Night Bird Calling Page 6

  “A spiritually minded man will never come to you with the demand—‘Believe this and that’; but with the demand that you square your life with the standards of Jesus. We are not asked to believe the Bible, but to believe the One Whom the Bible reveals. . . .”

  Those words meant the world to Jesse. He could not count the times in life that thought gave him peace, the days it drove him and his questions to Jesus. He wondered if Miz Hyacinth and Grace felt the joy and relief he did in that reminder, if it set their hearts free and their faith firm. He hoped so.

  Chapter Six

  I’D ONLY SAT TO BE POLITE. But now I was riveted to the reading. I’d been raised in a church that virtually demanded we see as the leaders saw, claiming we were unable to understand the Bible for ourselves. Gerald, my father, and the elders said we were to follow their teachings because they possessed the mind of Christ. Oswald Chambers’s words would be heresy to them. I pulled my mind back to Reverend Willard’s reading.

  “Always keep your life measured by the standards of Jesus. Bow your neck to His yoke alone, and to no other yoke whatever; and be careful to see that you never bind a yoke on others that is not placed by Jesus Christ. It takes God a long time to get us out of the way of thinking that unless everyone sees as we do, they must be wrong. That is never God’s view. There is only one liberty, the liberty of Jesus at work in our conscience enabling us to do what is right.

  “Don’t get impatient, remember how God dealt with you—with patience and with gentleness.”

  I had given myself to Jesus—thrown my heart and soul into His hands at a young age, loving Him and wanting more than anything to be yoked to Him, to be loved by Him. But somewhere along the line, Pastor Harding, my father, the other elders, and Gerald had all stepped in between Jesus and me, judging and condemning not only my actions, but my motives, my heart’s desires, suspicious of my very thoughts until I didn’t know who I was or even what I thought independently of them. In time, I’d taken those judgments as crushing judgments from God . . . for didn’t Pastor Harding say he was shepherd of the flock? He was, in fact, considered by our church God’s mouthpiece in the earth and I was to be subject, surrendered to his authority. I’d grown convinced that if they could not love me, neither could God.

  Involuntarily, I shuddered. There was nothing patient or gentle in the ways they had dealt with me. Now, to hear that Jesus looked at us differently, perhaps could look at me differently than they did . . . it seemed impossible. Was this truth or heresy?

  “Grace? Grace?” Aunt Hyacinth was speaking.

  “I’m sorry; what did you say?”

  “Did you enjoy the reading, my dear?”

  “Yes,” I stammered. “Very much.” But Reverend Willard’s expression turned quizzical, as if I’d sung out of tune. I felt as if the room closed in, sucking air from my lungs. “Please excuse me while you read your letter. I’ll take the tea things away. Would you like another cup, Reverend Willard?”

  “No thank you, Grace. I’m fine.” He looked disappointed.

  “There’s no hurry with those dishes. You’re welcome to stay and listen, my dear. I’m sure Biddy will have news of the war in Britain. They’ve suffered terrible bombing.”

  “Yes, I’ve read about that. Thank you, but I think I’d like to get these done.” Before I’d lifted the tray, Reverend Willard stood and took it from me.

  “Allow me to carry those for you.”

  “Really, there’s no need.”

  “Then grant me the blessing.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, so simply walked ahead of him into the kitchen and tied an apron around my waist, not turning when I heard the tray set down on the table.

  “I hope we’ll see you in church Sunday.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Nothing could be further from my hopes. I’d come to escape the church—and God if need be—not to find Him confronting and condemning me again. “I’ll stay here with Hyacinth and keep her company.”

  “I think Miz Hyacinth would love to come to church. She’s refused offers to help her get there for fear of burdening others—and I can’t help but believe from a little damaged pride. But I can tell she’s missed it. It’s a short walk, and now that the weather is warmer, it would do her good to get out—as long as she has a strong arm to lean on and eyes to guide her.”

  I felt the high-ceilinged walls closing in again. “We haven’t talked about it. There’s so much to work out. I’ve only just arrived, you know.”

