Home to Harmony (10 page)

P
aul and Judy Iverson came to Harmony Friends Meeting the first week of September. It wasn't unusual for our church to have visitors. What was odd about Paul and Judy Iverson was that they came back a second time.

Most people attend our church out of obligation, knowing if they miss a Sunday they'll feel guilty because we'll call them on the phone and contribute to that feeling. If you don't come to church, you'd better have a good reason. Staying home to read the Sunday paper is not acceptable. Visiting your mother is a good reason. Going on vacation is a valid excuse, but one you shouldn't overuse. Staying home from church because you're sick is permissible, though you need to be pretty sick. Smallpox or polio or something such as that.

Then Paul and Judy Iverson moved here from the city, attended worship on their very first Sunday, and stunned us by returning a second time. We were so sur
prised that Dale Hinshaw called a meeting of the elders to talk about what we should do, and how we could trick them into staying.

Dale proposed putting them on a committee as soon as possible so they'd feel bound to stay.

“Let's give 'em a job so they can't escape,” he said.

Miriam Hodge had talked with the Iversons both times they were here. She told us everything she knew about them. They had been married eleven years. Paul was a sixth-grade schoolteacher. Miss Fishbeck was retiring at the end of the school year, and Paul Iverson was to be her replacement. They'd bought an old house and moved here early to fix it up.

“We'll need a church nursery,” Miriam said. “They're adopting a baby. All the way from China.”

That pretty well silenced us. It took a while to digest that. A Chinese baby. In Harmony.

 

P
aul and Judy had tried since they were married to have children, but couldn't. Then one day they watched a television show about baby girls in China left in the streets to die. It was more than they could bear. The very next week Judy read a story in a magazine about a couple who had gone to China to adopt a baby girl. There was a phone number at the end of the article you could call for information. They called.

Now it was a year later, and they were three weeks away from going to China to get their baby girl. They'd told Miriam all about it, about having to fly to Los Angeles, then to Hong Kong, then to Beijing, then taking an overnight train to get their baby girl.

So the church needed a nursery, and soon. We didn't have one. When our meetinghouse had been built in 1826, nurseries were not a high priority. Back in those days, children suffered through worship right alongside their parents.

Miriam said, “You know, there's that storage closet just inside the door. I think that would hold a couple cribs and a rocker. We could fix it up nice.”

So that's what we did. Miriam Hodge sewed new curtains. Dale Hinshaw painted the walls yellow, and his wife hung Panda bear wallpaper so the little girl would feel at home. The Friendly Women's Circle paid for new carpet. It was beautiful. It was ready for a little Chinese baby.

We dedicated the nursery the Sunday before Paul and Judy left for China. We had a prayer and sang “Jesus Loves the Little Children.” I quoted from Mark 10:14, where Jesus told us to suffer the little children. Suffer, I thought, was precisely the right word. Paul thanked us and Judy cried. Then we ate cake and drank red punch, but not on the new carpet.

A baby! Just think of it. A baby in the meeting. In our very own nursery. A little girl with a good tan and dark hair. In our nursery.

They left that Tuesday. Traveled for three days. On Friday, the phone rang in the meetinghouse office. Frank the secretary answered. It was Paul and Judy. There was a lot of static and he could hardly hear them.

Then the static stopped, just for a moment, and he heard Judy say “twins.” Twins! Then he heard the word “Siamese.” At least that's what it sounded like. Siamese twins. Then the phone went dead and that was it.

Frank sat at his desk, stunned. Siamese twins. Paul and Judy Iverson had adopted Siamese twins. Oh, my.

Frank didn't know what to think. He walked into the nursery and looked at the crib. It was an old crib, but Mrs. Dale Hinshaw had painted it and we'd bought a new mattress for it.

It won't be big enough, Frank thought. Not for Siamese twins. He'd seen pictures of Siamese twins. They'd need a bigger crib. Those poor kids. Poor Paul and Judy. Such brave people to adopt these children, to give them a chance at life. What fine people.

