Miss Julia Speaks Her Mind (10 page)

“We can probably fix it, if it comes to that,” Sam said. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t qualify as a foster parent, if they insist on following the letter of the law. Let’s don’t worry about that now. I’ll talk to Binkie Monday morning, and we’ll see what we can do.”

“Well, that’d relieve my mind a good bit. I’ve got enough to worry about without that on top of everything else. I’m telling everybody it was vandals who broke into the house, Sam, but I don’t think it was. And neither does Deputy Bates. We think somebody was looking for something. I just don’t know what it could be. Everything I’d consider to be of value was left alone.” I leaned my head back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. “Why now, is what I want to know. What do I have in this house that hasn’t been here forever?”

Sam looked at me out from under his eyebrows while he turned his hat around in his hands. “Not a thing, Julia,” he said, “but that little boy out there.”

W
ITH THAT WORRISOME
thought in mind for the rest of the evening, I let Little Lloyd stay up until he was so sleepy he could barely stumble up the stairs. We were all on edge, afraid to walk from one room to another without someone with us. I put up a good front for the child’s sake, but to tell the truth, I was still jittery at the thought of some stranger in my house, rummaging through my things looking for who-knew-what.

Lillian offered to stay the night, but I sent her on home. She was too scared to sleep a wink in my house, even though it was unlikely that anything else would happen. Especially after all the official coming and going throughout the afternoon. I’d have felt better, though, if Deputy Bates hadn’t had to work, but he told me that he and every other officer on duty would be patrolling the area. And several times during the night I saw the gleam of a spotlight sweep across the house and yard. My tax dollars at work, and I was grateful for it.

As I climbed the stairs after checking the doors half a dozen times, I hoped Little Lloyd wouldn’t lie awake listening to every noise in the house, like I knew I would. I left both our doors open so he’d feel safer, but toward morning, when I decided to
get on up, I found him curled up in the hall next to my door. The child must’ve had an affinity for hardwood floors.

I decided against Sunday school that morning, figuring Little Lloyd didn’t need to face a dozen nosy nine-year-olds who’d been filled with all their parents’ gossip. His week had been hard enough, to say nothing of mine. I knew LuAnne would be in her element without me in the Lula Mae Harding class that morning. She’d be able to tell everybody about the boy and the break-in in every graphic detail. The members of the Lula Mae Harding class were firm on the matter of details, saying that we needed to know every little thing so our prayers would be effective. As if the Lord was sitting up there without a clue, waiting for us to tell Him what was going on. I knew He’d get an earful today.

I laid out Little Lloyd’s clothes, some I’d bought for him on Deputy Bates’s advice. Khaki pants, white shirt, navy blazer, and a red-and-blue-striped tie. He dressed himself except for the tie, which I took in hand. I tied it and pushed the knot up against his collar, then stepped back to consider my handiwork. One end hung below his belt while the other stopped at his breastbone.

“That won’t do,” I said, undoing it for another try.

“I could wear the other one,” the boy said.

“That clip-on thing? No, you couldn’t. When you go to church, you wear the best you have.” I stopped myself from saying anything else about his clothes and, by extension, the one who’d selected them. The child wasn’t responsible for either.

“Hold your head up, and I’ll give it another go,” I said, measuring the ends again. “I declare, this thing has a mind of its own.”

“It sure is pretty, though,” he said, as if to make up for its waywardness.

“Yes, it is, and it looks handsome on you. There!” I said, giving the tie a final tug. “Look in the mirror. I think we’ve got it.”

He studied his reflection some little while, touching and smoothing the tie, with an expression that was solemn as a judge.

“I wish my mama could see it,” he finally said. “She likes pretty things. I thank you for it, Miz Springer.”

“You’re welcome, I’m sure. Now let’s go before we’re late.”

I handed his jacket to him, then stopped to adjust my hat. Wearing a hat to church makes me old-fashioned, I know, but it also makes me obedient, according to Paul and Pastor Ledbetter.

“Before I forget,” I went on, “you do know how to act in church, don’t you?” For all I knew, the child had never darkened the door of a house of worship.

