No Dark Valley (36 page)

She glanced back at the old man with the rubber band around his long gray ponytail of a beard. On the most fundamental level, she thought, there's not an ounce of difference between us. I might work at an art gallery, but I'm no different really, certainly no better, than someone who spends his days working on telephone poles or digging ditches. At another table she saw a man tip over his glass of tea. The woman he was with jumped up with a squeak of dismay and started soaking it up with napkins, her lips tightly clamped, obviously holding back a dam-burst of angry words.

We're born, we live, and we die, Celia thought. We have dreams, we mess up, we muddle by. We all have our own little glimmers of light, but in the end we fade away. We're blown off the face of the earth like dust. She imagined a hand holding a giant leaf blower, knocking a hole through the ceiling and aiming it at everybody inside Aunt Cassie's Kitchen. She imagined all of them swirling out the door like little bits of debris.

She caught herself before she spoke aloud, before she said the phrase that jumped out of Grandmother's brown hymnal like a jack-in-the-box. “Frail children of dust”—that's what we all are, she thought. Those old guys who wrote the words to the hymns might have gone overboard a lot of the time, but they did get a few things right. “Frail children of dust” summed it up perfectly.

Finally Margaret spoke. “And to think that each person in here has a unique view of the room. My view includes you, for example,” she said to Celia, “but yours does not. Yours includes me, but mine does not.” Thankfully, their food came then so that Celia was spared the effort of thinking up a suitable reply to
that
.

Elizabeth said, “I hope you don't mind if we say grace, Celia.” And for the first time since leaving her grandmother's house, Celia bowed her head and listened to someone pray over a meal.

18

The Burning of the Noonday Heat

A week later, on the screened porch of a rented condo in Charleston, another very simple truth hit Celia. This one came about as a result of something Betsy Harris said as the tennis team was discussing the lineup for the next day's match at the state playoffs. It would be their third match, and it would mean the difference between advancing to the semifinals and being eliminated.

It had always seemed to Celia that big things sank into her mind slowly, things other people appeared to grasp instinctively. She knew it wasn't an intelligence problem, but it had something to do with the big-picture way of thinking as opposed to her more microscopic view of life—or “the forest versus the trees,” as Elizabeth Landis had called it the day they had eaten supper together at Aunt Cassie's Kitchen. Sometimes you were too close to a situation to see the truth, Elizabeth had said that day.

It was almost ten o'clock at night, and the Holiday Winners had just returned from eating a late supper at a little restaurant called the Mustard Seed. They had played their second match that afternoon and had won, giving them two wins and no losses—tied with the Hilton Head team they were scheduled to play the next day. Bonnie Maggio had agonized over the lineup for the decisive third match, and she was clearly nervous as she opened the floor for discussion.

The meeting had a séance-like atmosphere, for Carol Sawyer had found some tea candles in a cupboard and had come up with the idea of placing them inside coffee mugs and setting them all around the screened porch. She had suggested to Bonnie that they meet out here instead of in the living room, and Bonnie had been all for the idea, no doubt thinking it would be easier to have a potentially touchy discussion in the dark than in bright light.

Celia didn't envy Bonnie her job as team captain. With fifteen women on the team and only eight playing in a given match, that meant seven had to sit out each time. It didn't much affect Celia and Elizabeth because no one else really wanted to play singles, but there were times when feelings were hurt because certain people didn't get to play as much as they wanted to.

“Before we left home, I know we talked about everybody getting to play at least one match in Charleston,” Bonnie said by way of opening the meeting, “so I want to know if everybody still agrees with that.”

Nan Meachum wasn't the type to give much thought to hurt feelings. “Well, we came to win, didn't we?” she said. “I think it's dumb to get this far and then not go out with our strongest lineup in the critical match.” As one of the best doubles players, she knew such a lineup would include herself.

Judy Howell, who was Nan's regular doubles partner, spoke up. “I agree. If our goal is to win, we can't hold back. I guarantee Hilton Head's going to be playing their first string.”

