Bleeding Green (4 page)

Chapter 6

I
nterstate 24 wound like a snake through the Chattahoochee National Forest. After Chattanooga, Tennessee, northern Georgia opened before Laurel in all its vivid colors! Blue sky, white, puffy clouds over a crimson, gold Monet canvas of an autumn landscape. An array of natural beauty that helped cleanse some of the uncleanness from religious beliefs held by many relatives that made up the group of people called The Meeting, a group of Christian believers who broke away from the Church of England in the early 1800s to follow the teachings of John Nelson Darby.

Drumming her fingers on the old steering wheel, she remembered as a young girl trying to figure out why her schoolmates went to church, but if she used that word, she was remonstrated by her parents. The correct word was Meeting, a group of fundamental Christians that didn't want to have a formal name such as existed in organized religion but held firm in the belief according to the New Testament of the King James Bible. They strive to live and worship as close as possible to the Christians such as are in the book of Acts. The main focus of their Sunday morning meeting is to break bread, known as communion in church groups. The conditions placed on this form of worship are strict. She had experienced this first hand.

Deep in thought, her mind returned to ten years earlier when she was publicly read out of the assembly—another word The Meeting approved,
Assembly
. Much like the earliest meeting halls in America. Or so she assumed. The pain accompanying this punishment had been horrific. Shunning by her relatives was excruciatingly painful. Even uglier was the toll it took on those dearest to her—her 83-year-old mother of whom she was the caretaker. This shunning continued for more than two horrible years, until even her mother knew it was best if she moved away from the farm.

Laurel rolled the window down about an inch. Cool, crisp air blew into the truck. She sucked in a deep breath letting it out with a whoosh. The sound of the tires eating up the pavement returned her to the present. Thinking of the pain the disciplinarian action had caused her two children was almost more than she could bear. Guilt, shame, horror, all were hers to carry to the grave. Would she ever be free of soul-sucking, joy- depriving guilt?

The monumental decision to move to Pensacola, Florida, with her daughter, Amelia, had been made seven years ago. Building a home and getting a job as a park ranger for the State of Florida had all been huge undertakings—the many ordeals that accompanied such a move from the security and familiarity of being an accepted woman of the blessed to an outcast in the world. She had to make a living. Thank God, the park ranger position had opened for her at Grand Lake. Or did she thank God? Was all of this part of a divine plan or was it just random living and applying oneself to life? Questions that were occupying more and more of her time.

The loneliness of settling in a new place was enormous. Adjusting to a new way of life. The divorce from her husband had been final two years before her move to Pensacola. All the changes combined with finding a career were just a tip of the iceberg in this new life.

Having had no affiliation with any religion for the last several years was allowing her mind to expand. The narrowness of the Christian beliefs that had been ground into her as a child were beginning to crumble, such as the rigid belief that the Lord, meaning Jesus Christ, was only in this one particular holy place of the Protestant faith, The Meeting. How had she accepted this belief all these years? She hadn’t, but she had embraced parts of the Brethren’s doctrine as a way of life. The life she had been born into, a life as full of security and comfort as hot cross buns on a chilly morning. A community that lived together, worked together and worshipped together. Why did humans have such a need for a herd mentality? Knowing the answer, she shook her head in affirmation. Belonging. A tribal need to be a part of a group. Safety. Security. The huge problem with this bucolic, pastoral way of life brought together by the farming community was exclusiveness. By adopting this way of life, she and all the other people in The Meeting had made themselves separate from the world. God knew what would befall one of them for such worldly actions as voting, participating in scholastic sports, associating with friends outside The Meeting. She remembered the guilty giggling with her cousins when she was a little girl at all the awful ways they could choose to go outside the fold.

Her father’s mother, Grandma Gordon, had introduced this belief into her life as a new bride from east St Louis when she had married Victor Gordon in the late 1800s. As a married couple, they raised their nine children on the Illinois farm, conducting Sunday worship service in their living room. Hence, The Meeting, was brought to that part of Illinois. The matriarch of the Gordon clan.

Noticing that her fuel gauge read a quarter of a tank, she took the next exit and pulled into a Shell plaza. As she nudged open the driver’s door, her aching joints and muscles made themselves known. Perhaps it was time for some caffeine—a coffee frappe from the MacDonald’s attached to the gas station.

After fueling the truck, Laurel, considered whether she was in the mood for music or more soul-searching ruminating. Realizing that the jarring effect of facing a place on earth that had been knit into the very fiber of her being and then becoming an outcast where she had to remake herself and gain a new identity took over the need for music. She was in the mood to reflect and consider.

