Forever Friends (5 page)

“All my life, I've never had a secret.” Beatrice rested against the chair. “My family would tell each other things at the dinner table before I got there, and then Daddy would make them hush before I ever heard the joke or the story.” She dropped her hands in her lap.

“My sisters and their friends, they used to giggle and talk real low to each other, and I'd try to be a part of the group, try to find out the things they said. The things that made them blush and laugh and seem to come alive, the whispers behind a shield of hands, the silly notes they guarded like they were money or read privately and then tore up into tiny little pieces and scattered them in the fireplace.”

She looked away. “Everybody always said I was too young or that I would tell.” She stopped briefly, then added thoughtfully, “That I talked too much.”

Louise almost laughed out loud to think of Beatrice as a little girl. It was funny to imagine the kind of child she must have been.

“And then I had my own friends, and I'd find out all these things that everybody else knew days or months earlier and that nobody had told me.”

Beatrice's bottom lip began to tremble, and Louise suddenly realized the magnitude of what the other woman was telling her.

“I was always the last to know everything, always, always last.” Beatrice began to cry. “And then there was Robin and Jenny, like two thieves they were so tight. And I wanted to be more than a mother to them. I wanted to be their friend. But as soon as I would walk into the room where they were or get in the car or sit beside them at the table, they'd just clam up, just quit talking, like I was the enemy or something.”

She drew in quick breaths. The tears stood in her eyes and then fell. She reached in her pocket and pulled out a tissue.

“And now this.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Now I'm married to a man who has this”—she searched for the right description—“this terrible burden of a secret that he won't tell me.” She looked at Louise. “Me, his own wife.” She slid her hands down the front of her skirt. “What kind of marriage is it that you can't trust your spouse to tell them this thing that makes you so unhappy, so bothered?” Her voice was stretched, yearning. “Or is it me?” She dropped her face in her hands. “Is it that I'm such a terrible person that nobody trusts me enough to tell me anything?”

And with that it was as if her heart burst, as if years, decades, of sorrow poured across the dam, breaking through every confidence, every assurance, every defense she had ever used to make herself believe it hadn't mattered. “Am I really that bad of a person?”

Louise sat still as her friend fell into the pit of her own dirty little secret, her own cave of vulnerability that she had hidden so well and so long that no one could have guessed it lay buried beneath the veil of ease. Beatrice had never ap
peared to be upset by what she hadn't known. She had only displayed concern when she couldn't fix what she knew. Louise watched in astonishment as her friend emptied out her sorrow. She'd had no idea that this woman, this bothersome, socializing, busybody woman, could be so completely and terribly alone.

Louise did not get up from her seat. She measured every word she wanted to say from this marked distance between them. She waited and then began.

“Beatrice Newgarden Witherspoon, you are one of the finest women I know. You are kind and well intentioned. You are brave and caring and loyal.” She stopped.

Beatrice kept her face in her hands, but she was no longer sobbing.

“I don't know why other people haven't told you their secrets. I could not begin to explain the actions of somebody else. I can hardly explain my own actions.” She shrugged her shoulders and sighed, but Beatrice was not watching. “Older sisters and daughters I can sort of understand. You were the enemy to your children and a pest to your siblings.” She rocked back in her chair without losing the intensity of her concentration on her friend's great concern. “And sometimes when girls are young, they just tell their secrets to whoever happens to be there at the right time. It isn't a matter of trust or who you like more; it's just about convenience, who was there when it happened. Who was at home when you thought to call and tell somebody.”

Beatrice lifted her head. Her eyes were red and puffy.

“And I don't know what to say about Dick. Maybe he's worried that this secret will change how you think about him.”

Beatrice shook her head, but Louise resumed talking before she could say anything in response.

“Or maybe it's not his secret to tell. Maybe his brother or his sister-in-law begged for his confidence, demanded he not tell anybody. And even though that might feel awful to you, even like betrayal, it isn't. This secret and not telling it isn't about you or your marriage. It's about them.” She stopped and then continued. “And you've got to let it be. You've got to be the one who trusts him. He'll tell you when it's the right time for him to tell you.”

Beatrice turned away.

“And sometimes, Bea, people don't tell their secrets not because they don't trust somebody or love somebody enough. Sometimes we don't tell our secrets because we're trying to forget them. It's easier just not to say.”

Louise finished her speech and watched as Beatrice sat quietly. She was motionless, calm, displaying not even the slightest physical reaction to what her friend had said. She just stayed lowered in her chair, dissolved in her seat like a child in the principal's office.

