Almost Friends (7 page)

C
harlie Gardner reclined in his La-Z-Boy watching
Jeopardy
and matching wits against an Iowa schoolteacher.

“Iwo Jima, for crying out loud. She’s a teacher, she oughta know that. Boy, I wish they’d put me on that show. I’d be set for life. Hey, Sam, bring me a little more iced tea.”

Three weeks had passed since Charlie’s heart bypass operation, and Sam Gardner was quickly losing all sympathy for his stricken father. In addition to yelling at his television, he’d been barking orders right and left. Sam and his mother were exhausted. Earlier that day, Charlie had caught them in the bedroom closet plotting a coup, scheming to exile him to the rehab center in Cartersburg. He’d fought back, employing the divide-and-conquer strategy, booting Sam outside to pull weeds and ordering Gloria to the Kroger to buy more Cheetos and Dr. Pepper.

Sam phoned the doctor to discuss his father’s temperament, explaining that he’d turned into a tyrant.

“Mood swings aren’t uncommon,” the doctor said. “Some patients become depressed, others become more mellow, but some become demanding and very stubborn.”

“How long will that last?”

“Hard to say. He could be his old self tomorrow. Then again, he could stay this way for years. Maybe he should go for counseling.”

“Fat chance of that happening,” Sam said.

Sam had suggested that very thing the week before, and Charlie had hit the roof.

“So now you think I’m crazy. Is that what you’re saying? I know what you want. You want to get me committed to a nuthouse and get all my money. That’s what you want.”

Then he’d sent Sam outside to clean the gutters. Sam wasn’t surprised. He knew that, like most men in Harmony, his father was suspicious of counseling or any other endeavor that might suggest a personal weakness.

“Psychiatrists? What do they know? They’ll set me down on a couch and ask me if my father ever spanked me, then charge me two hundred dollars. Of course my father spanked me. And it’s a good thing he did, or no tellin’ how I’d have turned out. Problem today is that fathers reason with their children, talk till they’re blue in the face. I say spank their heinies until they walk the straight and narrow, just like my dad did with me. And you’re not too old for me to do that to you, Sam, so watch yourself.”

Sam came back inside the house, just as his father came across the
Dr. Tom Show
while flipping through the television
channels. Four men were seated in a circle talking about male menopause and getting in touch with their manhood.

“For crying out loud, would you listen to that. What’s so hard about being a man? You work, take care of your family, see that your kids learn respect, and get your wife something at Christmas. What’s so hard about that?” Charlie said.

“I liked what Dr. Tom said about men needing to be more open, that they don’t always share their feelings,” Gloria said. “Maybe you’d feel better if you talked to someone about how you feel.”

“What’s wrong with the way I feel? I just had my chest sawed open. How am I supposed to feel? Happy? My son wants to ship me off to the nuthouse, and you expect me to be Mr. Sunshine.”

Sam didn’t think his mom would likely raise the subject again.

To Sam’s disappointment, the meeting seemed to be thriving in his absence. Krista Riley had delivered three sermons, to rave reviews. Bea Majors had cornered him in the produce department at the Kroger and extolled Krista’s many virtues.

“Sam, she opens her mouth, and the Lord starts speaking through her. You know how you preach from notes? Well, she doesn’t. She just stands up there and speaks from her heart. Oh, and her prayers are beautiful. I feel like I’m transported to heaven just listening to her.”

“That’s wonderful,” Sam said. “I’m glad you’re enjoying her.”

“So when did you say you’d be back?”

“In two months.”

“That soon?” Bea said, clearly disappointed by the brevity of Sam’s absence.

“So how’s everyone doing?” Sam asked.

“Real well. You know how Fern has warts real bad?”

“Yes.”

“Krista went to visit and laid hands on her, said a prayer, and all the warts went away. Every last one of them.”

“Well, that’s wonderful,” Sam said. “Tell Fern I’m happy for her.”

“That’s not all. Stanley Farlow won fifty dollars in the lottery. I tell you, Sam, ever since she’s come, we’ve been blessed.”

“It sounds as if the Lord is doing some wonderful things through her.”

“Everybody likes her,” Bea went on. “She got four invitations to dinner this past Sunday.”

Sam hadn’t received four invitations to dinner in his six years at Harmony Friends.

“And the kids just love her. She’s started a kids’ program and had twenty-three children the first night.”

“I couldn’t be happier,” Sam said, now thoroughly miserable.

