Miss Julia Rocks the Cradle (29 page)

That was the sort of thing they talked about all day long, although this conversation had been a little more interesting than the ones about diaper rashes. So I was looking forward to being among adults who had more than one interest. It would be a welcome change for me.

And come to think of it, I’d not been out of the house since those babies were born. Except, of course, for Richard’s funeral and that night stroll to Miss Petty’s toolshed, neither of which I counted as a social excursion.

Still, the thought of socializing while my heart was so heavy over Sam’s absence brought on a renewed wave of desolation. If it was all I could do to keep up a good front for Hazel Marie and Etta Mae, how in the world would I be able to conduct myself normally with a roomful of watchful and suspicious women? They would be avidly interested in Pastor Poppy, I was sure of that, and if I was lucky, she’d be the center of their attention. But James was known to be a source of gossip and the grocery aisles were his venue. He only needed to tell one shopper at the meat counter that Sam had moved out for half the town to be pitying me and adding my name to their prayer lists.

Well, I could use their prayers, and even if the prayers were somewhat skewed, the Lord would know the truth of it. So I would go to Mildred’s and steel myself to ignore the whispers and the glances. Heaven knows I’d had enough experience in the past of holding my head high as rumors and speculations swirled around me.

I dressed carefully the following morning, putting on a gray wool dress and the matching gray pumps with the Ferragamo old-lady heels that Hazel Marie said would complete my outfit. Then I added my pearls and, after a slight hesitation, pinned on the diamond brooch that I’d rewarded myself with after learning the extent of Wesley Lloyd Springer’s folly, as well as that of the estate he’d left. I took my winter-white cashmere coat from the closet and, from a drawer, the beautiful pink and gray plaid scarf that Lloyd, on his mother’s advice, had given me for Christmas. I put them both on and stood before the mirror.

Not bad, I thought. Not outstanding—only an airbrush on my face could accomplish that—but not bad. And right here I’ll give some advice to whoever happens to need it. When you’re suffering from some emotional devastation that you don’t want to advertise around town, you should go the extra mile with your appearance. Dress up, put on makeup, have your hair done—and your nails too if you can afford it—and plaster a smile on your face. You’ll not only make them think twice about any gossip going around, you’ll feel better too.

When I went into the kitchen to get my purse and gloves, Lillian gave me an approving nod. “You lookin’ real nice, Miss Julia,” she said. “I got the car all warmed up for you.”

“Why, Lillian, I’m just going next door. I’ll walk.”

“No’m, it twelve degrees out there an’ risin’ slow. You don’t need to be walkin’ in it.” Then she leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “It’s a wonder you an’ me both don’t have pneumonia from all that walkin’ we already done.”

So I drove to Mildred’s, backing the car out onto Polk Street, putting it in forward gear, then easing the half block to her driveway. I pulled in onto the brick-paved U-shaped drive and parked beside several other cars in what Mildred called her motor court. I nearly froze in the walk to her front door, dreading the drive back home when there’d be nobody to warm the car for me.

Inside, it was a different story. Mildred greeted me warmly with a hug, even though she knew full well that I prefer a handshake. Still, her house was bright and welcoming with huge fires in the drawing room fireplace and in the one in the dining room. As Ida Lee took my coat, I saw fifteen or so women milling around, drinking tea from Mildred’s Spode—her second- or maybe third-best china because it was a casual affair—and talking with one another.

Everybody seemed to have had the same idea I’d had: they were all dressed well with plenty of pearls or gold jewelry. Made me wonder if they, too, were dealing with some emotional distress. Then Emma Sue Ledbetter came in, took one look, and almost walked back out. She was wearing a pair of plaid wool slacks and a turtleneck sweater—perfectly fine for the weather but not for the company.

She sidled up to me as I stood in the foyer, waiting for the line at the dining table to thin out.

“Oh, Julia,” she whispered, her face red and her eyes moist. “I never can get it right and I’m so embarrassed. You know it took me the longest to buy even a pair of pants, much less wear them in public, and Larry still gets tight-lipped when I do, and I got it wrong again. I thought, as cold as it is and Mildred saying it would just be a few friends for a cup of tea, that it would be
casual.
And it’s not!”

“Don’t worry about it, Emma Sue,” I said, trying to reassure her. “I expect several are going on to lunch afterward. That’s probably why they’re dressed the way they are.”

She looked at me with accusing eyes. “Are
you
going on to lunch?”

“Well, no, but you know I never wear pants, so I didn’t have a decision to make. There have been times, though, when I have wished with all my heart that I had a pair.” The night before last, to be exact, but I didn’t mention that. “Hold your head up, Emma Sue, and don’t give it another thought.”

“Well, you’re right,” Emma Sue said, taking a deep breath. “Nobody cares what I have on, except they’ll probably talk about me. But the Bible tells us to take no thought for what we wear or for what we eat.” She dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex, then took my arm. “Let’s go see what Mildred’s serving.”

A little surprised that Mildred had not asked Emma Sue to pour, I walked with her to the dining room and saw the reason why. Instead of a tea tray at the head of the table, she had placed her embossed sterling urn on the sideboard for guests to serve themselves—Mildred’s idea of casual. So we helped ourselves, filling our cups, then our plates with cheese straws, ham biscuits, nuts, and small skewers of fruit.

