The Potluck Club (18 page)

Take, for instance, the day Clarice Stephens took sick and went home from her job at the drugstore. Clarice had never so much as missed a day of work in her life, that much is true, and when she came down with what we all thought was some twenty-four-hour flu bug and couldn’t stand up straight, she went home at 4:30 from her usual 8:30 to 5:00 shift. At 4:30 she was only a half an hour short, mind you. She hadn’t gotten in her driveway good but what Sharon was calling everyone on her prayer chain, saying Clarice had that year’s deadly virus from some foreign country as yet unknown.

Turned out Clarice had a light case of vertigo. Doc Billings cleaned her ears out good and gave her some medicine, and she was good as new in no time, ringing up Midol for the young girls in town and Preparation H for those of us who’d heard it was good for removing wrinkles from around your eyes, as well as other things.

All this to say it was no real surprise the morning after our Potluck Club meeting that Sharon was ringing her hands and pacing back and forth in front of the church, looking more like death than Jan Moore ever could. I’d hardly slept all night and didn’t look much better. Not only was I wrung out from the club being at my house, but also—of course—there was the news about Jan, not to mention that the cleaning out of my closets had left me more than a little drained. It wasn’t just clothes I was choosing to get rid of but rather what felt like a lifetime of wrong thinking. Naturally, today I had
nothing
to wear except something dated, but I knew next week would be different. Next week there would be a whole new Evangeline Benson, at least on the outside. I’d still be the same on the inside, somewhat angry with God and willing to bet that after he took Jan Moore from us, I’d be even more so.

Sharon ran to me as soon as I stepped out of the car. The air had more snap to it today than the day before, and I was grateful I’d worn my dress jacket. “Hello, Sharon Kanaly,” I said matter-of-factly when she reached me.

Sharon looked first to me, then to Leigh, who pulled her full weight out of the passenger’s side of the car, then back to me. “Hello, Mrs. Kanaly,” Leigh greeted. “Aunt Evie, I’ll go on inside and get settled in our seats.”

“Our seats,”
she’d said, meaning the same seat I’d sat in since I was a child swinging my little legs back and forth—left, right, left, right—and noting the sheen in my shiny Mary Janes against the stark whiteness of my frilly socks. One thing was for certain, when Peggy and I were children, Mama dressed us to the nines on Sunday mornings.

“Did you hear the news?” Sharon asked me, jutting her neck so she looked like one of those birds from down in Florida.

“I assume you’re talking about Jan Moore.” I began walking toward our tiny church, toward sanctuary I knew would not come easy today. “To be honest with you, I thought it was going to be kept under wraps for a while.”

Sharon kept step with me as I looked around, noting the other members as they milled toward the front doors of the church or the side door closest to the nursery, for those who had little ones. “Well, naturally the pastor told Curtis this morning, wants him to find out who they need to contact within the medical community.”

I stopped, turning to face her. “This morning? And you know already?”

“Well, Evie. It’s not like husbands and wives keep secrets from one another.” She blanched. “Oh. Well, maybe you don’t know. Well, they don’t.”

“I see.” I started walking again. “Will a formal announcement be made this morning, then?”

“I just saw Jan in the kitchen and told her I thought she should come right out and tell the congregation, no need to keep it a secret. After all, between my prayer chain and your little prayer group, I think we’ll have her covered, don’t you? I think that’s what we’re called to do as brothers and sisters in the Lord.” The way Sharon said “Lord” was more like “Lower-ed,” which made me smile in spite of myself.

“I have to say I agree with you. Did she say what she was going to do?” We’d reached the front doors and were nearly surrounded by other members.

Sharon shook her head no. “But I believe she’ll do the
right
thing, don’t you, Evie?”

“I’m sure she will,” I said, then turned slightly as one of the teenage boys from our congregation opened the door with a “Here you go, Miss Benson.” I winced. Like I didn’t have the strength to open a door myself. Still, manners need to be observed, no matter how I might be feeling.

