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Reinventing Leona

By Lynne Gentry

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“Living in the parsonage is not for sissies.” Leona Harper’s husband planted a kiss on the top of her head. “You knew that when you married me, darlin’.” He tucked his Bible under one arm and offered her the other. “You can do this.”
Leona considered the man standing before her. J.D. Harper was as handsome as the day they met some thirty years ago, even with the silver streaks traipsing across his well-trained waves. Folks often mistook him to be a successful CEO of some major corporation rather than the pastor of a dying church in a small Texas town.

“And if I don’t?”

“Maxine Davis wins.” He had her, and he knew it. “Is that what you want?”
Ignoring the righteous twinkle in his eye, she threaded her hand through the crook in his suit-clad arm. “I hate it when you preach at me, J.D.”
“If it weren’t for guilt trips, you wouldn’t go anywhere.”

“My point exactly.” Leona scooped up the Tupperware caddie that contained her famous chicken pot pie and set off to face yet another Sunday at Mt. Hope Community Church.

J.D. opened the door to the fellowship hall. The familiar aroma of coffee and casseroles assaulted Leona’s nose. If only she had a nickel for every meal she’d eaten in this dingy room, maybe they could pay all their bills, save a little for retirement, and even afford this little vacation J.D. had reluctantly agreed to take when the kids came home.

Leona headed for the kitchen, weaving through the scattered tables. Crock pots brimming with roast and carrots or pinto beans and ham lined the counter.
While J.D. checked the overloaded power strip, Leona deposited her contribution for the monthly potluck scheduled to follow the morning service. She glanced at the dessert table. Maxine’s coconut cake was not in its usual place. “I’m going to get a seat in the sanctuary.”

“You can’t avoid her forever.”

It wasn’t that she was afraid of the sour elder’s wife, she just hadn’t figured out the best way to address Maxine’s latest attack. Why God had seen fit to park them at a church where the chairman of the elder board’s wife loved only two things—having the last word and adding to her list of complaints against the Harpers—was first in a list of pressing questions she intended to ask God when she got to heaven.

“An ugly encounter with that woman would ruin my worship, and I’ll be hanged if I’ll let her take that too.”

J.D. smiled. “That’s my girl.”

Once the service got underway, Leona slid along the wooden pew that vibrated from the force of her husband’s praise. She savored the clout his resonant bass added to her rafter-splitting soprano. Clutching the worn hymnal, she filled her lungs to capacity, tightened her diaphragm and nailed the descant of the final refrain with flawless effort.

Behind the large oak pulpit, the congregation’s homegrown song leader, Parker Kemp, formed an air donut with his thumb and middle finger, bringing pastor’s wife, organist, and sparse crowd to a synchronized close. His wink in Leona’s direction confirmed the young man appreciated a stellar finish when he heard one.

Despite her delight, the troubles Leona kept safely tucked from sight rumbled in her empty stomach. She glanced across the sanctuary aisle. Maxine Davis, blue from holding an off-key note, eyed her back. Realizing her nose was wrinkled, Leona quickly diverted her gaze, certain she’d just given Maxine more fodder for her fire.

“And the church said?” Parker flipped to his next selection.

“Amen.”

“Before the sermon, we’ll be singing all five verses of page 156. Please stand, if it is convenient.”

Solid oak pews groaned with grateful relief as the congregation lumbered to their feet.

Parker gave a quick nod to the organist, readying his hand for the beat. His expression morphed into that dazzling smile sure to land him the perfect wife some day. Leona loved the Sundays this radiant young fellow led. Unlike the steady diet of first-and-third-versers, their county extension agent sang every word of every verse. Hymns that once plodded the narrow aisles danced before the Lord under his direction. Parker’s ability to stir in a little spirit always gave Leona the distinct feeling rain had fallen upon her parched lawn, offering a smidgen of hope that if the congregation had a shot at resurrection, maybe she did too.

But Maxine claimed allowing such unrestrained expressions of joy during the song service might lead to who-knows-what in the sanctuary. Thankfully, J.D. had refused to succumb to this paranoid woman’s lunacy and had blocked the board’s removal of Parker’s name from the volunteer rotation.

The congregation fidgeted as Wilma Wilkerson attempted to prod some heft into the organ’s double row of yellowed keys and squeaky pedals. Leona used the extra time to beseech the Lord on Parker’s behalf. If God would see his way clear to give her matchmaking plan a leg up, she could have the boy married by Easter, especially with the recent addition of Bette Bob’s adorable niece.

J.D. reached for Leona’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Some pastors prayed before they took the pulpit. Most checked their fly. Mt. Hope’s preacher held his wife’s hand during the song preceding his sermon. Relishing her esteemed role of coworker in the Kingdom, Leona inched closer, her upper thigh pressed tight against her husband’s. Truth be known, there wasn’t a woman in the church who wouldn’t trade places with the pastor’s wife, not even Maxine. Of that she was certain.