Bonnie looked around the circle in the flickering light. “Someone else?” When no one spoke, she said, “How about somebody who hasn't played yet?” Everyone was well aware that this included only Ellen Myers, Gloria McGregor, and Betsy Harris.

“Well, we did talk about this back at home,” Gloria said, “and we did say anybody who spends the money to come should get to play at least one match.” She paused to blow her nose, but everybody knew it was only her allergies. Gloria was unfailingly even-tempered and good-humored. “But in my opinion,” she continued, “being a team means we rely on each other in a pinch, and we're in a pinch now. I'm more than willing to give up my right to play so that we'll have a better chance to win tomorrow.” She blew her nose again. “Besides, I'm planning to take a double dose of my medicine tonight. I might still be asleep during the match tomorrow.”

During the comments that followed, only one timid objection was raised by Cindy Petrarch, who suggested that the ones who hadn't played yet might be fresher than the ones who had played both matches so far, and therefore might perform better in tomorrow's match. On the other hand, Darla Smith said, the ones who had already played might feel warmed up and in a groove, and therefore more confident going into such a big match.

Anastasia Elsey started repeating everything Nan and Judy had said earlier until Betsy Harris finally interrupted her and offered these words: “Hey, we're all grown-ups here. Everybody knows who our best players are, and everybody knows I'm not one of them.” She laughed, and so did several others. “Like my mama used to say, what's good isn't always what's fun. What's good right now is for us to win. It might not be fun for some of us to sit out, but hey, we got something bigger going on here.” Betsy reached over and socked Bonnie in the arm. “Just because Bonnie doesn't let me play much doesn't mean she doesn't love me. She might be mean, but she's looking out for the team.”

Celia didn't hear much of what went on after that because Betsy's words had called to mind “the forest versus the trees” way of seeing things that Elizabeth had talked about just a week ago. Right there on a screened porch in Charleston, this thought exploded into a truth that she had steadfastly refused to consider before now, a possibility that she had always slammed the door on when the slightest suggestion of it came tapping at her heart. Now, in an instant, the fact dropped down upon her like a sure blessing, like a garment that was tailor-made for her and all she had to do was lift her arms and let it slip down over her.

Actually it was a confirmation of something that Margaret Tuttle had already said the week before at Aunt Cassie's Kitchen, which had followed Elizabeth's comment about looking at the forest instead of the trees. Somehow they had moved—or rather leapt, sprung, catapulted—from the poem Elizabeth had read at the table, the one titled “Early Shift at Duke's Donuts,” to the subject of the good things that can come out of suffering. Celia had no idea how the transition had taken place, but suddenly there they were, talking about the heartaches they had been through.

Not her, of course—she was only listening, that is, at first. Elizabeth and Margaret were astonishingly forthright in their divulging of personal trials. Sometime after Elizabeth said grace, Celia remembered cutting into her corn-bread muffin and placing a pat of butter between the two halves, then closing it up again and staring at it intently as Elizabeth said, “I'm such a chicken when it comes to telling people what God has done for me, so I asked Margaret to come with me for moral support.” That's when it dawned on Celia that the whole thing had been premeditated, that Elizabeth had singled her out for special attention and had carefully timed her stop by the art gallery that day. It hadn't been a spur-of-the-moment idea as she was driving by the Trio.

Elizabeth had asked Margaret to talk first because, she said, the story really started with her. And somehow, between bites of her pork chop and mashed potatoes, Margaret told Celia a remarkable account of how as a girl she had lost her mother, had been preyed upon by her grandfather, and had lost her four-year-old son. She didn't dwell on the details, but there was no mistaking the depth of her suffering. For a short while they ate in silence before she took up her story again. After many years, she said, a friend had come along to rescue her, to teach her again what love meant, and to lead her back to God.

“Her name was Birdie,” Margaret said, “and I loved her with all my heart.”