I settled myself in my favorite pew next to Leigh, we being the only two in that particular row and on that side of the room. Vonnie and her husband, Fred, sat in front of us, Fred smelling faintly of motor grease and Vonnie smelling like sweet talcum powder. The two scents together made my nose wrinkle, which Leigh caught, and she laughed. As soon as I settled, having taken off my jacket, Vonnie turned to me and whispered, “Did you know that Sharon Kanaly is already aware of Jan’s illness?”

I nodded. “She accosted me outside.”

Fred turned his heavy-set balding head our way and shushed us. “Girls,” he said. “This
is
the house of the Lord.”

I frowned at him. “Like I don’t know that, Fred Westbrook.”

He twisted his neck a bit more. “Good. Then stop gossiping long enough to act like it.” He then glared at Vonnie, who said, “Fred’s right; I’m sorry.” She smiled sweetly at her husband, nuzzled shoulders, and then turned back to the front.

Leigh smiled at me again, waggling her brow just as the choir—all ten members of it, including Goldie Dippel and Lisa Leann Lambert—walked in from a little side door, taking their places in the loft behind the pulpit.

Grace Church begins each service by singing a little “good morning” song. As soon as our pianist, Carrie Lowe, hit the first chord, we began to sing. I found myself choking, however, when we got to the words about rejoicing in the day. How could I possibly rejoice, I wondered, when there in the front row of the church, sitting straight and tall, was one of the best women God had ever put on his green earth and that woman was dying. I stared at the back of her head, watching the tiny movements of it as she sang along with the congregation. I wondered what thoughts might be beating against her heart at this moment and then reflected on how I might be feeling were I her, knowing I was dying.

The song finished. Pastor Kevin—who’d been leading us—called out, “Greet one another in the name of the Lord!” Leigh and I winked at one another and then turned to the pew behind us, where the Fairfields—Todd and Julie—sat with two of their three children. “Good morning, Fairfields,” I said. “How’s Abby?”

Julie Fairfield took my hand. “She’s fine, Miss Benson. Just fine. Loving every minute of school.”

“My alma mater, you know,” I reminded her needlessly.

“Yes, ma’am.” She turned to Leigh, taking her hand. “How are you, Leigh?” she asked.

“Big as a house,” Leigh answered.

Julie smiled at her, and I caught a look in her eyes.
I’ve been
where you are
, it said.
Pregnant and unmarried.
I realized Leigh wouldn’t know this; it had happened long before she would have caught the gossip, but I thought it might bear telling later on in the morning. “Leigh,” Julie said in a low voice, leaning over the back of our pew. “If you ever need to talk . . . I’ve been where you are. Abby—”

So much for telling her later,
I thought, though it took a moment for Leigh to understand. When she did, I watched a light shine in her eyes. “Oh, really? Thanks. I’ll do that. I really will.”

Julie Fairfield took a deep breath and sighed as though she’d just let the biggest cat out of the bag and it had caught some church mouse. A bit uncomfortable, I turned back to where Vonnie should have been standing but was not. Instead, she was at the front, holding Jan Moore’s hand and talking intently to her. Naturally Sharon Kanaly was within earshot, and I couldn’t help but frown.

I took a step to join Vonnie (and push Sharon out of the way), but something stopped me. I wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready to take death by the hand again. Instead, I reached for Leigh’s, squeezing it with mine, and for the first time thought favorably about the life she carried inside.

19

Her life will never
be the same . . .

Clay heard about it first from Donna, who stopped by the café on her way home from the club meeting. She was chalky and visibly shaken and sat on a barstool. But she was close enough that he could ask her, “What’s going on?”

At first she just shook her head; then she ordered a cup of coffee to go. Clay stood, walked over to her, and leaned against the counter. “Come on, now,” he said, noticing a tear slip down her cheek. That’s when she told him that Jan Moore had been diagnosed with cancer.

Clay shook his head. “Dora Watkins was in here the other day. Said she didn’t think Jan looked well.”

