Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen (7 page)

“Sure, honey. I understand. It does sound like you are gonna be pretty busy.” She hugged me when I walked out the door, just like she always did. She even offered to let me borrow her brand-new bottle of Cherry Blossom Pink, the perfect shade, she thought, for a tea.

I was rotten, and so on the day of the historic, first-ever Ringgold High Mother-Daughter Tea, I found myself standing in the school cafeteria with my arm submerged in Mrs. Gulbenk's special tea feeling sad and lonely even though Lolly was standing right there beside me. She asked me if I was missing my mama, and I told her I wasn't sure who I was missing.

I sat like a perfect lady on the cushioned chair Miss Gulbenk had placed in front of the teapot. I even looked like a lady, wearing a green, cotton skirt and coordinating blouse with little pink and green flowers on it that Gloria Jean had specially bought for me at a store in Birmingham the week before, knowing good and well the other mamas had bought their daughters a special, new outfit just for the occasion. Gloria Jean said I needed to look better than everybody else seeing how I was serving the tea. It was the prettiest outfit in my closet.

I greeted every girl, including Ruthie Morgan, with a sweet, sugary smile. And I said a quiet, “Thank you,” as every mama walked past me, gently patting me on the shoulder as if to let me know that they were so sorry that I was still a motherless child. They chatted among themselves and praised Mrs. Gulbenk endlessly for coming up with such a sophisticated idea in the first place. They all asked for the recipe for her special tea, and Mrs. Gulbenk promised to mimeograph copies and send them home with the girls.

After all the mamas had sipped their tea and nibbled on their cucumber sandwiches, they left. And as we all scurried about the room, cleaning up crumbs and paper napkins, Mrs. Gulbenk announced that the Mother-Daughter Tea had been such a wonderful success, she would surely be making it an annual event. Poor Martha Ann.

She told us that everything was beautiful and delicious and that we would all be gracious hostesses one day, and we should all go home feeling proud of our accomplishment. But I walked home feeling downright rotten. I might as well have come straight out and told Gloria Jean I was embarrassed to be seen with her. But it seemed no matter what I said or didn't say, she just kept on loving me as much as she ever had.

She baked her famous chocolate chip cookies the day before the tea in case Mrs. Gulbenk needed extra. She even bought me a little silver charm that looked like a teapot to add to my charm bracelet because, she said, I needed to make a little noise when I tipped the pot. And she told me every single time I walked out of her front door that she loved me, whether I deserved it or not.

I guess I had been too afraid of being different, at least more than I already was. As much as I griped about everybody else's mama looking and acting so perfect, I figure that was what I really wanted, or thought I wanted. Funny thing, it took a silly cup of Mrs. Gulbenk's special tea for me to finally realize that being a perfect mama has nothing to do with the color of your lipstick or the way you wear your hair.

I knew I needed to make things right with Gloria Jean. So I hurriedly changed my clothes, leaving my skirt and blouse on my bed and grabbing some jeans that were crumpled on the floor. I walked out of my room, not really knowing what to say or do. I thought maybe I should take something with me, a sort of peace offering, but I wasn't really sure what would be appropriate for such an occasion, maybe a jar of marshmallow whip and a box of Ritz crackers. I headed across the front yard to Gloria Jean's, and I could see the light from the television flickering through her living room window.

“Gloria Jean, hey there, it's Catherine Grace,” I called from the kitchen door. “Are you in there?” She didn't answer, so I walked toward the back of the house and called her name out loud.

“Hey there, honey,” she answered, her voice sounding muffled and distant. “Come on in. I'm back here in my bedroom.” When I walked in her room, I found her down on her knees with her head buried under her bed. She looked up when she heard me at the door. “What are you doing down there?” I asked, rather amazed to find Gloria Jean half buried under her mattresses like that.

“Heck, I'm looking for some old photographs, under the bed. I keep my life story right here so I can grab it in case I need to get out quick,” Gloria Jean explained.

“Oh.”

“I read it in
Better Homes and Gardens
years ago,” she continued.

“Read what?” I asked, not knowing what she was talking about.

“I read that you should store your photos under the bed, in one place, for safekeeping.” And without hesitating, Gloria Jean kept on talking, “So tell me, hon, how was the tea? Did you get everything mixed up all right?”

“Yeah,” I said, not the least bit surprised that she was asking about my day. “I managed to smile at everybody, even Ruthie Morgan. But, uh . . .” I was having a hard time coming up with the right thing to say. On the walk over, I had begged the Lord to give me the words and now I was waiting for Him to put them in my mouth. It was helpful that her head was under the bed, where I couldn't see her eyes. I thanked the Lord for that.