“The old people like her too. She’s already been to the nursing home four times. And last week she gave a program at the Senior Center. She played the guitar and had everybody singing. She knows all the old songs.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“How’s your father?”

“Oh, he’s hanging in there. He’s awful sore still and rather grumpy.”

“Maybe Krista could come over and pray for him,” Bea suggested.

“Yes, well, perhaps I’ll call her.”

“I’m sure she’d be happy to do it. She seems to have a real heart for ministry.”

Bea appeared to have much more to say, but Sam excused himself. “Like to stay and chat, but I promised Barbara I’d be right home.”

He rounded the corner to the frozen foods, and there stood Dale Hinshaw, surveying the ice cream. Sam tried ducking behind a display of soda pop, but wasn’t quick enough.

“Hold on there, Sam. Need to talk with you.”

“Oh, hi, Dale. What’s up?”

“It’s about that woman pastor you sent away for.”

“I didn’t send away for anybody. The meeting did.”

“Well, whoever did got us a witch.”

“A witch? You mean she’s grouchy?”

“No, I mean she’s a witch. She lights a candle at the start of worship. It’s witchcraft, plain and simple. And you know what the Bible says about witches. It’s a work of the flesh, an abomination to the Lord.”

“I’m sure it is. I just don’t see how lighting a candle has anything to do with being a witch.”

“She’s conjuring up evil spirits,” Dale said. “You see any movie on television about witches, and the first thing they do is light a candle.”

“Is that so?”

“It sure is. Now what are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to take care of my father.”

Dale snorted. “That’s a fine how-do-you-do. Our church is being taken over by witches, and you’re worried about your father.”

Standing in the frozen foods, it occurred to Sam that pastoring in a small town, although in some ways advantageous, was also distressing. A simple trip to the grocery store was fraught with peril, a veritable landmine of ecclesial warfare.

He didn’t answer Dale, who stood slack-jawed, staring at Sam as he pushed his cart down the aisle toward the checkout counter, deep in thought. Mostly he thought about the other pastors he’d known, how so many of them had left the ministry weary and disillusioned.

Waiting in line, he tried to remember what it was he liked about being a pastor. He enjoyed being around people. Well, most people anyway. There were moments of pure holy radiance, when he felt transported. Though rare, those times nourished him. The pastorate was a ringside seat to life. He worried that, were he to leave it, he’d no longer witness such glories—weddings, reconciliations, and even funerals, when in the confidence of faith a sorrow was changed to joy.

He wouldn’t miss the board meetings.

“Earth to Sam.”

Startled, he looked up.

“Is that everything?” Sally Fleming asked, standing at the cash register.

“Oh, sure. Yes, sorry. How are you, Sally?”

“I’m fine. You looked awful deep in thought.”

“Just daydreaming is all.”

“We miss you at church,” Sally said. “When are you coming back?”

“Two more months. How are Wayne and the children?”

“They’re all well.”

“Good, good. Give them my greetings.”

“Give my best to Barbara and the boys. And your parents too.”

“Will do, Sally. Good seeing you.”

Sam collected his bag at the end of the counter and walked the three blocks home, pausing to visit with Uly Grant at the hardware store.

“How’s your new boarder?” Sam asked.

“Very quiet. She’s hardly ever here, except to sleep. Mostly she’s out visiting folks or over at the meetinghouse.”

Sam had been a teenager the last time he’d seen the upstairs apartment and was hoping for a tour. “So what’s it like up there?”

“Real nice. We put new carpet in, a new kitchen and bathroom and draperies and wallpaper. Pretty well had to gut the whole place and start over.”

“It was awful nice of you to donate it to the church.”

“It’s just the three months,” Uly said. “Probably better to have someone living in there anyway.”

“I haven’t been up there in years. Not since we were kids.”

“Would you like to see it, Sam?”

“Sure.”

“Well, stop by then when Krista’s here. I’m sure she’d be happy to show you around.”

The problem with Uly Grant was that he couldn’t take a hint.

“Did you hear the Darnells have started coming back?” Uly asked.

The Harry Darnell family had left in a huff in 1949 after losing a scorching debate over the proper color for pew cushions.

“You’re kidding? The Darnells?”

“Yep, Krista went to visit them and they came back. ’Course Harry’s dead, but all his kids and grandkids showed up. We had to set out extra chairs.”

“I thought they were Methodists.”

