Though None Go with Me (24 page)

“I might have been able to help him.”

“I know,” Lisa said. “People in pain are your specialty.”

“I should have written or called, but what could I say after so many months? He didn't bother to let me know, so—”

“So you didn't even send him a card that year.”

“Or last year. Or this. I think he finally got the message.”

“No card from him this year?”

Elisabeth shook her head.

“It's never too late to send one.”

Elisabeth was desperate to change the subject. “Stay with me.”

“Can't. Gotta go.”

“I won't be able to button this dress.”

“Sure you will. I'll button all but the top two, and Frances can help with those, if necessary.”

“Come with us. Frances won't mind—”

“Grandma, stop! I'd love to, but I, uh, have a lunch date already.”

“A date?”

“If you must know.”

“With whom?”

“None of your business.”

“Of course it is! Now who?”

“Well, it's not just one.”

“Lisa!”

“And they're not all men.”

“Well, then tell me.”

“I'll tell you all about it later.” Lisa stood.

“You'll come by then, promise?”

“Promise. Now let's get you downstairs and get your outfit ready so all you have to do is slip into it.”

The house felt colder with Lisa gone. Most weekdays when she didn't check in, Elisabeth usually stayed in her robe. It was all she could do to get from the kitchen to the bathroom and to her chair. Lisa had bought her a used black and white, but reception was so poor that she hardly ever watched except for fifteen minutes of Walter Cronkite late in the afternoon and the occasional
This Is Your Life
with Ralph Edwards.

Lisa had set the newspaper on the table next to Elisabeth's chair and unfolded it for her. It still felt cold as she tried to smooth it with swollen-knuckled fingers. She passed up the entire front page and the editorial page blather about LBJ's Great Society and what the first family was doing over the holidays. She skipped any article with Vietnam in the headline and pored over the engagement announcements and the obituaries. Then it was straight to the comics. Blondie, Out Our Way, and The Berrys amused her, but then her lack of sleep came calling and she began to nod.

The paper slipped to cover her legs from just above the knees. It felt so toasty she didn't try to retrieve it. She tucked her hands into the large pockets of her robe and let her chin fall to her chest. Her neck would ache when she roused, she knew, but for now it felt so good, so cozy, so …

Elisabeth dreamt of a woman, a large, loud, red-dress wearing amalgam of Dellarae and Frances. Frances had expanded in her maturity and her voice had become fluttery but no less voluble. The woman in Elisabeth's dream looked and dressed like Dellarae but moved and sounded like Frances.

Elisabeth and the woman were playing in the schoolyard, kneeling to tend to their jump ropes. Though they were their present ages, Elisabeth moved like a little girl and Frances had a huge head of ringlets. “I could vomit!” she said.

“Regurgitate,” Elisabeth corrected, and her large, old playmate pointed at her, threw back her head, and laughed so heartily that Elisabeth had to laugh along.

She woke herself laughing, or was it the blast of frigid air from the front door, the squeaking of the hinge, the stomping, that voice?

“Elisabeth, I expected you'd be ready!” Frances bellowed, shutting the door and moving heavy-footed into the front room. “You're not even dressed!”

“I'm sorry, Frances,” she said weakly. “I don't feel much like going.”

“Nonsense! Here are your things. Now on your feet, up you go. That's my girl. So many people waiting.”

“Where?”

“Well, down at the cafeteria, like I said. Only place open today. Turkey dinner for two-ninety-five. My treat.”

“How do you know people are waiting?” Elisabeth said, as Frances helped her out of her robe and into the dress. The cold emanated from her friend's coat.

“Because I called them, that's all.”

“You didn't tell them this was a birthday lunch, did you?”

“Well—”

“Please, no.”

“They're not going to any fuss—”

“Oh, Frances!”

“I had to make sure we could get in. They assured me we could, and they're holding a table, that's all.”

“But I don't want people making a big show—”

“I told them that, all right? Now come on. They're holding a table. The least we can do is not make them hold it too long. Elisabeth, this dress is stunning! And the rest of the ensemble! My! Lisa had to have put this together.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Not that you don't have taste and style, Elisabeth. Of course you do. But you so seldom buy for yourself. Lisa did this, didn't she?”

“Of course.”

“What a sweet girl.”

