Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen (8 page)

“Catherine Grace, that is not what I meant, but if you're going to act like this, well, I might just leave your ass in that stable with the other donkeys, where apparently it belongs.”

I stared at Hank in disbelief. I couldn't believe Mr. Perfect had said that to me, the preacher's daughter, of all people. Hank Blankenship was human after all. We both burst out laughing. And in that moment, I started looking at Hank differently. I had never noticed that he was a full head taller than me or that his arms were thick and rippling with muscles, or that his eyes were as blue as sapphires, or that Catherine Cline Blankenship had kind of a nice ring to it.

Oh, my God, I liked a boy, and not just any boy. I liked Henry Morel Blankenship. Gloria Jean said I had had an epiphany, an epiphany of the heart. Martha Ann loved the sound of that. “Oh, an epiphany of the heart,” she echoed, “just like Romeo and Juliet, sort of, well, without the feuding families and the suicidal ending.”

All I knew was that every time we practiced our lines, I discovered something new and wonderful about him, like this sweet, tiny dimple on the left side of his mouth that grew deeper and deeper the more he smiled.

No, no way, I kept telling myself. I couldn't like him. And he certainly couldn't like me. But what if he did like me and we started dating and went steady and got engaged and then . . . married? I could end up living in Ringgold, raising his family, and growing his tomatoes. No, no, no. This was not part of the plan that I had rehearsed for the past sixteen years. I could not let some gorgeous, kind, generous, adorable, dimpled, football-playing Christian boy lead me astray.

Daddy announced our pageant from the pulpit every chance he got, and with so much advance publicity, the church was packed by curtain time. Most of the little kids had to sit on the floor just to make room for their parents. And though Hank and I had practiced our lines a thousand times, now waiting in the hallway, I started to sweat and feel kind of faint. I wasn't really scared about being in front of so many people; practically growing up behind the pulpit, I was used to that. But I had never been in front of so many people with such an important secret hidden in my heart.

I mean, would they be able to tell how I really felt? Would Miss Raines or Mrs. Roberta Huckstep or Ruthie Morgan or, worse yet, my own daddy know that secretly, deep down inside, I was falling in love with Hank? Would they be able to tell that Mary was having some very impure thoughts about Joseph? Leaning against the wall in the hallway outside the sanctuary, I slowly slid to the floor. I didn't even notice Hank standing in front of me, leaning over my body.

“Catherine . . . Catherine,” he said ever so gently. “The shepherds are waiting. It's time to go on.” But I just gazed at him standing there draped in an old green sheet that probably came from his mama's linen closet and said nothing.

“Catherine, hey, are you in there?” he asked, touching my cheek with his fingertips. “Come on, we gotta get you to the barn before the Christ child is born without us.”

I looked up to see Hank holding out his hand. As I propped myself up against the wall, Hank leaned over me. He held my cheek in his hand and whispered in my ear, “I doubt the Virgin Mary looked as beautiful as you do tonight.” And then he kissed me on the cheek.

When I walked into that sanctuary holding Hank's hand, I didn't look like some poor pregnant woman in the throes of labor who'd spent the last day or more riding in the back of a tractor-trailer. No, I looked like I had just won the monthly sweepstakes at the Shop Rite. And while the shepherds, or in Hank's version the farmhands, were announcing our Savior's birth, all I could think about was how much I wanted to wrap my arms around Joseph's waist, hold him tight against my chest, and French kiss him long and hard. That's right, I wanted to fall down in the hay and kiss him till my lips were sore. And I was pretty sure that was some kind of very special Christmas sin.

I said all my lines on cue and even managed to force a tear when the baby Jesus, who would save all mankind from their sinning ways, was finally born. But by that time I figured the entire congregation could see that I was the first sinner who was going to need some saving.

Miss Raines rushed up to me after the performance and pulled me into her arms.

“Catherine, you were wonderful. You absolutely glowed tonight. I don't think I've ever seen you with such a smile on your face.”

“Well, you know, it's, uh, well, the Christmas spirit and all.”

“Whatever it was, sweetie, you were great,” she said. And then in a hushed tone, she added, “I know that your mama is so proud of you tonight.”

