No Dark Valley (27 page)

He handed it to her. “Thanks. Hope we won't be needing to borrow it again. I know Kimberly's got one somewhere, but who knows where. Her system for storing things doesn't always make much sense.” He paused, then added, “Knowing her, it's probably in the china cabinet or maybe in Madison's toy box.” Celia shouldn't have cared, but it rubbed her the wrong way that he would criticize his wife behind her back. Even if he was teasing, the little dig was totally unnecessary.

He gave her a goofy grin. “Well, uh, thanks again,” he said. “Oh, and don't worry—I washed it off good with hot soapy water, so it's not . . . well, you know . . .”

“Okay, okay, that's fine,” Celia said, turning to go back inside. Honestly, Kimberly should consider putting a piece of masking tape over her husband's mouth before letting him out in public.

“Well, see you 'round,” Bruce said through the screen door. Celia nodded to him, then closed and latched the door. She hated to seem rude, but she had nothing more to say to this man.

As she returned the plunger to the bathroom closet, for some odd reason she had a sudden memory of her grandmother also closing the door in someone's face. It was the summer before Celia had left for college—she remembered that clearly—and it was suppertime. She and Grandmother were eating together silently in the kitchen when the knock came at the front door.

The two boys—they didn't look much older than Celia herself—were dressed in black pants, white shirts, and neckties. Jehovah's Witnesses or Mormons or something like that, she couldn't recall exactly now. They began talking, politely but insistently, as soon as Grandmother opened the door. The one who stood in front and did most of the talking was tall and handsome, with the rugged looks of a cowboy.

Grandmother didn't invite them in but stood and conversed with them through the screen, trying to refute everything they were saying by quoting Bible verses, which they would immediately counter with other verses. Celia made a note to ask her grandmother sometime why it was that everybody at Bethany Hills was so sure
theirs
was the only right religion. Why did they have to argue with other people who also claimed to believe the Bible?

After she had gotten the drift of the conversation, Celia remembered thinking how strange it was that a guy who looked like the Marlboro Man would be going door to door talking so fervently about religion. She went back to eating, trying to finish before Grandmother came back. She had things she wanted to do, and the sooner she got done with supper, the sooner she could leave.

She wished now that she could remember what they were eating that night, not that it mattered one bit. For some reason she found herself thinking a lot lately about her grandmother's cooking. How funny that she should want to remember something that was so forgettable.

Anyway, the conversation went on until, evidently, her grandmother realized she wasn't making any headway with these two young zealots. Not that she ever once got tongue-tied. Oh no. Her store of Scripture flowed forth abundantly, but there came a point when Celia could tell that her determination to get through to them was waning.

And Celia would never forget what her grandmother said at that point. She raised her voice, actually interrupted the handsome one, who was in the process of saying something about a figurative versus a literal hell, and switched from quoting Scripture to quoting a hymn. And in such a commanding, authoritative voice! Celia didn't get up to look, but she would have bet money that her grandmother was pointing directly at the two boys as she recited: “‘Come ye sinners, poor and needy! Weak and wounded, sick and sore! Jesus ready stands to save you! Full of pity, love and power!'” And with the last word, Celia heard her shut the door firmly and turn the bolt.

She remembered her grandmother's return to the table that night, how she had sat down wearily and bowed her head for the longest time. Celia had heard her breathing heavily, had seen her lips moving, had known she was praying for the souls of those two boys just as she prayed for Celia's soul day after day.

Oh, Grandmother's solution for everything was so simple. Just arise and go to Jesus. Let him embrace you in his arms and lead you back to the safety of the flock. And somehow Grandmother believed, she really and truly believed, that in the dry, dusty fold of religion, with its high fences and securely latched gate, there were ten thousand charms, if not more.

