peered through the screen at Mallory. His expression seemed kindly enough.
“Well,” he said. “Let me get my wife. Mother!”
He turned and shuffled away. The bishop looked at Mallory and gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. After what seemed a rather long time, Maxine Lowell came to the door.
“Yes?”
The bishop repeated his question.
“I don’t know whether I’ve seen your cat, or not. I didn’t know you had a cat.”
“Surely you noticed Mallory playing with her out back, before your fence went in,” he said. “It’s a Siamese—beige and brown.”
“I don’t have time to watch the neighbors’ children. And I don’t know where your cat is.” She started to close the door.
“Could we ask Mar-greet?” ventured Mallory. “She knows Samantha. She likes her.”
“Marguerite is busy. She has work to do.” The door did close, then, and they were left standing on the porch. The bishop did not feel satisfied that Maxine Lowell’s
response had been entirely forthcoming, and he raised his hand to knock again, when they heard a whisper from the edge of the porch.
“Mallory!” It was Marguerite, crouching where she couldn’t be seen from any windows in the house. “I didn’t take your kitty,” she whispered. “I didn’t put her in a box.”
“Who did?” asked the bishop, also in a whisper.
Marguerite fidgeted, her lips tight as she fought with herself. “Mother,” she admitted.
Mallory, fortunately, also spoke in a whisper. “What’d she do with her, Mar-greet?”
Marguerite shook her head. “I don’t know. Took her off in the car. She wouldn’t let me go. I’m sorry.” She turned and made her way to the back of the house, ducking under windows.
“Daddy! That lady took Samantha away!” Mallory’s whisper-voice was getting louder, and her father quickly led her back around the tall board fence to their own yard. “Mar-greet said! But her mom said she didn’t know where she is. Was she fibbing, Daddy?”
“I believe she might have been, sweetheart. Let Daddy make a phone call, okay? I’m going to see if she took Samantha to an animal shelter.”
Mallory stood by, trying to be brave and quiet, but with sniffles beginning again, as he looked up the local number for animal control. He knew there was a small, temporary shelter in Fairhaven, but that the main shelter was at the county seat, some twelve miles away. He caught up to the animal control officer on the man’s cell phone and asked if he’d seen a Siamese cat in the last twenty-four hours.
“It’s a female, brown and beige,” he explained. “We believe our neighbor may have dropped her off.”
“Um—records show we did receive a Siamese cat, yesterday about one p.m.,” the man agreed. “Mondays and Thursdays are the days the truck from the county rounds up animals and takes them down to the main shelter, so she would’ve gone out about four p.m. yesterday. Let me give you that number.”
The bishop winked at his young daughter and took down the county shelter’s number, which he immediately dialed.
A woman’s voice answered, and with trepidation, he asked his question.
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