Elisabeth's boots and winter coat didn't do justice to her look, but she could not venture out without them. She covered her glasses with an oversized sunshade and held Frances's arm as they carefully managed the steps.

“What's that thermometer say?” Elisabeth said.

“I don't want to know and neither do you,” Frances said, and Elisabeth could see only the huge vapor cloud her friend emitted. But she heard something from next door.

“What're they doing?” she said. “Going somewhere?”

“Looks like it,” Frances said, holding open the car door. “In you go now.”

Elisabeth felt the ice in her lungs with each breath. “Where would they be going?”

Frances bent to help lift her feet and swing them into the car. “Honestly, Elisabeth, you are the curiousest woman I've ever known!”

“Curiousest?” Elisabeth said, laughing as Frances shut the door and hurried to the driver's side.

As she slid behind the wheel, Frances said, “You know what I meant. How would I know where your neighbors are going?”

“Well, what are they wearing? Going sledding?”

“A sled would freeze to the hill today. They're bundled up but sort of dressed up. Satisfied?”

“Could you just ask them—”

“I am not about to stick my nose into your neighbors' business. I don't care where they're going and neither should you!”

“All right, all right, Frances. When did you stop that?”

“Stop what?” Frances said as she backed into the street.

“Caring about the neighbors' business.”

Frances grinned. “Don't start with me, Elisabeth. You know it's only my own neighbors' business I care about.”

The day was bright and clear, the roads packed with squeaky snow. Frances drove very slowly, and as Elisabeth's eyes gradually adjusted to the glare, she peered out to see why. Cars were parked on both sides of the street.

“Can't anyone get into their driveways?” Elisabeth said. “You'd think boys would want all this shoveling money. Wouldn't you? Hm? Well, what do you make of it, Frances?”

“Make of what?”

“All these cars!”

“Honestly, Elisabeth, I don't know! How
could
I know? I don't care! I'm just trying to get you to lunch in one piece.”

“Then why'd you turn here?”

“What?”

“You turned the wrong way. The new cafeteria is straight down the hill next to the drugstore.”

“I know where it is! I made the arrangements.”

“You're going to the church?”

“I need to pick up something.”

“I thought we were making the people at the cafeteria wait.”

Frances pulled in to the church lot, which was full except for one cleanly shoveled place right by the back door. “Will you shush while I run my errand?”

“You're the second person who's shushed me this morning. What in the world is going on here today?”

“Sit tight a minute and try not to think of any more questions!”

Frances left the car running and waddled to the back door. The sun glared off the windshield, so Elisabeth covered her eyes with her hand and felt as if she could nap again. She racked her brain for what might be going on at Christ Church. She remembered nothing in the bulletin Sunday, but that had been five days before.

She started at a light tap on her window and squinted through the frost at Walt Burke and Ike Slater, two of the elders. They were in shirts and ties, but no coats.

“You'll catch your death,” she said, as Walt opened her door. “I'm just waiting for Frances Childs.”

“Yeah, she asked if you'd come in a minute.”

“Oh, I don't mind waiting.”

“It's a lot warmer in there,” Ike said, reaching to help her out.

“Well, all right then,” she said, wishing she could muster the courage to refuse. If they'd let her be, she'd have been as comfortable as a woman could be on a day like that.

The big men all but lifted her across the sidewalk and inside. Ike Slater's wife beamed at her. “Let me take your coat and boots,” she said.

“Oh, I'm not staying, Gladys,” she said.

“Just for a minute,” Gladys said, kneeling to unfasten her boots. Elisabeth was half a heartbeat from snapping that she would just as soon be left alone, but the men steadied her as her boots came off. “Such lovely shoes!” Gladys exulted. Elisabeth sighed.

Then it was off with her coat and Ike and Walt helping her down the stairs with her feet barely touching the steps. Gladys followed, clucking about her dress. “Where
is
Frances anyway?” Elisabeth said, as she emerged into the fellowship hall.

The men let go of her and Gladys stepped past her with a self-satisfied grin. Elisabeth's eyes worked overtime to take it all in, but from what she could make out, hundreds of smiling people had packed the place and stood staring at her.

“Well, hello,” she said, and they broke into applause and a raucous chorus of
Happy Birthday.

How could she have been so dense? She had been had! Frances, yes, and even Lisa had pulled it off. This was all for her. She wobbled at the weight of it, and Ike and Walt steadied her, then led her to the seat of honor.
Oh, no, anything but this!