Nestled securely against J.D.’s charcoal pinstripe, Leona could hear the throaty warble of the Story twins parked three pews back. The blue-haired-saint-sandwich had a crush on her husband, but to begrudge these senior saints a little window shopping bordered on heresy. The old girls had suffered a series of set backs the last few months, burying several of their shriveled ranks. What would it hurt if staring at her handsome husband gave them a reason to get out of bed on Sunday mornings? Besides, Widow’s Row vacancies were increasing at an alarming rate, and replacing these committed congregants seemed unlikely, given the current trend of their small town’s decline.

J.D.’s familiar grip throttled Leona’s errant thoughts. She patted his hand. Her husband felt unusually clammy this chilly fall morning. Was this a new development, or something she’d missed earlier because she’d been in such a twit? She felt her keen senses kick into overdrive. Out of the corner of her eye, she checked his coloring.

“Are you okay, J.D.?”

Her husband kept his eyes honed on Parker, but Leona knew he wasn’t just waiting for his cue to take the stage.

She tugged on his sleeve. “You’re still taking Thanksgiving week off, right?” Leona ignored the censuring daggers Maxine hurled across the faded burgundy carpet. She plowed ahead, forcing her words through a gritted smile. “You promised, James David.”

Her husband freed his large hand from Leona’s clenched one and slipped his arm around her trim waist, drawing her close. He kissed her temple then whispered in her ear, “Who by worrying can add a single hour to their life?”

His breath warmed the top of her color-treated head. A tingle raced through her body. “J.D., you need a break,” she whispered.

“All in God’s timing, Leona,” he mouthed back.

The upcoming holidays were supposed to have been their family’s chance to reconnect, especially since both kids had agreed to come home from their respective universities. She was pleased David and Maddie’s hearts showed signs of softening, but her stomach balled into an anxious wad when she contemplated the raw edges left to mend with her children.

The song ended, but the glow lighting the dark pupils of Parker’s eyes did not. “You may be seated.” The song leader gathered his list and songbook then left the podium.

J.D. ascended the stage steps as if he were king of some faith mountain. He removed the sermon notes tucked inside a leather-bound Bible and surveyed the crowd’s upturned faces. Leona recognized the tallying look in her husband’s eyes. He would know the dismal attendance count before Deacon Tucker posted the numbers on the wooden board in the back of the sanctuary.

J.D. unbuttoned his coat, ran his hand down his tie. He greeted his congregation of eighteen years with the same determined expression he had his first Sunday in this pulpit. Filleting the worn pages with a satin ribbon, his Bible popped open to the day’s chosen text.

The familiar rustle of people settling into their favorite pew rippled across the sanctuary. The Smoot’s tiny addition fussed on the back row. The newborn’s cry awoke the treasured memories Leona stored in her heart. She loved those days of diapers, sleepless nights, and planting kisses on the exquisite soft spot right below tiny ear lobes. If only dispensing love could remain that simple and teething was a mother’s biggest worry.

With an attuned ear aimed on the disgruntled infant, she offered a quick prayer for the fertile mother of four. Maybe the Lord would spare that young woman the mistakes of her pastor’s wife. Leona reined her wandering focus and aimed it on the dapper man standing before the congregation. No matter what became of her relationship with her children, she could always take comfort in the fact that at least she had J.D.

A perplexing uneasiness intruded upon her admiration. Something wasn’t right. A shimmering halo circled her husband’s head. Surely the unnerving effect was the result of the fluorescent stage lighting. J.D. would lampoon her overactive imagination should she mention the ominous quickening of her pulse, but Leona couldn’t resist scanning the platform.

The four dusty ficus trees and two tall-backed elders’ chairs decorating the stage were right where Noah left them when he exited the Ark. Leona smoothed the Peter Pan collar accentuating her black wool dress. While scolding herself for succumbing to another round of unfounded jitters, her hand froze at her throat, her breath trapped below her panicked grasp.

Glistening beads of sweat dripped from J.D.’s brow. He removed a monogrammed hanky from his pocket and mopped his notes. With a labored swipe, he dried his forehead, and returned the soaked linen to his breast pocket. Clasping the lip of the pulpit, his knuckles whitened.

Leona stood, but her husband’s warning gaze urged her to stay put.
He cleared his throat. “There was one who was willing to die,” The pastor paused, “that you might live.” A pleased smile lit his face. He placed a hand over his heart then dropped faster than last year’s budget.

###

The weight of the crocheted afghan anchored Leona’s body to the wingback chair in the corner of her bedroom. Her head seemed disconnected from the weight and bobbing in a cloudy soup. She didn’t remember walking across the parking lot, climbing the steps to the parsonage, or stumbling to her bedroom. Nor did she recall shivering uncontrollably. But for some unknown reason Roxie’s reassuring words— “Let’s bundle her like a burrito and stave off the shock,”— kept colliding with the apologetic image of Charlie Copeland saying, “I’m so sorry, Leona,” as he closed the ambulance door.

