The Lutheran Ladies' Circle: Plucking One String (14 page)

Two weeks before Easter, Robert Fullerton paused in mid-brushstroke at the wall he was painting for church-wide clean-up. With furrowed brow, he studied a wispy collection of dried, colorless flowers in a black vase. Slowly his head turned back and forth, scanning the line of black vases that had appeared in window sills over the past weeks. The sound of voices interrupted his thoughts, and he quickly finished his brushstroke to whitewash scuff marks. Two women said hello as they walked by. Kay and Nan had seen the confused headshake he’d given the vases. They glanced at each other and held their laughter until treading downstairs to the Fellowship Hall.

“Oh good.” Micki looked up as she took several Chocolate-Haystack cookies. “Kay and Nan are here. Now we have enough for a quorum.”

“When has that ever mattered?” Vera shuffled through her papers.

“Vera! You made a joke,” Micki said.

Kay slouched into a chair. “I don’t feel like meeting, even if Vera’s going to tell jokes. I’ve got the blahs. I don’t want to do anything, especially clean a stove.”

“Well, that won’t be any different.” Vera glanced at her.

“Vera! You made another joke,” Micki said.

“I certainly didn’t mean to.” Her straight white hair fell close to her face as she wrote on her agenda. “The Kitchenettes already have begun this morning.” She straightened her papers by tapping their edges on the table. “So this will be a short meeting, then we’ll help them spring clean. First off, more and more black decorations are appearing. I am greeted by a new display every week.”

Kay focused on the cuticles of her right hand. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I like the dried flowers, maybe the black ribbons are a bit much,” Micki said.

“The cattails in burlap bags next to the pulpit are quite artistic,” added Nan.

“And Lorena had the Sunday school children draw those pictures of sinners crying,” Hettie said. “She put them right next to the entrance. Parents love seeing children’s artwork displayed, even if it is sad.”

Vera closed her eyes as she spoke. “Lent is about reflection and hope.” She tapped her pencil to the beat of her last three words. “It’s beginning to look like a community memorial where people leave flowers and notes. I’m surprised she hasn’t included teddy bears.”

“That’s harsh.” Hettie gave Vera a flat stare. “I know for a fact Lorena has tried very hard to provide tasteful and eloquent visuals to help people reflect on their lives.”

“She’s using the boiling-frog technique.” Vera punctuated her sentence with two more pencil taps. “Surreptitiously, she adds a little each week, slowly turning up the heat so the frog won’t notice and jump out of the pot.”

“You boil a lot of frogs?” asked Kay.

The corners of Vera’s mouth warped upward even as she tried to hold her lips in a tight line and look at the floor. A laugh had almost blurped out before she could squeeze it off with a cough. She quickly smoothed the twist on her mouth, and narrowed her eyes. “I knew this would happen. I said as much.”

“None of us wanted to decorate.” Kay shrugged. “And you have to admit, Lorena’s kept it interesting. I move we buy her a coffee card for putting in so much effort every week.”

“I’ll second that.” Hettie locked eyes with Vera. “We don’t have to love her style, but we can be
nice
.”

“Are you saying I haven’t been polite?” The two women stared, silence stretching between them. Vera’s frown deepened as she internally berated herself. This is what she got for tolerating Lorena’s ever-growing chapel of darkness. She should’ve said something the first week. Of course, she would’ve been accused of harping too soon. She’d tried to be good-natured.

The sound of Kay digging through her purse made Hettie look away, and gave Vera the chance to tack a few more hobnails into her defense. “When excess becomes a distraction, purpose is lost. It says, ‘Look at me,’ rather than, ‘Think of God.’ It’s like a flashing halo delivering the announcement of salvation. The listener doesn’t know which to focus on.”

“Good grief, Vera.” Hettie glanced at Kay again, who seemed to be ignoring the fracas in front of her and texting on her phone. “You’ve managed to insult two people with one sentence.”

“I apologize. I was putting the worshippers’ needs first, but there are better ways to handle this. Who is in favor of recognizing Lorena’s efforts with a coffee card?”

Mumbled ayes circled the table, except for Nan, who made a show of busily counting the stitches in her knitting.

“Pssst, Vera…” Kay ducked her head, holding her hand to her mouth. “I’ll let you borrow my halo if you’ll give me one of your frog-boiling recipes to put in my biker-chick cookbook. I prefer a recipe with cheese.”

