Blessed Is the Busybody (10 page)

This, at least, was in our favor.

We were fifty miles and three cigarettes closer to Cleveland before the conversation turned back to the prudery of the good folks of Emerald Springs.

“You know, I’m skating on the edge with the store,” Bob said. “I thought I’d have a lot more money to put into it. Then the stock market took a dive, but I was already committed. So I started with less than I expected. Now this tempest in a teapot is going to cost me.”

“It means that much to you to include an adult room? You could just do what everybody else does and keep the stock the protestors object to out of sight.”

“I’m not going to let those right-wing, Moral Majority bigots dictate to me. We have freedom of speech in this country.”

I thought there might be other compromises Bob could make that would satisfy everybody, but I knew better than to suggest it. On this subject he was sure he was right.

“Church people are bad enough, but it’s really the fault of that bozo Frank Carlisle and politicians just like him,” Bob continued. “Not to mention Brownie Kefauver and half the city council. They feed on these kind of issues. They come out of nowhere, put their finger to the wind to see which way it blows, then they cash right in.”

Frank Carlisle is one of Ohio’s thirty-three state senators, and unfortunately, he belongs to Bob and me and the 329,998 other people he represents in our large, rural district. He used to be one of our representatives in Washington, but he retired from that job about six years ago in his early sixties, preferring, he said, to work on a smaller scale and a more personal level.

In my mind, every time a politician moves down of his own accord, it means there’s a scandal he’s trying to avoid, but what do I know? Anyway, it’s a toss-up which position was worse for Ohio. Do we want people like Carlisle am-bushing American ideals and Ohio’s reputation on a national level? Or do we want to keep that blessing closer to home?

“Has Carlisle or Kefauver jumped into the fray?” I asked. “Or are you speaking generally?”

“Generally, for the moment. Kefauver’s trying to figure out which position will get him the most votes in the next election. Carlisle’s trumpeting American values so loudly his listeners think they’ve been recruited to picket anybody that moves, chews, or has an opinion. But he’ll be making it personal soon enough. You know he’s coming to town, right?”

I could see why he was frothing at the mouth. That wasn’t going to make things better.

He saw me shake my head. “To dedicate the new service center. The one they’re building out on Gleason Road?”

I knew about the service center since it was a big deal in a small community, but only vaguely. “When’s that?”

“I don’t know, a couple of weeks I think. Maybe a little sooner. And who knows, he gets wind of what’s going on with my store, he’ll drop by to add his two cents’ worth before the dedication. No stone left unturned. You wait and see.”

“Maybe he won’t bother. Maybe this issue is too small.”

“It’s not small to me. I already had to refinance my house. And by the way, just make a list of anything you see today that you think we should carry. I’ll have to work out the costs before we order a single book.”

I wondered if Keely needed help marketing her birdhouses. I suspected I was going to be at loose ends very soon.

By the time we arrived at the trade show and parked, Bob was in a better mood. He’d smoked three more cigarettes to lift his spirits while I vowed silently never to set foot in a car with him again.

We separated at the door so we could each cover half the room. The exhibition hall was huge, and Bob had promised I would be home in time for dinner. Ed was getting back from Columbus in time to pick up the girls and make his specialty spaghetti sauce.

I wandered, entranced. I love books, and I started reading to my daughters the moment they emerged from my womb. Even now that Deena reads to entertain herself and Teddy is sounding out words in simple chapter books, I still read to them every night. I’m not sure which is more fun, the girls or the books themselves. Sometimes I wonder if we have children because our own childhoods aren’t long enough.

As I looked I wrote down some promising titles, skipping those about subjects so gloomy they would deaden young readers to the evils of the world or turn them into insomniacs. That left me with a plethora of books, but I was careful and only wrote down the best to save poor Bob from embarrassment.

Thumbing through picture books on one publisher’s revolving display rack, I pondered why most of the celebrities in America thought they could write simplistic moral tales, when their own personal lives were a total mess. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, expecting to find Bob.

“Aggie, what are you doing here?”

Joan Barstow is the head librarian at Teddy’s new school, and a member of our congregation. She’s plump and gray haired, and she has perpetual laugh lines at the corner of her lips, the kind of librarian a child feels comfortable asking for help. Better yet, under that friendly librarian exterior beats an adventurous heart. Joan is a former champion in the calf roping division of what is now Women’s Professional Rodeo, and she has a small farm outside of town where she trains half a dozen quarter horses. Deena worships her.

I explained about Book Gems and told her I was here with Bob.

“You drove with him? How did you stand the smoke?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t be driving home in an hour or two, would you?”

Joan grinned. “I’ll take you back.”

“I’ll muck out stalls for a week in gratitude.”

“Don’t worry, Deena and her friend Tara keep them clean as a whistle.”