  He backed off then. “My apologies. I don’t mean to push. I’m just so happy you’re here—for Miz Hyacinth’s sake. She’s needed someone for a long while, but not given in to saying so. I’m surprised she has now, but I believe it’s just in time. I’ve been concerned for her.”

  I turned to face him now. There was nothing else to do without displaying abject rudeness. “And you’ve apparently been a very good friend to her. Thank you for that.”

  He smiled that unnerving, disarming smile again. “I’m entirely the beneficiary. Miz Hyacinth has been a great friend and confidante to me. She’s a wise and godly woman.”

  I nodded, doing my best to look everywhere but into his eyes, brown with flecks of amber light and a ring of green outside the pupil, a perfect brightness against his dark hair. For the first time I noticed the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. “Well, I’d like to get on with these dishes, and I think Hyacinth is eager for her letter.”

  “Yes, of course. It was grand to make your acquaintance, Grace, and I hope you’ll reconsider that invitation to church.” He reached his hand for mine and held it a moment too long.

  Chapter Seven

  AS SHE PLUNKED INTO THE PEW, Celia squirmed in her itchy Sunday dress—too tight by half—and squeezed a finger between her chin and the elastic strap that secured the bonnet her mother insisted she wear. Her Sunday shoes were an inch too tight and the rough pine pew made her backside go numb. Slouching was impossible. Constructive—or is it constrictive? Celia couldn’t remember which amazing new word it was, but one of those captured just how she felt. How Chester sat bolt upright and still on the other side of their mother in his green woolen sweater and too-short, strangling tie was beyond her.

  She hoped Reverend Willard wouldn’t get revved up this week and go on and on as he did when filled with the Spirit. Why, just last summer Wanda Whitcomb had claimed she was slain of the Spirit during one of his “magnificent sermons”—though Celia wondered if she wasn’t just trying to catch the reverend’s eye the way she fell. It wasn’t that his sermons weren’t interesting or entertaining or downright inspiring. It was just that a body could only sit still in such discomfort for so long.

  But all that flew from Celia’s head when her ears caught the tap, tap of Miz Hyacinth’s cane coming down the aisle—a tap, tap that had not been heard inside Shady Grove Baptist for a good two years. Celia jumped up to catch a glimpse and wave to Miss Grace, who had a hold on Miz Hyacinth’s arm, steering her to the pew across the aisle and up one.

  “Celia,” her mother hissed, “sit down.”

  Celia sat, but the arrival of Miz Hyacinth in church after two years’ absence, and of Miss Grace—the woman in tweed, still in tweed—captured her attention for the entire service.

  Chapter Eight

  IF I’D HAD MY WAY, I’d never have set foot in that church or any other—never again. It was all I could do not to break down for the weariness of it all. The mental conflict, the flashing memories, the certainty that rejection would be repeated at every turn built anxiety and anguish in my chest. I feared it might explode any moment. But Aunt Hyacinth had been determined. It was her heart’s desire to go—and evidently had been for a long time. She’d just refused to ask anyone to help her.

  “But now you’re here, Lilliana. You’re here and it makes perfect sense that if you’re working as my companion, you would take me—you would insist on taking me. And to tell the truth, I need to go.”

  I’d never been
able to deny my mother anything, and this dear woman had raised Mama, offered her balm and home. Now she freely offered me the same—with so few questions asked. I could not deny her, but I could not shake feelings of condemnation from the church—any church.

  If these people knew me—knew that I’d run away from my husband and father, knew that I wasn’t really the “Miss Grace Belvidere” that Reverend Willard introduced to the congregation—they would surely be shocked.

  I felt like that woman from Hawthorne’s novel who wore the scarlet A on her chest. Not that I’d committed adultery—but I’d run away and let them believe a lie about me. What will happen if they learn the truth—when they learn it? If Gerald or Father show up, looking for me? What will that mean, not only for me but for Aunt Hyacinth? I turned away when the woman across the aisle smiled and nodded a greeting. I dared not get close to anyone. Let them think me a snob. Please, God, if You have any mercy, let them not think of me at all.

  •••

  After service, before I could get Aunt Hyacinth to her feet and out the door, a woman nearly six feet tall and rail thin plowed her way through the congregants to push her hand into mine.