Then we wandered across the foyer to the drawing room, where a group surrounded the new Methodist woman minister. We eased closer in order to introduce ourselves.

Emma Sue whispered to me, “Larry’s trying his best to come to terms with this. She was at the last meeting of the County Ministerial Association, and when he got home, he had to spend an hour in prayer just to get over having a woman there. You know how he feels about that.”

Did I ever. Pastor Ledbetter was of the old school and felt that women should cover their heads and keep their mouths shut when it came to church services. I wouldn’t go quite that far, although I had to admit that I would find it unsettling to have a black-robed woman half my age explaining, expounding, and explicating Scripture, as well as excoriating us, from the pulpit. And when it came to a Communion service, I would never be sure that a woman was suited for a sacramental role. But maybe I’ve just lived too long to embrace change for its own sake.

And another thing: with a woman minister, you get into the complications of how to address her. I well recall the problem the Episcopalians had when they had their first woman assistant priest. Her official address, would you believe, was
Mother
Melanie, and she was less than half the age of the majority of the parishioners. Frankly, I would find it intolerable to call a snip of a girl
Mother.

Well, of course, no one had a problem with referring to a young man as
Father
—I mean, if you were an Episcopalian or a Catholic to begin with because that’s what they call their ministers. Besides, the title is hallowed by centuries-long usage, and nobody thinks a thing about it.

I don’t know the answer, but then I don’t have to. We Presbyterians frown on anything that smacks of Romanism—in spite of the ecumenical efforts of some—so we’ll stick with
Pastor,
which can go either way. Although as long as Pastor Ledbetter’s around, we won’t have the problem.

Intellectually, I am all for women doing whatever they want to do and going as far as they can with it. It’s the emotional, almost the instinctual, reaction to women in the pulpit that makes me hesitant to accept them without question. I guess I’m of the old school too, which isn’t always bad except when it lines me up with Pastor Ledbetter.

I declare, though, as I stood sipping tea and getting my first glimpse of Pastor Poppy, I didn’t know what to think. Mildred was right: she was lovely. One of those young women you wouldn’t call overweight but who had all the womanly curves anyone could want, and then some. She had her auburn hair in a French twist with little tendrils around her face, which took your eye with its smooth and glowing complexion—aided and abetted by expertly applied makeup. Eyeliner and lip gloss, even! Her brown eyes sparkled as she chatted, managing her teacup with the ease of someone long accustomed to dealing with slippery china. And every time she moved, I got a whiff of Shalimar, another plus in her favor.

Her red wool dress was tightly belted, emphasizing the roundness above and below. The dress was well fitted, almost too much so, as the neckline tended toward a fashionable cleavage, saved by a little strategically placed lace. Sheer black stockings and the highest of heels and—I almost gasped, considering the weather—open toed to reveal bright red polish on her toenails, matching that on her fingernails. Velma was going to love this woman, to say nothing of Hazel Marie.

Pastor Poppy had a bubbly laugh she freely used, drawing others to her. There was an easy social air about her, and nothing at all of an obvious piety that so often puts people off. If I hadn’t known beforehand, I never would’ve picked her out of a crowd to be a minister of the Gospel. Whatever possessed her to become one, I didn’t know, but she was as removed from John Wesley and his brother as a preacher could get.

I couldn’t help but wonder what the men at First Methodist thought of her. The older men, I mean. I had no doubt that the younger ones would be dancing attendance.

Pastor Poppy greeted Emma Sue and me, turning her sweet and open smile on us. I could feel the tightness in Emma Sue, because even though she railed against some of Pastor Ledbetter’s strictures on her as his wife, she had a high view of Scripture, particularly of anything Paul had written about how a church should be run.

“So,” Emma Sue said, “you’re the new youth minister at the Methodist church? Or is it minister of music?” Trying to fit this young woman into an acceptable slot.

“No,” Pastor Poppy said with a pleasant smile. “I’m full-fledged. I’m the assistant pastor, which I’ll be for a few years until the bishop assigns me to my own congregation.”

“Oh,” Emma Sue said, swallowing hard. “Well, we don’t, ah, have bishops so I don’t know how that works.”

“I hardly do either,” Pastor Poppy said, laughing. “I just do what I’m told and try to stay out of trouble.”

I immediately warmed to her for the ease she had displayed toward Emma Sue, who could so quickly be hurt and offended. And who could also do some hurting and offending herself.

“And,” Pastor Poppy went on, “you’re the Reverend Ledbetter’s wife, aren’t you? I’ve been wanting to meet you. I’ve heard such wonderful things about all the work you do in your church and in the community—especially the Homeless Walk you’ve organized. I’m planning to be there, and maybe we could have lunch afterward. I’d love to know I could turn to you if I need to.”

Well, that just melted Emma Sue right there. “Oh yes,” she gushed. “Anytime. Anytime at all.”

Before I had time to engage Pastor Poppy in conversation, LuAnne Conover bustled over, put her hand on my arm, and whispered, “I have to talk to you. Let’s go to the morning room.”

Mildred’s cherry-paneled morning room, which I would’ve termed the library and Hazel Marie would’ve called the den, was behind the central staircase, and LuAnne tugged me into it and closed the door.

“Julia, I can’t believe this.
What
is going on with you and Sam?”