Her padded chair was on an elevated platform decorated with white streamers and balloons under a latticework arch. Spotlights illuminated her as her lips quivered—as much from embarrassment as emotion—and she felt conspicuous and rude sitting there while everyone stood applauding and singing.

She caught Walt Burke's eye and beckoned him. He leaned toward her and she grabbed his tie to pull his ear to her mouth. The crowd laughed as it sang, obviously assuming she was scolding him for this surprise.

“Is my Lisa here?”

“Of course, ma'am.”

“Get a chair for her and get her up here next to me.”

“But this is your place of hon—”

The song wound down and people cheered.

“How well do you know me, Walter?”

“Known you all my life, ma'am.”

“Then you know I mean it. Get her up here with me or I'm walking out on my own party.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A
re you all right, Grandma?” Lisa asked as she mounted the makeshift platform. “Do you need a pill?”

“I need a paddle for you,” Elisabeth scolded. “And I'm not going to sit up here eating alone in front of all these people.”

“They're not even looking at you,” Lisa said. “Look.”

“I don't dare.”

“Come on, I mean it. Look out there.”

Elisabeth didn't trust her aging eyes, but she tried to peer past the spotlights. Lisa was right. People paid her no attention.

“Feel better?”

“A little. What's for lunch?”

Pastor David Clarkson, no youngster himself anymore, prayed for the food and for the “occasion and the woman responsible for our celebrating,” then sent the hungry toward tables heaping with hot dishes, salads, and desserts. It was potluck and Lisa went to the front of the line to fetch plates for herself and the guest of honor.

“You know just what I like,” Elisabeth said when Lisa returned. “But you forget my appetite has shrunk.”

“I'm just here to serve,” Lisa said. “I like what you like, so I'll clean both our plates.”

“Not unless you want to look like me before your time.”

“I'd love to look like you at your age.”

“I'd love to feel like you look,” Elisabeth said. She only picked at a meatball and a chicken casserole, but two large cups of iced tea didn't slake her thirst. “I wish they'd turn off these spotlights.”

“And leave you in the dark? Not likely.”

“I suppose there's some program. I've been to these before.”

“You've never been to one like this, Grandma. Wait till you see who's here.”

“People outside the church, you mean?”

“Almost half from outside, I'd say. Didn't you see all the traffic, the cars parked up and down the streets?”

“Yes, but—”

“All because of your bash.”

“Nonsense.”

“You'll see. Look in the back.”

“I can't see that far.”

“I'm not asking you to look at faces. Look at the tables, the chairs, the crowd.”

Elisabeth looked. The place was jammed. “Has the fire marshal seen this?”

“Oh, Grandma!”

“I'd better not be expected to say anything.”

“What do you think?”

“They can stick a microphone in my face, but I don't have to say anything.”

“Unless you want to.”

“Unless I want to.”

“You'll want to.”

“Don't bet the farm.”

“You pass up an opportunity to
testify?
I'
d
bet my life.” Elisabeth caught the hint of sarcasm, and it pierced her.

Elisabeth worried she would need a bathroom break before this shindig was over, and she wasn't about to make that obvious.

“This is thoughtful, Lisa,” she said, “but you know all I care about is the people. Can't I just say hello to them one at a time?”

“Of course. That comes later. People want to greet you corporately first.”

“Oh, please.”

“You don't have to like it. It's as much for them as it is for you. Many of them came great distances.”

“There aren't going to be gifts, are there? You know an old lady gets to where she couldn't use one more blessed thing. Except a party outfit, of course.”

“The invitations said ‘no gifts,'” Lisa said.

“You sent individual invitations?”

“All over the world.”

“Wherever did you get the names and addresses?”

Lisa smiled at her as someone came to clear their places. “This was a huge effort,” she said. “A committee, leads, lists, you name it.”

“I'm touched.”

Lisa squeezed her grandmother's shoulder. “I should hope you would be. It seemed like everyone we located knew of someone else who wanted to be here.”

Still, Elisabeth was puzzled at who would be there and from where.

The program began with music. An ensemble from the choir sang. Two soloists followed, then a primary girls Sunday school class. It had been many years since Elisabeth had taught that age, but Pastor Clarkson explained that the singers mirrored “her most representative classes.”

