Good Heavens (10 page)

Well, I opened Beatrice's letter. As you know, Beatrice is my lifelong friend, and I missed her. That is, I missed having her look to me for every little thing. She had Carl now and didn't need me that way. Beatrice had changed more than any one person I had ever known. Sometimes now, instead of me telling her what was what, she told me—actually jerked a knot in me one time about Percy Poteat.

Beatrice's letter was all about the Grand Canyon and other places they had visited. I wasn't much interested in all of that. At the bottom of the letter were Bible references. She never did that before.
It must be Carl's influence
, I thought.

I heard a commotion outside under my window and got up to see, knowing full well what it was. Ursula was down there with several of the women all talking at once, excited about what must seem to her to be proof positive that I am a wacko. I didn't see Dora. The horse was alongside the garage eating grass.

Ursula was coming back inside, banging the door behind her. I braced myself and went back in the office to face this cyclone storming up the steps.

She burst in, her face red as a beet. “Esmeralda, what in the world have you done?”

“You mean the plow?”

“The horse!”

“It's for plowing the garden.”

“I assumed as much. Whatever made you think I would put up with having an animal on this property?”

“I didn't give it the first thought,” I said just to aggravate her. “There's no reason we can't make a good garden up here, raise our own vegetables and can stuff for the winter. Self-help is better'n begging.”

She ignored that last dig. “Did you tell the ladies they would have to clear the ground of stones?”

“I did. A vegetable garden is not a rock garden.”

“Don't you think I know that?” she snapped.

I was getting a kick out of nettling her. “Don't your books tell you work is good therapy?”

“Therapy or not, it's time for Group and they must all assemble in the day room!”

But she didn't ring the bell. She sat down and looked across at me, those dark eyes sparking. “From whom did you buy or rent that animal and plow?”

“It's borrowed. Lester Teague let us have it for nothing.”

That took some of the wind out of her sails. I believed I was winning, but I'm not the kind to gloat.

“And pray tell, who is Lester Teague?”

“He's a mountain man lives below us on a side road.” I went on to describe him.

“Sounds avuncular,” she said. “Don't think you won't have to pay that man one way or another.”

“Oh, we've already paid him.”

“With what?”

So I told her the whole story. By the time I finished, she had calmed down; didn't say anything more about the horse, just started in on her kind of business. “Did Dora open up to you?”

“Well, I don't know if you'd call it opening up, but she did talk. Some of it made sense, some didn't.”

“For instance?”

There was no way I was going to tell Ursula all the strange things Dora had said. I shrugged my shoulders and passed it off, saying, “Oh, this and that.”

“Nothing of consequence?”

I shook my head.

For a few minutes neither of us spoke. Then she swiveled in her chair, started in on another paper clip, and began again. “I think you should know something of Dora's background. The sheriff and her sponsor brought her here under a court order. What led up to her arrest is a long story. Some years ago, Dora was driving under the influence with her three-year-old boy in a pickup truck when she sideswiped another vehicle. She was driving on a dirt road on the side bordering a steep incline. There had been heavy rain that night, and the edge of the road gave way under the truck sending it over that embankment.”

Something about this seemed familiar, and as Ursula kept talking it came to me that maybe this was why Dora had acted a little strange when we were riding down Lester's road. She had braced against the dash and leaned away from that side of the road next the embankment.

“The truck rolled over several times,” Ursula was saying, “before it finally came to rest. Dora had only cuts and bruises, but her son suffered head injuries and lay in a coma for five years before he died.”

Ursula's voice was as flat as a stone.

“During those years her child was in a coma, Dora became increasingly dependent on alcohol, and to pay medical bills she grew marijuana and sold it.”

Only a body who has never had any pain in their life could tell that story with no more feeling than Ursula had. Again she swiveled around in the chair, taking her nerves out on that paper clip. “An attorney took the accident case to court, and even though Dora had been driving under the influence when the accident occurred, he won an enormous settlement for her. The trouble is, Dora will not take a penny of that money. The attorney, with his entire family, is now on an extended cruise.”

“You mean he took the money?”

“One would assume that he did. Dora foolishly refused the settlement and continued growing marijuana to pay the bills. As might be expected, she was apprehended, tried and convicted, but the judge knew her story and sent her to Priscilla Home rather than to prison. If she's not rehabilitated here, incarceration is inevitable.”

I remembered Ursula had said Dora would be sent home if we didn't get a breakthrough soon, so I had to speak up. “It seems to me Dora has had a lot in her life to make her closed-mouthed. Even if she don't talk much, I for one think we should keep her here as long as it takes for the Lord to do his work in her life.”

“
Doesn't
talk much,” she said, correcting me. “Ethi
cally, we have no choice. Dora needs to go through the grieving process, but since she won't talk to me, she has not taken the first step. It would be unconscionable to keep her here when we have a waiting list.”

I determined right then and there that I would do everything in my power to see that Dora stayed at Priscilla Home until she found victory in Jesus. That meant I had some big-time praying to do!

Ursula rang the bell for Group. I followed her downstairs to the day room, where the girls were straggling in from the garden. We arranged ourselves in a circle with Ursula and her clipboard in the leader's chair.

“Where's Dora?” she asked.

“I'll fetch her,” I said and got up to go look for her.

I found Dora in the garden, swinging a pick, digging out a huge rock. “Dora, Miss Ursula's beginning Group.”

“Say she is?” And she went right on digging.

I just stood there, not knowing what to do or say.