Oh my Lord. I was so in love with a boy that even my mama could see it from heaven. Oh God, maybe I really was glowing. I pulled my scarf farther down on my face and tried to act as though I had forgotten that Hank had kissed me on the cheek. But inside I felt like a bug flying to the light. I just couldn't resist his strong arms or his warm blue eyes. And he wasn't making it any easier for me, either. After the Christmas pageant, he walked me home with his arm around my shoulders, just to keep me warm, he said. At school on Monday, he found me in the cafeteria and squeezed his body in next to mine at the lunch table. And he started stopping by my house every day on his way home from school. True love was, as Gloria Jean had prophesized, more powerful than the both of us.

By Valentine's Day, it was official; we were going steady, something the other girls at Ringgold Senior High had a hard time accepting. The most popular boy in school had fallen for the sassy-mouthed girl who'd never had a boyfriend before in her life. Yep, that would be me.

I could tell by the way Ruthie Morgan and her friends whispered in one another's ears whenever Hank and I walked down the hall together that they were convinced that young Mr. Blankenship was wasting his time with the preacher's daughter. And I didn't know for sure, but sometimes I wondered if they were right. I wondered if Hank loved me because I was the one thing in his life that wasn't perfect.

But whatever his reasons, Hank wanted to be with me, all the time. And it wasn't long before we had developed a predictable yet wonderful routine of our own. We studied together every Monday night at Hank's house, where his mother would fix us spaghetti and a green salad tossed with Thousand Island dressing. On Wednesdays we went to the Young Life meetings at church, and before taking me home, Hank would drive me over to the Dairy Queen for some fries or a chocolate-dipped cone, knowing good and well I ate Dilly Bars only on Saturdays with Martha Ann. Then every Friday night he came to dinner at our house, something my daddy seemed to enjoy almost more than I did. They'd talk about sports and President Carter and just about everything in between. Daddy never acted like he regretted not having a son, but he sure did enjoy borrowing the Blankenships' once a week.

Sometimes when we were alone, I could barely keep myself from giving all I had to Hank Blankenship. Gloria Jean called it
the gift.
Daddy called it
the sin,
at least until your wedding night when it magically became
the gift.
The touch of Hank's hand on my breasts made me feel more like a woman than I figured any number of classes at Miss Lilly Martin's School of Etiquette and Social Graces ever could. There were times when we parked in his red truck down by Chickamauga Creek, when he'd unbutton my blouse and I'd toss his shirt on the floor, and I could feel his warm, smooth chest rubbing against my breasts. My entire body would flutter with excitement and I was pretty darn willing to give and sin all over Hank's beautiful, perfect body.

But not Hank. No, he said it wouldn't be right. Nothing beyond second base until there was a ring on my finger, especially with me being the preacher's daughter and all. Once again, being the preacher's daughter didn't seem to be working in my favor.

It shouldn't have been any big surprise that by the time graduation rolled around, people—not just our friends but Hank's mother, Gloria Jean, my own daddy, even me—started speculating about a possible Blankenship-Cline engagement. I mean, we had been dating for almost a year and a half and apparently that was almost as much of an official proposal as that ring on my finger Hank kept alluding to.

“Catherine, have you and Hank talked about your future, after graduation and all? I know you've been planning on leaving town, but I thought you might be rethinking that, you know since Hank's in your life now,” Daddy said as we were standing in the kitchen one night cleaning the dinner dishes.

“Daddy, no boy is going to stand between me and my dreams. You ought to know that, believe it or not, not even Hank Blankenship. When this little birdie flies the coop, she's going to build her very own nest in a tree that's really big with lots of cool-looking branches,” I said emphatically.

But inside, I was having doubts, big doubts about whether I'd be able to step out of the only nest I'd ever known. I loved Hank. I knew that. I couldn't imagine being without him. But I couldn't imagine living the rest of my life in Ringgold, even with Hank. I kept encouraging him to go to college, go to Georgia Tech, heck, I could learn to cope with a Yellow Jacket. He could be a veterinarian or a lawyer, anything but a dairy farmer. The biggest dream he had was going to the community college down in Dalton, studying a little agriculture, and coming back to Ringgold and working his daddy's farm.

