Part 3 (1/2)

After the service, and after Daddy had said a few words to every member of the congregation, we began our long walk home. It wasn't really a long walk, just about the length, Daddy would say, of three football fields. But today, I felt like I was climbing a dang mountain-and pulling a bag of rocks behind me.

”Catherine Grace, I'm very impressed with your knowledge of the scripture,” Daddy said before we had even left the parking lot. ”I understand you were quoting from First Corinthians in Sunday school this morning. Sure does seem like an odd verse for you to have committed to memory, I mean at your age and all.”

”I just remember it from a Sword Drill, I guess, that's all,” I stammered, trying to come up with some reasonable explanation for my recitation.

”Well, it's my understanding that First Corinthians, chapter seven, verse eight, is your most favorite verse in the entire Bible,” he countered, knowing he had me cornered like a cat toying with a mouse.

A moment or two of silence lingered between us while I tried to imagine myself any place but standing next to my daddy. Maybe, I hoped, this would be the end of this discussion if I could just keep my mouth shut. Maybe he just wanted to let me know that he knew. Maybe he figured I would feel so guilty about what I'd done that I would go to Miss Raines and apologize. He was probably right, but for now I wasn't saying another word. Nope, not one more word.

”Catherine Grace, I loved your mother more than any other woman in the world, and nothing's going to change that. But that doesn't mean that I can't enjoy spending time with somebody else, with somebody like Miss Raines,” Daddy said. ”And it doesn't mean there is any less room in my heart for you and Martha Ann. Do you understand all that?”

Sure, I thought to myself. Gloria Jean had already explained this powerful need adults have for one another's company. All I needed to say at that moment was ”Yes, Daddy.” Two simple words, that's it. But that's not what came out of my mouth.

”Everybody at church wants you to marry her. I hear all the old ladies talking. They think I don't, but I do. So does Martha Ann,” I blurted, no more than sixty seconds after I'd sworn myself to silence. ”Heck, even Ruthie Morgan thinks it's about time you two get married so I can get a mama who will teach me a thing or two about being a lady.”

”Oh,” Daddy said, like he was actually surprised people at Cedar Grove Baptist Church were gossiping behind his back about his marital intentions. ”Well, girls,” and he paused again, ”I don't see us getting married. Well, at least not any time in the near future.”

That was it. That was all he said. It was as if even my own daddy wasn't sure what to say next. And as we continued to walk toward the house, n.o.body dared to say another word. As soon as I opened the front door, I could smell the chuck roast simmering in the Crock-Pot, that wonderful, familiar aroma greeting me like a dear, concerned friend.

All three of us sat at the kitchen table for a long time, enjoying what we understood to be only a brief return to a much-loved routine. I knew that next Sunday Miss Raines would be back in her chair, staring adoringly at my daddy with those beautiful, blue eyes. Like I said, just seems preachers have a way of getting what they want. But for today, thankfully, it was just the three of us.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Confessing My Sin with a Teacup in My Hand Daddy once told me that if you asked somebody where he was when he heard the news that President Kennedy had been shot, he could tell you right where he was standing. Daddy said the human mind can call up all sorts of details from the very moment of hearing something traumatic. He was right.

I was sitting in the third row, second seat from the left in home economics cla.s.s when Mrs. Gulbenk announced that, with Mother's Day just around the corner, she wanted us girls to try something new this year. Instead of sewing the expected, ruffled gingham ap.r.o.n that everyone could give their mothers as a present, she wanted us to celebrate our mamas' steady love and devotion by honoring them with a special tea.

I was halfway looking forward to making that silly-looking ap.r.o.n, having always admired all the frilly ap.r.o.ns Ruthie Morgan's mama had hanging on a hook in her kitchen. I thought I might wear it on Thursday nights when I made meat loaf, something I had been doing since my thirteenth birthday and Ida Belle had given me the Better Homes and Garden Cookbook-a must, she said, for every kitchen. But a tea, I wasn't so sure about that. And the more she talked about it, the more uncomfortable I got.

Mrs. Gulbenk had gone to Memphis the summer before and her sister-in-law had taken her to the Peabody hotel for some kind of fancy tea party. She was so taken with all the beautifully decorated cakes and delicate, little sandwiches which had been served that she wanted to share the experience with us-broaden our horizons, was the way she put it.

