The Queen of Sleepy Eye, page 17
Pastor Ted rested his elbows on his knees to talk to Monica. “Anyone who claims to know where your Mama is right now would only be guessing or wishing. She has only one judge, and he has a welcoming heart for sinners. He keeps knocking at our heart’s door until we respond—or not. In fact, Jesus granted the thief on the cross entrance into Paradise. That wretch of a man had never attended a church in his whole life, made his living preying on the hardworking and guileless, and yet he walks with the Savior today.” Pastor Ted straightened. His voice cradled me. I felt safe. “I’m not here to judge your mother or to pray her into heaven. You and me, we have the same job, to love God and those around us and to tell the story of God’s love to anyone who will listen.”
“So you’re telling us there’s room in heaven for women who treat their daughters like dirt?” Jane asked.
Motorcycle Mama’s chair fell backward when she stood. “Do you remember the last time I got sick of listening to your sarcasm, Janey dear?”
Jane made a tent of her hands over her nose.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Pastor Ted said. “Let’s all take a deep breath, take a moment to collect ourselves.” He righted Motorcycle Mama’s chair. “Have a seat, Raylinia.”
Raylinia?
“It’s Ray.”
Jane cradled her head in her hands. Monica crossed and uncrossed her legs. Ray flexed her neck until it popped.
“Your mother left a painful legacy of disappointment for you girls, but that doesn’t matter to us today.” All heads popped up, including mine. Pastor Ted took on the vigor of a coach whose team had given away home-field advantage. It was halftime. The dispirited team members needed reminding of their objective. “Your mother had her life and her chance to make of it what she would. Now it’s your turn. God has given you a sphere of influence. You have family—certainly two sisters each—maybe a husband and children, I don’t know. You have friends, coworkers, neighbors, a postal carrier who brings your mail, and clerks where you shop, or a trusted mechanic.
“What legacy will you leave behind? It’s up to you. Your mother’s gone. She won’t be looking over your shoulder to pass judgment on what you do or don’t do. You’re free to be the people God created you to be. Will you choose to be happy? Will you choose to be generous with your approval and kind to people who disappoint you? Will you be an understanding ear for someone who has experienced crushing shame?”
Jane started to speak, but Pastor Ted held his hand like a stop sign. “I wouldn’t try to answer these questions today. There’s too much swimming around in your heads. I’m going to pray for you, and Amy will sing something of her choosing. Is that all right with you, Amy?”
The first song that came to mind was “She’ll Be Coming Around the Mountain,” a song the Basement Beacons performed to rouse a quiet audience. Keep thinking. Something spiritual. Something comforting. I plucked an introduction for a chorus I’d learned for Vacation Bible School.
Have you seen Jesus my Lord?
He’s here in plain view.
After the service, I peeked through the drapes to watch the sisters linger in the shade of a tornado tree, taking turns looking at their feet and sharing a hankie for their tears. Ray opened her arms to Jane who fiercely gripped her sister. Monica inched closer to join the knot of sisters.
“Close that drape,” ordered Mrs. Clancy, her purse and ledger book in hand. “This isn’t a circus. People deserve their privacy.” And she left.
I moved to the kitchen door, feeling the need to hug Mom and to cook something special for dinner. Maybe she would stay home that night and play Monopoly. She usually sat in the shade of the garage during services, smoking and reading magazines. That day wasn’t any different, except she wasn’t alone. Through the screen door, I watched Charles bend to light Mom’s cigarette. She turned her head to blow the first puff of smoke away from him. He leaned against the garage. Mom laughed at something he said and closed the magazine in her lap. She had never closed a magazine for me.
Charles crouched against the garage. Mom sat a car’s length away. The image of a man coaxing a feral dog to take a bone from his hand came to mind. I shook the image away. He was probably telling her about his dream to own a mortuary with a state-of-the-art preparation room and a room equipped with lighting to eliminate postmortem makeup. No wonder Mom had stopped laughing. Besides, Charles was old, thirty-eight he’d told me, and not much to look at with his meatloaf belly and bland features.