Louise did not hurry her or ask her if she was okay. She just sat across from her and waited, thinking that a person never really does know the depth or scope or consequences of the secrets another person can hold inside herself. How even the bearer of the secrets herself never fully understands the burden of her what is clasped and cluttered within the cham
bers of her own heart until what has been inside comes out. Until what was kept in darkness is brought into the light. And once it is seen or heard or spoken, once it is released from its captivity, once the buried truth is unearthed, it is enough to restrain any temperament, arrest any trailing talk, enough to halt the call for explanation or the need for anything more. The telling of one's secrets silences even the confessing tongue.

There was a long and noiseless passing of time before Beatrice moved. She stood up from the corner chair and walked near the mirror so she could see herself more clearly. She picked away the tiny pieces of tissue that were stuck to her eyelids and cheeks. She found her makeup case in her purse and slowly smoothed on some powder and then, using her fingertips, brushed on a little blush. She painted on her lipstick, patted her thin pink lips together, touched up her short brown hair, and studied the line of her profile, the slight angles of nose and chin. Then she turned to Louise to show her how much better she was.

“Thank you,” she said and then spun around to face herself again.

“And now,” she said with a huge exhalation, “how do you feel about riding in the car with an old crybaby?”

Louise stood up and walked around the desk, knocking over the pile of magazines next to the trash can. She pretended not to notice. “I would be honored.”

The two women did not embrace; they just stayed that way, squared off and satisfied, until Louise finally decided
that she had one more thing to say. She pulled on her coat and stuck her hands in her pockets.

“By the way, Bea,” she said warmly, “it's no secret why you wanted me to have that article.”

Beatrice tried to act surprised by the presumptuous remark. “What do you mean, Lou?” she asked.

“‘Local Woman Opens Retreat Center for Gay Vacations'?” Louise waited for a reply.

Beatrice reached over and picked up her purse and walked around her friend. Then she waited as Louise moved past her out of the room. Beatrice turned off the lights and followed her down the hall until they both stood at the front door.

“I don't know what you're talking out, Lou. I thought it was just an article about that funny kind of gardening you do.” Beatrice opened the door.

“Uh-huh,” Louise answered. “And you claim not to know anybody's secret?”

Beatrice put on her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck. She slipped on her gloves and scanned the house, making sure it was okay to leave. She walked out and pulled the door shut behind her.

The bright afternoon sun surprised her, and she shielded her eyes from the glare with her hands while trying to remember if her sunglasses were in her purse or somewhere in the car. She stopped, thinking. And then suddenly she recalled that she had left them in the console, in the cup holder that wasn't big enough for anything except an aluminum
can. She nodded as a positive sign to herself and then faced her friend to answer what had been left undeclared.

“Really, Lou,” she said with a certain flavor, “your sexuality is hardly a secret to anybody.” And she walked past her friend, who was standing on the porch, down the steps, and around the car without ever cracking a smile.

O
h, Lord, that's going to make a mess!” Jessie was up from the sofa and into the kitchen before Charlotte
could say the prayer of thanksgiving, the last part of the communion service, or tell her parishioner that it didn't matter that she had spilled grape juice down the front of her blouse.

They had read from the Gospel of Luke, said a prayer of confession, and eaten the small wafers symbolizing Christ's body. She had just finished saying the final words of institution for the sacrament, “This is my blood shed for you, the blood of the new covenant, and as often as you do so, take and drink and remember me.” Then James and Jessie and Charlotte sipped from their cups.

Somehow the pastor had pulled the tiny vessel away from her lips too quickly and the juice dripped down her chin and onto her clothes. At least three spots colored her new light blue cotton blouse. And now that Jessie had left the room so abruptly there was also an awkward lack of completion to this ritual of pastoral care. She set her cup on top of her communion kit and closed her Bible. Just that kind of a day, she thought, and waited for Jessie to return.

The older woman had called her pastor a week before they were to leave for Africa and asked her to bring communion the night before their trip. At first Charlotte was surprised since she had never shared in the religious ritual with somebody going on a vacation. She had given the sacrament to sick people, troubled people, grieving people, but she had never given it to vacationing people. So at first she wasn't sure it was appropriate or exactly how she should pray or what words of institution she should use.

She wasn't sure if she should follow the order of service from her worship book or just make it more informal and ask God for protection and traveling mercies. She didn't know what Jessie was expecting.

But after she hung up the phone and pondered the request and reconsidered what it meant to leave one's home, even if it was only for a trip, offering communion to Jessie and James made perfect sense. After all, Jesus got the idea for doing this when he knew he was going to die, going to leave his friends. It was a sort of “don't forget me when I'm gone” gift, a good-bye memento. So upon her pastoral examination, it seemed quite logical to her that people should receive the bread and wine when they were going away, making a transition. Jessie had come up with a perfect idea.