“That’s where they attended, but it turns out they never joined. Said they’d just been waiting all these years for the Quakers to invite them back.”

“Well, I’ll be. Imagine that.”

“Good thing Krista thought to visit them.”

“Yes, it was.”

“She has a real pastor’s heart,” Uly said.

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“She cured Fern Hampton of her warts.”

“Amazing,” Sam said. “Simply amazing.”

“Not that we don’t miss you, Sam. We’ll be glad to have you back.” He clapped Sam on the back. “By the way, how’s your dad?”

“Coming along, but he still needs quite a bit of help.”

“It’s a good thing you can be with him.”

“Yes, I feel fortunate. And I’m glad the meeting is in such capable hands.”

“It sure is that. She’s a dandy. My boys love her.”

Sam pushed back a rising tide of envy.

“Good to see you, Uly. You take care.”

“See you,” Uly said cheerfully. A little too cheerfully to suit Sam.

He passed his family on the way home. Barbara leaned out the car window. “We’re going to the meetinghouse. Want to come?”

“What’s going on there?”

“Didn’t you hear, Dad?” Levi piped up from the backseat. “Krista’s having a party for the kids. She’s really neat. I like her. Why didn’t you ever have a party for us?”

Now his own children were turning on him.

In the next two blocks, three church members stopped him to yammer about what a breath of fresh air Krista Riley was, enumerating her many virtues and looking disappointed at the prospect of his return.

Arriving home, he checked the answering machine. There were no messages for him—there hadn’t been for days—so he retired to the hammock in the backyard to read a book.

Preoccupied with his fading popularity, Sam couldn’t concentrate. His mistake, he realized now, was in not picking his own replacement. He should have recommended they hire the superintendent’s nephew, a toad of a man, who would have so
annoyed the congregation they’d have welcomed Sam’s return with open arms and a raise. Instead, they’d chosen someone with initiative who made Sam look like a slacker, someone who was silk to his burlap.

Doesn’t that take the cake, he thought miserably. I work my caboose off for six years, then they throw me over for a pretty face. That’s gratitude for you! He swung in the hammock, contemplating the sorry end of his career.

T
he morning of the Corn and Sausage Days parade found Sam Gardner seated in the back of Ellis Hodge’s Ford pickup truck, a
Grand Marshal
sign taped to the driver’s door, with Ellis at the wheel. The process of Sam’s being named grand marshal was a circuitous one, having begun the evening before when Harvey Muldock had phoned to report that their state representative, the Honorable Henry Tuttle, had been stricken with the flu.

Sam was sympathetic and asked Harvey if he should send a get-well card, even though he hadn’t voted for Henry Tuttle and had only met him once, when the Honorable Mr. Tuttle had shaken his hand and called him Jim.

“Send him a card if you want,” Harvey said. “That’s your business. But he was supposed to be our grand marshal, and now he’s sick. Who can we get to replace him?”

“How about Clevis Nagle?” Sam suggested. “He’s done a lot of good for the town.”

“He was grand marshal year before last.”

“Well, then, how about Mabel Morrison?”

“Too grouchy. She wouldn’t wave at people.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. How about you being our grand marshal, Harvey?”

“Can’t. I’m driving the Sausage Queen.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

Sam wracked his brain, trying to think of someone who would look dignified in the back of Ellis Hodge’s pickup truck. “Say, how about Dr. Pierce? He’s a good guy.”

“Already tried him. He has to work.”

It was apparent they would have to settle for a lower-echelon grand marshal.

“Bob Miles?” Sam suggested.

“If Bob does it, there won’t be anyone to take pictures.”

“Good point. Didn’t think of that. Hey, how about Fern Hampton’s nephew, Ervin. He’s been doing a great job with the manhole covers.”

“Nope, he’s working security.”

“Security? What security?”

“You know that money we got from the federal government for homeland security?”

“Yes,” Sam said.

“We used it to pay Ervin to check the sewer system for bombs the day of the parade. He can’t do that and be the grand marshal.”

“No, I suspect not.”

“How about you be the grand marshal, Sam?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you’d be a fine grand marshal.”

“Well, I suppose I could, if you think it’d help.”

Even though he’d been the seventh choice, Sam felt honored, though the tribute was a bit tarnished when he arrived at the parade to find Ellis kneeling by the sign taped to his truck, felt-tip pen in hand, crossing out Henry Tuttle’s name and writing
Sam Gardner
just above it.