Maybe he should tell someone. He wasn't sure. Maybe he should call Bob Miles Jr. at the
Herald
and get a fund drive going. Maybe set out a change jar at the Coffee Cup. Then he decided against it. No use in making a spectacle of this, he thought. No sense in getting people all worked up. Folks will find out soon enough. He marveled again at Paul and Judy. Such brave, kind people.

Frank knew then what he'd do. He'd build a new crib. A big crib. A crib for the Iverson Siamese twins.

 

H
e stayed up that night, drawing the plans. His idea was a simple one—he'd buy two matching cribs, remove one side from each crib, and fasten the cribs together. Yes, that would work. It would be expensive, but it would be worth it. He'd pay for it himself. He didn't have much money, but he had enough. He'd been saving to buy a new lawn mower, but this was more important.

It took him a week to build it. The Iversons were due
at church the next Sunday. On Saturday, he took the cribs apart and hauled them to the meetinghouse. It was hot, hard work. He carried them down the sidewalk and up the stairs into the meetinghouse.

It took two hours to put the cribs together. They filled the nursery. Frank checked for rough edges and splinters. He didn't want the babies to hurt themselves. Those poor children would have enough to overcome. He ran his finger over the finish. It was smooth as a Siamese baby's bottom.

He stretched the new sheets on the mattresses. It brought back memories of his little girl. Forty years ago. Making her little bed. Now she was grown and four states away. His two granddaughters were with her. He saw them once a year at Christmas. He barely knew them. He tried not to think about it.

Then he thought of those little Siamese twins. Those sweet little girls. He would help take care of them. He'd helped care for children once before. They'd need extra help, extra love. He could do it. He was sure of it. Everything would be fine. Maybe this was why God had brought him to Harmony Friends. To help the Iversons.

Then another thought came to mind. What would they wear? He worried about that. Judy would be too busy to sew. Paul would be teaching school.

Frank thought, I'll learn to sew. I can do that. It can't be that hard.

He remembered back to his mother sewing on a Singer treadle. Pumping up and down, feeding the material past the needle. He could do that. He'd make
them dresses. He'd buy them shoes. Oh, he hadn't even thought of that. How many shoes would they need? Two? Three? Four? He wasn't sure.

 

H
e stood back from the crib and looked at it. It was lovely. It was big, but it was beautiful. Painted white with little ducky sheets. The twins deserved it. He was so proud.

Then Frank returned home and went down to the basement, to his wife's sewing room. It was the first time he'd been in it since her death. It was just as she'd left it. It even smelled like her. He looked at her sewing machine. It wasn't anything like his mother's. He couldn't find the switch to turn it on. He called Fern Hampton of the Friendly Women's Circle.

“Can you sew?” he asked her.

“Of course,” she answered. “Why do you want to know?”

“I can't say,” Frank told her. “Just be ready.”

The next day was Sunday. He woke up early. He wore his best suit and got to the meetinghouse an hour before church. He dusted the crib and refolded the blankets. He wiped down the changing table.

Diapers! Oh my, what would those Siamese twins do for diapers? Diapers could be a problem.

Get a grip on yourself, Frank told himself. You can't worry about these things. Everything will be fine. Trust the Lord.

People began to arrive for worship. They gathered in the front hallway, waiting for the Iversons.

Frank hoped everyone would be polite, would not
stare or gasp. Then he thought, These are good people. They'll come through.

He heard someone yell, “Here they come!” and the front doors opened, and there stood Paul and Judy holding their Chinese twins. Paul held one and Judy held the other. Chinese twins!

People were shocked. Twins! They couldn't believe it. Beautiful, precious Chinese twins. People were shocked.

Judy asked, “Didn't Frank tell you? We called to tell you we had twins.”

Everyone turned and looked at Frank.

You don't live seventy years without being quick on your feet. Frank said, “I've been too busy to tell anyone. I've made them a crib. Come see.”

They filed into the nursery. A handful of people squeezed in around the crib. The rest of the Quakers peered in from the doorway, observing.

“Oh, Frank, it's beautiful,” Judy said. They laid the Chinese twins on the ducky sheets. Two little girls with good tans and dark hair. Frank had never seen such black hair.