14

Just Beyond the Shining River

“You better give it to someone else,” Celia said. “I'm afraid I won't be able to fit it in this week.” It was the first day of May, a Sunday afternoon, and Celia was sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed, talking on the phone with Mike Owen, who liked to introduce himself as “the editor-in-chief of the Derby
Daily News
,” which was true but nothing to brag about in Celia's opinion.

The book she had been reading was lying facedown on the bedspread. Ollie had lent the book to her, and she had found it fascinating so far:
Making the Mummies Dance
by Thomas Hoving, a former director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It told all sorts of inside scoop about the Met—the incredibly high prices of certain acquisitions, quarrels among the board members, dealings with major donors, auctions, scouting trips abroad, scandals in the art world, and such. She was eager to get back to reading, especially now that she knew what this phone conversation was about.

She couldn't remember the last time she had flatly turned down a newspaper assignment from Mike. Not that she hadn't tried before, but somehow he always managed to talk her into it. This time he wouldn't, though. He might as well save his breath.

“Debra can't do it,” Mike said. “She's swamped with the library renovation feature, plus all the Greek Festival stuff. And I wouldn't give something like this to Lorenzo. It's not a guy thing.” He paused. “I really need you, kid. You're the best. You know that.”

She knew he'd try flattery eventually, but usually it wasn't so soon. “Sorry, Mike. Can't do it. How about Joan? She's good—and twice as fast as the rest of us.”

“She can't. She's already doing two concert reviews and the Clinton bluegrass thing for me this week, plus her usual poetry fillers,” he said. “And she's got a full-time job, you know.” Whenever things got tight, Mike liked to drop little reminders that Celia's afternoon hours at the art gallery gave her more free time than his other stringers, as if he thought she sat at home every morning lounging around in her pajamas.

Ever since Wanda had left the paper in March, Mike had become a real nuisance, phoning every week about assignments he didn't have a writer for. “Well, if you'd quit spinning your wheels and hire another full-time reporter,” she told him now, “you wouldn't keep running into this problem. You can't expect me to keep dropping everything to bail you out of a jam.”

“Hey, I don't own the paper, Celia. You know that. It's not my decision. I've told Mr. Fields the situation, and he's still—”

“Well, I can't do it. This is a bad week for me. Tennis playoffs start tomorrow, and we have a new show opening at the gallery on Thursday night. I've still got a lot to do for that.” There, not just one reasonable-sounding excuse, but two. Actually, only one of the excuses was valid, though.

She heard Mike sigh. Though he had tried hard to hide it, he hadn't been at all happy when she had told him back in February that she'd joined a tennis team that had matches and occasional practices in the mornings. Usually it was only one morning a week, but this week was different, and she couldn't do anything about the schedule even if she wanted to do the article for Mike, which she definitely didn't. The three playoff matches were scheduled for Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday mornings, and the team needed her at every match. Whichever team won this week would go to the state championship in Charleston in early June.

The second part of her excuse might be stretching the truth, however, since things were pretty well under control for the new art show. She and Ollie were hanging the pieces tomorrow, three whole days early, and she had the refreshment table and decorations all set for Thursday. She was using a lot of scarves, old hats, and costume jewelry for the table, and the refreshments were going to be cheese straws, pastel mints, meringue cookies, and cinnamon peach tea, all of which Connie was bringing in on Thursday.

Celia was looking forward to this new show—oils and acrylics in vibrant colors, mostly interior scenes with a wry twist. The artist, Lenny Bullard, was a native of Yemassee, South Carolina, but you'd never guess his rural background from this new show. And you probably wouldn't guess his gender, either.

Celia's favorite piece in the whole show, the one she had chosen to depict on the postcard mailing, was a large painting of a women's upscale lingerie shop. The mannequins, the customers, the merchandise, the shop owner, the decor—it all said “snobbery,” but with such good-natured satire that you had to smile. She also liked the painting of a lady's bureau, showing an open jewelry box with necklaces draped over the side, an arrangement of peacock feathers in an Oriental vase, a small crystal clock, a poppy red scarf, and several scattered earrings and hatpins. Obviously that woman had been in a hurry.