The crisp, autumn chill caused her to shiver. Having placed an old woolen vest on the seat beside her for this very purpose, she wondered why she hadn’t put it on while safely stopped at the gas station. Preoccupied was the excuse she decided. With this observation concluded, she shrugged into the dark green vest. This was an agility act of steering with one knee and pushing one arm through the sleeve hole and then the other arm.

In front of her was a Jeep Cherokee with a man driving. Presumably, his wife was the woman in the passenger seat. Children were lined up in the back seat. A vinyl luggage carrier on top of the roof was bursting with additional needs of the family. Easing into the passing lane, Laurel studied the blue vehicle as she passed it. A feeling of relief filled her. Examining this feeling, she realized it was completely due to the fact that she wasn’t under the thumb of a man. All her childhood and teenage years, she had been taught to revere the male species. He was the head of the house. The males made the decisions and the females abided by them. Submission. The head coverings worn to Meeting were to show the angels that the women were in submission to the man. This way of life works as long as it isn’t questioned or a woman became so bold as to think on her own without the Bible to spell out what exactly was her role in this world.

Laurel squirmed in her seat and propped her left knee against the door with her foot on the column of the steering wheel. The only thing missing from her enjoyment of driving the ancient Landcruiser was cruise control. Her right knee threatened to kink into a tight knot of pain if she didn’t change positions every few minutes. A glance at her K-Swiss wristwatch helped her calculate about seven more hours of driving. A sigh escaped from her lips. She missed her children. Sometimes the longing was irrational, she knew, but the intensity was piercing. Although both of them were successful, daughter with a professional career, her son an engineer, the physical distance separating them was painful. She had always been close to her children. If this modern way of living didn’t mean they were strewn all over the United States in their various careers, some of her loneliness would be alleviated.

Then there was Brodie. Brodie Black. A professor of environmental science. At fifty-one, Brodie had the health and look of a woman twenty years younger. Laurel felt the smile on her face.

Reaching for her phone required sitting in a more upright proper position. Power steering didn’t exist on this particular love of hers.

As she placed the phone on her ear with her left hand a familiar, melodious, low voice said, “Hello?”

“Hello, Professor.”

A low chuckle, “You still sane?”

The weight of living pushing down on her being began lifting as she replied with joy in her voice, “Sane! You know I adore the bumper sticker that reads,
I don’t suffer from INSANITY, I enjoy every moment of it!”

The smile in Brodie’s voice could be heard as she answered. “Yeah, yeah, I know. The bumper sticker that Graham gave to you.”

“Yup. My son knows me too well, methinks.” Laurel took a deep breath. “It’s good to hear your voice. Are you at school?”

“I miss you. And yes, I just finished my biology class.”

“I can tell by the quiet way you are speaking that you are in your office cubicle.”

Brodie chuckled in a dry tone. “Yes, I am. Jackson misses you too and he’s driving me insane! While I was trying to get out the door this morning, whatever gleeful fits he was having managed to knock over both cats and his tail crashed all the books on the coffee table to the floor.”

Laurel let out a belly rumbling howl of glee. “It’s good for you, Professor.” After her giggles subsided a bit she continued in a more even voice, “Seems as if I’ve been gone a long time.”

“Are you okay?”

“Well, how about this for a bombshell …? My brother, Andrew, asked if I was having sex with you.”

The ensuing silence stretched for several heartbeats.

“Oh, my. As hard as that is to believe, does it really surprise you?” Brodie struggled to regain some composure. “I’m so sorry, Laurel.”

“Remember the whole debacle about Andrew asking me to talk to my cousin, Albert, about being restored to the Lord’s Table?”

“Of course. And you acquiesced as you thought it would make life easier for your brother’s family when it came to the question of eating with you. Correct?”

Laurel sighed blowing out a side of her cheek. “Yup. I’ll never be a part of that group again, yet, this being ‘placed under discipline’ to speak The Meeting’s lingo, will never end. They don’t know how to end it, unless I asked to be restored.”

Brodie cleared her throat. “To clarify, in my language, that means taking communion?”

“Yes.”

“Did you answer?”

“No. Not completely.”

“Not to change the subject, but we can talk about this better when you get back. Will you be home in time for dinner?
”

“Should be arriving close to 6:30 p.m. How ‘bout we schedule some time soon to talk about simplifying our lives by combining two households?”

“I’ll have your porch light on. That particular subject will give me great delight. Our lives are too complicated. Let’s do simplify!”

Chapter 7

S
weet and clear the notes of the Bachman’s sparrow pierced the gathering dusk as Laurel turned into the sandy road leading to her state park residence. Beautyberry branches bowing to the earth laden with clusters of purple berries were being nibbled on by a deer before the creature noticed the headlights. Sailing over wire grass and downed pine branches, the deer disappeared from view to melt into the night of the central Florida peninsula.

