So when he and Madge Taylor met, it was as if they’d each found their counterpart. And I am not implying that there was anything sordid going on between then. Not at all, given the fact that Pastor Rucker was in his early thirties and Madge was pushing sixty if she was a day. Of course stranger things have happened, but not in this case.
The first idea the two of them came up with was to convert the small day-care center that the church had opened some years ago into an elementary school for the underprivileged. Pastor Rucker had turned the pulpit over to Madge one Sunday to allow her to present their idea to the congregation. Their plan had been to expand the center from toddler care to children in the first three grades.
It was the most impractical plan I’d ever heard. Neither had taken into account the need for accreditation not only of the school but also of the teachers they’d have to hire. And who would pay them, I’d like to know, as well as pay for age-appropriate desks, tables, and chairs? To say nothing of blackboards, small toilets, low water fountains, and who-knew-what-else. And they hadn’t even considered the fact that their school would take over more than half of our Sunday school classrooms, thereby ousting the very ones who had paid to add that building to the church in the first place.
In hindsight, Pastor Rucker had made a strategic mistake by allowing Madge to present the plan to the congregation before feeling out the session. I’ll tell you, the telephone lines were humming that afternoon as members of the congregation called the members of the session to register their distaste of the plan.
The session voted it down, but I’d known that wouldn’t be the end of the machinations between Pastor Rucker and Madge Taylor. They were made for each other. So if Madge was heading up this Homes for Teens nonprofit group, Pastor Rucker wouldn’t be far behind.
Chapter 4
“Binkie,” I said, taking a seat in the chair in front of her desk, having called for an appointment as soon as her law office opened that morning. “We need your help. I’d like to do this quietly and legally if we can. But if it can’t be done that way, I don’t mind at all being called every name in the book, because I want it stopped, and I want it stopped before it goes one step further.”
“And what would that be, Miss Julia?” Binkie had been a very present help in times of trouble before this, and I trusted her quick mind and willingness to go to bat for me in other situations. So I told her of the plans for a residential group home next door to the Pickenses, and who would be housed in it, and whose idea it had been, and the type of homeless who would be living there.
“So,” I said, “that house is totally unfit for what they want to do. Mainly because it’s in a settled residential area, and it’s next door to Hazel Marie.” Having delivered my complaint, I sat back in the chair and awaited her assurance that what I wanted could be done.
“By the way,” I said before she could comment, “forgive me for being so exercised over this that I haven’t asked about Little Gracie and Coleman. How are they?”
Binkie smiled. “They’re fine, Miss Julia. In fact, Gracie is now enrolled in the First Presbyterian Day-Care Center, so she thinks she’s a big girl now. But,” she went on, this time in her professional voice, “as to your problem. I know that the town designated that area a local historic district a few years ago, but I’m not sure where the boundaries lie. But I can tell you now that as long as they don’t make any exterior changes to the house, being in a historic district won’t stop them. So they can do whatever they want on the inside. The first thing, then, that I’ll need to do is look at the zoning in that area. Off the top of my head, that entire west side all the way to Lee Avenue may be zoned R-15.”
“What’s that?”
“Essentially residential, and if that’s the case, a limited number of adult care homes are permitted. But you say it will house only fourteen- to eighteen-year-olds, who, under the law, are considered children, that is, under legal age. I’m sure that family care homes—which are in-home day-care centers for children of working parents—are permitted in that area, but they’re strictly supervised as to number and age of children and how many hours of the day they can operate.”
“Hazel Marie tells me this group has already applied for a permit from the zoning board. Could that mean we’re too late?”
“Probably not,” she said. “I’ll have to see how they’ve described what they intend to do. Here’s the thing, though: I’m positive that residential care facilities are not permitted at all on that property. The problem is, however, that the zoning ordinance isn’t exactly clear on the definition of ‘residential care facility.’”
“Oh, my,” I said, sighing. “I should think that those ordinances would be quite specific, seeing that the area is within the town limits.”
“Uh-uh,” Binkie said, shaking her head, “not necessarily. When those laws were passed, the town fathers wanted to make sure that the commercial district had plenty of room to expand. In fact, that whole area may be zoned C-4, which is neighborhood commercial. How far from Main Street is Hazel Marie’s block?”
“Well, her house is four blocks from mine to the southwest. And mine is two blocks west of Main Street, so I’d say that hers is
