Homefires (23 page)

In the following days, I desperately sought to de-clutter my quarters. Clutter, to me, connotes chaos and my mind spontaneously lines up with it. One day, as I tried to make sense of the jumble, I paused at Heather’s door to gaze longingly, admiring her organizational skill and wondered how on earth she arranged neatly and attractively on her dresser the following: a wooden treasure chest jewelry box, three photos, a large decorative green bottle, owl salt-pepper shakers, hair spray, Kleenex tissues, two stuffed animals, three bottles of cologne, an assortment of nail polish (eight to be exact), ranging from colorless to
primrose, and a beautiful daisy petal bordered cosmetic mirror, a Christmas gift from Krissie.

Her bedside radio, on duty most off-school, awake hours, played
The Most Beautiful Girl In the World.

Curiously, I entered the sophisticated pewter gray-paneled room accented with greens and melon. In true peer-style, she’d added, literally, wall-to-wall posters featuring “First Love,” Snoopy and “Love Story.” Her door sported first-place ribbons from small talent contests, an Indianapolis 500 pennant (Kirk’s gift after a ministerial convention in the city), a gigantic greeting card that read “Jesus Loves You!” from a friend. Last – most definitely not least – screamed a door-sized poster of Mick Jagger.

Through the years, I’ve tried but never accomplished with paraphernalia what my daughter did so effortlessly. But, at least in those days and in that particular arena, Toby became my soulmate, for no matter how often we neatly arranged his toy box, which fit comfortably into his spacious closet, within weeks the contents would mysteriously evolve into a jumbled disaster area.

Days later, I found myself recruited into the Church’s War Department, a thing I’d vowed would
not
happen. As soon as Kirk proudly divulged my musical training, the small choir waylaid me, pleading with me to take them on. The current director, Donna, merely stood facing them, hymnal in hand, and got them going on key. She, too, quite fervently wanted change. And despite my wish to remain low profile, my heart responded to their longing to rise above mediocre.

The first rehearsal convinced me that Heather must, absolutely
must,
be my accompanist. Betsy, the sixtyish, spinster pianist, read music, but somehow, no matter how vigorously I launched the choir, we all ended up marching to Betsy’s lethargic cadence. I kept reminding myself this arrangement was Ted Smith,
not
Sousa, and the distinction simply
had
to be made. The perfectionist me caved in after two attempts at
“Wonderful Grace of Jesus
” drooped and dragged worse than Grandpa’s old plough through rocky terrain.

“I have a suggestion,” I said in my most pleasant “let’s get our heads together” voice. “If you would agree to Heather’s being my accompanist, I’ll accept the position. I’m going to be doing some quite difficult special arrangements and Heather and I can work at home on these, saving much time – ”

“B-but,” Betsy sputtered indignantly from her piano bench, “
I
can play those arrangements.”

“Oh my, Betsy,” I turned to her, all sympathy, “these are quite advanced and I don’t feel right about heaping this sort of thing on you.”

“But – ” she blinked several times behind thick lens as magenta splotched her plump cheeks, her back turning ramrod stiff, “I can learn them. I don’t
mind
.”

“That wouldn’t be fair,” I insisted. “Heather is accustomed to playing these arrangements and – this would only be for the choir specials, mind you. Betsy, you would still play for all other congregational singing. That won’t change.”

She stared at me, only mildly mollified. Everyone else ignored her pouting to fling arms wide to welcome the Crenshaw duo aboard.

I had a moment’s consternation about her family ties in the church. The choir was but a small fraction of the Solomon Methodist’s membership, but were they Bessie’s
kin
?

Family sticks together,
echoed Homer’s admonition.

Only
I
heard the distant blast of cannons and recognized the battlefield.

Solomon’s Charlestonian setting beguiled the dreamer-me. Everything within the tropical framework sparked my imagination and aesthetic leanings and I found myself doing things for the sheer sake of doing. One free afternoon, Kirk and I impulsively drove the kids to Kiawah Beach. He swam with them as I settled onto a folding lounge chair with an unopened Pat Conroy novel while listening to Heather’s little portable radio blast
Bennie and the Jets.

“Like fish,” Kirk said proudly, drying off, watching Toby and Krissie splash as he settled beside me in his lounge chair. We recalled Toby’s terror in YMCA swim-survival classes during the sixties and how, distanced by a ceiling-high glass
window, I’d near panicked when my son teetered on the edge of a twelve-foot high diving board and his instructor pushed him off. Krissie had quickly resumed the role of mentor and protector, swallowing her fears to pioneer the way, while Toby toddled along, shadowing her every move.