“How about I turn on your music?” Roxie didn’t wait for an answer. She flipped a switch on the small boom box on top of the dresser, activating the croon of the Gaither Vocal Band.

Unable to move her restrained arms, Leona labored to puff away the stray strands of blue yarn irritating her nose. Like a spectator on the sidelines, she watched her best friend flit around the shade-darkened room, turning on the lamps, and barking orders over the beat of southern gospel as if tragedy came boxed in the parts shipments arriving daily at Brewer’s Auto. How Roxanne Brewer pedaled everything from carburetors to windshield wipers wearing those above-the-knee skirts and stilettos had vexed men far and wide for years. But this mother of four put her finger on replacement valves in record speed and she’d give a broken-down person the shirt off her Marilyn Monroe figure if she thought it would get them on the road again.

Roxie wedged herself like a tire jack between Leona and the big-boned elder’s wife hovering nearby, but the space gain did not lessen the pressure constricting Leona’s chest. “Maxine, you’re going to have to back up and give the woman some air.”

“Roxanne, our pastor’s wife does not need a tune up.” Maxine peered over the edge of the half-glasses perched on the end of her pointed nose. “She needs spiritual comfort.”

Sparks flashed in Roxie’s sapphire eyes, igniting the static in her fly-away red hair. “How about I tell my tow truck to leave you sitting by the side of the road next time your new Caddie conks out.” She jammed her hands on her perfectly-formed hips.

“Well, I never.” Maxine’s spine straightened to its full five-foot-ten height. Leona recognized the familiar battle stances and braced for the worst. Hardly a chamber of commerce meeting passed that the Cadillac Queen and the Parts Princess didn’t mix it up over competitive practices, business and religion. “J.D. Harper’s passing is not a matter for the Episcopalians. The saints at Mt. Hope will tend to their own.”

“I’ve seen how your husband herds his sheep.” Roxie rested her hand on Leona’s shoulder, her voice turning saccharine sweet. “If you don’t mind, I think my friend here will pass on your offer.”

“A tad bitter, are we?” Maxine’s voice dripped saccharine.
Roxie’s focus zeroed in on Maxine’s smug grin, her restrained temper flushing her cheeks crimson. “I don’t care where Davis Cadillac gets their parts. Can’t you understand the poor woman needs a minute to herself.”

“We will see.” Maxine approached Leona. Slicing the air in front of Leona’s face with her flattened palm, she fished for support. “Sister Harper, do you want me, or this chop-shop hussy to stay with you?”
Judging from the elder’s wife’s planted size-eleven feet, Leona suspected Maxine had no intention of leaving without a fight, let alone going peacefully. Much as she’d dreamed of giving Maxine what for, right now she didn’t have an ounce of fight left in her. Leona’s paltry attempt to clear the clump of emotions clogging her throat failed. Speaking was out of the question. She prayed Roxie would be able to read the pleading look in her eyes, and save her from having to verbalize her choice.

“Leona needs to call the kids.” Roxie placed her hands on Maxine’s shoulders, ratcheting her sideways. “In private.”

Maxine’s head swiveled, neck bones popping, her face demanding a reprieve. But Leona nodded, relieved she had not had to say the words she dreaded. Telling her children their father had just died would be difficult enough without the prying eyes of those who deemed her incompetent listening in to find fault with her groping methods.

Roxie pointed at Leona’s silent face. “There you have it, Maxine.” Roxie smiled. Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on the way out.”

“Episcopalians.” Maxine stomped toward the exit. She turned and waggled her finger in Leona’s direction. “Don’t think for a moment this liberal heathen is interested in caring for the widows and orphans, Leona Harper.” The door clicked shut with a decisive disgust.

Widows? Orphans?

The ugly words ricocheted off the floral wallpaper, bounced around with Gloria Gaither’s chorus of Something Worth Living For, pierced the blue afghan, and slammed directly into Leona’s heart.

“Thank goodness she’s gone.” Roxie peeled back a corner of the blanket and Leona felt her emotions hemorrhage. “You ready, girlfriend?”

The expected agreement would not come. Leona swallowed, but the obstruction would not dislodge. Her body had joined forces with her ebbing emotions in a conspiracy to shut her down.

“I’ll be right here.” Roxie reduced the stereo volume on the Gaithers. She picked up the phone and dialed the long distance number she knew as well as Leona. “Here you go.”

Leona searched the liquid pools of Roxie’s eyes, finding that familiar island of support. Fingers trembling, she lifted the receiver from the outstretched hand and brought it to her ear. Trepidation rang loud and clear on her end, but no one answered on the other.

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