Braking to a halt as the electric gate shut behind her, Laurel bowed her head in thankfulness for the many miles covered in safety during the last several hours. Tension knotted her shoulders. There was a lot to be said for power steering!

Illuminating the nightfall, a stream of welcoming lamplight from the living room window beckoned her forward.

Brodie was waiting.

Shifting into first gear, the Landcruiser climbed the gradual sandy slope that was an excuse for a road. As the soft, semitropical air filled the interior of the truck, Laurel struggled with memories that flooded through her entire being. The ghost of her mother seemed to shimmer and melt into the surroundings. Each tree, each bump in the road, the song of the sparrow brought tears sliding down her cheeks.

The care of her mother over the last two years were memories to place neatly into an antique trunk in her mind. Memories that she could take out and enjoy later when the grief lessened. For now, it was enough to begin letting go of the living presence of her mother. Just as she made that a concrete thought, the image of her mother’s arthritic hands playing the piano squeezed her heart in pain. At ninety-three, she had still played the piano by ear, even as her dementia caused her to repeat the same song several times. Laurel knew she would never regret taking on her mother’s care. As vivid as if it were yesterday was the memory of sitting in the parking lot of Publix. Her mail came to the park office and was sitting on the seat beside her. There was a letter from her brother, Andrew. She had picked it up and read it. Deciphering his left-handed sprawling script was a challenge. She noted that the handwritten letter was addressed to her and her two sisters. An insert of a single page with just her name at the top was a heartfelt plea from her brother asking her to take on the care of their mother. He was at his wits end trying to find someone to live in the house with her. The dementia was escalating.

Laurel felt as if someone had swung a baseball bat at her middle and knocked all the air out of her lungs. She had just moved to central Florida from Pensacola eight weeks earlier. That involved renting her home in Pensacola and finding an apartment. All the duties involved with being a park ranger made the request seem ludicrous. How was she supposed to find a new place to live, care for her mom and maintain a full-time job, a job that demanded she go on prescribed burns sometimes not returning until late in the evening? She would find a way. That decision made, eventually a residence on park property became available, helping this task become more doable. She envisioned her mom so clearly sitting in the rocking chair reading. Sometimes the same page over and over.

She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand as she turned into the driveway.

The silhouette of a woman waving stood on her screened porch.

Beeping her horn, Laurel waved back.

She passed Brodie’s sage green Prius parked by the front steps.

Pulling the truck under the aluminum carport, she turned the key, shutting off the engine. Shouldering the door open, she plopped her sock feet on the ground. Reaching into the rear of the vehicle, she grabbed her black leather duffle with the Department of Environmental Protection, Parks and Recreation emblem on the front pocket of the bag. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she grabbed the extra bags, slammed the door shut with her hip and turned. She bumped into Brodie.

The heavy duffle bag glanced off Brodie’s side causing her to wobble and grab for the truck.

“Whoa, Nellie!” said Laurel with a loud shout as she dropped her bags, attempting to grab Brodie’s arm. Missing by a mile, she socked the woman on her right breast.

Brodie gasped and yelped like a young pup.

Peering at her friend, Laurel wanted to ask if she was okay, even as the words toppled all over each other and turned to giggling, which brought on a mild fit of hysteria.

With an attempt at self-preservation, Brodie gave a squeak. “Don’t touch me!”

These words caused Laurel further distress as she slid down the side of the Landcruiser and plopped on the ground. She leaned her head against the door and allowed the laughter to roll out, even as the tears slid down her face.

Brodie plunked beside her on the ground and with great gentleness reached for Laurel’s left hand.

Turning her head to look at Brodie, Laurel was just about to speak when Jackson pounced on her from her other side. His huge thick tongue covered her face in dog kisses. His dog smell engulfed the women as his tail wagging nearly tipped him over. The animal seemed overcome with joy and love.

His lack of reservation in his demonstration was a thing to behold or hold onto as the case might be, decided Brodie. Cats. Give her cats any day of the year.

Untangling themselves from the gargantuan, wiggling mountain of joy took some muscle.

Laurel had lost all command of her vocal chords, making any attempt at controlling Jackson by words futile.

Brodie tried pulling herself up by grabbing the side of the truck. “Laurel, could you …”

Jackson’s rear end thumped into her sending her sprawling to the ground. “Good Lord, Laurel,” said Brodie as she brushed pine needles from her brunette tinged with gray hair. “Get the shotgun!”

Laurel held a hand out to Brodie. A flash of white sparkled from her face, as her teeth gleamed in the darkening evening. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Hah! Don’t bet on it!” She held onto Laurel’s strong grasp and struggled upright.

