by Chana Keefer
Suddenly, I felt someone with me as surely as if an arm had slipped ‘round my shoulders. Contentment, like sliding into a warm bath, filled every nook and cranny of my being. I no longer felt gawky and insignificant. As the last traces of light left the sky, I wept until I ran out of tears. I was known—every single, insecure inch of me—and I was loved.
Later, as my exhausted companions flopped onto the hard mattresses to sleep, the joy of my time on the hill kept me awake under the covers with a flashlight, penning my first love letter to God.
As we pulled into the church parking lot, another family, the Lots pulled in next to us. Mom waved, but her greeting was ignored. As we approached the church doors, heads turned, eyebrows raised, and conversations stopped. Perhaps attending a small town church the day after my name was splashed across the papers in infamy wasn’t a great idea after all.
I was about to slip into the sanctuary when Mrs. Foster, one of the ladies I had known most of my life, motioned for me to join her in the hall. The woman always scared me with her vibrant blue eyeshadow, false lashes, severe penciled brows, and deep red lips that left a crimson bloodstain on her coffee cup.
She turned to me with Joan Crawfordesque brows raised high. “I hear you’ve had an exciting weekend, Esther.” She gave a dignified sniff as if something smelled rotten. Perhaps it was her overpowering perfume.
I opened my mouth, but she went on. “You should know Mr. Foster and I are extremely disappointed. It’s my duty to say you betrayed, not only your reputation, but also the reputation of this church. When I think how my darling Etta looks up to you…”
“What, exactly, are you assuming?” I interrupted.
“Honestly! Do we really need to discuss unpleasant details?”
I got the distinct impression from her pursed lips and accusing eyes that “unpleasant details” had been discussed at length. My face flushed with anger.
“What’s going on here, Ima Jean?” My friend, Mrs. Bell, leaned on her cane with a clenched grip and a steely glint in her faded blue eyes.
“I suppose you saw the papers?” Mrs. Foster asked.
“I did.” Mrs. Bell nodded.
“I was just reminding Esther of her responsibilities to the young people in this church and to our reputation in this community…”
“Ima Jean,” Mrs. Bell interrupted with a smile, “If it’s reputations we’re discussin’, let’s talk about your daughter. What was that? Three months premature and every bit of ten pounds? My, my!” Mrs. Bell clucked her tongue and arranged a gauzy blue ruffle at her wrist.
Mrs. Foster’s expression changed from righteous indignation to fear with the speed of light. “Yes! Well!” She patted my shoulder, “We’ve always thought very highly of you, Esther. To err is human… and all.” With that, the ruby lips snapped shut and she left.
I looked in Mrs. Bell’s twinkling eyes. “Thank you.”
She shrugged her thin shoulders, “She can’t talk to my girl like that.”
There may have been sixty-plus years between us, but from our first conversation, Mrs. Bell and I found we were kindred spirits. As soon as she discovered my passion for reading, she loaned books from her collection dating back to the early nineteen hundreds. I knew I was going to love a particular volume if she handed it to me with the immortal phrase, “It’s a right-sweet book.” She introduced me to “Anne of Green Gables” and “The Girl of the Limberlost” while I took her to Narnia and Middlearth. Many a happy “tea time” had been spent enjoying our own private book club.
She lived in a pale pink house with a vine covered, screened porch a couple doors down from the church. For the past fifty years, she made that house a home, raising her family and outliving her husband, but somehow she retained her girlish joy and razor-sharp wit.
She was a retired schoolteacher but still taught English to many of the Hispanic newcomers in the area. If they had the means to pay a low fee, she agreed. More often though, she told them it was a ministry of the church and her reward was to see them begin to thrive on their own; holding a reliable job and purchasing a home.
Teaching and the flower gardens lining her house were her passions. Those flowers had been the pride of the neighborhood in years past and she lamented the fact she could no longer spend hours on her knees coaxing them to their former glory. Sometimes, the price of her English lessons would be a few hours of vigorous weeding. She saw this as a fair trade and would hobble along beside the workers poking at troublesome areas with her cane.
In fact, at our first meeting, I ended up pulling weeds. My parents arrived at the church for a budget meeting and I had escaped into the warm sunshine to discover Mrs. Bell leaning on her cane as she made slow but steady progress up her drive inspecting her ailing blooms. I had been happy to get my hands dirty and had been rewarded with the customary hot tea and cake, soon to be a tradition between us.
Through the years, we discussed literature, friendships, boys, education, sports, family, foreign lands; the list was never-ending. Remarkably, we agreed on most subjects. I wanted to attribute this to maturity beyond my years, but actually it was Mrs. Bell’s youthful outlook.
She listened to Bon Jovi in her car because she considered him ”awfully easy on the eye.” She always ate her dessert first, “If it’s my time to go, I don’t want to miss the best part.” She had even written a funeral plan requesting balloons instead of flowers. “Then everybody can take them outside and let them go. That’ll make the children smile!”
But as we marched through the church building on my morning of infamy, we were met by whispers, stares, and giggles. Mrs. Bell turned to me with words that flooded me with relief.