“It was . . . it, well . . . it was just that I wasn't very happy, Gloria Jean, and it had nothing to do with not liking tea. And it had nothing to do with not having my mama there.”

“Oh,” she said, pulling her head out from under her bed, holding a photograph of a girl in her hands. “Sweetie, I understand. I really do.” And I knew she did.

“I know you're feeling all sorts of mixed-up things these days. It's part of figuring out who you really are. And I think mamas are important when it comes time to doing all that figuring. It's a hard job on your own. Know what I'm saying?” she asked, handing me the photograph in her hands. The girl looked familiar, but I didn't know her name.

“That's your mama, Catherine Grace. Lord, honey, she wasn't much older than you when that picture was taken.” I had never seen my mama like this, leaning against the oak tree in the backyard wearing nothing but a bathing suit top and a pair of shorts. I mean she looked so young. I guess you never think of your own mama being a little girl.

“She had just found out she was going to have you when I snapped that picture. Mmm. Mmm. What a pretty thing she was.” I looked even closer as if I was going to find some kind of explanation on this piece of Kodak paper. I mean, I knew my mama was only seventeen when I was born, but I always figured she looked older than this. You know, like the other mamas. I couldn't quit staring at the little girl in the picture.

“Listen,” Gloria Jean said, drawing my attention back to her, “some girls don't have the courage to be who they are truly meant to be. But you and me and your mama, we're just braver than most other folks, and don't you forget it. Now, why don't you open that marshmallow whip, and we'll see if we can't make this day a little bit better.”

I never looked at Gloria Jean the same way again. Her brilliant, blue eyelids and her bold, red lips never looked more beautiful. In that moment, I knew I was brave and that I was destined to be a modern, colorful woman just like Gloria Jean Graves.

CHAPTER SIX

Waiting for My Moses Moment with Joseph Riding Shotgun

D
addy gave me my first set of luggage on my sixteenth birthday. He had all three pieces, which were the prettiest shade of baby blue I'd ever seen, propped up against the fireplace just like it was Christmas morning. A tag sewn inside one of them said they were made of 100 percent plastic vinyl, but they were streaked and veined to look like real leather. And I loved them. They were so beautiful sitting there, waiting for some unknown adventure.

Taped to the cosmetic bag was a Hallmark card that Daddy must have picked up at the Dollar General Store. A picture of a baby bird about to leap out of his mama's nest was on the front of the card along with this corny saying about needing to love someone enough to let him go because only then will the love come back to you. I got the point. Daddy was going to let me leave town on my eighteenth birthday without a fuss so I could get this big-city foolishness out of my system. But I'd fly back. He was counting on it, just like the little bird on the card.

When it came right down to it, I'm not sure my daddy was convinced I'd be brave enough to step out of his nest in the first place. Sometimes I wasn't so sure myself. In my most secret moments, I'd been known to do a little down-on- my-knees praying, begging the Lord to send me my very own savior, just like He'd done for the Israelites, except my Moses would take me by the hand and lead me right out of this town and into the Promised Land somewhere down in Fulton County. But with every “Amen” came the realization that God wasn't sending me an escort. Nope, this exodus was going to be up to me.

I had memorized every nitpicky detail of my long-awaited departure—down to the very minute the Greyhound Bus would be pulling out of the parking lot at the Dairy Queen. The bus schedule was taped to the back of my bedroom door. It was the last thing I stared at every night before closing my eyes. I had rehearsed my good-bye to Daddy and Martha Ann a thousand times, always reassuring my little sister that I'd be ready and waiting when it was her turn to leave the nest. And in my head, I sat on that old, sticky picnic table one last time, licking one more chocolate-covered Dilly Bar for old time's sake.

The one detail I hadn't planned on was Henry Morel Blankenship. Henry, or Hank, as everybody in town called him except his mother, was the captain of the Ringgold High School football team, leader of the Young Life Christian Fellowship, and president of the local chapter of the Future Farmers of America, all good reasons not to like him, in my opinion. I'd known Hank since, uh, forever. Of course, I'd known everybody in Ringgold since forever. There were only 1,923 of us, depending on who was coming and going from this world on any given day. But Hank and I had never bothered to get to know each other. We were more like two magnets that you try to force together but they just keep pushing themselves apart.

He was just too perfect. He was the cutest, smartest, most athletic boy in town. His daddy was a dairy farmer, and he must have made a better living than most of the other farmers in the county because Hank lived in a two-story, redbrick house with four white columns holding up the roof. There was even a fountain in the middle of the front yard that did nothing but spout water day and night.