Someone came to refill their glasses of tea, and Margaret stopped again for a moment, during which time Celia felt the tug of wanting to hear the rest of the story, yet wishing she could stop up her ears against it at the same time. After the waitress left, Margaret told about Birdie's sudden death and about her own vow to take up Birdie's work on earth. She spoke briefly about her husband, Thomas, who “had waited patiently for me through the long drought.” At last, she said, when she had lifted her eyes to heaven and the “gentle showers of faith, hope, and love had begun their work” in her heart, she and Thomas discovered a joy they had never known.

Ten minutes—that's all it took to sum up almost forty years of human pain and divine redemption. The orange Sunkist clock on the wall behind Aunt Cassie's cash register had shown six o'clock when Margaret began talking and ten minutes past when she finished up with “I do not speak of these things to bring attention to myself but to testify of God's power to heal a broken heart.”

At which point Elizabeth picked up the story and, as she was finishing up her meat loaf and butter beans, told how Margaret had indeed taken up Birdie's mantle of ministering to others by coming alongside her during her own time of trouble. Elizabeth was wearing a short-sleeved olive green sweater and a necklace with a large coppery pendant, and Celia noticed how exactly her eyes matched the color of her sweater. If someone had asked Celia what color Elizabeth Landis's eyes were, she wouldn't have known, but evidently they were that sort of vague, accommodating gray-blue-green that takes on whatever color it's near.

Elizabeth gave few details but made it clear that her trouble somehow included her husband, Ken. “God used Margaret,” she said, “to teach me about grace. She told me first about God's grace to me, and then showed me how I could be a giver of grace myself. God used her to help Ken and me repair our home.” She laid her hand on Margaret's arm and added, “She's still teaching me how to give myself to other people.”

There was an awkward moment when Elizabeth stopped. Celia felt something rising in her throat, something like a choking sob or a cry for help, but she managed to swallow hard, then took a long drink of tea followed by a deep breath to calm herself. Common sense suggested that it was her turn to talk, but she didn't trust herself right now. Who knew what would come out of her mouth if she tried to speak. She might start screaming and never stop.

Thankfully, just then a minor disturbance distracted everybody's attention for a little while. One of the three elderly women sitting at a nearby table somehow stumbled as she was getting up to leave and went down on her knees. Her pocketbook went flying and slid right under the feet of the old man with his beard in a ponytail. Maybe he looked a lot older than he really was, though, because he jumped up as lithe as a panther and dashed to her assistance. The two yuppie-looking men absorbed in their newspaper glanced over with only the mildest interest, then went back to reading.

The woman wasn't hurt, but the bearded man gallantly insisted on walking her out to the car. Before she could stop herself, Celia's imagination got cranked up. Maybe neither one of them was married, and this time next year the woman might be telling someone, “We met at Aunt Cassie's Kitchen one day when I slipped on the floor and he helped me up.” By then she might have talked him into cutting off his beard and sprucing himself up a little.

The incident passed, and Celia started eating her apple cobbler, taking quick bites one right after the other. She was ready to leave this place and get back to the quiet of her apartment. She didn't want to hear anybody else talk about hardships and recoveries. Her head suddenly felt swollen with the stories she had just heard. Her ears felt as if they were filling up with water, the same way they sometimes felt after a long tennis match.

Elizabeth spoke again, her voice soft, almost pleading. “We didn't ask you here to pump you, Celia,” she said. “We're both sort of closed-up types ourselves, and we don't want you thinking we go around telling our sob stories to everybody and then try to trap people into revealing all their deep dark secrets. I had to practically twist Margaret's arm to get her to do this with me.”

Margaret nodded. “These are not things we wish to make public.”

So why pick on me?
Celia thought.
I didn't ask to hear any of it!

“Like I said, I'm a chicken,” Elizabeth said. “I've been praying for you, but I was so afraid to say anything. I would start to, then back out. I hate being nosy, but God kept on telling me to talk to you.”

“Elizabeth has been telling me about you for months,” Margaret said. “I felt that I already knew you when you came to our poetry meeting a few weeks ago. I, too, have been praying for you.”