“And now,” he added with a flourish, “we have a particular surprise for you, because, Elisabeth Grace LeRoy Bishop, this is your life!”

Just like Ralph Edwards, the pastor read from a big scrapbook. Slides were projected on the wall, depicting converted black and white photos of Elisabeth as an infant, a young girl, an adolescent, and so on. Many elicited gales of laughter as well-known church members were also portrayed younger, thinner, and with more or different-colored hair. The changes in fashion also amused everyone. Elisabeth was stunned to silence to be reminded of so many students and fellow parishioners from years hence.

From out of her field of vision came the mature voice of a young woman. “You may not remember me,” she said, “but I was in your Sunday school class twenty years ago. I'm thirty now, and my hair is darker. Back then you called me a towhead, and I was offended until I learned that simply meant that I was blond.”

The pastor announced, “Mrs. Bishop, welcome one of your many students from the 1940s, Irene Gammil, now Irene Hamilton!”

“Irene?” Elisabeth gasped, as the woman mounted the platform and hugged her.

“We all made it,” Irene said, as Elisabeth tilted her head back to search for some vestige of the little girl she remembered.

“All of you?”

“That's right,” Pastor Clarkson said. “All seven of your primary girls are here from your class of 1945.”

One by one the women took the microphone and told what Elisabeth had meant to them, how she had taught them to pray, to memorize Bible verses, to tell others about Jesus. All but one were married and had children. Those had Christian husbands, and all seven were active in their local churches. Three were Sunday school teachers.

Elisabeth wanted to spend time with each of them but barely had time to collect herself before an elderly woman was ushered in. The bent lady held the microphone close to her mouth in shaking hands and spoke so quietly that a hush fell over the place. “You don't need to hear my voice from offstage, Elisabeth, because you wouldn't recognize me anyway. I haven't seen you for exactly forty-four years. This white hair was red back then, when I attended your wedding right here in this church. I'm eighty-four years old now, but I wouldn't have missed this for the world.”

She looked at Elisabeth expectantly, but all Elisabeth could do was open her hands in puzzlement. “You knew me as Rose,” the woman said. “Rose Morton. I worked with your father, and truth be told, I explained to you the facts of life.”

Elisabeth covered her face in embarrassment while Miss Morton absorbed the laughter and applause. “Now if I can be serious for a moment,” she said, “I want you to know, if you ever doubted it, that you were the apple of your father's eye. He was so proud of you and loved you with all his heart.”

Elisabeth felt tears welling and a sob rising, but she merely smiled and applauded, glad she did not have the floor. What a treat it would be to greet her father's nurse again after so many years.

Frances Childs strode out with the microphone, eschewing mystery and announcing that “Elspeth would know my voice from down the block!” She recounted their lifelong friendship, the ups and downs, and how she was once told not to call Elisabeth Elspeth anymore. “I found out that was her beloved Will's name for her, and I gladly relinquished it to his memory until now. It's no secret Elisabeth was and is more spiritual than I. I'm grateful she never condescended to me over it. With her husband in the hospital for all those years, still she taught, sang, played, attended, and everything. I couldn't be happier than to call her my friend. I just hope I outlive her, because I'd like to say this at her funeral.”

Elisabeth laughed as she waved off her old friend, then embraced her, knowing she would soon lose the battle with her tears.

The daughter of missionaries Elisabeth had written to for decades spoke next and told how much her faithfulness had meant to them. Pastor Jack Hill's daughter, whom Elisabeth had never met, was now retired from the mission field herself and spoke of her parents' glowing letters about young Elisabeth.

A middle-aged man was next. “I met you only once,” he said, “and I would not expect you to remember. I was an aide at the rest home where your Aunt Agatha spent her last days. Anyone who knew her knew how she was perceived, and however bad that was, it was probably accurate. But she loved you, Elisabeth. If you ever wondered what happened to the list of blessings you wrote out as a child, I'm here to tell you. She entrusted it to me.” He pulled a sheet from his pocket and unfolded it. “‘My blessings: God. Christ. Holy Spirit. Bible. Church. Father. House. Warmth. Brain. Curiosity. Books. Lamp. Food. Bed. Clothes. Training Hour. Friends. Aunt Agatha (sometimes).'”

He turned to face her. “As you know, your aunt made her peace with God before she died.”