“Dora Watkins,” Donna said, eyes wide. “Hey, she beat cancer, didn’t she?” Hope registered for the briefest of moments, then settled.

After church services the following day, it seemed everyone in town knew. As Clay ate his Sunday luncheon special of sliced ham, creamy potatoes, and green beans, he listened to the agonized whispers of those who spoke as though they’d buried the lady already.
“Geez O’Malley, there’s a lot going on around this sleepy little town”
he wrote later. He continued pecking at his typewriter.

And you don’t have to be as observant as I to know that with the birth of Leigh’s baby and the possible death of one of the town’s most beloved members, life around Summit View will never be the same.

Especially for Evangeline and the ladies of the Potluck.

20

Savory Family Dinner

On Monday afternoon I was a woman with a mission. As soon as I’d closed down the computer in the high school’s library, tucked chairs neatly around the few tables the county school system had afforded us, and then locked the door leading into the hallway, I walked back through the library and made my way to my office. Without a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed my purse from inside a desk drawer, turned out the lights, and slipped out the back door, which led to a corridor used exclusively by faculty and the occasional students who were room assistants. Mrs. Hall, one of the second-grade teachers, was coming down the hallway with a stack of disarrayed papers in her arms. She greeted me kindly with, “Going home, Lizzie?”

“Actually, no. I’m headed for the public library.” I turned the doorknob to assure myself that it had locked.

“Oh?” Janet Hall is a pretty young woman—one of our newer educators—with large innocent eyes and a smile bookended with deep dimples. She and her husband of two years are expecting their first child in seven months or so. We all wondered whether or not she’d come back to teach or decide to stay home and be a full-time mommy.

“Research,” I said, walking beside her. “I’m going to read everything I can about breast cancer, cancer treatment, cancer centers. Basically anything I can get my hands on in hard copy. I’m going to look up some things on the Internet too. I know I could do that here, but I want the full scope at my fingertips.”

“Is this because of Jan Moore?”

Janet is a Methodist and doesn’t attend Grace Church, but that certainly doesn’t matter. Everyone in Summit View knows Jan, knows her and adores her. “Yes,” I answered. “I’m a lover of research, as you may or may not know. I intend to have some information to share with her by this time tomorrow. Hopefully enough to shed some light on the situation. We’re not going to take this lying down, you know.”

We reached the outside door, and I opened it. “Thank you,” she said, to which I replied, “Think nothing of it.”

“And what do you think of the situation?” she asked me as we continued toward the employee parking lot.

“I believe . . .” I began, then choked. I took a deep breath and continued. “I believe in miracles,” I finished.

Janet raised her eyebrows. “If you believe in miracles, why are you researching?”

Reaching my car, I pulled keys out of my purse, then looked her dead in the eye. “I believe that through modern science we see God’s miracles. Now don’t get me wrong. I also believe in those miracles man cannot explain. But if you ask me, when a disease destroying a body is brought to a stop by man’s intellect—which is God’s gift in the first place—then we still have a miracle.”

Janet nodded, then moved on. “I can’t argue with that. Let me know how it goes,” she called behind her, to which I replied, “Will do.”

A few minutes later I drove my Acura into the parking lot of the Summit View Public Library, got out, and hurried toward the front door. The temp was dropping again, and I had a fleeting thought about snow, hoping it would hold off at least until I got home.

I walked into the warmth of the large open room dominating the whole of the library. Kristen Borchardt, a librarian and a friend of mine, met me. “Lizzie, I’m so glad you came in,” she said.

I stopped. “You are?” I smiled at her.

She motioned for me to follow her to a room behind the U-shaped checkout and returns counters. I walked around to the little half door that swung inward, pushing it with my knee, then followed through. Kristen was already in the room and standing on the other side of the desk when I walked through the doorway. “Come here,” she said, pointing to the chair behind the desk. I noted that there were several stacks of magazines and books sitting neatly on top. “I’ve already gathered together a few books and periodicals for you. Some medical journals too.” She tapped one of the stacks with her index finger. “They’re all up-to-date. Every single one of them.”