Twenty
I refused the cup of tea Leoti poured for me. “I’ll have a cup when I’ve finished dusting the parlor.”
“You must tell me what you thought of My Àntonia,” she said but continued to speak excitedly about Sense and Sensibility. She stirred her tea absentmindedly as she spoke. “Of course, you know I loved reading Miss Austen’s book. Edward is certainly sweet and affable, but it’s Colonel Brandon I fall in love with at each reading. His quiet strength and his honorable devotion to the ladies of Barton Cottage reminds me of Arthur and how he behaved so graciously toward my parents and siblings. He came from a world of culture and possibilities. My parents were tenant farmers, you see, happy but poor as church mice.” She set her spoon on the tray. “Are you sure you won’t have some tea? I can’t see the dust, so it doesn’t bother me one bit.”
I swept at the cobwebs beside the window. “I enjoy cleaning.” I prayed that God would forgive me for that small lie.
“I haven’t given you a chance to talk about My Àntonia. Did you like it? I so hope you did.”
The book held commonalities between Àntonia and me. Both of us were fatherless and poor with younger, at least in school years, boys pining after us. But the comparison stopped there. I would never go off to meet a scoundrel with lofty promises, only to come back with an illegitimate child. Never. And if I married and had ten children, I would run away from home long before any of the children thought about doing so.
There were similarities between the people of Cordial and Black Hawk, Nebraska too. The boy who loved Àntonia longed for the Nebraska of his youth—expansive and naïve. These were the very sentiments I’d heard from life-long residents of Cordial. Resentment for the hippies ran deep. Weekly columns in the Cordial Chronicle condemned skinny-dipping in the irrigation canals, the strain on the county welfare system, and the poor management of farms in the area. H added stories from the ranchers and farmers who loitered at his father’s store. Àntonia and Jim could never hope to marry because of the prejudice toward new immigrants from Northern Europe. That same prejudice thrived in Cordial, but not just from the locals. The hippies rejected all that was conventional about life in America. They flaunted their Ivy League educations, were self-righteous, really, about the purity of their lifestyles, their harmonious existence with nature. Anything, even a shave and a haircut, represented the arbitrariness of our patriarchal society. All in all, reading My Àntonia demonstrated there was nothing new under the sun.
“It’s sad that Jim and Àntonia don’t end up together,” I said. “He loved her. Remember, at the end he told her sons so, but she laughed at him. I think she was protecting herself from rejection. And I’m not even sure what he felt for Àntonia could be considered love. He idolized her as a symbol, not as a woman. She was a bookmark that held a special place in his life. If he dared to love her as a woman, he would lose what he loved most about the land. That’s what I resent most about him.”
“Yes, I think you’re right, but lucky for you, the world has changed. In my hometown, a little speck of a burg in Nebraska, migrant farm workers came to help with the sugar beet harvest. The year I was ten, or was I eleven?—it doesn’t matter—my cousin Ruth visited from Omaha to help my mother with the twins. She was a beautiful girl, just sixteen, although she seemed much older to me at the time. Her auburn hair hung down her back, and her green eyes were like nothing I’d ever seen before. One of the workers from Mexico was quite a charmer. What was his name?” Leoti searched among the cobwebs for his name. “With his dark eyes and white teeth, all the girls thought he was the most exotic thing to happen upon Ellsworth. But what was his name? Oh dear, I’ve gone and forgotten … Lorenzo! His name was Lorenzo. His mother and father had come north to flee the Mexican Revolution. He had no business working in the beet fields. He was well educated. He spoke perfect English. Of course, Mother didn’t know we had even talked with him. We took water to the fields in the afternoon. He loved to tell us about his home in Mexico and the cruelty of General Diaz.