“Yes’m, I do.” He frowned in thought as his glasses slid down his nose. “Sit still. Be quiet. Pay attention. And behave myself.”

He looked over his glasses in my general direction, fuzzily searching for confirmation. “Very good,” I said. “That’s advice to live by.” I stopped dead in my tracks. I’d been sitting still, staying quiet, paying attention, and behaving myself all my life, and look where I was now. “On second thought,” I said, “one of these days, when you’re old enough, I want you to be able to think for yourself. Now, are you ready?”

“Yes’m.”

I wasn’t sure I was, knowing what we’d be facing. But I’d set my course and was determined to see it through.

“Remember now,” I cautioned as we went down the stairs, “be polite to everybody, but don’t answer any questions. Let me do the talking.”

“Yes’m.”

I closed the front door behind us, and we walked across the porch and down the steps.

I brushed a piece of lint from his sleeve and said, “There’re a lot of people who just thrive on gossip, don’t you know, so don’t let them bother you.”

“No’m.”

With a hand on his shoulder, I stopped him when we reached the street. “Look both ways before you cross.”

“Yes’m.”

I must say the child was amenable to instruction, but that did little to calm my nerves as we made our way toward the church and two hundred or so pairs of avid eyes.

As we went along the sidewalk, one car after another pulled into the parking lot and people began to stream into the church. A few men, deacons mostly, stood around the back door smoking their last cigarettes before the service. There was a holly bush there that was about dead from all the cigarettes crushed out and buried in the mulch around it.

On Sunday mornings, I always walked around front so I could go in the main door, which was only fitting for a formal service. But when we got to the corner, I almost turned around and went back home. There was that gaudy marquee that Pastor Ledbetter had put up one week exactly after Wesley Lloyd was interred. He’d wanted it for ever so long, but Wesley Lloyd had put his foot down, saying we were Presbyterians, not Baptists, and that a marquee advertising sermon topics was inappropriate and unacceptable. But Wesley Lloyd wasn’t around anymore, and there was nobody able or willing to tell the pastor nay. So it was up, blaring forth his name and his topics, changed once a week, and everybody welcome. I declare, it set my teeth on edge, and especially that morning. Pastor Ledbetter’s topic for the service was “Woman, the Bedrock of the Family.”

But I went into the marble-floored narthex and prepared to lead Little Lloyd to my usual seat, four pews from the front and on the center aisle. I put my hand firmly on his shoulder, just as I used to put it in the crook of Wesley Lloyd’s arm. This was partly to keep the child from scuffling along behind me and partly to give him a squeeze if he started to wipe his nose on his sleeve. “Head up, Little Lloyd,” I whispered.

We marched down the aisle, side by side, just like Wesley Lloyd and I used to present ourselves. This time, though, I turned my head neither to the left nor to the right, but I knew people were craning to see and I heard the buzz of whispers. I cut my eyes over to the side and saw LuAnne Conover’s about to pop out of her head. And I saw Mamie Harrison pointing at us, whispering furiously to her husband, who was deaf as a post. I’d timed our entrance so there’d be no chance of anybody talking to us, and as soon as we were seated, we all had to get to our feet again as the choir entered the chancel singing the processional, and Pastor Ledbetter in his black robe stepped up to the podium.

I endured that service. That’s the only way to put it. Little Lloyd began fidgeting after the first fifteen minutes, so I found a pen and whispered for him to draw something on the bulletin. Then I gave him a Life Saver and a Kleenex.

Pastor Ledbetter started off with how the Lord had burdened his heart all week long over the duties of women and mothers, and women who tried to be mothers but who weren’t. Every word he said was aimed at me, and I knew it. I sat there staring up at him while he droned on about how Christian women were becoming tainted by the world and abandoning biblical precepts, taking on responsibilities that they were never designed to assume, making decisions, financial and otherwise, that they were not qualified to make. And all of this was leading to the worst crisis the church had ever experienced.

