Its why I agreed to today's activities. To set the record straight as far as our ministry is concerned.
I have an appointment, an interview with that reporter from the
Washington Post,
a person I knew years ago, a person I ran away from years ago, the first person that made me think of myself as a woman.
I open the door and I see those lapis eyes that are now hemmed in by tiny crow's feet. That thick head of hair looks just the same.
Ten years fade to nothing.
“Charmaine!”
“Richard. Come on in.”
Richard Llewellyn stands on my porch steps, wearing khaki pants, a white broadcloth button-down, and a loose blue-and-gold striped tie.
“Would you like to sit here in the living room or back at the kitchen table?”
He looks all around him. “How about the kitchen table? Then I can write more easily.”
I show him through the living room and back into the kitchen. I bought a pretty lavender cloth for the spring—$5.99 reduced from $7.99—and the place is scrubbed clean as usual.
“This is cheerful,” he says.
“Thank you. It sure beats life on the road. Although, sometimes I think I’m back in that RV more than not.”
“Yes. I’ve been following you for quite some time.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I saw an ad for a Gospelganza Festival a long time ago and there was your picture. Different last name, of course, but there's only one person that looks like you and is named Charmaine.”
“Hey, you were the one who suggested I go by Charmaine. That was the best thing I ever did.”
Well, sort of. Harlan might differ with that.
I’m trying to charm the snake but I don't know how good of a job I’m doing.
He asks me questions about singing in Gospelganza, my albums, the church, the
Port of Peace Hour.
And we actually have a good time! It amazes me what can happen when people are mature enough to put the past behind them.
The time just flies by and I realize we've been sitting here for two hours. So I figure it's time for me to start questioning him a little bit.
“Are you married, Richard?”
He shakes his head. “You know me, Charmaine. I’m not the settling-down type.”
“That's for sure.”
“I’m actually a little surprised you agreed to see me after all that went down in Vermont.”
I shrug. “That was over a decade ago. I’ve made out okay. It got me out of Lynchburg and for that I am thankful.”
“You're something.”
“That's what I hear.” And I smile into his eyes, realizing with thankfulness that I really had left that part of my life behind me. How freeing.
He fills me in on Clarke and Cecile whose life sounds exactly the same as when I left and, “What about that gang at the cabin?” I ask. “Whatever happened to them?”
“The guys started a computer company together and Lady Andrea went back to England.”
“Guess she couldn't slum it forever.”
“Nope.”
“Oh, Richard, even though we didn't leave on the best of terms, this sure has been nice!”
He's drinking a cup of tea and I’m slurping on Diet Sprite, my new drink of choice, since it doesn't have caffeine. “It has. Can I give my aunt and uncle your regards?”
“Please do. I hope our running away didn't affect them.”
“Not at all. Only that you were their first and last foray into the foster care system.”
“They really weren't cut out for that kind of life.”
“You're right.”
Harlan comes home from church. “Hey, y'all.”
“Harlan, this is Richard Lewellyn, from the
Washington Post.”
Harlan extends his hand. “Well, good to meet you, Richard.”
They shake.
“Ready for our interview? In light of what's been going on with the televangelist scandals, I’m hoping you might lend some clarity to the issue.”
“I’d be delighted. Hey, it's almost six. What do you say, Charmaine? How about if Richard stays for supper?”
He shakes his head. “I really don't want to impose.”
I bap him on the arm. “Of course, you won't impose. Grandma's got some chicken stew in the Crock-Pot and all I have to do is throw in some extra dumplings.”
Harlan hangs his key on the key hooks I screwed into the side of the kitchen cabinet. “You'll kill two birds with one stone. I mean, a man's gotta eat.”
Richard laughs. “All right. You've convinced me.”
I get up from the table to finish preparing the meal. “Well, I’ve got to say, in all these years I never pictured
this
scenario!”
Richard says, “Me, either. I thought you'd hate me.”
I look at him, mustering up all the frankness I can. “Well, now, Richard, that wouldn't be very Christian of me, now would it?”
He smiles and looks me in the eye. And I remember that night at that big house in Lynchburg. I recall those eyes, that smile, and the way he made me feel, so grown up and alluring. I remembered how I thought he could do no wrong.