“Let’s play hooky. I’ve got a nice chocolate cake that needs eating.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was such a relief to enter the cool privacy of her porch. I sank down on her flowered patio furniture, glad to escape the accusing, calculating stares. Mrs. Bell sat with a bit of a thud and rocked in silence for a few moments. It was nice to be in a place where words weren’t necessary.
Perhaps because she didn’t ask I found myself giving a rather loud rendition of my time with Sky. Her wit was sharp but her hearing wasn’t. Eventually we carried the mostly one-sided conversation indoors for tea and cake.
When I finally ended with Sky’s slightly strange farewell, she thoughtfully sipped her tea, then chuckled.
“Puttin’ you in there was like settin’ off a quiet little bomb.”
“Huh?”
She leaned back in her chair, “Esther, remember when you came to me wondering whether it was okay for you to try modeling?”
How could I forget? I had been afraid of failure, afraid of not trying, afraid of misleading the girls who looked to me as a role model. After beating myself up for a few days over the decision I had discussed it with Mrs. Bell. Her advice had set the whole subject in perspective.
“Sweetie,” she had said from her rocker on the porch, “God wants His people everywhere, not just where it’s comfortable or predictable. Don’t you ever let fear keep you from living. You go out there, do what you love to do, and love God with all your heart as you do it!”
Her words had been like keys opening a prison cell. I had started to pursue what had been a secret dream of mine for years. The process had been harder than I’d expected, but I had been forced to grow.
I didn’t quite see how this situation, me stumbling in over my head, could compare to modeling.
“Honey, it sounds like you started some waves and you’re just gonna have to ride ‘em out. You hold your head high ‘cause you didn’t do anything wrong. Truth has a way of comin’ out you know. Besides,” she chuckled again, “I’ll just bet you were a bit of a shock to that boy’s world. Don’t worry,” she reached to pat my hand, “He’s gonna have a hard time forgettin’ you.”
The pipe organ began to play, signaling the end of the service.
“Now.” Mrs. Bell squared her shoulders as if preparing Marines
for battle. “You’re gonna go back over there and show them a classy young lady! You hold your head high. You have nothin’ to hide, ya hear?”
With that we took a last bracing sip of tea and headed out the door to face the Mrs. Fosters of the world.
Shouting came from the parking lot and several people ran toward the noise. My heart sank. Out of the middle of the crowd, Dad carried my brother John, hoisted into the air by his waist, still yelling and obviously very angry. Another group emerged from the crowd. David Williams, restrained by a couple of the other high school boys, broke from the group, Even from a distance, I saw blood running down his face.
The boys were marched inside with their fathers while the rest of the crowd found themselves in an embarrassing silence after the storm.
I felt sick to my stomach. I could imagine only too easily what David might have said to make John hit him. Come to think of it, no one had shown the news articles to John. What a rude awakening to hear something like that from another kid.
Cynthia Edwards headed my way. She had never really seemed to like me, being the type of girl who only attended church because her parents didn’t allow another option. She was very pretty with long strawberry blonde hair and an amazing figure. She had always been “Cindy” until three years ago when she started wearing heavy make up and snug clothing. From then on she had been Cynthia and adopted an attitude to match the new look.
She leaned against the car with a conspiratorial smile. “I was so glad to hear you’re not as big a loser as I always thought, Esther. I mean, if you’re gonna go for it, Sky is soo hot!”
“Listen, nothing happened.”
She laughed with a snort, “Oh I get it. Miss Perfect can’t admit she’s just like everyone else.” She rolled her eyes and shoved away from the car. “Gimme a break.”
“We talked. Is that so hard to believe?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Ya know, I could actually respect the truth, but, puh-lease, Esther.”
Her condescension was worse than a slap in the face. “I’m not lying.”
“Right.” She patted my head, then laughed and walked away as I fought the urge to yank out a chunk of that gorgeous hair. Did it even matter that I’d done the right thing if people were going to believe the opposite?
Pastor Davis walked out of the sanctuary with the two fighters and their families. He was a kind man in his mid-fifties who had brought, if not excitement, at least a measure of stability to the church. He also had a politician’s knack for bridging divisions that, hopefully, was working at the moment.
Mr. Williams shook hands with him and left with David still clutched by the shoulder. He was forced to face me as they drew near. “What do you have to say to Esther, son?”
David mumbled a hurried, “I’m sorry,” although the expression on his face was anything but.
“It won’t happen again,” his father added as they resumed their forced march.
“That boy’s lucky to have parents who aren’t afraid to be firm,” said Pastor Davis. “Probably save him several years in juvenile hall.” He looked around in mock surprise, “Oh my, did I say that out loud?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. He always seemed so serious when preaching that the sense of humor caught me off guard.
He turned to me with a kind expression. “I guess there’s a lot to be said for staying away from all appearance of evil, eh Esther?”
The record scratched to a halt in my mind. Talk about catching off guard. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“Maybe there’re places a good girl just shouldn’t go,” he continued.