Sam climbed in the rear of the pickup and situated himself in the lawn chair Harvey had advised him to bring, as the bed of the truck was littered with straw and cow manure. Sporting a new shirt and a fresh haircut—Kyle had opened his barbershop a half hour early to groom Sam in a manner befitting a grand marshal—Sam wished Ellis had been as particular. The truck was streaked with mud. Ellis Hodge had agreed three months before to be in the parade, but gave the appearance of having just been drafted to perform the service.

“Sorry about the mess, Sam. Meant to hose off the truck, but time got away from me.”

“Yes, well, that can happen.”

Ellis studied the slip of paper. “Looks like they got us right after the high-school band and just before Johnny Mackey and his hearse.”

“I thought the grand marshal was supposed to be at the head of the parade.”

Ellis peered at the list. “Nope. Sausage Queen first, then the Odd Fellows, followed by the Shriners on their minibikes and the band, then us.”

“Who follows us?”

“Let me see, we got the Little League teams, and the Baptists have a float, and Uly Grant on his mower and the fire department, then the past Sausage Queens.”

This encompassed nearly the entire population of the town, leaving scarcely anyone to watch, except the parents of the Sausage Queen, who were seated with other dignitaries on the balcony above the hardware store overlooking the parade route.

The night before, Buffy Newhart had been chosen the Sausage Queen, bequeathed the Sausage Scepter, crowned with the Sausage Tiara—pure stainless steel adorned with a hundred rhinestones in the shape of sausage patties and links—and had her picture taken for inclusion on the Sausage Queen Wall of Fame at the Odd Fellows Lodge. For the past three years, Buffy had aspired to royalty but had never been able to overcome her greatest defect—an overbite of beaverlike proportions. But this past year, she had given the judges something else to notice by having certain features of her body surgically enhanced, which had the desired effect. As Sam watched from the back of Ellis’s truck, he thought Harvey Muldock seemed especially attentive as he took Buffy by the elbow and helped her into his 1951 Plymouth Cranbrook convertible. He wondered how Harvey’s heart could stand the excitement of being in close proximity to Buffy Newhart. Then again, he thought, if Harvey did succumb, collapsing of a heart attack in the lovely arms of Buffy Newhart in his beloved Cranbrook convertible was a glorious way to go.

At precisely eleven o’clock, Harvey tooted his horn, turned the key, and bumped the gearshift down three notches to drive. The transmission clunked into place, the Cranbrook lurched ahead, causing Buffy to pitch forward, a not uncommon occurrence with someone whose ballast had been medically rearranged. By the time they reached the hardware store she’d recovered nicely and with the charm befitting a Sausage Queen was waving to her adoring subjects.

Three weeks into her new vocation, Krista Riley was tired but generally pleased with the direction of her life. Her classes were stimulating, stretching her mind and spirit; her ministry at Harmony Friends was, to put it mildly, interesting. Her preaching had been well received by the congregation, with the exception of Dale Hinshaw, who’d accused her of several transgressions, including witchcraft, blasphemy, and voodoo.

Frank, the church secretary, was proving to be an invaluable aide, as was Miriam Hodge, who ran interference against Dale, keeping him at bay, except for an occasional telephone recording at various hours of the day urging her to attend Harmony Friends Meeting and get right with the Lord.

Fern Hampton, despite being healed of her warts, was still aloof. When Krista had volunteered to help make noodles for the Friendly Women’s Circle annual Chicken Noodle Dinner, Fern had loftily informed her that noodle
making was something one aspired to, a rank to be attained after years of service by women whose moral character was beyond reproach.

Bea Majors had intervened, pointing out that Krista was a minister, but Fern had held fast. “Minister or not, we’ve known her less than a month. What if she turns out to be a fraud? There goes our reputation. She can make tea, but she doesn’t touch the noodles.”

The morning of the Corn and Sausage Days parade, Krista was bustling around her apartment, readying herself for the grand event, when she heard a knock on her door. She opened it to find a man and woman with unusually prominent teeth and carrying lawn chairs, standing in the hallway.

“We’re the Newharts,” they said, entering her apartment. “Perhaps you know our daughter, Buffy.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“She’s this year’s Sausage Queen.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m sure you’re quite proud of her,” Krista said pleasantly.

“We certainly are that.”

They were standing in the middle of Krista’s living room by now.

“Don’t mind us,” they said. “We’ll just take our seats on the balcony.”

“Excuse me?”

