Binkie had called her in to announce the desire of an interested party to provide housing for the Homes for Teens, and Madge’s face had lit up. “They’re donating a place?” she’d cried. “Free and clear, with no strings?”
“Not quite,” Binkie had told her, then went on to tell her that the house was not a gift, but would be rented to Homes for Teens, Inc.
“Then I want a lease,” Madge had said, indicating that she could learn from experience.
“The next thing she said,” Binkie told me, “was that she wanted it airtight because she’d learned to examine all gift horses in the mouth. I assured her that the donors felt the same way, and told her that there would be no rent payments, as such, but that she would be responsible for the property taxes.
“She didn’t like that, but I told her that the donors were adamant that the Homes for Teens have some skin in the game.”
I’d smiled at that, because it had been Sam who’d insisted on their having skin in the game. “That,” he’d said, smiling at me, “is the way your man in Omaha puts it. Everybody accepts a part of the risk.”
“So, of course,” Binkie had gone on, “she wanted to know who the donors were. Per the instructions of both of you, I didn’t tell her, just reminded her of how much rent the interested party was forgoing. She signed it and left as happy as a lark, mostly, I think, for coming out better than Pete has.
“Her parting remark was that she just hoped the Cochran house would bankrupt Pete Hamrick for lying to her. ‘He used us,’ she told me, ‘and I’m glad he’s getting his own back—everybody knows he’s a snake-oil salesman now.’”
“Yes,” I said, agreeing with the assessment, “and, Binkie, everybody knows that he used his position as a county commissioner to further his own interests. And that goes for the other commissioners, too. The sooner we get them all off the board, the better. And the new board, whoever they may be, should strengthen the zoning ordinances by specifying exactly what can go where and heavily penalizing anyone who tries to ruin a neighborhood by putting in something that will benefit the public. They need to recognize that neighbors are the public, too.”
“Then,” Binkie said with a grin, “maybe you should run for commissioner, Miss Julia.”
“Huh,” I said, smiling at the thought, “not me. I do my best work behind the scenes.”
—
“They’re moving, Miss Julia!” Hazel Marie’s voice over the phone was filled with wonder. “Can you believe it? They’re actually moving! A van’s parked out front and they’re taking out furniture. Oh, I can hardly believe it!”
“Well, my goodness,” I said, “wonder what brought that about?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m just relieved to see them go. J.D. is convinced that his fence did it—a constant reminder, he said, that they weren’t wanted. But I don’t think they cared about that one way or the other.”
She was right, I thought, for Madge Taylor was so wrapped up in her own virtue that she wouldn’t recognize a snub if a wall went up around her.
Keeping up my cloak of anonymity, I asked, “Where’re they moving to, Hazel Marie? Do you know?”
“No’m, and that’s another thing I don’t care about. Wherever it is will be better than next door to us. And if that’s selfish and coldhearted, I can’t help it. Although I do wish them the best.”
“We all do, Hazel Marie, and if it’s a legal location, I’m sure they’ll be all right.”
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I guess now I’ll have to worry about who’ll move in next.”
Cautioning her against worrying too much too soon, I brought the converstion to a close and immediately dialed another number.
“Mildred,” I said when she answered, “we need to get Tom LaSalle back on the job. The Cochran house is being emptied as we speak.”
Chapter 47
Even though a group home next to the Pickenses was no longer a source of contention, I couldn’t get over the fact that my church—with full knowledge—had supported an illegal undertaking. And no one—not the preacher, not an elder or a deacon, much less an ordinary member—had acknowledged the lapse in judgment. So even though Sam continued to attend Sunday services at the First Presbyterian Church, I decided to absent myself by taking a sabbatical year.
I had done all I could do to inform the church leadership as to the nature of Madge’s group, so it wasn’t as if they hadn’t known what they were doing. They chose, however, to ignore that information, so I now chose to ignore them.
But with Christmas within sight, I had to admit that I was missing the church more than it appeared to be missing me. My absence from Sunday morning services had apparently drawn no particular notice, nor did my nonattendance at the special programs that the church offered throughout the season. I did, however, console myself by attending the First Baptist Church’s presentation of Messiah and the Advent spectacular, complete with drums and bagpipes, that Mildred’s Episcopal church offered to the community.
It was strange, though, and unsettling to have empty Sunday mornings when I had for so long had a church service to attend. I hardly knew what to do with myself during those times when I had normally occupied a pew in the sanctuary. It didn’t, however, take long to adjust to having the time to drink a leisurely second cup of coffee and to begin reading Lloyd’s Narnia books again. And I’ll have to say that the stories about a lion far outweighed the movie reviews I’d been getting from the pulpit.
Sam, bless his heart, never indicated in any way that he was disappointed in my decision to sit out the services, nor did