“One day, I went looking for a kitten to dress up. There were always plenty to choose from in the barn. That day I caught Ruth and Lorenzo spooning in the hayloft. They made me swear to never tell a soul, and because they both looked so frightened, I never did, until now. She eventually married an engineer for the railroad. Lorenzo left with his family to work in California. I often wondered what would have happened if they had been allowed to marry and raise a family in Ellsworth. The children would have been stunningly handsome and brilliant. That is what prejudice can do.”
I brushed dust off a lamp shade and sneezed.
“Bless you,” she said and disappeared into her thoughts. I swiped dust out of the carved legs of a chair and the grandfather clock near the front door.
“Did you leave a beau behind in Illinois, Amy?”
“Me? No.” I didn’t want to admit, even to Leoti, that I’d never gone out on a date. No need to worry. She had already leapfrogged to another memory.
“We had the most wonderful dances back home.” Leoti caught a stray curl in a bobby pin. Her self-conscious primping provided a glimpse of the young Leoti. “We cleared all the desks out of the schoolhouse. The schoolmarm played the piano, even though it was terribly off key. Her brother played the fiddle. The girls brought pies, and the boys all got haircuts.” Leoti closed her eyes. A smile deepened the creases of her mouth.
“Do you like living in Cordial, Amy?”
“Not so much.”
“Is it the mountains? I felt like a caged animal when we first arrived. My apprehension didn’t last very long. Not really. I got caught up in the daily drama of the mountains—the way the sunrise seems to magnify their size and the rosy glow of light at twilight reflects off the snowy crevices, and how the clouds glow like embers when the sun dips below the horizon. Even the way the shadows of the clouds blotch the mountains thrills me. I love it all.
“I knew I’d made the transition from being a plains girl to a mountain girl when Arthur and I traveled by train to visit my parents one Christmas. Coming back to Colorado, I watched the mountains grow on the horizon until they lorded over the sky. Oh, my heart fluttered in my chest. After that, I could never stay away from the mountains for very long.
“Listen to me prattle on like an old woman.” She caught herself, laughed. “I am an old woman, a foolish old woman who spends too much time thinking about the past.” Leoti’s face grew serious. “You seem like a very sensible young woman. May I share a dream with you?”
I pushed the dust cloth into my apron pocket.
“No doubt you’ve noticed the mismatched windows at the Spruce Street Church. Before Johnston Avenue was paved, the windows on the west side were constantly being broken by rocks thrown up by passing automobiles. The elder board never considered the repair of the windows a high priority. I wouldn’t have either, if the choice was between heating the church in the winter and having replacement windows made. I spoke to Pastor Ted when he first came last fall. Bless him, he found someone in the east who specializes in repairing stained-glass windows. The artist wanted a ridiculous amount of money for each sash—ten thousand dollars, I think it was. You’ve seen how many broken windows there are.”
While Mrs. Bergman had sung a solo for the offertory during my first visit to Spruce Street church, I’d focused on the six solid-green panes. A wattle of her skin had shimmied with each high note. Looking at the windows had kept me from laughing.
“I know my days are numbered,” she continued, “but I haven’t given up the dream of seeing those windows restored. It was Arthur and I who had commissioned the original windows, and what a fuss we caused. We sat and talked right here. Arthur had just come back from calling on a young family with the measles. I made us tea, and he shared how he wanted to give the church stained-glass windows. I was shocked. I’d never heard him say a word about the windows, but he had already spoken to an artist. We agreed that the windows should not bear any images of the Christ. No man knows what he looked like anyway, and does it matter? We didn’t think so. Instead, we selected a pleasing style that emphasized the Word of God. We certainly didn’t want anything gaudy, like what the Methodists had done in Clearwater. We thought we had chosen the most logical design. Half of the church up and left over those windows. Can you think of anything more ludicrous than that? Maylene Elberfeld still crosses the street when she sees me coming.”
When it was time to leave, I apologized to Leoti for not completing the dusting.
“I guess you’ll just have to come back again,” she said and winked playfully. “The tea kettle is always on, and there’s always another book to read.”
I left with Leoti’s all-time favorite, The Good Earth.