Angela Wortheimer's watercolor show had gone well, but Celia was glad it was down now. All those placid scenes in pastel colors had grown tiresome after a few days. Nothing to stir the imagination in all that tranquillity. Even the one Celia had liked best—the wet sidewalk scene—hadn't kept her interest. During the six weeks of looking at the paintings every day, she had grown to believe that Angela had a good eye but not a whole lot of fire in her soul. Quite a few pieces had sold, though, so a lot of people evidently didn't care whether an artist had fire in her soul.

Regarding Lenny Bullard's work, however, some people might turn it around and say he had plenty of fire in his soul but not a very good eye. Another of his paintings flashed into Celia's mind: a small beauty shop with five swivel chairs, slightly tilted in different directions, in a rainbow of sherbet colors. The name of the shop could be read backward through the plate glass window in the background—Lovelier Than Thou. The letters were leaning crookedly, hardly a sign maker's dream.

She realized Mike was talking again and wondered if she had missed much. Probably not. He seemed to have shifted into a lecturing mode.

“ . . . and you know those are invariably the things I learn the most from,” he was saying. “So, really, we both know a person can always make time for important things, right? And believe me, kid, this is important. And
fun
—hey, it'll be a whole lot more fun than most of the stuff I give you.” He paused to chuckle. “You know, like murders and such. Oh, and by the way, people are still writing in and calling about that one. I probably already told you that, though. Everybody and his brother thinks he has a clue that's gonna solve that case. And who knows? One of them actually might. But anyway, the point is, that was some good writing you did. As usual. You really know how to snag the reader.”

More flattery. He really must be desperate. “And then the Teacher Appreciation feature,” he added, “and the big thing about book clubs in the area, and that hot-air-balloon event a couple weeks ago—well, you've really helped us out, Celia, and I was really, really counting on you for this one.” He paused as if hoping her sense of obligation would kick in.
After all, you did leave us in a lurch ten years ago
, she could feel him thinking over the phone.
You did promise to keep freelancing for us as needed when you up and quit the newspaper to work at an art gallery, of all places
.

She could hear him tapping on something in the background. She tried to say something but suddenly found that she couldn't put a sentence together. Maybe it was Mike's mention of her recent articles, but for some reason at this very minute it struck her all at once, with swift and sure conviction, that she was tired of writing for the newspaper. Tired in a very permanent way. Absolutely fed up. She wouldn't care if she never had another call from Mike, if she never again saw her by-line in the Derby
Daily News
.

And the freelance editing jobs she kept doing for people—she suddenly knew without a doubt that she couldn't face another one. She thought of poor misguided, eternally optimistic Frank Bledsoe, who had called again a few days ago to ask about her progress on editing his latest manuscript, a collection of inspirational short cameos titled
Folks Who Failed
—well, there was no way in the world Celia could in good conscience keep accepting the man's money.

Some weeks ago she had finally given back to Frank the opening chapters of his dreadful autobiographical novel
From Ashes to Fame
and had broken it to him gently that this one would require more effort than she was able to give in order to make it publishable, at which time he had briskly pulled out another manuscript, the
Folks Who Failed
one, and asked her to “take a look at this when you have a minute.” Such resilience that man had!

She couldn't believe now that she had actually let him put yet another manuscript into her hands, that she hadn't looked him square in the eye and said, “It's over, Frank. Kaput, adios, the end. Sorry, I can't help you anymore. Your writing is hopeless. Go home and take up herb gardening. Raise carrier pigeons. Start a coin collection. Restore vintage cars.” She wondered how she had managed all these years to keep trying to fix up other people's writing when she hated doing it so much.

And writing articles for Mike—why, that was like doing homework. None of it was anything she
wanted
to write. She was tired of being told what to write and then seeing it printed on the kind of paper people threw away, shredded up for packing material, or wrapped fish bones in.