We wandered rows together, stopping at promising booths. Joan pointed out authors her elementary readers enjoyed, and we found a few new ones who seemed promising. I wrote down a few carefully chosen titles and Joan made notes, as well. We picked up enough calendars, bookmarks, and key chains to fill a piano crate. Our canvas bags sporting the show’s logo were piled high with catalogs and advance reading copies.

“Bob’s generating a lot of heat,” Joan said as we neared the middle of the room where I expected to run into my employer. “But I guess he can afford it.”

“I’m not sure,” I said carefully. “A business needs all the customers it can entice.”

“Well, he’s probably banking on the fuss going away. And with his family fortune, I’m sure he doesn’t need any real money from the store. I suspect it’s more of a hobby.”

I didn’t think she was probing. Joan seemed sure of herself.

I did the probing. “Family fortune?”

“Don’t you know? His mother’s family owns two of Cleveland’s salt mines. I’m sure that’s why he settled in Emerald Springs. The Springs used to be their family home. And Bob’s probably going to inherit the mines someday, so he’ll want to be close by to run them. There’s other family money, too, I think, but the salt mines are the biggest part. I’m sure he must own enough shares to keep going.”

The fact that Cleveland had salt mines surprised me as much as the fact that Bob had plead poverty to me. “Salt mines?”

“The residue from an ancient sea. It’s supposed to be more than fifty feet thick. Most of the road salt for the northern states is mined right here. No one knew about the mines until the 1950s, then they discovered there’s a deep warren of underground rooms leading miles out into the center of Lake Erie.”

Like any good librarian, Joan had the facts at her fingertips. “I had no idea,” I said.

“There’s a tour you can take, or at least there used to be. Maybe Bob could get you in. You take an elevator way down a shaft into total darkness.”

“I’d rather have my teeth pulled, thanks.”

She laughed. “Anyway, Bob should come into a bundle unless somebody discovers a cheaper, more effective way to deice the roads.”

Either Bob didn’t expect this windfall anytime soon, or like a true cheapskate he had exaggerated his financial burdens so I wouldn’t ask for a raise in the next decade.

By the time we met up with him, I had scribbled the names of six dozen more books. I figured despite everything he had told me, Bob could afford them.

7

I’ll confess that when I agreed to do a presentation for the Women’s Society on church history, I had an ulterior motive. I am, at heart, a Luddite, a disciple of good ole Ned Ludd, whose nineteenth-century followers took axes and sledgehammers to what was then high technology, hoping to slow the advance of the industrial age. I don’t understand computers, cell phones, VCRs, or Palm Pilots. Anything with a computer chip self-destructs when I walk into a room. Q has been known to abandon his celluloid frames when I buy tickets to the latest James Bond movie.

I am not Ray Sloan and Junie Bluebird’s daughter for nothing.

Unfortunately, I’m a Luddite in need of reformation. Someday I may need a real job, so for the past year I have purchased every technology-specific Dummies book in print. My latest purchase explains the mysteries of Microsoft PowerPoint, and I promptly won the bid for an ancient version of the program on eBay.

Actually, I had Deena bid for me, since we now have a set of pots and pans from a dealer in Tucson in lieu of the picture frames I was certain I had purchased.

PowerPoint is the reason I volunteered for the presentation. Using Ed’s laptop computer, Deena’s superior knowledge, and a Dummies book, I set out to construct a slide show that would wow the Society, prove I’ve given up my Luddite ways, and establish myself as a valued member of the church community.

So, okay, the presentation was also to show how mature and forgiving I can be when my husband’s under fire. When my father thinks he’s under attack, Ray cleans his gun collection and stockpiles ammunition. My mother smiles her most brilliant smile and shames onlookers with her natural, ethereal radiance.

The ammo dump is my fallback position.

While Deena was home on summer vacation to supervise, I scanned almost one hundred prime photographs from the archives into our home computer. Step by miserable step I designed charts of founding members and the descendants who still grace Tri-C’s hallways. I made tables of membership information starting in 1855, when the church was founded, right up until today. Of course, I included the happy fact that the church had experienced a growth surge in the early months of Ed’s ministry.

Can we say “self-serving”?

I created titles and bulleted lists, enhanced everything with clip art, photos, sound effects, captivating transitions, music, and even animation. All in all it was Luddite immersion therapy. By the time I had a flawless thirty-five-minute presentation saved on the computer, I had rocketed into the 1990s.

On Tuesday I was getting dressed for the presentation when Ed wandered into the bedroom and sat down on our queen-sized bed to observe. I waited for him to comment on my new Victoria’s Secret bra or the extra pound that had settled on my hips as payback for eating barbecued ribs, potato salad, and brownies at the Frankels’ Labor Day party. So okay, yesterday I fell off the vegetarian wagon after clinging to it by my fingernails for weeks. Ed himself never stepped more than three yards from the grill, although he swears he only inhaled.

