“Ansel, how you doing today?”
Wednesday morning, not only did I get out of the house, but I did it all by myself. Clyde would have been proud had he known, but I didn’t call him. I called Velma.
“Aw, Lynda, I’ve been worse,” Ansel said.
My brother-in-law’s chair of choice was his recliner, and that’s where he was today. Only instead of his usual position, sitting with the foot support lifted, he had the chair laid all the way back. His head rested to the side, and his hands lay limply on the armrests. I wondered if he even had the strength to change the channel on the television.
“I’m better now the TV reporters have left us be.” His eyes met mine, and without words, he conveyed compassion for my loss. I was startled to realize I had briefly forgotten about Hoby. Losing my husband, whom I hadn’t seen in nearly seventeen years, paled in comparison to Velma losing her husband, whom she had seen every day for over thirty.
Velma motioned toward the sliding-glass door. “They’ve been out in the pasture with their zoom lenses.”
“Blasted photographers.” Ansel seemed to have rallied his strength to make the outburst, and then his head sank back down on the headrest.
“JohnScott posted signs.” Velma pursed her lips. “That did the trick.”
Ansel grunted. “Thank God.”
“The old man’s been talking a lot about the Lord lately,” Velma said. “Seems to think he needs to get right.”
“Now, Velma,” he said slowly. “I’ve got plenty of time to set things straight with the Big Guy. I’m in no rush.”
“No … no rush.” I tried to sound carefree, but in the back of my heart, hidden where nobody could see, lay an urgent secret. Now that I was looking at Ansel’s approaching death, I couldn’t bear the thought of him not knowing God. An involuntary chuckle slipped from my throat. “The people down at the church wouldn’t know what to think if Ansel Pickett walked in.”
“Good Lord,” he rasped, and then a laugh turned into a coughing fit. When he had quieted and wiped his lips with a cloth handkerchief, he insisted, “I’m not thinking of going to a worship service. God’s here at the house, too, ain’t He?”
Velma clicked off the television. “Ansel heard that Neil Blaylock went back to the church a week ago.”
“I heard that.”
My brother-in-law reached for a toothpick on the end table, then placed it between his teeth and talked around it. “Reckon they’ll make him an elder again?”
“Surely not,” Velma said.
He shrugged his shoulders weakly. “Wouldn’t put it past ’em.”
My insides turned to Jell-O. “So you won’t be headed to Sunday services anytime soon?”
“Naw, not me,” Ansel said. “Velma might get a hankering to go, though.”
“Not without you, I won’t.” My sister pulled a crocheted throw pillow into her lap and fluffed it. “I only go there for weddings and funerals and such.”
Her face went white.
“Mom and Dad’s funeral was the first time I’d ever been in the church building,” I said.
“You don’t say.” Ansel joined me in making the best of Velma’s accidental funeral reference.
“That was a strange time,” Velma said.
“I barely remember it.” Except for the parts I did remember. Like the women who patted my shoulder with their squishy, warm hands. The emptiness in my lungs, as though I couldn’t draw in a good breath. The caskets at the front of the room, shut tight because the accident had been so gruesome.
“You were in shock, I reckon,” Velma said softly as she picked at the yarn on the pillow.
We sat in silence until Ansel drifted to sleep, his toothpick falling from his lips and down into the inner parts of his recliner.
Velma put the pillow in the crook of the couch and gave it a good thump on the top edge. “Nowadays we’ve got all these talk shows telling us what we should’ve done back then so we wouldn’t be in the shape we’re in now.”
“We’re a mess, aren’t we?”
“Ansel’s a mess.” The lines around her eyes deepened when she looked at him. “He was talking about visiting the church before Neil started stirring things up down there. Now, he’ll be dead before he gets around to it.”
I looked at my brother-in-law, his worn hands folded over his chest as if he were already lying in rest at the funeral home. But I reminded myself what Ansel had said. God was at the house, too. I clasped my hands together, locking my fingers tightly, and squeezed with all my might, hoping Ansel was right.