The Glory of Green (15 page)

"Each individual governmental agency will vote on the 'Make Green Greener' program," Eva said. "I've polled informally and would say it's unlikely the program will be approved."

Some in the audience murmured appreciatively, while others grumbled, but the crowd was quiet within moments. Eva's control was impressive. Terrence took notes on a yellow legal pad.

I passed the mike to the owner of the small feed-and-seed store out toward Route Two. "Will the 'Wide-Awake' rooster be replaced?" he asked, a question that generated more comment than the environmental question. The ten-foot rooster, nicknamed "Doodle," had been blown from a sign welcoming visitors to "Wide-Awake Green."

"We are wide awake," Eva said, "but the fate of Doodle remains to be seen. He was carved by a city employee the year I was born, so he's special to me. You'll have to figure out how old he is." A ripple of laughter went through the hot room.

"I propose we have it recast from fiberglass," the man said."It's a good promotional tool, and I have it printed on my sacks."

"If you want it so bad, why don't you pay for it?" the snippy Police Juror asked.

"If you'll quit your squawking, I'd be happy to. I'm enlisting with that lady preacher to ask everyone to step up to the plate.What are you going to give?"

The outspoken elected official was suddenly quiet.

"Miss Lois, bring the microphone over here," Bud said and started speaking before I reached him. "I'll order trees to replace the ones we lost. We can have them in time for fall planting season."

"I'll work with Bud on a system for donating trees in memory of people," Anna Grace said. Today she had given up her walker for a cane and she looked cheerful and strong.

"My shop can get flowers for the planters downtown," Becca said.

"I'll water them," Rose, still wearing her sweat-stained mail carrier shirt, said.

Dub raised his hand, and I hesitantly walked to the back of the room. Chris touched his hand to my shoulder and pointed with a grin to Mr. Sepulvado.

I clasped the farmer's hand. "It's wonderful to see you out and about." Once more I wished I knew Spanish.

"
Gracias."
He returned my smile.

Then I held the microphone for the man I had despised so much.

"I'll make deliveries for those who can't drive," Dub said."I'll get with the pastors for a list."

"Good man," Mr. Sepulvado said. "Good man."

As the meeting wrapped up, we had resolved a dozen issues, raised a dozen more, and tabled questions that might take years to answer.

The close of the meeting was a surprise to nearly everyone, including me—a video tribute to Green put together and narrated by Katy, using Tammy's photographs.

"In memory of our friend Tom and all those who lost their lives in the tornado," the ending credits said.

Wiping tears from my eyes and considering what Katy's future would look like in broadcasting, I returned the microphone to the stage.

"Good to hear you'll be in Green regularly," I said to Terrence, who stood near the front shaking hands. "Maybe you can go to dinner with me, Chris, and Kevin one evening."

"Since Kevin won't answer my calls, I'd say it's unlikely, but thanks for the thought." He headed across the auditorium, wearing his sport coat even though it was sweltering in the room.

"Excellent work, Mayor," I said, as Eva put her notes in a leather portfolio.

"Overall, this went better than I had hoped," she said.

I did a double take. "Are you sweating?"

The Books & Biscuits Club will meet and eat Thursday evening and discuss novels that make readers laugh. The group will also celebrate Trisha Wooley's birthday, with chocolate cake and a supper that includes two chicken leg quarters, baked beans, potato salad, and Texas toast.
"No one will go away hungry, and no one will go away sad," Virginia Mills promises. The book club is seeking suggestions for the next book for the group to read.

—The Green News-Item

T
hree poster board signs on little sticks lined the driveway to the motel. They looked like those you see in a subdivision for a fortieth birthday, but I couldn't read them until I got much closer.

"Chris & Lois." "Need." "A House."

The words were written in large bubble letters, the handwriting teen girls put on the covers of spiral notebooks. Definitely not designed by Chris.

Cute, real cute
was my first thought, followed by a flash of anger at my husband for pulling Katy or Molly into our discussions about where we should live. I stopped so abruptly in front of Unit Eight that I skidded slightly on the rock parking area.

Our room's door opened, and Chris stood there with a smile, fresh out of the shower, wearing cargo shorts and no shirt. His hair was still wet, and he looked as good as I'd ever seen him look. For a second, I forgot to be aggravated.

"I have a surprise for you," he said, turning around and producing Holly Beth, who had spent the past few days at my in-laws' house. With both of us away for at least twelve hours a day, we juggled Holly from place to place, and I hated it.

I laughed and cuddled the dog. "I've missed the little toot, as your brother calls her."

"She said she's bored out in the country and wants to spend the night in the big city."

"Can she really spend the night?" I sounded like a sixthgrader who desperately wanted a friend to stay over.