He gave the requisite wolf whistle, though his heart wasn’t in it. “I was just chastised by e-mail. Did you know it’s a long-standing tradition for the minister to host a Labor Day party for the board at the parsonage?”

“I know. But it was between the Frankels’ swimming pool or our murder site. See my point?”

“You’re sure you want to brave this presentation today?”

I had an inkling of the way Daniel had felt approaching the lion’s den, but I didn’t want to worry Ed. “It’s one of the few jobs I can do for the church.”

“Nobody says you have to do a thing,” Ed said.

“You’re afraid I’m going to screw this up, aren’t you?”

He grinned and set my heart speeding. “Absolutely.”

“Don’t worry. Deena and I went over everything last night. I’ve borrowed a top-of-the-line digital projector from Jack’s law office. I saved the presentation to two separate diskettes before I loaded it on your laptop. I memorized the troubleshooting section of the how-to guide.”

“I don’t know why you do this to yourself. You have so many other talents.”

I was already dressed in my best dark skirt and red cashmere twin set—a gift from my preppy baby sister Sid—so I didn’t wink and ask what talents he was referring to. I fluffed my “not-quite” curly hair, which falls not-quite to my shoulders.

“Earrings,” I muttered and fumbled for the modest pearl studs that Nan, Ed’s mother, had reluctantly presented to me on my wedding day.

Ed got up, lifted my hair off my nape, and kissed it. Then he put his arms around my waist and rested his cheek against my hair. “No matter what she says, don’t let Lady Falowell get to you.”

“She will be blinded by my competence.”

“She’ll find something to criticize. Don’t take it personally.”

I contemplated this as I made the trip to the parish house to set up the projector. Our Women’s Society is a throw-back to another time. If the Society hoped for more members, they would change their meeting time to evening and drop “Women’s” from their name, thereby more than doubling their potential. But insular as the Society is, it serves a real purpose. The women watch out for each other. Some are widows, some are childless; some have never married. My generation may find its sense of community in a more inclusive way, but it won’t necessarily be stronger.

The Society meets in the lounge, furnished through the years by bake sales, spring teas, and craft bazaars. The walls are lined with comfortable sofas and chairs and adorned with art treasures culled from rummage sale donations. It’s a welcoming room, with its apple green rug and peach-toned walls. The Emerald Springs Oval is just across the street and the wood blinds are usually open for a view of ancient trees. This week the trees are just beginning to contemplate autumn.

When members began trickling in, I had the projector in place and handouts ready.

Yvonne McAllister was the first to arrive. She looked as if she was gaining weight, and I wondered if she had finally quit smoking. If so, I wanted her to talk to Bob.

“You’re brave to do this,” she said softly. “David against Goliath.”

“I purposely left my slingshot at home.”

“I’m sure Gelsey will be on her best behavior in public.”

If Gelsey’s friends were worried, this did not bode well.

Gelsey herself arrived at ten on the dot. She bustled in wearing a turquoise blazer, a skirt of subtle houndstooth check, a cream-colored silk blouse, and a rope of pearls which had undoubtedly been pried from real South Sea oysters. My mother-in-law would adore Gelsey.

Gelsey spoke to several people as she approached the lectern our sexton had set up for the meeting. The microphone was unnecessary since even a whisper could be heard in any corner of the room, but it did lend a certain importance to the proceedings.

I sat quietly and nodded knowledgeably as Lady Falowell conducted business. There were nearly as many committee reports as there were members. Blessedly, none of them had much to say.

Unable to delay any longer, Gelsey turned to me and made her introduction. She was glad to have me there. We were all grateful for the work I was doing. Yada yada yada. She finished without once cracking a smile. Then she motioned for me to come to the mike.

Nothing was riding on this. Not really. But my hands were sweating anyway. I smiled my best Junie smile and settled myself at the lectern, unobtrusively turning off the sound system since I’ve never met a microphone that doesn’t screech.

“Over the last months it’s been such fun,” I said, “to go through the church archives. I’ve really only just begun. The guest bedroom in the parsonage is a warren of some of the boxes and memorabilia I still need to sort. But I’m making headway. I hope to have everything viewed, organized, and labeled by the end of the church year.”
Just in time to turn it over to the new minister’s family after you fire my husband.

“You’ve removed some of our papers from the archives?” Fern Booth, one of Gelsey’s supporters at the infamous board meeting, interrupted pleasantly enough. “I didn’t know that was allowed.”

“The storage room really isn’t a good place to keep documents or photographs,” I said pleasantly, too, “although I’ve had to return some of them temporarily to make room at home. There’s too wide a variation in temperature and humidity. Once everything is organized the board will need to decide on a better place. We should preserve everything.”