The now sixty-year-old son of itinerant evangelist Kendall Hasper told of how his father never forgot the night Elisabeth dedicated herself to God as a thirteen-year-old. A girl Elisabeth had not seen since camp as a teenager said Elisabeth had been a model to her “of devotion to Christ, of how even the most menial task could be done for the glory of God.”

A woman's voice came through the P.A. system. “Being five years younger than you seemed like a big deal forty-five years ago, Elisabeth. That was when I was working at Snyder's with you, and getting away with murder because I was A.W.'s niece. Is it too late to say I'm sorry?”

A man with a thick southern accent drawled, “Ah 'member you and yore husband-to-be bein' more'n kind to me and my brother and sister and cousins when we was living with y'all at the boarding house. I'm Carl, Will's nephew.”

The tears finally burst from Elisabeth when she heard the unmistakable voice of Charles Jackson, the orderly at the State Hospital who had tended to both Will and Bruce. He was white-haired now, but she recognized his voice immediately and would have known him anywhere. “I'm a believer and have been for 's long as I can remember,” he said, “but I don't guess I'll ever see a better example of love and faithfulness than I saw in you, ma'am, standing by your husband and then your son. Sitting there singing, reading your Bible, writing them letters, why, you were an example to me, ma'am, and I'll always say I was proud to know you.”

Elisabeth saw the tears roll down his cheeks as he bent to hug her, and they both held tight as they wept.

A man in his late thirties recounted growing up on the same street as the Bishops and told the story of Bruce working the donut man for five for a nickel. “We all knew he got that negotiating skill from his mama,” he said.

The next man said, “I don't reckon there are too many people in this room that's done time in the Jackson pen, but I was a cellmate of Ben Bishop for nearly two years before he died. He was a troubled guy and gradually lost his memory. But somethin' that never left him was thoughts of his mama. We all knew ya without meetin' ya, ma'am, 'cause of what Ben told us and because of all them letters and packages you sent. I finally found the Lord myself a coupla years back, and you had more to do with that than you'll ever know.”

Another voice from offstage, but Elisabeth knew immediately to whom it belonged. “I only met you once, ma'am, and that was at your daughter's funeral. I wasn't much to speak of as a son-in-law prospect, bein' older than you and havin' a past like I did. But you never once made me feel low-class, and your constant letters always encouraged us, and me especially, in my faith.”

Cliff lumbered into view and Elisabeth stood to embrace him. She couldn't wait to talk more with him.

She leaned to Lisa, who held her hand in both of hers. “I have to go to the bathroom in the worst way. Is there anybody I've ever known anywhere who's
not
here?”

“It's almost over,” Lisa whispered. “But everybody's going to want to hear from you.”

“No, I said—”

“Just keep it short.”

“Trust me. If I say anything it'll be, ‘I'll be right back.'”

Elisabeth didn't recognize Ben's voice at first. How long had it been since she had seen him? She did the math. He was seventy now, and his voice sounded it. “I was your first fiancé,” he began. “God and life had different plans for us, Elisabeth, but you need to know that you always shone in my mind as the kind of a Christian we all can and should be. No longer can Henry Varley say, as he said to D. L. Moody, ‘The world has yet to see what God can do through one totally dedicated to him.' Moody said that by the grace of God he would be that one. You made that commitment in your heart, and we here all bear witness to what God has done with your total dedication.

“I asked to be last today so that I could sing one of your favorite songs.” A pianist began with a quiet introduction to “I Have Decided to Follow Jesus,” but as Benjamin Phillips stepped out to sing, Elisabeth interrupted him.

“Excuse me,” she said, and Ike Slater quickly passed her a microphone and the pianist stopped playing. “Hold that thought, Ben. I want to hear that song, and I don't guess there's any way out of me having to say a few words, but I'm an old lady and I need a break. My granddaughter is going to accompany me, and I'll be right back.”

The crowd responded with laughter and applause, and many others followed her lead. Elisabeth was stunned to get a peek at Ben as she made her way out on Lisa's arm. He was dressed dapper as usual with two-tone spats, beige slacks, and a checked jacket and tie. But he was thin to the point of being almost gaunt, and his hair was pure white and wispy. He still had those sparkling eyes and the olive skin, but the scar on his neck was obvious and his limp severe. Her heart broke for him and all he'd been through. It would be good to get a few minutes with him as well.