"I've got her crate and her toys. We're all set."

He pulled on his shirt and we sat down in the plastic chairs outside the room. I noticed the posters again. "So, what's with the signs? Tell me you haven't stooped that low."

"If you think that's low, why do you think I got Holly? It's July, Lois. We've lived here four months. We have permanently moved into temporary housing."

"But signs in a public place?"

"It's not like the whole town doesn't know that we've homesteaded at the Lakeside." He shrugged. "Katy asked at church where we're going to live. I told her I didn't have a clue. Next thing I know, I pull up and see the signs. You know how she and Molly are."

"They have too much restless energy. They're nervous about college and looking for things to do. Tammy probably had a hand in this too."

"How about we ask them to find us a real place to live? Maybe a home with a yard for the dogs and those modern appliances people cook food on. We need a house."

I put Holly down and watched her chase her tail until she got dizzy and dropped to the grass, ready for a nap.

"I feel like that." I nodded at the dog. "I chase my tail all day and by the time I get here, I want to visit for a while and fall asleep. With the paper and getting ready for football practice and other school details and your food program at church, there's never a spare minute. I haven't been to the antique mall for weeks and I rarely have a real visit with your parents."

"You're rushing too much, Lois."

I reached over and took his hand. "I feel out of control, like the moment the tornado hit. It's as though I'm flying around in the air and everything's whizzing by me."

"A house will help," Chris said. "We'll settle down."

"I miss Route Two and the way things were, your trailer when I turned the corner, the dogs out in the yard, so happy to see me."

"Come here, sweetheart." He stood to hug me.

The crunch of Kevin's tires on the driveway interrupted us, and she let her right window down. "Hey, lovebirds, interesting approach to house hunting," she yelled. "Have you tried looking at For Sale signs in yards? Most people find that helpful."

Chris groaned, and I grinned. She waved and drove on to her parents' apartment behind the office to get Asa.

"That's what I like about staying here," I said, my arm around Chris's waist. "I like to sit at the end of a hard day, not thinking about everything that needs doing."

"But Kevin moved home weeks ago, and Iris has been at Stan's for months. The Taylor house repairs are nearly complete.Most of the other tenants have cleared out, except out-of-town workmen. We're the only ones setting up camp here."

The evening ritual with Pearl, Marcus, and occasionally Kevin had replaced the walks with Chris from the past two years, the late afternoon visits in the newsroom, even the peaceful feeling I used to get when I walked into Grace Chapel with the light streaming through the stained glass windows.

These get-togethers had become a touchstone for me, and I didn't want them to end. I couldn't quite imagine married life any other way.

"School starts in three weeks," Chris said. "I don't see your schedule letting up for months, with the rebuilding coverage and your leadership role on Green Forward. We need a plan."

"Why? So we can watch it get blown to smithereens?"

Lately, I was never quite sure where to find Pastor Jean.Before the storm, I would often find her in her tiny study at the church, preparing a sermon or folding bulletins, or at the parsonage, having a cup of coffee.

When I needed her, she was there.

These days she was a one-woman mission machine, calling on businesses for donations, boxing up necessities for victims, visiting at the hospital and homes, and making sure the school auditorium was ready for our displaced church services each week, complete with an altar. Cell service, erratic before in Green, was now excruciating, so even a chat was tough to arrange. At the makeshift services, she was surrounded by members with needs a mile long. My urge to visit was minor compared to requests for food, a nursing home call, a question about the future of the church.

Her husband, Don, who worked in Baton Rouge, had stayed for two weeks after the tornado and visited more frequently, moving items from the ruined church into storage. Occasionally I'd see the couple downtown, usually going and coming from one of the bigger churches, where volunteers congregated.

Their marriage seemed to be healing from the tension of her pastoral move to Green, an unforeseen tornado benefit.But I missed Pastor Jean. I missed my personal sermons from her and Kids' Club on Wednesday nights and the shoving at the buffet line and the way the little church looked, sitting there on the corner near my house, a classic white frame building with a steeple and a bell that my father-in-law had rung for sixty years.

Now we met in the school auditorium. I knew where I worshiped shouldn't matter, but it did. Not only were the seats uncomfortable, I couldn't turn my brain off and focus on the message, worrying instead about what needed to be done.

It was time to track Jean down and cry on her shoulder; the Tuesday afternoon paper was on its way to homes, delivery almost back on schedule.

"Do you ever sleep?" I asked when I found her putting boxes together alone in a storeroom at the Methodist church near the paper. She had on jeans, a little too big for her, and a youth camp T-shirt with a hole in it. Her eyes had circles under them.

"Sleep? What's that?" She kept trying to fit the pieces of the box together, unable to get the sides to meet, her hands shaking."These darned things are not user-friendly."