I couldn't understand why he didn't want more. He wanted me. He told me that. But every time I asked myself if I wanted to grow his tomatoes, I felt sick to my stomach. Sometimes I wondered if my own mama ever felt sick to her stomach. Did she ever have thoughts of being something more? Was she afraid that Daddy was going to be the only true love of her life, and out of fear or stupidity, gave up her dreams and got married?

My head was spinning, something it had been doing an awful lot these past few months, but thankfully the only question Hank had on his mind was whether or not I was going to be his date for the Senior Prom.

Daddy asked Gloria Jean to drive me to Chattanooga and help me find a dress. I think even he was willing to admit that shopping for a formal gown was one of her God-given talents. So early one Saturday morning, Martha Ann and me piled into the front seat of the LeSabre and headed the twenty-something miles north to Chattanooga.

We got there an hour or so before the stores opened and decided to have breakfast at a cozy diner next to Love-man's department store. We sat in the last empty booth in the back of the diner and did what all the other women were doing, sipped coffee and hot chocolate and chatted about the day's possibilities. I kept thinking this would have been something Mama would have done with me, which made me feel excited and sad all at the same time, a kind of awkward, empty feeling that had become all too familiar.

As soon as the store opened, Gloria Jean took Martha Ann and me by the hands and walked us through the front doors and up a long flight of stairs. A white-haired woman wearing a navy blue dress and navy pumps appeared be fore us and offered to help, like a star guiding the way. Once she heard Gloria Jean say the word
prom,
she indicated she had heard enough and led us into a room that was filled with long, sequined dresses. She placed me in a fitting room and carried in seven gowns to try, each one a different color and fabric.

Another woman, dressed more like a waitress than a sales clerk, followed her into the fitting room, and without uttering a word insisted on helping me dress. I hadn't had anyone help me dress since I was a tiny girl. I didn't feel particularly comfortable with this stranger seeing me in my bra and panties, but she never gave me a chance to protest. As soon as I was zipped and buttoned into a gown, she would start drawing pins from a small red cushion strapped to her arm and placing them along the seams of the dress. When she was done, she positioned me directly in front of the mirror and stepped back so everyone, especially the woman in the navy suit, could see.

Martha Ann gasped, seeing each new gown on my body. “Oh, that one's it! Pick that one!”

But my favorite was made of pink moiré, with wide straps that stretched across my shoulders and crossed over my back. It was gathered at the waist and had a soft full skirt. Teeny pink beads were sewn all over the bodice. It was the most feminine thing I had ever seen. I had never loved a piece of fabric as much as I loved this dress. Gloria Jean agreed. This was the one. She talked to the saleswoman, and then explained to me that a few alterations would be made and that the department store would mail the dress to my house in a week or two.

With the color of the gown decided, we walked downstairs to the shoe department. I hadn't thought about shoes, but Gloria Jean told the sales clerk that I needed a pair of two-and-half-inch heels, closed toe, peau de soie, and that they must be dyed to match the dress that was upstairs in alterations. I didn't care what Daddy thought about Gloria Jean being married five times. When it came to formal wear, the woman knew what she was doing. While the sales clerk slipped different shoes on and off my feet, I just sat there and smiled. I had never owned a pair of heels, let alone pink ones, and I had never had a man put a pair of shoes on my feet before. I couldn't help but feel like Cinderella, squeezing my foot into the glass slipper until I looked down and noticed for the first time that my toes seemed exceptionally skinny and long.

Gloria Jean told me to stand up and try walking on the carpet. She took one look at me wobbling across the floor and said, “Honey, you are going to have to do some practicing in those shoes before the prom, or I think you'll come home in a cast.” Martha Ann was laughing so hard, Gloria Jean had to tap her on the shoulder to remind her she was in a public place.

We left the shoes to be dyed and made arrangements for the department store to mail the shoes along with the dress when both were ready. It felt kind of funny to do all this shopping and then leave empty-handed. Gloria Jean must have thought so, too, because we were headed toward the front door when she suddenly stopped at the jewelry counter. She turned toward me, lifted my hair off my shoulders, and asked what kind of earrings I was thinking of wearing, knowing good and well I didn't have a clue what kind of earrings I was thinking of wearing.