I didn't mind the idea of broadening myself, but I surely couldn't see how sipping tea from a china cup was going to accomplish that. Heck, the woman had been to Graceland, but she didn't seem the least bit interested in broadening our musical horizons. Oh no, all she wanted to talk about were pretty pink pet.i.t fours and perfectly cut lemon wedges, not one word about Elvis and rock 'n' roll.

Ruthie Morgan and Sh.e.l.ley Hatfield, the first soph.o.m.ores in Ringgold High's history to make the varsity cheerleading squad, were sitting in front of me, and I could tell they were grinning from ear to ear even though I couldn't see their faces. Their ponytails were swaying back and forth from left to right with such harmonious rhythm it was as if those girls were tapping their feet double time to the same silent beat.

”Mrs. Gulbenk,” Ruthie Morgan interrupted before she could get her arm fully extended in the air. ”My mama went to tea at the governor's house down in Atlanta once. I'm sure she'd be more than happy to help you, if you'd like her to.”

Ruthie Morgan's father was a real live World War II hero. He ran away from home and lied about his age just so he could fight for his country. He was barely sixteen and serving in the South Pacific when a j.a.panese torpedo hit the tip of his submarine. Ruthie Morgan's dad pulled five other sailors to safety before they were surely going to be sucked out into the ocean. So whenever the state of Georgia wanted to honor its veterans, some government official called Ruthie Morgan's dad, and that's how Ruthie Morgan's mom ended up at the governor's house drinking tea.

”Oh Ruthie, dear, thank ya. That's a lovely idea. I never cease to be amazed at what your mama can do.”

I had always liked Mrs. Gulbenk, despite her obsession with the tomato, until this very moment. I appreciated her teaching me to sew a b.u.t.ton on a jacket and how to properly season a new cast-iron skillet. I never really figured either one was going to be particularly important to my personal survival, but somehow I just felt a little more womanly knowing how. But sitting in the third row behind Ruthie Morgan's ponytail, I suddenly hated her and this broadening notion of hers and Mother's Day and everything else that made me remember that I was the only girl in my entire cla.s.s who didn't have a living and breathing mama. Besides, n.o.body with any sense drinks hot tea in May.

With all that hate swarming through my body, I barely heard Mrs. Gulbenk calling my name, ”Catherine Grace, child, are ya in there?”

And in her well-intended effort to ease my discomfort, she only made it worse. ”Catherine Grace, I'm gonna need one gul to help me pour the tea. It is a big responsibility, and I need someone with a mature demeana and a steady hand. I was wonderin' if you'd help? Of course, you should know, you won't be able to spend much time socializin' with the otha guls.”

The other girls in Mrs. Gulbenk's tenth-grade home economics cla.s.s instantly turned to look at me with their sappy, sympathetic stares, letting me know that they had already deciphered what she was trying to say in polite code. Catherine Grace, since you don't have a mother, I have a very special job for you. That ought to make it all better, right dear? That ought to make that dull, aching pain you've gotten used to feeling in your heart soften a bit, right?

Lolly Dempsey was sitting next to me. She looked me in the eyes and mouthed two words, ”I'm sorry.”

”Me, too,” I mouthed back.

I don't remember much more of that day except Mrs. Gulbenk's persistent rambling ringing in my ears. She kept talking in an unusually high, giddy tone that plainly revealed her excitement about her newly invented Mother-Daughter Tea. But every word fell into the next, and from the second seat in the third row, it all sounded like a lot of noise about nothing.

Lolly followed me out of the cla.s.sroom as if to provide some sort of human s.h.i.+eld between me and the other girls, you know, the girls with mothers. Lolly definitely had a mother, but mostly I think she wished she didn't. Her mama was almost fifty when Lolly was born. Mrs. Dempsey told me once that she was done taking care of babies when she got the news she was going to have another. It seemed like a mighty strange thing to be sharing with a child, but Lolly said her mama reminded her almost every day that she had been the product of a night of drunken thoughtlessness.

Lolly wasn't allowed to have many friends over to her house. Her mama said it was too much work, and taking care of Lolly was already work enough. She'd let me come now and again, but only because I was the preacher's daughter. You don't want the preacher thinking unkindly of you even if you don't attend church on a regular basis.