But if that wasn't reason enough not to like him, he also had the most beautiful mama in town. When we were in grade school, she was always coming by our classroom to help our teacher cut odd little shapes out of colored construction paper and staple our artwork to the bulletin board. On his birthday, she would appear wearing a smoothly pressed dress with her warm golden hair pulled up in a neatly braided twist, and in her hands, she carried a platter of perfectly decorated cupcakes. My mama would have done that for me, I'd tell myself, only my cupcakes would have had chocolate frosting with pink sprinkles on top.

I told Martha Ann once that Hank was kind of like Joseph with his coat of many colors, which Miss Raines stuck up on the felt board. Joseph's father, Jacob, loved his son. In fact, he loved Joseph more than his other eleven boys. Joseph was handsome and perfect just like Hank. And when Jacob gave Joseph a rich, colorful coat, it made his other brothers so jealous that they threw him in a well and then sold him into slavery for no more than twenty lousy pieces of silver.

I never planned on throwing Hank in a well, but I can't say I never thought about it. It might have done him some good to sit down there for a while. He had the highest grade point average in Mr. Polter's algebra class, just two points better than my own. He was the town's essay-contest winner three years in a row. And he was always putting down my Bulldogs whenever he got the chance. A boy like that deserved to come down a notch or two.

But worse than any of that was his dogged determination to personally embarrass me at my daddy's own church. Hank Blankenship won the gold medal at Miss Raines's Bible Verse Sword Drill, every single year; and I know he did it just to make me, the preacher's daughter, look like a fool.

On the third Sunday in June, the day before the official start of Vacation Bible School, Miss Raines would have us move our chairs into a straight line stretching from one end of the classroom to the other. Each of us was assigned a chair where we would sit with a Bible resting carefully on our laps. Then Miss Raines would slowly and meticulously explain the rules of the Bible Verse Sword Drill, which we already knew by heart. And finally, when you couldn't stand the anticipation any longer, she would draw a small piece of paper from a basket and announce a chapter and a verse.

“Girls and boys, the first verse is E-PHE-SIANS FIFTEEN THIR-TY-SIX,” she would say, annunciating ev-er-y syl-la-ble.

We would flip through the pages of our Bibles as fast as we could, racing to be the first to put our left index finger on the verse and our right hand high in the air signaling our success. The last person to find the verse was eliminated from the line, and the first one to go was usually Billy Thornton. Actually it was no big surprise when Billy was diagnosed with some sort of learning problem and sent to a special school down in Marietta. But for now, Billy, who was madly in love with Miss Raines, didn't seem to mind losing much because he still got his prize, standing next to his teacher and watching for hands, and Miss Raines's breasts, flying in the air.

One by one the others in the class would leave their Bibles in their chairs and take their place at the front of the room. And in the end, year after year, the glory of a first-place finish was always a race between Hank and me. And without fail, that boy would manage to find that last verse just a split second before I could get there. I'd have my finger moving down the page when I'd hear a shout from the other end of the room, “I've got it,” and Hank would leave with another gold medal hanging around his neck.

By the time I turned sixteen, I had learned to tolerate his perfection, and he had learned to tolerate my surly indifference. “Gee, Catherine Grace,” Ruthie Morgan would tell me, “with that pleasant attitude of yours, I'm sure the boys are just lining up to go out with you.” Ruthie Morgan had always enjoyed pointing out my shortcomings, and now, all grown up, and dressed in a cute baby blue sweater set and freshly polished Papagallos, she seemed to have no visible imperfections of her own. She just made something of a hobby identifying mine.

Truth be told, most of the other girls were fairly certain I would be left a lonely, bitter spinster. But I think that had more to do with my refusal to attend Miss Lilly Martin's School of Etiquette and Social Graces held every Tuesday for two laborious hours in a house that reeked of mothballs and Glade room freshener.

Turned out, Lolly and me were the only girls in our graduating class at Ringgold High who did not also possess a diploma from Miss Lilly Martin's School of Etiquette and Social Graces. Lolly's mama said she wasn't going to spend one dime on teaching Lolly how to hold a knife and fork judging by the way she had gained weight. She said she had already figured out how to do that just fine. And Daddy said when it got right down to it, a man would rather have a wife who could talk football than etiquette. So I took my chances.

But my junior year, something strange and very unexpected happened. I saw Hank as if I were meeting him for the very first time. I was attending a Young Life meeting at church, something my daddy made me do regularly, since apparently being the preacher's daughter meant serving as his personal ambassador to all teenaged Christian functions. Anyway, we were singing the last verse of “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” when Daddy interrupted to ask the group if we would consider putting together a program for the Christmas Eve Cedar Grove Holiday Celebration. Of course, we had no choice but to say yes because when the preacher asked you to do something the answer was always
yes.