John spoke up, “Isn’t that what they said to Jesus? I mean, um, he wasn’t a girl.” He grinned. “But, stuff he did would have made some pretty wicked headlines don’t ya think? And those leaders thought he was goin’ where he wasn’t supposed to... too,” he finished.
“That’s enough, John,” Mom said.
The humor left Pastor Davis’ eyes. John’s words hit the mark. I’d have to thank John for coming to my defense twice in one morning.
The drive home was quiet, a bit like a powder keg next to a match no one wants to strike. I finally caught John’s eye and said, “Thank you.”
He gave a little shrug. “No problem, but you shoulda told me about those stories. I was ready to rip David to shreds.”
Dad spoke up. “John, you really shouldn’t… you made our family look… ” I saw him glance in the rear view mirror at John’s unrepentant face. “Aww, I probably would have done the same thing, son, but ya can’t go fighting everybody who’s ready to believe the worst. You’re gonna need some self-control, especially at school.”
He finished with that final appeal and looked to John whose mouth hung open.
My mind moved ahead to campus. Maybe things would be easier out of the small-town gossip. Besides, I needed to get back to school quickly that afternoon to salvage my college career. How I hoped my mind would be able to think about mundane things when Sky’s face kept insisting on appearing there.
As we pulled into the drive, mom exclaimed, “Oh my!”
On the front porch sat a vase of beautiful, long-stemmed, yellow roses.
I hopped out of the car to inspect. The arrangement contained a large envelope with our family’s name on the front. We headed into the house as I pulled out the papers in the envelope—a couple drawings from Jeremiah. One depicted the hay fight in the barn with the stick figures representing Sky, Jeremiah, and myself, with hay sticking out of our necks and sleeves like scarecrows. Sammy was not forgotten. His representation had a mouthful of hay and paws drawn to a rather large scale.
The second picture showed mom and dad’s house with a helicopter hovering over it and a stick figure John striking a strongman pose. John was flattered at Jeremiah’s tribute to his performance and flexed his nonexistent muscles for old time’s sake.
Another piece of paper bore the hotel’s logo where Jeremiah wrote in a childish scrawl, “I will miss you Esther! Love, Jeremiah”
A smaller envelope addressed to mom and dad held a thank you card from Wally inviting the family to his house if we ever passed through the mother country.
“Wow!” said John excitedly, “When are we going to England?”
“Probably never.” Mom smiled. “But it’s a nice thought.”
A mysterious “p.s.” at the bottom of the card said, “By the way, I’m reading it.”
“Reading what?” inquired John.
Dad hesitated. “Wally had some… questions about,” he measured his words carefully, “certain issues and what the… church has to say… about them. I just suggested he read the book of John for himself to… know what Jesus said.”
“Ya mean about being gay and stuff?” John blurted.
Mom, Dad, and I glanced at each other helplessly. Subtlety had never been his strong suit.
Dad threw up his hands in exasperation. “Look, Wally made a comment that he had never felt welcome in church. I simply said Jesus went directly to the people who felt the most shunned in his day and maybe he should read about it for himself. Okay?”
“Way to go Dad! I’m so proud!” John threw himself on dad’s shoulders with fake sobs.
While John “wept” I inspected the roses further and found a little card with my name on it. A note from Sky.
Dear Esther,
Thank you for filling the bottle.
Sky
“What’s that?” John grabbed for the card.
“None of your business.” I slipped it back into the envelope.
It was too short for my taste, but it was something. I hoped to have many more to add to it soon.
Mom threw together a meal of sandwiches. I joined everyone for a quick bite before it dawned on me, I didn’t have a car. Marti had mine at school. Talk about distracted.
Dad offered to make the trip to town with me so, after goodbyes and a few well-deserved pats for the recovering Sammy—who seemed fine besides the lump on his head—we
headed down the road for an unusually quiet ride. Normally Dad would make conversation so our “quality” time wouldn’t be squandered.
After about ten minutes he finally spoke, “So you like that boy pretty well?”
I answered carefully, “From what I know, he seems to be decent.”
“He’s been married before?”
Uh-oh. “A few years ago.”
“What do you know about his beliefs?”
“I get the impression he’s—searching.” My defenses rose.
“Listen, Honey.” He drew a hand through his thinning salt and pepper hair. “I know he’s a big star and that really turns your head, but your mother and I are very concerned. We don’t wanna see you get hurt.”
I fought the urge to poke fingers in my ears and yell, “I’m not listening to you! Blah! Blah! Blah!” Instead, I sat in brooding silence.
“Did he say he would see you again?”
I hesitated. “Um, kinda.”
“Did he tell you he would write or call?”
I looked stonily out the window.
“He didn’t, did he?” He asked.
My insides twisted with anger.
“You have to understand, men like Sky aren’t lookin’ to be tied down. He’s got his work. You gotta be careful. A young girl can get in lots of trouble and ya can’t put too much stock in attention from a guy like that… ”
He seemed to be building up steam so I cut in. “I didn’t do anything stupid.”
“You went to the man’s hotel room!” he yelled.
I flinched at the outburst but my chin notched higher. “I can take care of myself, Dad.”