“How are you holding up under all the backlash?” Richard asks us as I set out supper. He leans against the counter as Grandma and I flurry the food onto the table.
I set down the green salad. “I don't know, Richard. It's hard to read all that about people you've trusted. I’ve tried to live a good life, be nice to folks, raise my kids as best I can, and then to read about myself in the local papers like I’m some sort of singing clown …”
“It hurts her terribly,” Harlan says.
Richard nods, his fingers tapping on the fronts of his khakis. “I figured as much.”
“Hopefully you'll be able to help straighten things out, Richard,” I say.
He smiles.
Grandma lays out the last glass of soda. “Well, everybody, let's eat! Kids!” she hollers. “It's suppertime!”
Two hours later, after the best blueberry cream cheese pie I’ve ever tasted (I am a much better dessert cook now that I actually eat them myself), I walk Richard to his little black Volkswagen.
“Before I forget, I’ve got something for you, Charmaine.” He leans into the backseat and pulls out a parcel. “When I told Aunt Cecile I was coming down, she sent this for me to give to you.”
“And I’ve got something for you.” I reach into my pocket and pull out four ten dollar bills. “It's the money I took from you all in Vermont.”
“I can't take that, Charmaine.”
“Please, Richard. I need you to.”
So he shakes his head and does as I ask.
We say our good-byes and off he goes.
Well, if this all isn't just the limit! I’ll be honest, I can use the encouragement, and maybe this will help us and our ministry in the process.
I take the parcel into the house. Inside rests my photos of the Evanses. I touch Mrs. Evans. Slide my fingertips along her cheek and chin. Smile into her pansy eyes.
I miss her so badly sometimes I want to crumble.
A family picture with me next to James is next and I smile. Yep, those were the days.
And finally, wrapped in layers of newspaper, my plate, Grandma Sara's willowware plate. Down the center a fissure snakes and as I lift it from the box, it breaks in two, the left side tumbling to the floor to brake into—I count them—six pieces. Seven in all.
The wall clock ticks and I watch the minute hand move around as Grandma and Harlan clean up the kitchen. I barely realize it when Harlan picks up the pieces. I feel his movement. I hear his breath, but I am lost right now, rolling around in something I cannot name.
M
ama?”
She is gardening and she looks peaceful here with the earth beneath her grasp, the sun highlighting the white strands of her hair. Although she is bent down on her knees, her spreading behind resting on her heels, she looks like she used to in basic form. I remember her sitting like that as she'd go through the under-the-bed boxes in our room, sorting through clothing, folding and refolding.
She turns. “Oh, hello, Myrtle.”
“Hello, Mama. Whatcha doin’?”
“Digging.”
A paper bag of bulbs rests beside her. “You going to plant these?”
“Yes.”
“Are they lilies? Tulips?”
“Irises. Mother brought them for me.”
She turns back and continues her task. I am watching a robot, I think. A blood-pumping, nerve-shooting robot. She is here, but she is not.
“It's almost Easter, Mama.”
“Did you get an Easter dress, Myrtle?”
“Yes.”
“Good. A girl should always get a new dress for Easter.”
“Why, Mama?”
She continues digging.
“Do you like it here?”
“They're nice.”
“I’m glad.”
I want so badly to ask her who wasn't nice to her in the past, but I cannot. I’m scared she'll descend further into the bowels of her mind.
Where are you, Isla Whitehead?
Don't even ask, Myrtle.
“Mama, what happened to that snazzy man from Washington, D.C.?”
There is quiet in the garden. A swelling silence that fills my heart with emptiness
“Don't even ask, Myrtle.”
But the words are not Mama's. They are my own.
I should have known better.
Maybe Mama's just ill. Maybe nothing bad really happened to her. Maybe she's just a hapless victim.
Maybe it doesn't really matter in the end. At least not to me.
I stop at a pay phone on the way home and call Ruby. “Well?”
“It was positive!”
“That's great, Ruby!”
“Girl, I am so excited.”
“Congratulations. To Henry, too. I’ll bet he's on cloud nine.”
