CHAPTER TWELVE

It was surreal to see the man I met only the day before lounging against our fence on the evening news. I left the family discussing the newscast and headed back to my seat on the fence.

Where was all this going? I had no idea. I started to worry my way through the possibilities, but realized my head hurt and I had no control over the possibilities so what was the point?

How I wished for my journal that always helped me sort out jumbled thoughts, or at least Sammy who would lean his head against my knee and never interrupt my ramblings. Instead, I unloaded to the air.

Anyone watching would have assumed I had lost my mind, but I knew someone was listening. My mind grew quiet as first one star and then another appeared in the wide, calm sky.

I began to fold, too exhausted to think anymore. So, as the season’s first fireflies rose, miniature fairies from the deep shadows, I stumbled back to the house, grateful for pillow and bed.

~~

I opened my eyes to darkness and a deafening roar. I raced out of bed, frantic. Where was everybody? Where was Sammy? I ran to the fields, scanning the sky for something I’d lost. What was it? Why couldn’t I remember?

I turned toward my childhood home to discover, barreling toward the house, the largest tornado I’d ever seen. They need to be warned.

More wind came from behind me. I turned to find another tornado moving quickly out of the east. Another barreled in from the north, also on a path to collide over our house.

Where was everybody? Were they all asleep in the house, about to be destroyed?

I realized I stood in a tornado’s path, too. What was that rule? Lie low in a ditch or something, right?

I dove into mud as the deafening sound of a freight train filled my ears.

I woke with a start to the distant sound of a train passing in the night. Ever since my close encounter with tornadoes as a child, I’d had recurring dreams of them. Sometimes, I was merely fascinated as a tornado came closer, hypnotizing me with its awesome power. But often, as in this night’s dream, I was left with feelings of helplessness.

I’d often grappled with the possible meaning behind these dreams, had even perused one of those books that give meaning to certain elements in dreams, but hadn’t found much help there. I finally concluded the dreams usually preceded a crazy-busy or overwhelming time. If that was the case, this one was a bit tardy. I couldn’t imagine any set of circumstances more overwhelming than the past two days.

I looked at the clock. Two a.m. I had still been with Sky at this time yesterday.

Would time forever be reckoned that way now? B.S. and A.S.— Before Sky; After Sky? I’d have to watch that.

And, how often would the question, “I wonder what he’s doing now?” pop up in my mind? From now on, I would pray for Sky when he came to mind. There, that had to at least be a healthier alternative to worry. So I knelt in the floor of my childhood bedroom with the light of an almost full moon filtering through the curtains and said a quick prayer placing Sky in God’s hands. That done, I located his white sweats from the night before, curled up with them under the covers and fell back to sleep.

I woke to sunlight coming in the window, the sound of mom working in the kitchen, and the smell of breakfast.

I washed up and got ready for services. As a child I had loved sitting in the old wooden pews, gazing at the beautiful stained-glass windows and listening to the huge pipe organ that filled an entire wall of the sanctuary. I learned the fine art of acting like a well-behaved child while my mind rode a flying carpet swooping over Egypt.

Not until the summer of my fourteenth year did church become something more than a boring hour to survive each week.

It happened at summer camp during a few days of heat, campfires, swimming and marveling at girls like Marti who dazzled the boys.

On the last night of camp, there was a play set to music in which God—represented by a tall, skinny kid with curly red hair—got separated from this girl and guy who went through all kinds of pain because there was a wall made up of all these things that hurt them. Other kids were the barrier, acting out the parts of anger, fear, addiction, etc.

The production was crude, no Oscar nods were earned, but when the kid who represented Jesus spread his arms wide on the wall and slumped in death, it was like someone plugged me in to a live current. I didn’t know if I was going to puke, laugh, or cry so, as the red-haired, skinny “God” came through to embrace the girl and guy and the music swelled for the big climax, I bolted out the door and ran, not stopping until I was alone on a rocky hill looking up at a cross made of driftwood silhouetted against a fiery sunset.

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.”