Hank, not surprisingly, was excited about the chance to show off in front of the entire church. He looked up at my daddy and said something about it being an honor and that we would not let him or the good Lord down. Oh brother.

“Let's tell the story,” he said with authority, like he had been thinking of this for a long time, “of the night Jesus was born. But let's tell it our way. In our version, Mary and Joseph will hitchhike all the way from some place like Louisville, wander along Highway 127, and then stumble into Ringgold sometime close to midnight. Worn out and dirty from their journey, they'll look for a place for Mary to have her baby. But will somebody in our small town, which, let's face it, was probably not all that different from Bethlehem, welcome a strange couple and embrace them in their time of need?”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The old blue-haired ladies might think this was blasphemy, but I thought it was brilliant. A bunch of teenagers were going to make their very own neighbors, their brethren in Christ, wonder if they would have been kind enough to give Mary a warm, safe place to birth our Savior and Redeemer, which I kind of doubted—remembering how Brother Hawkin's daughter had been hidden down in Texas for a good nine months while her good-for-nothing boyfriend strutted his butt around the county dating anybody with a skirt and drinking beers behind the high school on Saturday nights.

Anyway, I hated to admit it. I mean I
really
hated to admit it, but this was a great idea. And I felt like, for the first time, I wasn't the only one who was seeing the small-minded way of thinking here that people seemed to cultivate just as mightily as their gossip and their vegetables. Even Mrs. Roberta Huckstep might be forced to consider if she was Christian enough to let some strange, young couple rest their heads on one of her beds covered with those crisply starched, white cotton sheets that had a big pink
H
monogrammed on the edge.

Everybody was excited, patting Hank on the shoulders and chatting about the props and costumes and who should be Mary and who should be Joseph and if anybody in town had a live baby we could borrow for the performance. Hank reminded us that we needed to be humble and right-minded in making all these decisions. Then he closed our meeting with a word of prayer just like he always did.

“Lord, thank you for bringing your children together tonight for fellowship. We praise you for all you've given us, and please guide us as we prepare for our Christmas pageant. Touch Johnny Blanchard with your healing power ’cause his mama says he has mono, and uh, you better go ahead and touch Lucy Mills while you're at it. And, one more thing, we know you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, but if you could lead the Ringgold Tigers to victory Friday night, well, we'd love to win one before the end of the season. In your name we pray, Amen.”

I know the Lord works in mysterious ways. I'd seen it for myself like when Daddy healed Ruthie Morgan's dying grandmother simply by laying his hands on her head and praying for one mighty long time. I couldn't make out a single word he said, but the Lord must have heard him, because the very next morning, she was sitting up in bed eating scrambled eggs and fried ham.

But even that miracle couldn't prepare me for what happened next. Shelley Hatfield, undeniably the most beautiful girl in Ringgold, and undoubtedly the most obvious choice for Mary, said, “I think Catherine Grace Cline should be Mary and, Hank, of course, you should be Joseph.”

I figured every girl in that room was hoping to be Hank's Mary, especially Shelley Hatfield. I was planning on working behind the curtain, organizing props, turning on lights, anything but being Hank's fiancée knocked up by the Holy Spirit himself.

Martha Ann opened her mouth in disbelief. “You, Mary. Wait till Gloria Jean hears this,” she said leaning into my ear.

Being the preacher's daughter had never really been an advantage, at least not as far as I could tell. My mama was gone and that stupid golden egg never did end up in my basket, and not one of those Sword Drill medals ever found its way around my neck. You'd think I'd have at least one pin for perfect attendance since my daddy had dragged me to church every single Sunday in those stupid, patent-leather Mary Janes. Nope, not that either, because I'd usually get some juicy head cold in the middle of February that would keep me in bed one Sunday out of the year. And now Mary, the one thing I
didn't
want,
didn't
need, was mine. Everyone else seemed equally amazed by Shelley's suggestion, and in the awkward moment of silence that followed, Hank searched my face looking for some sort of approval.

The very next day, I was standing in front of my locker putting away my composition notebook, when Joseph himself came up and grabbed me by the arm. “Catherine Grace, you know we need to start practicing as soon as possible. There's only four weeks before the holiday celebration, and I've got football practice almost every afternoon. So I was thinking maybe I could come over to your house on Saturday, and we could start figuring out what we're going to do.”

“Fine, Hank, we'll work around your very busy schedule because I'm not really doing much of anything with my life, and I'm sure it is so time consuming trying to win one football game,” I shot back, wondering myself why I was acting like such a sharp-tongued jerk.