“I told him an hour ago, and he's already looking at car seats.”
“So let's see. Your last period was a month ago and it's the end of April—”
“I’m due near the end of December.”
“A Christmas baby!”
“Isn't that exciting? You know, I sing about Jesus, but I have a hard time emoting like you do about Him, Char. But it's fitting isn't it? A new life for me. A healed life. And then this gift from Jesus. This baby. And around Christmas, too.”
“I guess He wanted to make sure you got the message.”
Ruby laughs.
“You deserve a little baby of your own, Ruby. You really do. Hey, gotta get back on the road.” I don't want to provide a downer moment for her by calling attention to my own barrenness here on the phone. I was hoping the weight gain would be the answer. “I’m taking you to Bill D’s for a butterscotch milk shake tomorrow night at seven o'clock!”
“I’ll be there!”
Oh, Ruby. Your own little baby. It will be a beautiful baby.
It's eight
P.M.
as I pull onto our little street. Cherry Tree Lane. Isn't that the cutest thing? I love my neighbors. There are several with children around the ages of Leo and Hope and some older ladies for Grandma to associate with. They've started a club that meets every Tuesday for supper and cards. Life is good here on our street. It's quiet for the most part and lined with regular folks. We have a welder, a town policeman, three brothers who run the hardware store over on the town square, a hostess down at Josef's, the only gourmet restaurant in town. And then there are the card ladies and us.
I can't believe we've lived here for over a year and a half! Even when we moved in, I figured we'd be here a year, tops. Harlan surprised me with this one.
The neighbors have been wonderful during these hard times, keeping a watch on our house. We haven't had any vandalism for a while and every time a negative letter to the editor appears, someone always cooks a meal.
Tonight our house hovers there in the plum twilight, but it seems to be growing out of a huddle of cars bleeding from my lawn onto the street. People drink coffee and lean against bumpers. Some lady sits in a folding chair.
Something is very wrong. I honk my horn. The crunch of my tires on the gravel street warns their ears of my approach. All snap to attention.
There are vans from TV stations, too.
Let me through.
Something is very wrong. Something more newsworthy than my hair.
TV cameras focus their unblinking eye on me.
Had the vandals gone too far this time? Did they throw more than eggs? Did they harm someone?
Harlan? Leo? Hope?
They flock around my car like black fowl. And I honk my horn again.
NBC, CBS, ABC.
Where are my babies?
Harlan?
Let me through.
Unable to gain even two feet of progress, I stop the car and get out. They enfold me like piranhas on a carcass suddenly thrown to the depths.
“Let me through!”
A microphone is stuffed in my face. “Mrs. Hopewell—”
“Let me through!” I push my way into the mass, slapping away microphones. “Harlan!” I scream. “Harlan!”
The front door opens. “Shug!”
“What's happening?”
Harlan flies off the porch, pushing reporters and camera people aside like they are pickup sticks. “Shug!”
“Harlan!”
“Reverend Hopewell, do you know where the monies from your wife's record deals have gone?”
He advances toward me and Harlan shoves him away. He rocks off his heels, falling backward.
I feel his hand grab my arm and he pulls me through the throng. “Get back! Get back!” he hollers. “Get away from my wife!”
A
Washington Post
is shoved into my face.
“What do you have to say about this article, Mrs. Hopewell?”
“Come on, Shug. Let's get you inside.”
After that shove, the crowd parts and there's Grandma Min holding open the screen door. “Come on in, sweetie.”
“Where are the kids?”
“They're fine. They're in my bedroom watching a video.”
Harlan shuts the door behind him.
“What's going on, Harlan?”
“Oh, Shug. That reporter friend of yours from the
Post.”
“Richard Lewellyn?”
He nods, looking out between the blinds. “None other. He's betrayed us.”
“No!”
“Yes. I have no idea how he found out these things but it's all there in black-and-white. Your mother, Broughton, your record money going to pay for her care. And of course, my ‘What's Really Eating You’ message to make us look like hypocrites.”
Grandma Min ushers me to the kitchen. “Let me get you a soda.”
I nod. “I was hungry before I got home. But not anymore.”