I didn’t take my eyes off him, and after the first few minutes, he looked everywhere but at me. He had the podium, but I had the better of him. Several times he lost his place and had to repeat himself. Then he got a second wind when he came to the climax of his sermon.

“All my remarks to this point,” he declaimed as he stacked his note cards preparatory to winding up, “have been laying the groundwork for us to consider with prayerful hearts the recent
action by the General Assembly. An action that opens the door to the acceptance and
the approval
of homosexuality in our beloved church. This is just the latest step in the headlong rush to wipe out the biblical underpinnings of our faith. Beloved, this is indicative of the lengths liberals will go to if we give them an inch. And it all began twenty-five years ago when the General Assembly permitted women to be ordained and to become officers of the church.”

He paused and looked out over the congregation, his eyes sweeping left to right and up to the balcony. You could’ve heard a pin drop.

“Now I know,” he went on, lowering the tone of his voice to keep our attention, “what I’ve just said won’t sit well with some of you, especially those women who have served as officers in this church. But hear me out, if you will. I’m giving you an example of what can and will happen when we ignore the clear teaching of Scripture. Whether we like it or not, the Scriptures teach that only men are to serve as deacons, elders, and pastors. Paul writes to Timothy that an officer should be the husband of one wife, a clear indication that he did not envision women as deacons or elders. Even more to the point, Paul writes further to Timothy that he does not permit a woman to teach nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. Now, that’s a hard thing to accept, for it is a fact that women have served well and faithfully in all offices throughout our denomination. But that’s not the point. The point is that we have been going against the teaching of God’s Holy Word. And look what it’s led us to: homosexuals in our schools, in our military, and in our pulpits. Beloved, we must be in complete submission to the Lord’s will if our church and our nation are to survive.”

I tried my best to tune him out, tired of church politics that pitted one group of men against another group of men over
women’s role in the church. I already knew Pastor Ledbetter’s position. He held that women’s duties consisted of covering their heads, their mouths, and their casserole dishes, and I’d done all three about as long as I wanted to. But when he tied all the woes of the church to women officers, I could’ve wrung Paul’s neck, and Timothy’s, too, for giving men like Pastor Ledbetter justification for their prejudices. And don’t tell me, as he’d done before, that a woman’s submission elevates and ennobles her. I knew all about submission, and all it had gotten me was the humiliation in khaki pants sitting next to me.

When that interminable sermon was over, I grabbed Little Lloyd’s hand and headed down the aisle. People were crowding out of the pews, but they gave us a wide berth and I knew they’d picked up on who’d been the pastor’s target. Several smiled at me, their eyes drawn like magnets to the child with me. Others talked animatedly with their neighbors, keeping themselves too occupied to notice us. Yes, and when I got to the door, there was the pastor shaking hands with people as they left. I expect he thought I’d sneak out one of the side doors, but I marched up to him, ready to give him a piece of my mind. I managed to get Little Lloyd right up in front of him.

“Little Lloyd, this is Pastor Ledbetter, who’s taken such an interest in your welfare,” I said, and loudly, too. It stopped the conversation around us and held up the line as well. “Pastor, it was a privilege to hear your sermon this morning, but I’ll have to tell you that I don’t think the Lord’s burdened your heart quite enough on the subject. You might want to consult Him on the duties of husbands and fathers, and men who try to be both in different households. And if permitting women to be officers in the church is what started us on the slippery slopes of sin, I’d like to know what mountaintop the church was sitting on for the two thousand years men had it to themselves.”

I heard several women gasp at my outspokenness, but I didn’t care. I took hold of Little Lloyd’s hand and left, breathing hard but with my head held high.

I was so mad it took a few minutes of fierce walking before the car parked in front of my house registered in my mind. An old maroon-and-white vehicle with fins and a tilt in the back end. A rusted fender, too.

“My Lord, Little Lloyd,” I said, clasping his hand harder and feeling my heart lift, the first time that’d happened in a number of days. “I believe that’s your mama’s car!”

“It is! It is! She’s come back for me!” He turned loose of my hand and began running for the house.