“I tell you, Mildred, that woman has more nerve than anybody I know. Of course she wanted an invitation to your party.” Then I went on to tell her of Lynette Rucker’s phone call. “I really think that she would’ve preferred coming here, but they just couldn’t let Madge down.”
“Well, actually, that wasn’t all I wanted to tell you,” Mildred said. “Madge saved her ammunition for a parting shot. You won’t believe this, but she told me that the Homes for Teens board of directors is having a house tour as their spring fund-raiser. And, Julia, she said that Helen had just agreed to let Thurlow’s house be the featured attraction.”
It was a good thing I was sitting down. All I could think of was that this was retaliation for that ill-advised intervention we’d staged.
Chapter 29
Heartsick, I buried my face in my hands after hearing of Helen’s treason. She had been as outraged over the devaluation of the neighborhood by the Homes for Teens as everybody else who was being affected. Thurlow’s house, situated on an entire city block, wasn’t all that close to the Cochran house, but it was certainly in the vicinity. And Helen had recognized that one group home in close proximity was like a camel’s nose easing under the tent. If you didn’t put your foot down right away, you’d end up with the whole camel in your lap.
So, as protective of Thurlow’s house as Helen was, it was hard to believe that she’d throw her support to something that would degrade its value. But obviously she had, and furthermore, I knew that she knew how much more harmful a next-door group home would be to the Pickenses.
It was a direct slap at me, because she also knew how protective I was of them. For Helen to go to such extremes as to support something she, herself, disapproved of was indicative of how deeply we—I—had offended her. I wanted to tell her that an intervention hadn’t been my idea, but I knew it wouldn’t help. I’d participated, and she’d found a way to return like for like—I’d hurt her, so she’d hurt me.
She couldn’t have found a more effective way of getting back at me. Thurlow’s house on a house tour would be the major event of the year. Everybody was already fascinated by the changes Helen was making—Sam had told me that it was the main topic at the barbershop—so they’d be eager to see the interior. The house tour would be a huge success, funding the Homes for Teens for who-knew-how-long. We’d never be rid of them, and I’d have to admit to Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens that it had all been my fault.
There was nothing to do but plod on, do the best I could, and wait for Sam to help me through this revolting turn of events.
—
But events kept turning at a dizzying speed, as Sunday morning proved to the point of making my stomach turn along with them. When Lloyd and I took our seats in our usual pew, I glanced through the bulletin to check the order of worship as I normally did and found it full of inserts. There was an announcement of a special speaker on Wednesday night, another one about the meeting of the Women of the Church on Monday, and another listing the dozen or so local nonprofits that the finance committee, in its questionable wisdom, had selected to receive donations from the church. Scanning the list to see how our gifts and tithes were being allocated, I was stunned to see the words Homes for Teens and the figure $2,000 beside it.
I couldn’t believe it! Had Pastor Rucker not told the committee of my stance against it? Had he not told them that Madge and company were in violation of the law?
I glared in the direction of the pastor, but he was sitting behind the podium, keeping out of sight until it was time to lead the service.
I just sat there, trembling with outrage, knowing that my concerns—legitimate concerns—had been totally disregarded. The fact that the Homes for Teens was defying the rules meant nothing to the leaders of my church. Did they not realize that by supporting them, the church was now in the position of aiding and abetting an illegal act? And making every member—including me—an equal partner in that act?
It was all I could do to sit through the sermon, the hymns, the collection, and the doxology—much less the passing of the peace, of which I had little to pass—without publicly denouncing the inane decision to support a lawbreaking enterprise.
I sat through the entire service trying to preserve my equanimity while steaming inside. I imagined the pastor reading the letter I’d sent reiterating my concerns, then tossing it aside with a dismissive smile. Poor old woman, he probably thought, she doesn’t understand that our mission is to love and accept all people. But, oh, I understood, all right. I fully understood the stupidity of thinking that some amorphous concept of indiscriminate and all-inclusive love would overcome wrongdoing in its many and diverse forms.
When the service was finally over, Lloyd and I filed out with the rest of the congregation. Instead of going through the center door of the narthex, where I would’ve had to shake the pastor’s hand, I led Lloyd out through a side door. He was anxious to get home, so I sent him on ahead while I picked my careful way to the sidewalk, avoiding the groups of people milling around outside, greeting one another. I was in no mood for conversation—until I realized that Kenneth Whitman was right in front of me.
Tall and distinguished, Kenneth was one of the most courteous and well-respected men in town. He was an elder
