Friendship Cake (6 page)

I was surprised at his advice. I know that I looked shocked, disappointed. But I realized that, of course, there is an element of truth to what the old guy said. There is a need for balance. And yet I still keep pushing, wanting to believe that I am capable of doing a little something more for this church, though I don't know what that is. Still, I'm not naive. I know that the church is not growing. I see the heads get grayer and grayer, the nursery and children's Sunday School get smaller and smaller. I understand that the reason they hired me was because they didn't want to pay what a man requires and that they just don't want to close the church doors while they're alive.

I see the apathy, the clutching to traditions, and I recognize that the circles I'm running in don't add up to much of anything for these folks. Both Mrs. Peele and Mrs. Jenkins have told me to slow down, take it easy, and I trust them more than anyone else in the church, but somehow deep inside me I know that I'm afraid that if I stop or even slow down, this flame I've decided is faith will burn out for everyone. Perhaps or especially for me.

And in the midst of fanning flames, I try to make myself believe that maybe there is a God somewhere orchestrating this entire arrangement, and that maybe time will bring healing and I
might come to appreciate what I don't plan. I like the notion that seasons can pass, that Sunday can run to Sunday, and that God is capable of moving today like he did in the Old Testament with the children of Israel.

I like to imagine that God is a cloud rolling over our sorrows and our disappointments. Picking up that which is unbearable and pulling it into his great growing mass. A pillar of fire warming our dreams and the desires of our hearts. I like to think of God as small flakes of heaven's bread falling like snow all around us. Tiny pieces of sugar, unrecognizable joy, that land in our hair, on the lids of our eyes, and on the wounded and seeping places in our hearts.

I like to think that there is reason and purpose to all the pain and all the emptiness we do not understand, that God is making a way for all of his children to be led into some promised land. And, like driving through an ice storm, a long ways from home, someday we will see the light on the porch and know where we are, even appreciate where we've been. A home where everything is finally all right with a welcome that surpasses any I've ever had.

This is what I like to think when I sit at my desk writing a sermon or planning a prayer, but mostly I am just keeping my eyes on a long and winding, barren road. Driving ahead like some undeterred soldier, looking neither left nor right. Eyes only forward, hoping that I might see the cloud, the fire, a little speck of snow, and maybe the light on the porch. And, even though I know it's hopeless, really, it's all I've got.

So I drive on. Straight then curve then stop then straight. It is a cadence of survival that keeps me in motion. I baby-sit. I
preach. I write recipes. Speaking of which, maybe I can find the banana pudding recipe that Joyce's mother used to make and bring us. That should work for this Women's Cookbook. If Brittany is not interested in the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, perhaps I'll have time to find it and jot it down.

A
s the president of the Women's Guild, I'd like to call this meeting to order.” Beatrice was sitting in the front of the Women's Bible Classroom behind the teacher's desk. “We all know that Rev. Stewart is at the hospital with Rose Mary. Did anybody make out from the scanner exactly what happened to J.T.?”

The classroom was neatly arranged in four rows of six chairs. The cement walls had been painted green, with various pictures of Jesus hanging on the front wall and on the sides. The window in the back was opened because the evening was warm and the room was stuffy. It was late in the summer, with an air that was stiff and heavy. The women looked around at each other, unwilling to claim that the story they had already repeated five or six times was the real story.

“The way I understood it, they gave him a couple of nitroglycerin tablets and put the oxygen mask on him before they drove him to the hospital. I suspect it was his heart.” Elizabeth Garner's son was on the Rescue Squad, so she generally had the final word about the tragedies in the community. Beatrice shook her head in a sympathetic manner and shifted in her seat.

“Well, knowing that Rose Mary is needing our thoughts and concern, Jessie, would you open us with prayer?”

Now, if the truth be told about the Hope Springs Community Church Women's Guild, most of the women would admit that they were not comfortable with Jessie praying. No one ever said anything about it, not because they were worried about being called racist, that thought never crossed their minds as a thing about which
to worry. They didn't speak about this mostly because they were less comfortable with having to pray themselves. And knowing that Margaret could get wind of their complaints and speak the truth—namely that if they didn't like Jessie's praying then why don't they open up the meetings with their more appropriate prayers?—they kept their anxious thoughts to themselves.

They were unsettled with Jessie's praying because they all thought that she prayed a little too desperately, a little too burdened. It made them feel like something was going to happen that they weren't sure they were ready for. She had a hunger, a gnawing in her prayers that seemed to magnify the emptiness in their own spirits. And, frankly, that troubled them. They braced themselves every time she bowed, and even though most of them had been with Jessie for more than twenty years and were used to her pleadings with God, her voice, her words, and the way she shook her head still made them squirm.

