for…” she glances at Grand, who’s stopping to shake the hand of the two or three people she passes before settling primly into the front pew. “For you to take home,” Mrs. Jorgen says, and there’s a new book of knitting stitches and three skeins of multi-colored yarn inside. I thank her, but when I ask her how much it all costs she just waves me away. “We put it on your Grandmother’s tab, honey. Not your worry.”
“Oh. Okay.” Grand is busy rooting around in her pocketbook twelve pews away, so I whisper quickly, “Do you think I could get some antibiotics?”
Mrs. Jorgen tilts her head and glances towards where Grand is holding up a compact, smearing on orangey lipstick. “Is someone sick at your house?”
“I think… maybe.”
Mrs. Jorgen blinks quickly, touches her fingers to her mouth and whispers, “Well, Ansel, you need a prescription for antibiotics. Have you called the—”
Grand clears her throat loudly and I turn to see her staring at me.
“Thanks again,” I say loudly.
When I slide into the pew, Grand grabs me by the arm and pulls me down next to her. “What did I say? What kind of behavior do I expect from you?”
“I was just thanking her,” I say, holding up the pharmacy bag in my other hand.
“You have no need to thank these people,” Grand says, sniffing and picking a piece of lint off of her navy blue dress. “Now sit up straight and act like you’re part Calvert.”
I stuff the bag under the pew as Mr. Carson scoots in next to me and bows his head. Grand straightens, opens her compact again and fluffs the curls behind her ears with one finger. Light floods us from behind a few more times as the doors open and people come in and take their seats.
Dear God, I pray. Please watch over Izzy and help her get better and don’t let her fever get any higher. Please let our birthday come quickly and please let me get my driver’s license on the first try. And God, please let me have one more chance to talk to Everett Lloyd. Amen.
The organ music starts and Mrs. Jorgen walks up the aisle in front of Reverend Clark to light the candles. Reverend Clark scoots to the front of the church behind his walker and gets his balance long enough to raise his hands in the air as the music stops.
“Let us pray.”
After the service we all cross the street to the fellowship hall, a high-ceilinged metal building with no windows that smells of rust and burnt coffee grounds. In the center of the cold, bare room is a card table with a red checked plastic tablecloth, and Grand stands instructing the other old ladies where to lay out the cookies and Styrofoam cups.
I’m standing against a wall in the kitchen when Mrs. Jorgen mutters to Mrs. Sibley, “I swear I’ve about had it with that woman.” I peek around the corner at them as Mrs. Sibley shakes her head.
“We’ve all about had it. Our whole lives. But I don’t see that there’s much any of us can do about it.”
“Carsons should do something,” Mrs. Jorgen mutters.
“How’s that? Guilt’s a powerful thing.”
Mrs. Jorgen picks up a plate of brownie squares and carries it over to the table. When she sets it down Grand says something, so she slides the plate a few inches to the right. Lips tight, she walks back to where Mrs. Sibley is arranging pinwheels on a plate. “Though if anyone feels guilty, it ought to be Ailene,” Mrs. Sibley starts up again. “Didn’t you say John stopped filling his prescription? Some hoity-toity nurse ought to know how to look after her own husband’s health.” Mrs. Sibley pauses to glance over her shoulder at Grand then reaches under the counter and digs out some floral napkins, plopping them on the tray next to the Styrofoam cups.
“Not to mention guilt shouldn’t cost more than five hundred dollars a month,” Mrs. Jorgen says, pulling the lever on the coffee maker, filling cup after cup.
“That much?” Mrs. Sibley asks.
“At least. Makes you wonder why she can’t pay her grocery bills.”
“Ailene Calvert could never pay for another thing in her life and no one in this old town would say squat. Remember that birthday party they had when she turned ten?”
Mrs. Jorgen snorts. “The rash, you mean?”
“The rash, and that God-awful solo.” Mrs. Jorgen laughs, presses her fingers to her lips and glances over her shoulder at Grand as Mrs. Sibley continues, “Up on that porch all dolled up in her lace and finery, face blistered as a strawberry, croaking out the Ave Maria while the rest of us stood on the ground below, solemn as church mice, just grateful to be there.”
“What was it she had, anyway?”
“Measles. Lord, Inga, you mean to say you didn’t catch it?”
“No.”
Mrs. Sibley shakes her head. “I don’t know how you missed it. They let Ailene pass out the cake, and a week after she coughed all over my slice I about died.”
Mrs. Jorgen sighs and fills another cup, puts it on her tray. “Any time I complained about Ailene as a girl my daddy would lecture me on how Cumberland wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for that family, blah blah blah. Well, I don’t care what her father did for this town—all the good deeds of one generation shouldn’t absolve the sins of the next. Honestly, Frances. Has anyone even seen that child since they first brought her home from the hospital?”
“Carsons have seen her.”
“Well, she ought to be in school.”
Mrs. Sibley clears her throat and around the corner of the kitchen door I can see her tapping her temple with one finger, whispering, and Mrs. Jorgen’s eyes widen as she shakes her head. “There’s a reason no one asks too many questions, Inga. Let it be,” Mrs. Sibley mutters, then picks up the tray and carries it over to just where Grand is pointing.
After fellowship hour Mr. Carson unlocks the passenger side of the truck and helps Grand in, then holds his keys out to me.
“Really?” I ask, my heart fluttering.
“Haven’t practiced none since school let out.” His face is blank but his eyes are twinkling.
I pluck the keys from his fingers and run around to the driver’s side as he squeezes in next to Grand and wrenches the door shut. I have to scoot my butt to the edge of the seat to reach the pedals, and when I turn the key in the ignition the truck roars then stops.
Grand sighs and says, “Carl…” I crank the ignition again, holding it longer this time, and the truck turns over and idles.
“She’s got it, Ailene.” I take a deep breath and stomp on the clutch, grinding the gears into reverse. “Mirrors,” Mr. Carson says, and I hit the brake as a tan car lurches to a stop right behind us. The driver gives a wave and pulls out so I can back up. Once we’re even with the road I stomp the clutch again, joggle the shifter into first and press down on the accelerator, slowly inching us forward. “Give it a little more,” Mr. Carson says, and when I press my foot down we pick up enough speed so we’re sailing down the sandy road,