When she finally got the rock loose, we picked it up and carried it to the pile beside the road. Dora leaned on the pick handle and pointed. “It's over there we'll plant taters . . . in that sheltered place.” She pointed the other way. “The corn alongside the road. You don't plant corn till the oak leaf be the size of a squirrel's foot.”

I nodded like I'd known that all my life and just waited, wondering how in the world I would persuade her to go inside.

Finally she shouldered the pick. “Say that self-rising Christian wants I should come to Group?”

I wanted to smile but didn't.

Dora led the way back to the house and set the pick down beside the door, and we walked inside.

Ursula waited until we sat down. “Dora, we were just getting in touch with our feelings. One way we do this is by bringing up memories from our childhood. Tell me, what memories would you like to share with us?”

I was surprised that Dora didn't hesitate to answer. “My memory is a muddy pond where fish can't live, only tadpoles and frogs that grunt in the night.”

You might think the women would have laughed, but they didn't. They were probably as mystified by this strange girl as I was. I heard Linda muttering under her breath to Portia, “Is she off the wall or what?”

Ursula kept her cool. “Very well, Dora, don't think of memories; just tell us about an experience that made you happy.”

Dora sat with both hands stuffed deep in the pockets of that old coat, and the words rolled out of her as easily as if she had practiced them. “Come a cold night, Papa and all the men from round about climb upland where there's a place above the holler with a stone-face shelter from the wind. They let loose their hounds, build a good fire, and uncork their jugs afore they set to lis'enin' to the chase. It's a man's pride to hear the sound of his own hound a-singin', for his hound's singin' is like nary another, and nothin'll pleasure him more than spendin' the whole night a-lis'enin' to that hound he's raised from a pup an' learned him good.

“Oncet the run is over and the bayin' begins, them men grab their guns and go after that coon or cat a-whoopin'
an' a-hollerin' like a pack o' Injins on warpath. It pleasures me, too, a-hearin' them dogs and them men a hollering after them.

“Dogs is a wonderful thang to have. There's bird dogs that scares up a covey of quail an' the like; rabbit dogs, which ain't much; b'ar dogs, the bravest by far; deer hounds, the best of the lot for table meat—ever' one trained to foller just one scent an' no other. But mostly them hounds lie on the hearth an' dream dreams of goin' upland to yelp and yowl for them old coots—yelp and yowl to their heart's content.”

We all just sat there, looking at Dora. You might think we should have clapped or said something, but if you'd been there, you would have known better. It felt like being in another time and place, or hearing sweet music for the first time. That was the spell she cast.

Ursula scribbled something on that clipboard and must have had enough of Dora because she turned to ask Angela, “Since your parents are missionaries and you've been brought up in a Christian home, tell us what led you to rebel against your parents and essentially against Christianity.”

Angela was sitting with her hands cupped under her chin, framing her pretty face, saying nothing, keeping up her guard.

“Angela?”

“I'd rather not talk about that,” she replied.

Ursula persisted. “Come now, you're among friends.” She didn't get anywhere. Angela sat looking back at her stony faced.

Ursula was the kind of person who didn't know when
to quit. “It's all right to have resentment against our parents,” she was telling Angela, “but until we lay open our resentments, we can't resolve the problems.”

That hit a nerve! Angela's eyes were full of fire. “It wasn't like that at all! My parents were wonderful, they still are—they were good to me. I'll not sit here—”

“Now, now. There's no need to be defensive. Of course, your parents were good to you, but what was there in your home environment that led you to abuse pharmaceuticals?”

“Miss Ursula, let's you get one thing straight. It wasn't my parents' fault. Do you understand that?”

“All right. Fine, so you don't think it was your parents' fault. We'll leave it at that, but what was it, then?”

“Well, if you must know, it was like this. When I was ten or eleven years old, my parents were bringing all kinds of people into our house to disciple them. You know—taught them the Bible. There were these two rough-looking characters who told wild tales about getting drunk and running from the law. It sounded exciting—their lifestyle fascinated me.”

Ursula wasn't satisfied with that. “So they fascinated you. What else?”

Angela looked disgusted. “Nothing happened then, but I never forgot that man and woman.”

Obviously, this was not the end of the story, but I for one thought Ursula should leave well enough alone. Instead, she was closing in for the kill. “But later, something did happen?”

“Well, yes, it did,” Angela answered, her voice tight. “I need a cigarette. May I?”

“That can wait. Go on with your story.”

Angela rubbed the palms of her hands on her thighs until she could begin again. “The mission board sent us overseas to Africa. We went to Kenya. I loved growing up there. When I was sixteen I was going to high school and had a lot of friends, but that's when we came back to the States.

“America was like a foreign country to me. Kids at school and in church all had their little cliques, and I didn't fit in. My parents were real busy with deputation and sometimes had to leave me at home by myself. That's when I started hanging out with street kids. They took me in without asking any questions or making any demands on me, gave me drinks, gave me drugs, and . . . I thought I had found what I was looking for. We hung out in the corner bar and, like it says in that song, everybody there knew my name.”

That story made me feel real bad. Even at my home church, Apostolic Bible, we had our own little groups, and about the only people who reached out to newcomers were the Willing Workers. After anybody visited our church Clara would always take them a pie or a cake. But that homeless man Boris Krantz brought to church caused a big stink in our Willing Workers class. We didn't think it was a good idea to have such a man among our young people.
I wonder if he's still coming to church?