“I would hardly have thought a house with rambunctious children was the right place.”

The woman was openly declaring war. I let the initial salvo pass over my head and answered as if I didn’t understand her point.

“Thank you, Fern, for reminding me about children. We need to share our history with the religious education classes, so they’ll realize they’re part of a church that’s been important to Emerald Springs almost from the beginning of its founding. So I’m planning another presentation, similar to this one, for them.”

I flicked on the projector to forestall another burst of fire. “This is just a taste of what I’ve uncovered so far. But I know you’ll enjoy it. Some of you have lived a piece of this history.”

One octogenarian beamed. “I could tell you about some of the parties we used to have.”

“I’ll take notes,” I promised.

Everybody laughed. With two notable exceptions.

I prayed to the PowerPoint gods, asked for the lights to be turned out, and began the presentation. Or tried to.

“This is not a PowerPoint presentation,” appeared on my computer screen.

My hands began to drip. “Whoops,” I said. “Small problem. Let me fix this.”

I had done my homework. I tried one of my backup diskettes. No luck. I tried the other. No dice. Frantically I dragged the file’s icon to the PowerPoint icon and dropped it there. Then I tried once more.

The same words came up on the screen.

“Sometimes files get damaged when they’re moved from one computer to the other,” I said calmly. “Chat just a minute while I fix this.”

No one seemed concerned, although I heard a snort from Gelsey’s direction. I was thankful for the hour spent memorizing the troubleshooting info in my book. I closed the program, then reopened it and set up a blank folder, then began to insert files into it until I was pretty sure I had reconstructed my original presentation. I saved it under a new name and tried again.

Bingo! My title slide appeared on the screen that had been set up against the opposite wall. A photograph of the church from the early 1900s anchored the left corner, and one of the church in present day anchored the right.

I felt a flood of relief. There it was. Just the way I’d organized it.

Somebody clapped and others took it up. I began my spiel, using notes I’d printed out—or rather that Deena had printed out for me.

When time came for the second slide the transition seemed a little odd. A sepia toned photo of an early congregation posed on the front steps was supposed to dissolve into place. Instead it lurched its way on-screen. I felt vaguely seasick and averted my eyes. I continued my narration, but each slide lurched more drunkenly than the one before.

There had been something in the book about resolution. Frantically I tried to recall what I’d read. I stopped a moment, opened the slide show menu, selected a new resolution, and continued on. The slides flowed seamlessly one after another.

I was really getting good at this. Junie’s smile came naturally to my face. I continued the narration. The next portion, showing scenes inside the church over the years, was supposed to be accompanied by sound files of a choir concert in the 1950s. But when I got to it, it wouldn’t play. Instead I got another error message.

I continued without sound, but my hands were sweating again. I told myself it didn’t matter and changed the narration so there was no reference to the choir.

Then the slides began to skip. Just one at first, then another and another until only every other slide appeared. I scrambled to explain the things my audience hadn’t seen, as if the slides weren’t there on the computer somewhere. But some of my information no longer made sense.

I came to a chart that illustrated the way the church had grown in the twentieth century. I tried to point out some of the figures and discovered the program’s pointer was acting erratically. If I moved the mouse to the right, the pointer went left. I tried thinking like the pointer, but it began moving vertically. Then, as if possessed, it began to spin. I was reminded of Linda Blair’s head in
The Exorcist,
a movie that never fails to entertain my dad.

“Forget the pointer,” I said with a nervous laugh. I launched into more statistics about the way membership had expanded and declined, tying some of the information to wars and economy, and trying desperately to call up the photos of the Depression era and World War II. No luck there.

The chart illustrating our growth in this century was simply gone. I had hoped to show our sizeable spurt over the months of Ed’s ministry, leaving my audience with the indelible impression that things at Tri-C are much better than Gelsey insists. Instead, my final barrage of photos came on the screen. And somehow the multiple images carefully distributed on each slide had piled up like a car wreck. One slide after the other. Distorted beyond redemption, although I could have sworn that in the middle of one was a photograph of my daughters playing in the sprinkler, followed closely by one of me giving birth.

It couldn’t be.

I went to what was supposed to be the final slide, the opening service of this church year with Ed at the front of the sanctuary and several adorable little boys dressed up and standing beside him to light our chalice. Instead this slide was a photograph of me in my slinkiest black dress, my hair pushed up in one hand, a shoulder strap slipping down my arm, a come-hither look in my eyes. Ed had snapped it two years before as I got ready for a big night at the Kennedy Center.

I was surprised to find he kept the photo on his computer, and more surprised that as I transferred files, this one had somehow landed in my presentation. Rather than see if the far sexier one taken a few minutes later was in the immediate lineup, too, I flicked off the projector immediately and pulled out the cord for good measure.