Jessie stood and prayed. “O Holy Maker of Heaven and Earth, we beseech you to enter into our hearts and hear the cries of our souls. We acknowledge that you are slow to anger and quick with mercy, so forgive us our trespasses as we look to find ways to forgive those who trespass against us. We pray, O Holy One, that you are with our dear sister Rose Mary. May the goodness of your heavenly being comfort and abide with her sorrowing and anxious heart. We know, O God of Love, that you alone can heal us, so we pray that you place your hand upon our brother J.T.'s torn and battered body; and, if it be your will, make his heart and mind whole and bring him home to his loving wife and family. Our spirits are heavy with concern for our dear sister and brother. Take now this worry from our hearts and create glory for yourself in the
healing of this one. And now may the grace of the Lord Jesus cleanse us from every sin and enable us to order our business at hand in the fashion of his words and deeds. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” She sat down in silence while the room swayed back into place.

“Thank you, Jessie.” Beatrice stood up from the table and read from the New Testament from the Book of James and then requested the treasurer's report, which was read by Twila Marks and approved by the body of the Guild. Margaret read the minutes from the last meeting with no changes made.

Beatrice continued, “Moving on to old business. I sent the check to the Methodist church for their migrant missions project, and I sent four get-well cards to those who were mentioned in our last meeting. Is there anything that I missed?”

No one spoke up. She went on. “Then, still in line with old business, what's the latest on the cookbook, Madam Secretary?”

Margaret blew a puff of air through her lips. “Well, Madam President”—she said this with a certain amount of flavor—“the latest is that I've got one recipe from all the members of the committee, one from the preacher, and Rose Mary's squash pickle card that she sent before she went to the hospital. Let's see, that makes eight. And I guess I don't have to tell you, eight recipes doesn't a cookbook make.”

Louise rolled her eyes and crossed her arms heavily about her chest. It was a gesture that everyone noticed. A breeze stirred from the window.

Beatrice paused, unsure that she really should say anything, unclear of where this was heading. “You look like you're wanting to add something, Louise”; then she braced herself for the worst.

Louise was surprised at the opportunity to speak. She shook her head, then began. “I think you know my feelings about this little project, but being one who's not afraid to state the obvious, Beatrice, look around you. There's eleven women who come to these meetings. Eleven! And that's when we're all here. As much as I know you want us to do something, a cookbook is just not the best idea.”

The other women looked around nervously. Louise always pushed the envelope beyond the limits of Southern politeness. In their minds, she went too far, and tonight, even though they agreed with her, they all thought she spoke a little too quickly.

After a long and stunned silence, Jessie stood up. “Beatrice, I have to agree with Louise. We just don't have what it takes to put a book together. It was a good idea, but only if we were a larger group. We just can't do this by ourselves.” She sat down.

There was a long pause; another quick breeze poured into the room, and Twila got up to shut the window.

“So that's it then?” Beatrice looked like an old party balloon. Tired and flat. In fact, the women were sure that she was going to cry.

Nothing. Only the squeak and pull of a window trying to be brought down. The women looked at their feet, into their hands, at the pictures of Jesus, but no one looked at Beatrice.

“There is no other opinion?” The Women's Guild was silent. Thick with possibility but only silent.

“Well, since you're all agreed, I guess there's no need for a vote. And since I don't know of any new business, the meeting's adjourned.” Beatrice got up from the table, packed up her Bible
and her devotional calendar, and headed towards the door. She was steady and unsteady all at the same moment. She turned back to face the surprised gathering of church women and with a thready voice said, “Oh, and one more thing, I quit.” She turned and placed her hand on the doorknob.

More than one gasp went up from the ladies. They had never seen Beatrice Newgarden be so defeated. They had never had a confrontation. They had never ended a meeting without refreshments!

“Wait just a damn minute, Beatrice.” It was Louise. “This isn't a personal vendetta against you. We just don't like the idea is all. Can't you be president without having to have your way all the time?”

The women twitched and pulled at their dresses, at their hair. This was much too controversial for a meeting at the church.

Twila was still trying to close the window, though no one seemed to notice. “Could somebody please help me?”

Louise turned to the back of the room. “Good God, Twila, if you can't pull the window down, just leave the damn thing open.”

Twila, being a polite and gracious lady, was completely caught off guard at such an attack from Louise. She could never remember actually having someone curse at her, and especially not at a Christian women's meeting. Her bottom lip began to tremble, but she kept her back to the group.