“The balcony. The parents of the Sausage Queen get to sit there, along with the members of the town council.”

No one had mentioned this to Krista, though she was starting to realize she’d been uninformed about many of Harmony’s more curious customs.

“Help yourself,” she said. “I’m off to the meetinghouse. If you use the bathroom, be sure to jiggle the toilet handle.”

“Will do,” they said.

She was late, so she hurried, the faint strains of parade music pulling her along.

When she arrived at the meetinghouse, Fern was waiting at the door, a frown on her face, peering at her wristwatch. “You’re an hour late,” she snapped.

“Sorry, Fern. I had to finish my schoolwork.”

“Don’t let it happen again,” Fern said, then handed her an index card. “This is the recipe for the iced tea. Follow it precisely.”

Krista began boiling water for the tea, then added the tea bags to let it steep, giving it an occasional stir. Fern peered over her shoulder the entire time, cautioning her to slow down. “Careful, careful. That’s tea you’re making, not a milk shake.”

As in most dictatorships, Fern’s subjects were too cowed to intervene and busied themselves with other tasks, lest they draw her attention and then her wrath.

Fern was momentarily distracted when Opal Majors dropped a bowl of ice cubes and Krista, in sheer defiance of the recipe, used the opportunity to add a tablespoon of sugar to the tea.

Fern turned around just in time to see Krista set the sugar bowl on the counter.

“What did you just do? You just did something. What was it?” she demanded.

“The tea tasted bitter. I thought a little sugar might take the edge off.”

“Pour it out. You’ve ruined it,” Fern ordered, then turned to Bea. “This is exactly what I warned you about. First she was late, and now she’s changing things.” She turned back to confront Krista. “We never put sugar in the tea. We have sugar packets. One per customer. Now you’ve gone and ruined everything. Pour it out. It’s no good now.”

“Fern, that would be wasteful,” Krista said. “It’s perfectly good tea.” Fern gasped, clearly not accustomed to having her orders ignored. The other women fell silent, glancing warily at the unfolding drama, like a herd of sheep whose most vulnerable member was being singled out by a wolf.

“Out!” Fern demanded, drawing herself up to full height, jutting her chest out, and pointing to the door. “Out of the kitchen! I knew this would happen.”

Krista began to laugh and said, “Oh, Fern, relax! As my students used to say, ‘Chill out!’”

Miriam Hodge, apparently emboldened by Krista’s bravery, tittered. Then Bea Majors tried to stifle a snort but failed, and finally all the other Friendly Women began cackling like crazed hens.

“Hush!” Fern screeched, which caused the women to laugh even harder.

Dictators can suppress individual acts of defiance, but collective mutiny is not as easily squashed, and laughter in the face of tyranny is an especially potent weapon.

“Enough of this insubordination,” Fern snapped. “I won’t have it.”

“Oh, Fern, settle down,” Opal Majors said.

For over sixty years, the Hampton women had ruled the Friendly Women’s Circle with an iron fist, crushing dissent lest it give birth to liberation. Their chief weapons had been gossip and slander, but when those failed to subdue, martial law was never far behind.

“That’s it, no Chicken Noodle Dinner this year,” Fern said. “We’re shutting it down.”

“What do you mean, we’re shutting it down?” Jessie Peacock said. “We can’t do that. People will be here within the hour. We’ve cooked all these noodles. We even advertised in the
Herald
.”

“Then you’ll have to choose. It’s either her or me. But if you pick her, I’m taking the noodle cutters with me.”

The women waited a few seconds before answering to give Fern the impression they were considering her ultimatum, then Bea said, rather timidly, “Fern, she is our pastor…”

With that, Fern Hampton harrumphed, collected the noodle cutters, and stormed from the kitchen, vowing aloud that Krista Riley’s time at Harmony Friends Meeting would soon be coming to an end.

Jessie Peacock was the first to recover. “It’d serve her right if her warts came back.”

“Don’t you worry, honey,” Miriam Hodge said, hugging Krista. “She’s always like this on Chicken Noodle Day.”

“What do you mean? She’s like this every day,” Bea Majors said.

“Fern seems really upset. Maybe I should go apologize and ask her to come back,” Krista said.

“Let’s quit while we’re ahead,” Bea said.

The women returned to their labors, and Krista joined them, appreciative of their support, but suspecting a bull’s-eye had been planted firmly on her back and that Fern Hampton was practicing her aim.