“Oh, me,” Hazel Marie said. “That house and what they’re doing just burdens me so bad. It looks like we’re going to be stuck with it forever. Can’t Binkie do anything?”
“Well, I had a long talk with her the other day, asking the same thing, in fact. She’s talked with the city attorney and he says he can’t do anything until they actually begin operating. At that point, he’ll tell them that what they’re doing is impermissible, which is, I think, a legal term.”
“Why,” Hazel Marie said, her voice rising, “by that time, nobody will have the heart to make them move!”
“I think that’s exactly what they’re counting on. They’re going to present an accomplished fact—complete with a houseful of pitiful teenagers—and have the members of all seven churches up in arms at the selfishness of a few unhappy neighbors. It is the most cynical plan I’ve ever heard. But, then, they are the Christians and we aren’t.”
I took a deep breath to regain my equilibrium, having been carried away with expressing my outrage at Madge Taylor and her cohorts in their open scorn of the law.
“Well, I could just cry,” Hazel Marie said, and looked as if she’d start any minute, “every time I think of what they’re doing to us. You know what I think? I think they simply don’t care. They’re so taken up with doing what they want to do that nobody else matters.”
“I couldn’t agree more, and I told Binkie as much. But, Hazel Marie, don’t give up hope. Even if they appeal to the goodness of the city attorney’s heart, I’m not sure he has one, or that any lawyer does. They do what they’re paid to do, even defending clearly guilty clients. So the thing for us to do is be prepared to appeal to the commissioners if they get around the city attorney. Which means, in turn, that we’ll be reviled from every pulpit in the county and prayed against by every church member.” I stopped, reconsidered, then went on. “Well, everyone except those who’ve had the same thing happen to them. And with all the nonprofits that’re proliferating throughout the county, that may be more than we realize. In other words, we may not be alone in this fight even though our supporters may be only a silent minority for the time being. Not many people want to speak out against children, which is another thing Madge is counting on.”
—
As I bade Hazel Marie good-bye and walked across the porch, Lloyd and his friend approached the steps from the side yard, Ronnie tagging along with them.
“Hey, Miss Julia,” Lloyd said. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Just visiting your mother. How was the basketball game?”
“Oh, we weren’t playing, just shooting baskets.” Then, turning to the undersized boy with him, he said, “This is Freddie Pruitt, Miss Julia, and he can make three-pointers all day long.”
The boy ducked his head, but glanced up to smile. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
I declare, the boy put me in mind of Lloyd a few years ago—short, skinny, ill at ease, but anxious to please. And as the last name registered, I realized that this was the boy Lloyd was tutoring. But, not wanting to cause him embarrassment, I made no reference to it.
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Freddie,” I said. “Well, you boys have a good time, but don’t get too hot and sweaty. You’ll catch a cold before you know it.”
“No’m, we won’t,” Lloyd said, patting Ronnie’s head as the dog pushed between the two boys to get a whiff of me. Dogs use their sense of smell to identify people, you know.
Freddie knelt to put his arm around the dog, murmuring, “Hey, boy, how you doin’?” Then he laughed as Ronnie licked his face.
“Well, I’ll leave you two with it,” I said, thinking again of the affinity between boys and dogs. “I must be getting on home.”
Chapter 21
I went home satisfied that Ronnie was well situated and earning his keep by scaring his neighbors and pleasing his new master. But after my conversation with Hazel Marie about the progress of the Homes for Teens in turning the neighborhood into a nonprofit complex, I was more distressed than ever. I could, however, at times put aside my outrage at their defiance of the law—specifically those times when I fell to my knees in prayer and placed the problem in the Lord’s hands.
That respite usually lasted about five minutes. Then I’d start worrying it to death again.
My spirits rose considerably, though, when Sam called from Germany. He was full of what he’d seen and where he’d toured and how he missed me. I missed him, too, but I did not unburden myself on him. There was nothing he could do from wherever he was, so I kept my peace.
“I’m in Aachen, honey,” he said, “and this morning I saw Charlemagne’s cathedral, although it was more his palace chapel than a cathedral. But imagine! It was built in the late eighth century and it’s still standing. You should see it, Julia, it’s octagonal in shape and there’s a—I don’t know—a balcony or mezzanine or something that runs around the interior, and Charlemagne used to sit up there above the west door and look down on the priests who were celebrating Mass. And he’d conduct the service, Julia! Using hand gestures, he’d point to one priest after another to read the Scriptures, offer a prayer, preach, or whatever. And cut them off if they went on too long. Can’t you just see it? It was marvelous, honey. I can’t