  “Welcome to No Creek, Miss Belvidere. We’re mighty glad to have you. I’m Mrs. Mae—call me Ida Mae, everyone does—postmistress and proprietress of the general store, also local midwife on occasion. If I can be of service to you or Miz Hyacinth, you just let me know. I know everyone and everything in the area. You have a question, you ask me. Isn’t that right, Miz Hyacinth? I hope you told her.”

  “Yes, I’ve told her all about you, Ida Mae; you may depend on it.” Aunt Hyacinth smiled innocently and gave my hand a conspiratorial squeeze.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mae—Ida Mae. I appreciate that. Right now, I believe I need to get Hyacinth home. It’s been a long morning for her.”

  “Well, of course it has, bless her heart. Miz Hyacinth, you know we’re mighty glad you came to church after all this time.” Ida Mae raised her voice as if Aunt Hyacinth were not only blind but beyond deaf. “We’ve missed you, and I’m sure the good Lord is pleased to see you’ve returned to the fold.”

  It sounded like a backhanded welcome. I might not take up for myself, but I was ready to give Ida Mae a short retort on Aunt Hyacinth’s behalf when Reverend Willard intervened.

  “Two Belvidere women. We are blessed. Thank you, Grace, for bringing our dear friend, and thank you for joining us today. You ladies made the sun come out.”

  Ida Mae straightened. “Just as I said, Reverend Willard.”

  Reverend Willard winked at me.

  Furiously, I blushed—I know I did for the heat that came up my neck. “Hyacinth, we need to get you home.”

  “I am feeling a little weary, but, Reverend Willard, I must thank you for that sermon. It was one I needed to hear just now.”

  “You take care, Miz Hyacinth. I’ll be up to see you this week as usual. You’ll be ready for me?”

  “Of course we will.” Aunt Hyacinth’s smile rang through her vocal cords.

  I steered Aunt Hyacinth carefully down the aisle, though one and another of the congregants wanted to stop and speak with her, to welcome her back and say how they’d missed her. At the door, though the reverend was already deep into another conversation, he looked up at me, tipped his head, and mouthed, “Thank you!”

  I was glad to be holding on to Aunt Hyacinth, for I might have stumbled if not. I wasn’t used to being appreciated or thanked or even noticed, and it felt foreign, odd, something I didn’t know what to do with. But as Aunt Hyacinth and I walked slowly home, arm in arm, it felt warming, just the same.

  Chapter Nine

  CELIA WASN’T SURE what set the fire beneath Miz Hyacinth—unless it was Miss Grace’s arrival—but she was game for the flurry of activity at Garden’s Gate. She just hated having to go weed garden and haul water for the widow Cramer half the day now that school was out and miss all the excitement. But whatever she missed by day she could hear about in the general store each afternoon. All she needed to do was stop in on her way home and offer to sweep the floor for a peppermint stick or a pickle. She’d hear the local gossip in five minutes.

  Today Ida Mae was “confiding” in Joe Earl, which was rich indeed, because Joe wouldn’t remember a word of it past five thirty when the Whistle Stop Bar & Grill opened for drinks down the other side of the train platform.

  “I heard she’s called Gladys Percy in to clean that big house from attic to cellar—paying her top dollar—and hired Olney Tate to rake up that entire yard and trim up and plow a garden space, late as it is to get started. She’s depending on her ‘companion’ to oversee the entire operation. I just hope that woman isn’t spending every last dime Miz Hyacinth’s saved for her old age. That would be a crime. Miz Hyacinth’ll need that money.”

  Celia kept sweeping, kept her ears sharp, all the while wondering, if sixtysomething wasn’t Miz Hyacinth’s old age, when that would be.

  “It’s not respectable, having that colored man working there all hours with those women alone in the house. I heard he’s even brought his nephew up from Georgia to help out.” Ida Mae leaned conspiratorially close to Joe. “You just tell me what some fifteen-year-old colored boy is doing leaving home and coming to the foothills of North Carolina. You reckon he was run out of town for something sinister?” She shook her head but kept on. Joe Earl never got a word in edgewise. “I don’t know what No Creek is coming to. Two strangers in as many weeks. And what do we know of Grace Belvidere? I never heard tell of any such relative until—”

  Just then the bell jingled over the store door and in walked Miss Grace.