This time Vera didn’t smile; she checked her notes as though she’d become deaf. “All right. I know when to pick my battles. Because all of you esteem the Lenten decorations, I’m sure you’ll want to show our organist your appreciation, too. Nan needs a choir leader for the children’s Easter songs. She will not be playing for Easter services.” Faces turned toward the organist.

Nan gave an apologetic shrug. “I can’t. It’s my allergies. That many lilies and I’d need a respirator and new lungs before the church service is over.”

“Why hasn’t this been a problem before?” Micki asked.

The click of Nan’s needles stopped. She stared at the floor. “In the past, the flower committee made concessions for my sinuses. We used white azaleas. They lasted longer, looked great, and folks could plant them afterward. Now there are new people on the committee, and Pastor Poe asked if we could try lilies this Easter, so—”

“I’m substituting for Nan,” Vera said. “Who is going to work with me and lead the children’s Easter songs?”

The women stared at the table, floor, or air.

“I’ve already done the hard part,” Nan said. “We’ve rehearsed for several weeks.” She turned to the chairwoman. “I’ll ask a Sunday schoolteacher to herd the kids.”

“Kay?” Vera narrowed her eyes at the short woman. “I believe you have a relationship with the children. They love you after you taught them they’d receive flashing headgear when they went to heaven.”

“Oh, Vera, you funster, you made another joke.” Kay gave her a flat smile as she put away her phone and grabbed her third cookie.

“I have my hands full.” Vera held up a clipboard covered with lists. “I’ll be assisting Altar Guild with Maundy Thursday and Good Friday
and
playing the organ on Easter Sunday. Someone needs to volunteer for this.”

“You know, this is like one of those condo/hotel pitches in Cancun. We were lured here by the anticipation of Vera’s comedy show and her secret frog recipes, but now we find out she wants us to teach kids corny songs they don’t want to sing in order to get our free stay and jeep rental,” Kay said.

“What are you talking about?” Hettie squinted at her.

Kay’s eyes shifted to Vera. “I’m getting a coffee before my shut-up muzzle completely falls off. She pushed away from the table, and headed toward the kitchen.

Hettie called after her. “Stay there. Maybe the Kitchnettes will let you clean the stove.”

*

Spring Cleaning went as Vera expected. The Kitchenettes issued orders to any man or woman who happened to venture into their command center. They’d earned the right years ago when three long-standing members, frustrated with fuzzy surprises in the cabinets and dirty dishes in the sink, staged a kitchen coup. They’d cleaned, labeled drawers, created rules, and posted signs.
Your mother DOES work here. Honor your mother.—The Kitchenettes

They were an efficient army, flushing out the downstairs cobwebs. Vera was happy to let them have their territory of spatulas and appliances. They assigned the Ladies Circle to unpack and sterilize 40 new plates and sets of flatware, recently purchased with the congregation’s collection of boxtops.

Vera left the workers. Too many generals made a battle. She chose to work alone in the library, intermittently pausing to listen to the sounds of chore parties throughout the church. Late in the afternoon, she stopped shelving and alphabetizing. She went to the door and listened again. Satisfied everyone had left, she walked through silent hallways toward her goal.

She arrived at the sanctuary, noting two black wreaths had been added since this morning. This really wasn’t something she wanted to do, but Lorena had made a death saga out of Lent. They’d all known it was going to happen. On Friday, God’s Friday, members and many visitors would attend the unique, ancient Tenebrae service.

They wouldn’t be greeted by this horror.

THE SORROWFUL FRIDAY…“darkness overcame the land”
 

Luke 23:44

WALT PUSHED THE okra and fried pumpkin seeds around his plate. He preferred pecans in his vegetables for a little crunch, but his daughter-in-law had brought him a bag of raw, green pumpkin seeds, saying they were good for prostate health.

Shocked that she would even mention this private manly part, much less give him food for it, he’d left the bag on the shelf for a month. It would’ve still been sitting there if he hadn’t forgotten to buy pecans. The green kernels stuck to the okra. They sure were chewy little critters. What starving fool had been so desperate he’d discovered seeds were food?