Finally it was Margaret who spoke. “Louise Fisher, what is your problem? You haven't done a thing since the first mention of this cookbook but bite people's heads off. Maybe you should have stayed at home tonight.”

Louise looked at Margaret, then back at the wounded Twila, who was still trying with a very feeble attempt to push the window down.

“I'm sorry,” Louise mumbled. “Twila,” she shouted, “I said I'm sorry.” She got up and helped her close the window. Twila looked at her and nodded without standing too close.

“And now, Beatrice, come back here and sit down.” Margaret had moved to the front of the room. “You are not going to resign as president. You are going to hear our complaints about this cookbook project. And you are going to make suggestions about how we can get more recipes.”

Both Beatrice and Louise snapped their heads around to look at Margaret.

“Yes, we will do the cookbook.” She turned to square off with Louise. “And I suggest that if you've got anything to say about it, you say it now and you say it to me.”

Louise knew when she was whipped. And she was always whipped by Margaret. With resignation, she said, “Fine.”

Jessie gave a laugh while Beatrice moved back to the front desk. Without taking a breath she began. “I think that if we write a letter to all the families in the church asking for their favorite recipe…”

Earnestine Williams interrupted. “You could ask other churches in the community. I expect the Lutherans and the women over at Union Grove Methodist could give us some recipes. Millie Townsley is a good cook from over there.”

Dorothy West and Lucy Jackson nodded in agreement.

“Yes, but if we invite the other churches to participate, it's
no longer our cookbook, it's the whole area's cookbook. What would that do to our title?”

“Title?” Louise asked as she went back to her seat. “You already have a title?”

“Well, nothing too elaborate or anything, just the Hope Springs Community Church Women's Guild Cookbook.”

“Oh, that's catchy,” Louise snapped.

“Beatrice, I have to go with Louise on this one, that's a little too wordy.” Margaret had moved back to her seat as well.

“The point is not the title, the point is whether or not we want to ask for help from outside the church.” Jessie was always able to get right to the point. “And I suppose that if we ask for assistance from the other churches, then we've got to be ready to pay them a part of what we take in.”

“Is this about money? I didn't think this had anything to do with money.” Sarah Clayton was the one to ask the question.

“Goodness no,” exclaimed Beatrice. “After we get through with the printing and the paper costs, there probably won't be any money.”

“Then, refresh my memory, Beatrice, exactly why are we putting this book together?” Louise looked over to Margaret and shrugged her shoulders as if the question was innocent.

“Well, it's because…” Beatrice stammered a bit. She had not considered, in her preparations for the women's meeting, the possibility that she would have to share this aspect of the project, which, truth be told, she did not firmly grasp. She had made no notes on such as this. “It's so that, um, it's because we need to come together as a group and do something together, you know, as a group.”

“Uh-huh.” Louise shook her head. All of this was so beyond her.

“Oh, all right, Miss Louise Fisher.” Beatrice planted herself. She saw no reason to hold back anything else. It was the free-for-all that Louise seemed to invite and that Beatrice was now ready to join. “I thought this cookbook was a good way for us to work together, maybe spend some quality time together.”

Louise shifted in her seat and sighed, but Beatrice would not be turned away. She was not comfortable with the depth of the discussion, but she kept pushing herself deeper and further into the reasoning for the cookbook. Her face flushed and tight, she kept spilling out.

“I thought we needed something to…” Beatrice searched for the words. She was trying to explain in just the right way. Then she stopped and calmed herself.

“I thought maybe this might be the chance for us to become…” The corners of her mouth loosened. Her chin fell. Her shoulders rounded, and she took a breath. She dropped her head and studied the top of the desk, then lifted her face and spoke to the back of the room, the recently closed window, the pale green walls, and the women she had known for most of her life. “…for us to become friends.”

All of the women looked at Beatrice and then looked away. In that split second of softness, they fell back to a time of years gone by when they blushed more easily, laughed a little more quickly, and were surprised by tenderness. A wash of days when they loved their secrets and loved telling them even more. A time lost and forgotten when nothing was more important than sharing a dream with someone who knew everything about them. It
was true and silly and sad. They had outgrown the awkward and simple ways girls become friends.

“My Lord, Bea.” Jessie had her chin in her left hand, and that was all she would say for a few silent minutes while the women hurried their spirits back to the things at hand. “I think you have a very noble idea.” She sat up tall in her seat. “I make the motion that we keep the cookbook in our fellowship and use the opportunity to collect recipes as a chance”—she smiled in the direction of Louise—“to learn each other a little better.”