But I never cared to spend much time at the Dempseys' house. I didn't like the hateful way Lolly's mama talked to her. Sometimes I wasn't so sure if Mrs. Dempsey really knew how ugly she sounded. I think it had just become another one of her awful habits, kind of like those Virginia Slims she was always sticking between her lips. She would draw the smoke deep into her chest and just let it set there for a minute before blowing it out through her nose, sometimes right in Lolly's face. It was as if her mama blamed Lolly for simply being, and poor Lolly Dempsey knew from the very beginning what I had learned only at six-life's not fair.

Standing in front of our gray metal lockers, Lolly and I griped about Mrs. Gulbenk's new cla.s.s a.s.signment, trying to comfort each other by joking about how stupid a tea sounded and how making a quart of tomato aspic would be ten times better than this. We imitated Ruthie Morgan throwing her arm in the air and offering her mother up as some sort of statewide, recognized tea expert.

”Hey, you can bring my mom, Catherine Grace. I'm sure she'd rather go with you anyway,” Lolly said with a look in her eyes that told me she wasn't kidding anymore.

”Thanks, but I'll be Mrs. Gulbenk's trusted little helper, the girl with the steady hand,” I said, thinking as I looked back in Lolly's eyes, maybe it was better not having a mama than to have one who doesn't want you.

”Catherine Grace, seriously, I've got an idea. Why don't you bring Gloria Jean? You know she'd love to come. All you have to do is ask, and she'll be picking out the perfect shade of nail polish just for the occasion.”

She was right. Gloria Jean would be thrilled to be my mother, even if it was only for one afternoon. She'd never had any children of her own, although she said she had come close once or twice. She said she had an angry uterus that just never took to growing a baby. But she loved every opportunity to dote on Martha Ann and me, even calling us the children she always dreamed of having.

Lolly was also right about the nail polish. But I already knew the shade she'd pick. Cherry Blossom Pink. Gloria Jean always said that Cherry Blossom Pink was just the right shade for bridal showers and ladies' luncheons, and I figured a tea fell somewhere between the two.

Most people in Ringgold didn't appreciate Gloria Jean's colorful sense of style. Gloria Jean called herself a liberated, modern woman who wasn't afraid to express her inner self. I knew that was talk she had picked up from one of those ladies' magazines she was always reading, and I also knew that the other women in town had less-flattering names for her.

When I was no more than seven or eight, Gloria Jean would take me to town while she did her weekly shopping. Everybody we pa.s.sed on the sidewalk acted real friendly to her face. But I could tell that when she walked away, they were pa.s.sing judgments. They'd lean into one another and whisper in each other's ears. I eventually figured out what they were saying. They thought her blue eye shadow was tacky and her red, silky blouse that pulled too tightly across her chest was wh.o.r.eish. I knew they were wrong, and I tried to tell them by casting a scolding, evil stare in their direction. But they never paid any attention to a little girl.

I used to feel so hurt for Gloria Jean, even though she never seemed to notice. But as I got older, sometimes I found myself feeling more embarra.s.sed than hurt. And then that left me feeling guilty and shallow. I just wasn't sure what to think anymore. One minute I'd be crying, the next I'd be laughing. Gloria Jean said it was nothing but horrormones, as she liked to call them, running wild throughout my body. But I wasn't so convinced that I could blame the way I was feeling on something I had never seen or heard of before.

But I did know one thing for certain, I wasn't feeling up to drawing any more attention to myself; being the only motherless child in cla.s.s was bad enough without having to listen to all the talk about my special, colorful friend. No, I would just pour the tea and make myself feel better by spitting in Ruthie Morgan's cup.

For the next two weeks, Mrs. Gulbenk talked on and on about tea and tea parties. She said some English d.u.c.h.ess back in the nineteenth century came up with the idea of serving tea in the afternoon so she could make it to dinner without fainting from hunger. We learned to make these tiny cuc.u.mber sandwiches, which were nothing more than two little round pieces of white bread with a slice of cuc.u.mber and some cream cheese between them. I didn't know about that English d.u.c.h.ess, but even I knew it was going to take more than a piece of cuc.u.mber to quiet a growling stomach.