“Pearl S. Buck, how I love to say her name,” she said. “She’s the only woman to win both the Pulitzer and Nobel prizes for literature.”
* * *
H STEPPED OUT of the shed. I hadn’t seen him since the night of the drive-in almost three weeks earlier. He greeted me with large rings of sweat darkening his tank top and breathing hard. But there was something new about him, a bulge of muscle in his shoulders and arms. He seemed older. Taller? His work had paid off, but I wasn’t about to say anything. Guys like H overvalued any compliment. But it was good to see that the cut on his chin had healed.
He gulped air. “You were with Mrs. Masterson a long time.”
“We were talking about books. Leoti … Mrs. Masterson loves to read. She has a room with books to the ceiling. She gave me The Good Earth to read.”
“Never heard of it.”
H motioned me inside the shed and threw punches at the stuffed burlap bag hanging from the rafters. I was supposed to be impressed, I know, but sweat and grunts grossed me out.
“She’s doing okay. Mrs. Masterson is, I mean.” The dust flying out of the bag made me sneeze. “You should visit her.”
H looked at me like I’d suggested he kiss one of his sisters.
“She’s very upbeat,” I assured him. “She’ll bake you cookies if she knows you’re coming.”
“Have you ever asked her about what we heard? You know, how she talked to Dr. Masterson?”
“You could ask her about it.”
“My dad says people hallucinate under stress.”
I supposed his dad knew that from reading farm-implement catalogs.
“Dad said the devil can appear as an angel of light,” H said.
“Would the devil encourage her to serve the Master?”
H spat at the ground, the male equivalent of Heck if I know.
“I think God sent Dr. Masterson as a special gift to Mrs. Masterson,” I said, “so she could wait for her time in peace, knowing her husband was okay.”
H stilled the punching bag. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Did you tell the police what happened at the drive-in?”
“Nah, that would only make things worse,” he said, and attacked the punching bag with a salvo of punches. “Guys like Jim only understand one way of talking.”
“What about your parents? Didn’t they notice your cuts and bruises?”
“Mom told me to stay away from troublemakers. Dad told me to stay and fight like a man.”
Obviously, H’s dad held more weight in the advice department of the Van Hoorn family. A sheepish grin deepened H’s dimples. “If you’re so worried about me, you better give me that kiss you owe me now.”
“H, as a friend, I think you should know that girls don’t find sweating men all that appealing.”
“Men, huh?”
“Don’t miss my point.”
“Got it. You don’t like sweating men.” H punched the bag off center and set it spinning. “You see me as a man, do you? That’s great.”
Oh brother.
Twenty-One
Clear the end table, querida. We’re yanking this place into the twentieth century.” I cradled Mrs. Clancy’s milk-glass lamp and doily in my arms. Mom set a new lamp in its place—crushed-velvet shade with amber crystals hanging from the base. She snapped on the light and stood back to admire its warm glow. Bruce sauntered in from the kitchen where he’d filled the counters with shopping bags. Mom said, “I told you the lamp was perfect, sweetie. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Why are you buying stuff for a place we’ll be leaving soon?” I asked.
“We’ll need a pretty lamp and a nice clock in California too.”
Bruce stood in the doorway with a hammer. “Where’s that there clock you wanted hung?”
“It’s here with the candleholders.” Mom kissed my cheek. “Just because we live with dead people doesn’t mean we have to decorate like old fogeys. Wait until you see the material I bought to make you a peasant blouse like all the girls are wearing.”
Bruce held a clock with a daisy face and stem. “Where do you want this, doll?”
I grabbed The Good Earth. “I’m going outside.”
“Don’t go too far. Bruce is grilling steaks.”
“We don’t have a—”
“But we do. Those cute little hibachis were on sale at the hardware store.”
* * *
AFTER DINNER, MOM and Bruce went to the Lost Mine saloon. I tried to read, but the house felt claustrophobic. Each knickknack and paddywack Mom bought for the house added another link to the chain that held me to Cordial. More and more I believed Mom never intended to reach California.