“Your good ranger friend, Lawrence, has been taking excellent care of the beast. When I came over tonight to fix dinner for your arrival, Jackson didn’t leave me alone for a second. I think he missed you more than words can tell.”

Laurel glanced at the open side door that light was spilling from. A delicious aroma wafted on the night air. She greedily sniffed and gave an excited screech. “Chicken pot pie! I can’t believe it! Oh, Brodie, it’s perfect!”

A smile filled with love was Brodie’s answer.

Without too many more mishaps, the threesome arrived at the door and managed to close the door on the night.

Dropping her duffle with a thump, Laurel grabbed Brodie’s arm. “Isn’t it time for a hug?”

Brodie’s cocoa-brown eyes, melted into pools of deep chocolate, as she wrapped both arms around Laurel. In a low voice, she said, “I’ve been so worried about you.”

With her chin tucked into Brodie’s neck, eyes closed, Laurel said, “I know. I could feel it.” She inhaled the fragrance of Brodie that always seemed to carry just a faint mixture of spicy and sweet, like jasmine mixed with cinnamon.

As natural as the wind sighing in the longleaf pines the hug was followed by a kiss. As their lips met, Laurel’s present stopped and time didn’t exist. Just the sensation of sweet, sweet peace. A peace that was igniting into a burning passion.

Brodie, pulled away from the embrace. She pointed to two tapered candles in the center of the drop-leaf walnut table. “Those are going to burn up and dinner is getting cold.”

Jackson nuzzled the two women apart with his snout, nudging Laurel’s stomach.

“Yes, yes, you marvelous beast. I love you too.” She knelt on the ceramic tiles and hugged the subdued dog around his middle. Tears leaked out the corners of her eyes. Returning to the present after the time-stopping millennia shared with the love of her life, “I love living life with you.”

Brodie stopped slicing the flaky pie crust as the white sauce oozed out. “Wash your hands and sit down at the table, you vixen. If you keep this up, we won’t have dinner.”

Laurel rocked back on the heels of her feet, marveling at the tender glow on Brodie’s face. The face of an angel. “Would that be so bad?”

Brodie continued to place the slices of chicken pot pie on the blue and white china plates. She arched an eyebrow and gave Laurel a quizzical stare. Stopping mid-motion, “Do you mean it?”

Laurel gave a howl of denial, “No, I’m starving!”

After placing the pie pan on the kitchen counter, Brodie pulled out the sturdy antique walnut chair with a flourish for Laurel. “Please, be seated my weary journeyer.”

Mimicking a slight curtsey, Laurel sat.

Brodie took her place on the other side of the charming table setting. “Bon appetite!” she said.

Laurel winked at her as her fork sliced through the crust, causing pearl onions, peas and carrots to peek out. “Mouthwatering,” she said. “I forgot to wash my hands.”

Brodie picked up a bottle of pinot noir wine. She began filling the two empty goblets next to the two water goblets that had condensation running down the sides from the icy water. She stared at Laurel as she picked up her wine glass.

Laurel got the message and set her fork back on the edge of the plate. She lifted the large rounded goblet of red wine. “To dirty hands?” she said, as a grin lifted her cheeks.

“To living life with a cup half-full, never half-empty.” Brodie touched her glass to Laurel’s. “Those dirty hands don’t bother me, if they don’t bother you!”

Eying Brodie across the candlelit table, Laurel swallowed and said, “I detect black cherry, plum and something spicy in this bouquet of grapes.”

“There must be more than that. I paid at least seven dollars on sale for this bottle.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have gone to so much expense, dear heart!” Laurel gave a giddy chuckle as she took another deep swallow. Oh, life was good.

“Can you talk about your trip?” Brodie asked with some hesitation.

While devouring two slices of the home-made chicken pot pie chased down with two and a half glasses of wine, Laurel gave a detailed description of the entire trip.

Brodie listened with the thoughtful intensity of a sage guru, as she sipped three goblets of water. Listening to the undertones of the words being said, she heard the weary sadness of the words not being said.

The candles had gone from ten inches to two inches by the time Laurel’s flow of words came to a stop.

Brodie placed a tea cup saucer filled with three Godiva truffles on the table. She took one truffle and nibbled at it with a knitted brow.

Through the open window came the song of a lone whip-poor-will.

Brodie said, “Do you think you can accept that your relatives in The Meeting in that area will never accept the life you have chosen?”

For the umpteenth time that day tears filled Laurel’s eyes. In a quiet voice laced with sadness she answered. “I already have.” She took another swallow of her half-full glass, as she lifted the goblet saluting Brodie. “I already have.”