Read Online Miss Julia Speaks Her Mind by Ann B. Ross - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ann B. Ross
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other, fingered the pearl necklace that was attached to the earpieces of her glasses. “Afternoon, Miss Julia,” she said, reaching for a pencil to show me how busy she was. “Are you here to see Pastor Ledbetter? He’s pretty busy right now.”
“He just called me to come over, Norma, which you know because you probably dialed the phone for him. Tell him I’m here, please.”
She aimed a glare at me that was unbecoming in a church setting, lifted the phone receiver, and pushed a button. It wouldn’t have taken her two steps to walk to the door of his office, but no, she had to use that push-button phone.
She turned her head away from me and practically whispered, “Mrs. Springer is here. Shall I ask her to wait?”
She must not’ve gotten the answer she wanted, because she pursed her lips before hanging up. About that time, Pastor Ledbetter opened his door and stood there filling that space and the air around him with his ministerial presence and authority. Charisma, I think it’s called, and he’d preached a whole sermon one time on all the meanings of the word. He loved to call on his seminary training to instruct us in the Greek language. He’d made it plain that being charismatic for Christ didn’t mean you had to speak in tongues, which is something mainline Presbyterians don’t hold with at all.
“Come in, Miss Julia,” he said in his hearty voice that aimed to make me feel welcome. “How are you? It’s good to see you on a day besides a Sunday.”
“I’m over here on Mondays for the Women of the Church meetings and on Wednesday nights for prayer meeting,” I reminded him. Did he think I only showed up on Sunday mornings?
“Oh, I know, I know,” he said, smiling his wide smile. “Just joshing you, Miss Julia. Have a seat, now. Here, let’s sit in these comfortable chairs.” He closed the door behind us and indicated the two wing chairs beside a bay window. They were fine chairs, upholstered in cream damask, that were bought instead of a swing set for the children’s playground.
I sat down and smoothed out the skirt of my Leslie Fay shirtwaist. I felt edgy, like I always did when a preacher wanted to see me. It was like being called to the principal’s office, even though I couldn’t think of a thing I’d done wrong. I halfway expected to hear about building plans and my contributions thereto, especially since Leonard Conover had spilled the beans. What I wanted from him was some commiseration and prayer over the intolerable situation Wesley Lloyd had left me in. I was ready for some pity.
“Now, Miss Julia,” he said, templing his hands before him and looking into my eyes with deep concern. He crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned toward me. I could feel that charisma I was telling you about, and I thought again of how powerful a pulpiteer he was. Why, he filled out a pastoral robe to an outstanding degree, and made a commanding figure behind a pulpit. He liked to stretch out his arms and grasp each side of the podium as if he had to keep the thing from flying off above the congregation.
“Now, Miss Julia,” he said again, sorrow dripping in his words and pulling his mouth down. “What’s this I hear about you?”
I was having queasy feelings that felt strangely like guilt, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think why.
“Why, I don’t know. What have you heard?”
“Ah,” he said, searching my face intently. Then he nodded as if he’d confirmed something. “It’s hard to remember things, isn’t it? But short-term memory loss is a natural result of aging, just the Lord’s way of helping us cut our ties to worldly things.”
“There is nothing wrong with my memory, short- or long-term. I asked what you’d heard, because rumors fly so thick in this town I didn’t know which one you’d come in contact with.”
“Just to remind you, then, I’m concerned about this child, the one you’ve been introducing around as Mr. Springer’s son.”
“Oh,
“He just called me to come over, Norma, which you know because you probably dialed the phone for him. Tell him I’m here, please.”
She aimed a glare at me that was unbecoming in a church setting, lifted the phone receiver, and pushed a button. It wouldn’t have taken her two steps to walk to the door of his office, but no, she had to use that push-button phone.
She turned her head away from me and practically whispered, “Mrs. Springer is here. Shall I ask her to wait?”
She must not’ve gotten the answer she wanted, because she pursed her lips before hanging up. About that time, Pastor Ledbetter opened his door and stood there filling that space and the air around him with his ministerial presence and authority. Charisma, I think it’s called, and he’d preached a whole sermon one time on all the meanings of the word. He loved to call on his seminary training to instruct us in the Greek language. He’d made it plain that being charismatic for Christ didn’t mean you had to speak in tongues, which is something mainline Presbyterians don’t hold with at all.
“Come in, Miss Julia,” he said in his hearty voice that aimed to make me feel welcome. “How are you? It’s good to see you on a day besides a Sunday.”
“I’m over here on Mondays for the Women of the Church meetings and on Wednesday nights for prayer meeting,” I reminded him. Did he think I only showed up on Sunday mornings?
“Oh, I know, I know,” he said, smiling his wide smile. “Just joshing you, Miss Julia. Have a seat, now. Here, let’s sit in these comfortable chairs.” He closed the door behind us and indicated the two wing chairs beside a bay window. They were fine chairs, upholstered in cream damask, that were bought instead of a swing set for the children’s playground.
I sat down and smoothed out the skirt of my Leslie Fay shirtwaist. I felt edgy, like I always did when a preacher wanted to see me. It was like being called to the principal’s office, even though I couldn’t think of a thing I’d done wrong. I halfway expected to hear about building plans and my contributions thereto, especially since Leonard Conover had spilled the beans. What I wanted from him was some commiseration and prayer over the intolerable situation Wesley Lloyd had left me in. I was ready for some pity.
“Now, Miss Julia,” he said, templing his hands before him and looking into my eyes with deep concern. He crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned toward me. I could feel that charisma I was telling you about, and I thought again of how powerful a pulpiteer he was. Why, he filled out a pastoral robe to an outstanding degree, and made a commanding figure behind a pulpit. He liked to stretch out his arms and grasp each side of the podium as if he had to keep the thing from flying off above the congregation.
“Now, Miss Julia,” he said again, sorrow dripping in his words and pulling his mouth down. “What’s this I hear about you?”
I was having queasy feelings that felt strangely like guilt, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think why.
“Why, I don’t know. What have you heard?”
“Ah,” he said, searching my face intently. Then he nodded as if he’d confirmed something. “It’s hard to remember things, isn’t it? But short-term memory loss is a natural result of aging, just the Lord’s way of helping us cut our ties to worldly things.”
“There is nothing wrong with my memory, short- or long-term. I asked what you’d heard, because rumors fly so thick in this town I didn’t know which one you’d come in contact with.”
“Just to remind you, then, I’m concerned about this child, the one you’ve been introducing around as Mr. Springer’s son.”
“Oh,
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