 

F
rank stayed with the twins in the nursery while everyone else worshiped in the meeting room. Miriam Hodge helped him. He'd hold one, then the other. He changed their diapers. It all came back. Two wipes, three swipes, a fresh diaper, then a kiss on the head and you're done. Like riding a bicycle, you never forget.

Finally, he held them both. Rocking in the chair.
Back and forth. Back and forth. One of the girls took his finger, then the other one did the same. They began sucking, their little gums nubbing on his fingers. He'd forgotten that feeling.

He thought of his two little granddaughters. He hadn't seen them since the funeral. Wouldn't see them until Christmas. At least he hoped he'd see them then. His daughter had phoned the week before and told him not to get his hopes up, that the girls were in ballet and had to practice every day. Plus, they were taking French lessons.

He wondered at that. French lessons? Why in the world did kids living in North Carolina need to speak French?

“French lessons!” he'd said to his daughter. “What good will that do? Whenever France gets in trouble, we have to go over there and bail 'em out. What makes French so special?”

Paul and Judy and the twins lived around the corner from Frank. Frank took to stopping by every day, on his way home from the meetinghouse. He'd sit with the kids while Paul worked on the house and Judy took a nap.

One afternoon, when Judy was at the store, Frank was holding the twins and thinking about Thanksgiving. It was a week away. Paul and Judy didn't have any family nearby. They were alone, just like Frank. This would be the first Thanksgiving since his wife had died. Maybe Paul and Judy and the twins could come to his house.

He asked Judy about it when she got home from the store.

“Say,” Frank said, “I've just been thinking that if you don't have any plans, maybe you and Paul and the girls could come to my house for Thanksgiving.” He held his breath. Oh Lord, please let her say yes. He didn't want to be alone.

“That would be nice,” Judy said. “We'd love to. Thank you for asking.”

 

S
o that Tuesday, Frank went to the Kroger and bought a turkey. A twenty-pounder. Three cans of cranberry sauce. Two dozen rolls and instant mashed potatoes with a jar of gravy. Plus a twelve pack of RC Cola.

He woke up early Thanksgiving morning. Took the turkey from the refrigerator and squinted at the directions over his glasses. Why did they have to print these instructions so small? He saw the number
185.
There, that was it. One hundred and eighty-five degrees. He set the oven on bake at a hundred and eighty-five degrees. Bake for seven hours, the label read.

Frank put the turkey in the oven. This was a breeze. At one o'clock, he pulled the turkey from the oven. Opened the cans of cranberry sauce and poured them in a bowl. Stirred up the potatoes. Warmed up the gravy. At two o'clock, his doorbell rang.

They were here. Those nice people with their beautiful little girls. Frank hurried to the door and swung it open.

“Come in, come in,” he said. “The turkey's done cooking. I just have to set the table.”

Judy helped him. They set the turkey in the center.
This was the best part. Cutting the turkey. Frank's favorite part.

But first, a prayer. Short and sweet. Cut to the chase. The Lord knows your heart and is not impressed with flowery speech. This is Frank's theory.

“Dear Lord, thank You for this food. Thank You for these babies. Please be with our families. Amen.”

He cut into the turkey. It was a little pinker than he remembered turkey being. He cut down through the turkey. Pinker still. He kept cutting. There was a piece of plastic. Plastic? What was plastic doing in his turkey?

Judy asked, “Frank, did you take out the bag of giblets?”

“Giblets? What are giblets?” Frank asked.

Judy kind of grinned.

Well, you don't live seventy years without being quick on your feet.

Frank said, “You know, I believe the McDonald's over by the interstate is open. How do you feel about Big Macs?”

“I like Big Macs,” Judy said.

“So do I,” said Paul.

So that's what they did. Judy cleared the table while Paul drove to McDonald's. Frank sat in his rocking chair, holding the girls, their little gums nubbing on his fingers.

The Iversons stayed four hours. The girls slept on Frank's bed with pillows piled around them, while Frank and Paul and Judy played Scrabble and drank RC Cola at the kitchen table. Every now and then, they'd sneak into Frank's bedroom and look in on the twins.