“Ken,” I said, “I see that the church is determined to support the Homes for Teens in spite of being informed that they are in noncompliance of the zoning ordinance. It seems to me that we, of all people, should never give aid and comfort to breakers of the law. I’m having a hard time understanding why the leadership of the church has chosen to ignore what they’re doing.”
Throughout my rush of words, he gave me his full attention, smiling in his kindly way and nodding his head. “Uh-huh,” he kept saying encouragingly. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”
“Well, Miss Julia,” he said, breaking into words as I finished my spiel. With a gentle pat on my shoulder, he continued, “We’ll just have to pray a lot, won’t we?”
As more people emerged from the church, I agreed, then thanked him and turned away for home, feeling relief for having spoken and feeling, also, that my words had been well received.
Halfway home, though, it came to me what had actually happened. His “uh-huhing” had not been expressions of agreement as they’d seemed at the time. They’d been instead merely expressions of encouragement, allowing me to vent my feelings without revealing any of his own.
Almost stumbling on the sidewalk, I recognized what had actually happened—I’d been patronized.
Oh, Ken Whitman had been smooth—he’d neither agreed nor disagreed with what I’d said. He’d made no attempt to refute or support any point I’d made. How accustomed to hearing from irate members he must’ve been to have handled me with such artful tact! I knew no more of his own views than when I’d first opened my mouth. Except, of course, I did, for he’d obviously been one of the supporters of the church’s gift.
I wanted to hide my head for being so naïve as to think that my opinions mattered. The whole episode had been demeaning—I’d been accorded great courtesy but, in the final analysis, discounted.
Well, so be it. That church could get along quite well without me, as I could without it. The First Presbyterian Church of Abbotsville was not the only game in town, and, if it came down to it, I could choose another place of worship.
Feeling vindicated in my anger, now that I understood exactly what my opinions were worth, I went home determined to pursue my own way. Sam would soon be home, Thanksgiving loomed, and so did a day of parties, all of which filled my plate to overflowing. The church could wait, but it wouldn’t be forgotten.
—
At the top of my preparty list was meeting Sam at the airport on the Monday before Thanksgiving, after which I didn’t give much thought to a looming party on the following Sunday. I was so glad to see him and have him back that it was all I could do to refrain from pouring out all my anguish about a group home springing up in our midst and about an intervention gone so horribly wrong, and, if need be, having to find a new church to go to.
But with remarkable self-control, I listened, asked questions about his trip, and allowed him to talk and show me his photographs for almost three days straight. He was full of the sights he’d seen and the history he’d learned, so, as a good wife should, I saved my tales of woe until he began to repeat himself.
It was late on Thanksgiving Day that he finally ceded the floor to me, asking if anything interesting had happened while he’d been away. We were alone in the library, a small fire burning in the fireplace, and both of us full of the turkey dinner served by Hazel Marie, but cooked by James, at her and Mr. Pickens’s house. We would have them for Christmas dinner this year, but being with them for Thanksgiving had opened the door for a discussion of the Homes for Teens, because that’s all that Mr. Pickens could talk about. When he dropped the bombshell that both Mr. Pickerell and Jan Osborne were thinking of selling—apparently they’d had offers even though they’d not listed their houses for sale—I’d lost my appetite. Did that mean he was thinking of doing the same?
“Tell me,” Sam began as we settled on our Chippendale sofa beside the fireplace, “about the house that Pickens is so exercised about. Who’s behind it, and just what do they plan to do?”
So I told him about Madge and her crew, about the illegality of the location, about the inaction of the zoning board and the city attorney—as well as the seeming inaction of Binkie, whom I’d not heard from in a timely manner—and about the church’s donation to Madge’s project, a clear indication of having no respect for the law. Then I told him about Thurlow and Helen and how sick I was over our arrogance of sitting in judgment of her, and how it had boomeranged on me. And I told him how Ronnie had ended up with the Pickens family, which of course Sam had noticed when Ronnie had pushed between us to get to Mr. Pickens’s side on our way to the table.
“My goodness,” Sam said, stretching out his legs, “things seem to pile up when I go away, don’t they?”
“Yes, and I hope you intend to stay home for a while because I’m tired of fighting city hall and everybody else by myself.”
“Well, you’re not by yourself now. I’ll talk to Binkie tomorrow—no, I guess it’ll be Monday with everything closed tomorrow. Let’s just rest over the weekend, then we’ll see what can be done.”
“I hate to tell you this,” I said, with a sideways glance at him, “but there’ll be no rest for the weary this weekend. I’m having a party Sunday afternoon for about forty ladies, and you and I have to put up the Christmas tree first thing tomorrow. Lloyd is