Today at Kiawah Beach, I watched with pride as they fearlessly tackled surf and sand. Krissie, my tan, platinum-haired mermaid…Toby, a bristle-topped otter gliding effortlessly through the water. My gaze drifted to Heather, lying on a blanket, lifeless as a seashell, toasting to nutty bronze beside Dixie, her friend from the church clan.

Kirk clasped my hand in his.

That golden summer epitomized the old proverb, “
time flies when you’re having fun.”
Kirk and I were a team. Solomon Methodist Church flourished. Kirk was proud that my choir grew until the loft bulged and began plans to expand the sanctuary. The choir members rhapsodized over hearing themselves sing four-part harmony. Heather graced the accompaniments with mind-staggering mastery. Soon, invitations poured in for the Solomon Choir to appear at religious and civic functions. In the process, I sought out solo voices for specials.

One day, my phone rang and it was Donna Huntly, the former choir-leader who now sang first soprano. “Ms. Crenshaw,” she said in her abrupt, succinct way, “I feel a need to tell you how I feel about the way you’re handling things.”

Dread pitched my pulse into syncopation, but I managed a cautious, “Yes?”

“My brother Charlie and I have been coming to this church all our lives. Now, you’re giving solos to newcomers – overlooking me and Charlie. Charlie loves to sing and he’s hurt that you haven’t picked him to do specials.” She stopped as abruptly as she’d begun and just as strongly. “I just wanted you to know how we feel,” she tacked on, as in “
t-t
-
that’s all folks
.”

Disbelief washed over me –
me, the
soft-peddler, challenged by double-barreled
blatant
boorishness
.
Crude razor-y edges and all. As Kirk would say, welcome to the
real
world….

“Donna – ” I took courage from my calm voice, “I really don’t know what to say.”

“Well,” she staccatoed, “I just wanted you to know.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been hurt. I truly am. And I assure you that I’ll give the matter much thought and prayer.”

“Thank you.”
Click.

I stood for long moments staring unseeing at the receiver. I immediately dialed Kaye, Charlie’s wife and Donna’s sisterin-law. Kaye, too, sang alto in my choir and we’d established a warm camaraderie. I needed an objective playback so I relayed the phone conversation to her.

And besides, Kaye wasn’t
blood
kin to the family clan. In-laws didn’t always count.

Kaye snorted. “Neecy, that’s pure
Donna.
She’s outspoken and makes me mad as blazes at times. You can’t let her get to you. Charlie hasn’t said a thing. This is all her doing.”

I hung up, feeling only mildly reassured. I recalled other hurts I’d glossed over, in particular those of Betsy, the church pianist. I encouraged myself that
that
particular crisis had eased.

Betsy actually was the last surviving member of her particular family clan at Solomon, leaving her with no one to dissent with her. Learning that had a peculiar effect on me: it made my heart more tender toward her.

The spinster had, over time, warmed toward me. And I knew compromise had been the catalyst that gave me Heather, yet allowed Betsy to keep her church-pianist position.
This,
I ventured,
is no different.
I bowed my head and prayed over the new clash. Part of me felt shredded. Yet – I was suddenly able to see Donna, the little girl, crying out for validation. It changed my feelings.

Another revelation stunned me:
perfection is good but not more important than people.

In that moment, the resolution came to me.

“Donna,” I said off-handedly at the next choir rehearsal, “I’d like you and Charlie to do this duet special for the Homecoming Service. We’ll work out the harmony during rehearsals. Think you can handle it?”

A five-hundred watt smile broke over her face. “Yes
Ma’am.
”

“With this setup, you can’t afford
not
to go to Coastal Carolina College,” Kirk jokingly remarked. I’d just won a musical scholarship and would be singing with the college choral group. I decided to enroll full-time since the school was only a twenty-minute drive away.

Kirk came up to me at the sink where I washed dishes and slid his arms around me, turning me, dripping hands and all, into his embrace. We kissed, slowly and deeply, knowing the kids romped outside while Heather hibernated in her room, phone to ear. Hand in hand, we went into our bedroom, closed the door and quietly locked it.

Our lovemaking was, as always, passionate and unhurried. Our incredible chemistry was the ‘glue,’ to quote Kirk, that made all the hardships of matrimony fade. Afterward, Kirk showered, dressed and departed to do visitation.

I decided to take a walk down the white sandy lane that wound through the cemetery near the church. From a distance, my gaze captured a beautiful scene framed by a frothy bluewhite sky and washed with golden sunshine: Krissie and Toby biked over flat verdant lawn, at peace with life and one another. Heather, I knew, was enjoying her privacy. Kirk was out about his Father’s business.