Charlotte was now even considering offering it to people next summer, an extra service on Sunday afternoons for people heading out for vacations. It might help the church build community and stay connected in a season when people go in so many different directions.

James broke the uncomfortable silence after he wiped his mouth and set his cup on the coffee table. “You know, she's going to make you go in there so she can clean that.” Then, remembering Jessie's thoughts about stains on the furniture, he picked up the small cup and placed it on a coaster.

“Here, try this.” Jessie rushed back in the room and handed Charlotte a white cloth dipped in salt water. “I think this is what Dorothy said to try on fruit juice. I've never actually used it myself.”

Charlotte took the cloth from Jessie and dabbed at the area where the juice had spilled. The solution was cold, and the area around the stains, growing larger and wetter, began to stick to her. She reached one hand up the inside of her blouse and began to rub the cloth across the blotches. Then she pulled her hand out and looked down.

“It really isn't a big deal, Jessie. I have lots of these stains on my clothes.” She handed the cloth to the woman standing over her. “One of the drawbacks of my vocation.”

“Professional hazard,” James added.

Charlotte nodded.

Jessie frowned and thought for a minute about offering to clean the stain herself or trying to get Charlotte to come into the pantry and make a stronger attempt at removing the spot but decided to let her pastor handle it her way. She held out a dry hand towel.

“And what does Dorothy West know about getting out grape juice anyway?” Charlotte settled in her chair. She took the towel and patted the wet area, trying to dry it.

Jessie returned to the kitchen and responded loudly, “Aunt Dot knows about getting out everything.”

Charlotte seemed surprised. She quit patting at the stain. “Dorothy West.” She stopped. “Dorothy West is Aunt Dot?”

James shrugged his shoulders. His eyebrows lifted in a question mark as if he wasn't sure of the answer.

Jessie walked in and sat down on the sofa before she answered. “Don't tell me you didn't know that.” And she
picked up James's plastic cup, wiped off the bottom, and then placed it on a napkin she had left on the table.

“No, I didn't know that.” Charlotte tried working a bit more on the stain. “Dorothy West is Aunt Dot of Aunt Dot's Helpful Hints?”

“The one and only,” Jessie replied.

“My gosh. I never heard that before.” She placed the towel across the arm of the chair and shook her head in disbelief. Then she reached up and tightened the lid on the grape juice container that was on the table in front of her. “That column is printed in papers all over the Southeast.”

“Yeah, it's become quite popular.” Jessie stacked the three communion cups and handed them to Charlotte. “Lana even said a publisher was interested in putting a book together of all of her tips. A sort of Martha Stewart thing.”

“Are we finished?” James asked. “I mean with the activity.”

Charlotte nodded in affirmation, thinking it was funny that James had called the sacrament she had shared with them “the activity.”

She placed the cups in the plastic sleeve and shut the lid on the small leather box. Then as she thought more about Dorothy, she responded with just one word, “Amazing,” and sat back in her chair, taking note once again of her soaked blouse, now clinging to her chest. She had a parishioner who was famous. “Do you think people really write those letters, or does somebody make them up?” she asked, having known about the column in the daily newspaper but never actually having read it.

Jessie turned to notice the clock on the desk near the door. It was getting late. “She says she gets letters from people all the time, so I guess they're real.” She tried not to focus on the stain on her pastor's blouse. “I can't believe you never knew that she was Aunt Dot.”

Charlotte put her chin in her hand, trying to remember if anyone had ever informed her of this; maybe she had just forgotten. But she thought about it and realized that she simply had never been told.

“I can't imagine Beatrice not talking about it.” James reclined, putting his arm around his wife's shoulders.

“Well, I think Bea has always been a little jealous of Dorothy's success,” Jessie said quietly.

Charlotte wondered if Beatrice had had Aunt Dot in mind when she started “Bea's Botanical Bits” for the garden club newsletter. “When did she start writing?” she asked Jessie.

“Oh, she's been doing that article for years. Somebody she knew at the Greensboro paper asked her to do something about household hints a long time ago. It was supposed to be just a monthly thing about cooking and decorating. And then it eventually turned out to deal mostly with stain removal, cleaning stuff.” Jessie wiped the bread crumbs into the dish towel. “And then they wanted her to write more. People began to call the paper and ask for her. So that's when she became known as Aunt Dot. And she started writing her column in a letter-response form. Seems like she just had a knack for that sort of thing.”

“Is her stuff accurate? I mean, does salt water really take
out grape juice?” Charlotte glanced down again at the huge damp area on her blouse. The dark spots did appear to be less noticeable.