The red light from the answering machine continued to wink at him. He’d ignored it when he’d walked in the door from a day of fishing. While he was in the shower, getting ready for Good Friday services, he’d heard the phone ring again. Most likely, it was his son checking on him. Instead of calling back, Walt had cut off a chunk of fresh bass. Fried it with okra, sprinkled the whole mess with pumpkin seeds and had supper, adding store-bought pudding for dessert.

Ruby would’ve insisted on a leafy salad. He hated that rabbit-food, but if his late wife had been there to fix one right now, he’d have eaten it. She had wandered through his mind a lot this morning.

He hadn’t cared if he caught anything; he liked being outdoors, watching Roger’s boys. They whooped and jumped when a fish hit their lure. Their eyes lit up like halogen bulbs. That was something to see.

Ruby would’ve said, in that hushed, knowing voice of hers, “Why Walt, I believe you’re getting soft in your old age. Maybe you should have an experience like that with your own grandchildren.”

Walt glanced at the blinking light again. Yeah, he’d mention it when his son came by. He’d receive a visit if he didn’t return the phone calls. He would duck his head, act hang-dog and take the scolding for not letting them know he was all right and wasn’t dead on the floor. He still won. He got to see his son and sometimes his grandkids. Often his daughter-in-law brought strange presents like chocolate-zucchini bread or pumpkin seeds.

“They’re busy,” Ruby would’ve scolded.

“Well, I won’t be around forever,” he spoke out loud to the memory. His mind crawled over the years. She was standing in front of him, blocking the kitchen doorway. He was holding that same rod he’d used this morning, arguing, “I work sixty hours a week. Stop trying to make me feel guilty about taking a day to fish.”

She’d placed a hand on his arm. “Take the boys. They hardly get to see you, except when you’re tired.”

“They wrestle and skip rocks, scaring fish and wildlife from here to Texas. I deserve some time to myself.”

“They won’t be around forever.” She always was one to wallop him with guilt. He punched the play button on the machine.

“Walt!” Vera called his name loud and thin as though she’d seen a ghost. “Can you come to my neighbor’s house immediately?”

He shook his head. That woman loved to volunteer him for duties. Since Jim had died, she’d become more demanding. Vera was always stiff as an old sack, but she used to at least laugh once in a while. Had he changed as much since his wife died?

Naw. He’d always been a cranky old coot. He smiled. Ruby would’ve agreed. He’d been happy today though, showing Roger’s boys how to gut a fish.

When he watched them work, he could see they’d done it before, but they’d listened and treated him with respect. He was surprised to feel how much he needed that. When his son came to check on him, he’d offer to take his grandkids fishing.

He hit the ‘play’ button again. The other message was from a siding company hawking sweat-proof windows. His son hadn’t called. He could be lying in a creek or floating face-down in a pond for all his family knew. It was awful to get so old nobody needed you.

Nobody…but Vera.

He found that irritating and heartening at the same time. He sighed and poked a seed. His fish had gone cold.

*

Vera rang the doorbell. She’d planned this carefully. It was hard to get away from her lonely neighbor. Each day Vera checked on him, and she expected to find him slumped over an ornithology book. At ninety, he was housebound, practiced bird calls, and insisted visitors guess which fowl he was imitating. Vera was very good at identifying crow-in-distress from crow-spying-food. Usually, she dropped by in the mornings, but today she’d purposefully waited until evening to visit. After 15 minutes, she could say she needed to get a loaf of banana-nut bread out of her oven and get to church—and she wouldn’t be lying. To compensate for the short visit she’d brought along a plate of freshly-baked sugar cookies.

As usual, no one answered the door. Vera called his name as she let herself in. Silence replied. She looked in the favorite places where she predicted he’d keel over. He wasn’t there. Even though he wasn’t supposed to poke around with his bird feeders, she checked outside. When did a man ever do what he was supposed to do? She was relieved not to find him, toes-up in the backyard.

Closed doors lined the hallway. She called out as she walked to the open door at the end. He lay in bed. The coverlet pulled to his chin. “Gus?” Vera whispered as though afraid of waking him. “Augustus Vogler!” Vera shook the bed. The old man didn’t move. In the muted light of the bedroom, he had the same pallor she’d seen on Jim when she’d known he was gone. The fading light of a body freshly abandoned by its soul. She rapped the old man’s chest and flicked his nose, but got no response. She’d done the same to Jim, but had never told anyone.