  “Good afternoon, Ida Mae, Celia.” Miss Grace half smiled, nodding, but kept her face all business. She didn’t speak to Joe Earl but pulled her eyes away the minute she saw him. She must not have met him before.

  “Why, Grace, a pleasure to see you!” Ida Mae crooned as if she’d not just been talking behind her back thirty miles an hour. “How can I help you today? There’s no mail for Miz Hyacinth.”

  “No, she’s not expecting any just now. I’ve come to see about paint.”

  “Paint.”

  “Yes, something in a cream or pale yellow that will catch the light for the interior of the house, and white, for the outside.”

  “Miz Hyacinth wants paint now?” Ida Mae’s voice held all the surprise of a snowstorm in June and just a tad of judgment. “She’ll never be able to see it, you know.”

  “No, but she wants the house brought back to its glory, just the same, and I’m here to see it done as she wishes.”

  Celia grinned to see Miss Grace lift her chin and stand up to Ida Mae.

  “We’ll have to order it from Elkin—maybe even Winston-Salem,” Ida Mae observed as if that was a big to-do.

  “She expects that. When do you think it might be delivered?”

  “If I place an order today, maybe by the end of the week, if they have it in stock. How much do you want?”

  “Olney Tate recommends five gallons for the interior, for now. For the outside, he thinks we should order fifteen gallons and see how we go. We can order more later if need be.”

  “Olney Tate, is it? I heard he was doing some work on the grounds. Does Miz Hyacinth think it’s wise to have him working inside the house?”

  “Wise? Olney and his nephew are excellent workers. They’ve already done wonders with the garden and fencing.”

  “But you and Gladys Percy and Miz Hyacinth herself—all women alone in the house with him. I’m surprised Miz Hyacinth hasn’t given that more thought. You know, near every week I have one or two men comin’ in here, lookin’ for work—drifters, but still, at least they’re white.” She leaned over the counter, past Joe Earl, pretending to whisper, but in a voice loud enough to be heard at the door. “It isn’t seemly.”

  Celia couldn’t see Miss Grace’s face from where she was, but she saw her back straighten and heard the steel come into her voice. “I’m sure Hyacinth knows what she’
s doing. And I believe the Tates have been her longtime friends—for generations, as I understand it.”

  Now Ida Mae bristled and stood to her full height. Celia’s breath caught, watching two she-cats size one another up.

  “By the way—” Miss Grace turned, giving the store a glance, and smiled, obviously trying to mend fences—“do you have any wallpaper sample books I might look through? Something we might order from?”

  Joe Earl chuckled.

  “What’s so funny about that, Joe?” Ida Mae cut him short.

  “This is No Creek, ma’am,” he addressed Miss Grace. “Not much call for wallpaper round here. Most of us paper with the latest Sears and Roebuck or old pages of the Journal-Patriot or—”

  “That’s enough, Joe Earl. You’ll have Grace thinking we’re all backwoods here. But it’s true; we don’t carry wallpaper samples in the store. You’ll likely have to go into Winston-Salem for that or call on the telephone and ask to have samples sent out on the train. Want me to ask the paint supplier for you?”

  “No thank you. I think a trip into the city might be what’s needed. Do you have a timetable for the train?”

  Ida Mae handed one over. Celia figured it was the first one she’d doled out in years. “I’ll put the paint order on Miz Hyacinth’s bill.”

  “Thank you, Ida Mae. We’ll settle up at the end of the month.”

  And then she was gone.

  “Celia Percy, aren’t you done sweeping yet?” Ida Mae snapped.

  Celia swept faster, knowing Ida Mae needed to take it out on somebody. “Almost! Just a little more over in the corner.”

  “Be smart about it.” And then Ida Mae’s voice lowered to Joe Earl. “Did you hear that? Spending money like rainwater. ‘A trip to the city might be just what’s needed,’” she mocked. “Plunked it right on Miz Hyacinth’s bill. ‘We’ll settle up.’ Like it’s her money.”