"Let me help you."

And she burst into tears.

Jean had shed a tear or two in front of me over the past two and a half years, but this was crying like I'd seldom seen. My eyes widened, and I tried to take the box from her hands, but she wouldn't let go.

"I've got to finish these boxes before three," she said, "when the volunteers come get them. I should already have them done, but I can't get them to work right." She held the box, no longer trying to put it together but not laying it down.

"Jean, you're worn out. Get someone else to do this, and I'll take you home for a nap."

"There isn't anyone else. Everyone has more to do than they can handle."

"At least take a break. I'll get you a cup of that strong coffee you love so much, and you can rest for a little while."

Still she clung to the box.

"I'll be right back." I wandered down the halls of the pretty, old church, knowing someone somewhere would have coffee.The scorched smell of a nearly empty pot led me to a small kitchen, and I rummaged around until I found two Styrofoam cups, lumpy creamer, and a box of sugar cubes. I tucked the entire box under my arm, knowing Jean liked lots of sugar in her coffee.

"Find everything you need?" a voice asked behind me, and I jumped, dropping the sugar cubes, which spilled out on the vinyl floor.

"Pastor Mali!" I exclaimed, sounding slightly wild to my own ears. "You caught me! I'm stealing from the Methodists."

"What's ours is yours. Are you OK, Miss Lois?" A look of pure concern appeared on his face. He had bags under his eyes, too, and a look of strain around his mouth, similar to what I had seen on Jean's face.

"I'm visiting Pastor Jean." I held up the coffee. "She needs caffeine and lots of it."

"Most of all she needs a friend," he said, helping me pick up the sugar cubes.

When I opened the door to the storeroom, Jean was back at work putting boxes together and had made considerable progress in the few minutes I'd been gone. We sat on cartons of canned goods and drank the coffee in silence for a few moments.

"The state is pushing harder to buy the church land for the highway," Jean said finally. "All of it, not only the parsonage plot but the church, too. They also want Maria's place."

I gulped, the horrible weak coffee scalding my throat.

"Did you tell them it wasn't for sale?"

"I told them I would pray about it. And talk to the congregation."

"Grace Community has been on that corner for decades. It's a landmark," I said.

"You know we were worried about how close the highway was coming. We were going to have to make a decision."

"But move the church? That was never mentioned."

"We didn't face a massive renovation challenge when we first spoke of it. The insurance company says it'd be cheaper to tear the old building down and build a new one. Hank says it'd be much easier for a new building to meet safety and accessibility codes."

"What about the cemetery, where Chris's first wife and Iris's son are buried?"

"The state would fence it, make it accessible from the other side."

"Can we wait a few months to decide?" I asked. "Things are so up in the air."

"The Department of Transportation wants an answer in twenty-one days, and us out of the parsonage within two months. They've pushed me since the storm, but I've been too busy to think about it. The church trustees are not going to be happy when they find out I didn't tell them sooner."

"You've been helping people. That's the kind of pastor you are, Jean. You care more about hearts than bricks."

"Oh, Lois," Jean said, "I'm tired, and there's so much to do."

"You've got to take care of yourself or you won't be able to help anyone."

"So many people need help. I feel guilty whining to you. I thought things were bad before the storm, but we're working from scratch here."

"Hmmm." I put my head in my hands.

"What are you doing?" she asked with a shaky laugh.

"I'm trying to think what my pastor would tell me."

"She would probably—"

"Shhh. Breathe for a minute."

We sat in the dim room, surrounded by unopened boxes of pinto beans and rice and canned corn, stacks of cardboard waiting to become boxes, and the dozen containers Jean had put together earlier. Outside I could hear the sound of a chain saw and distant hammering.

I reached for Jean's hand, thinking of the many times she had encouraged me, the way she had steadied me when my faith was weak.

"Even Jesus took time off," I said. "He had people to heal and sermons to preach and all those sheep you're always telling me about. He went away to pray and catch his breath."

"Catch his breath," she said. "That must be the gospel according to Lois. If you're still offering, I think I'll take you up on that ride home."

After settling Jean in what she called her prayer chair in the living room, I took a casserole, a loaf of bread, and a cobbler out of her freezer on the carport and put them in her oven.One thing Jean never lacked was homemade meals, ready to heat and eat, gifts from the people of Grace. They had quickly replaced her supplies when the power came back.

She was asleep by the time I looked in on her.

Setting the timer on the forty-year-old white stove, one of several things that needed updating in the parsonage, I stepped outside and surveyed the broken-down church. The roof sagged more, and the steeple lay perilously close to Jean's front wall. I walked across the driveway and opened the front door, swollen and requiring a hard tug. The smell of mold hit my nose, and a field mouse skittered into the choir loft.