“I think she's usually right about the things she says.” Jessie had once called Dorothy about grease James had tracked into the house. The older woman had told her to sprinkle baking soda on the stain and vacuum it up the next morning. She had done what Dorothy had suggested, and the next day the grease was gone.

Jessie noticed the area where James had walked in from the kitchen that day so long ago. The carpet was old and torn near the edges, but there was no mess.

Charlotte was still trying to figure out how she hadn't heard that Dorothy was the cleaning matron of North Carolina when James cleared his throat. She took it as a hint and changed the subject to the things at hand.

“Well, I'm glad you called me to come and do this.” She reached out and touched Jessie on the arm. “I know you'll have a great trip.”

Jessie smiled only slightly, as if she was not sure. “I hope so.”

James squeezed Jessie's shoulder and turned toward Charlotte, who had noticed the odd reaction from her friend. “She's worried.”

“Yeah?” Charlotte looked at Jessie with the question. “About what?”

James answered for her. “About everything.” Then he clarified. “Like whether we got enough money or if the
plane will drop from the sky, the off chance we might get malaria or attacked by wild animals.”

Jessie rolled her eyes at her husband. “I haven't said anything about wild animals.” And she playfully pushed against him with her shoulder.

“No, but you have said you're worried that the safari we're planning to go on isn't safe.”

Jessie leaned against the sofa and explained to Charlotte. “I've read stories of how these tour guides get people out away from the city and into the jungle and then they mug them and leave them out there.” She shook her head.

The preacher was confused. This didn't seem like an issue that would bother Jessie. “Do you have information about the guides you're using?”

“Very reputable,” James replied. “The best in Kenya, we've been assured by the travel agent.”

“Yeah, but you never know who they could hire.” Jessie folded her hands in her lap.

“Then talk to the manager before you go out, find out how long the guide has been with the outfit, make sure you have other people going with you,” Charlotte said, thinking of ways to settle Jessie's mind. It surprised her that Jessie needed this kind of reassurance.

“We know all the tourist safety tips. This is the best safari outfit in East Africa. All the rich people use this one.” James paused. “Trust me, Jessie has researched this trip like she was planning to start her own travel agency. She's just getting cold feet.”

Charlotte sat up and rested her elbows on her knees. She was directly in front of her parishioner. She stared at her, trying to understand the reason for her discontent.

“You're going to have the time of your life,” she said. “This is wonderful that you get to go to Africa. You've been dreaming about this, talking about this, for over a year. Everything is taken care of. You know every place you're going, every hotel, every restaurant. You've checked out everything. It'll be great. And now you know that Margaret is fine.” She reached out and took Jessie's hands. “It'll be great!” she repeated.

Jessie nodded, trying to act convinced. “Thank you, Charlotte. And it is wonderful news about Margaret.” She paused while she held her pastor's hands, remembering Margaret's appointment earlier that day. She appeared to relax. “And thank you for bringing us communion.”

She turned to James. “It just makes me feel better knowing I received the sacrament before we left.”

“Absolutely,” Charlotte said as she stood up. “It was a wonderful suggestion, and I'm glad you thought of it.”

Jessie and James got up from their seats, facing Charlotte.

“I'm going to miss you like crazy,” Charlotte said sincerely as she hugged Jessie. “Buy lots of souvenirs. And make sure you write.”

Then she hugged James. “She'll be fine. Just get her a couple of cocktails on the plane and she'll forget all of her worries.”

“That's exactly what I plan to do,” he answered and kissed Charlotte on the cheek. “Thanks for coming over.”

“You betcha.” She took a deep breath and faced Jessie. “Oh,” she said, “I have one more thing, a gift for your trip.” She bent down next to her chair and picked up her purse and reached inside. She pulled out a small zippered cosmetic case and handed it to Jessie.

“What is it?” Jessie unzipped the top and peered inside the case.

“It's a little travel kit I made for you. It has international stamps, a phone card, some Band-Aids and Dramamine, sewing supplies, a little clothesline, even a stain stick.” She glanced down at her blouse. “Maybe I should keep that for myself,” she smiled.

Jessie pulled out a piece of folded paper from the kit and turned to Charlotte.

“It's a copy of the friendship recipe from the cookbook.”

Jessie's expression softened.

“I don't want you to forget us,” Charlotte said. This was her bread and wine sacrament.

“That's highly unlikely,” Jessie said nervously as she slipped the paper into the case and zipped it back together. “But I thank you for the sentiment. It's a lovely gift and I will treasure it and use it on the trip.”

Charlotte picked her communion case off the table and her purse from the chair.

“Oh, wait, let me get your coat.” James moved around the sofa and headed toward the bedroom.