Read Online The Fancy Dancer by Patricia Nell Warren - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patricia Nell Warren
Tags: gay, romance, novel
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the age spread within the parish, and in the town itself. They were either very young, or they were middle-aged-to-old, with nothing in between. At my insistence, we had included two Catholic high school seniors, Jamie Ogilvie and Sissy Wood, who had made (as far as I was concerned) a big contribution. I was literally the only member in the twenty-to-thirty-five age group. We had had one fine couple in that age group, the Murchisons. But they had gotten so involved with trying to start a flying service at the Cottonwood airport (he was a pilot) that they’d had to drop out.
‘Well,” said Mrs. Shoup crisply, “now that Father’s finally here, we can start.”
She nodded at the council president, Mrs. Ida Shaw, with the air of a famous conductor ordering the symphony to get ready.
Mrs. Shaw was exactly the opposite of Mrs. Shoup. She was the salt of the earth of my parish ladies, and if Father Vance, the Bishop of Helena and the Pope would have allowed it, I would have made her a deacon. She was spiritual, hard-working, no-nonsense, kind. She was head of the local Bicentennial Committee and the Cottonwood Historical Society, and had once confided to me that she’d like to run for mayor someday. She was a handsome widow in her mid-forties with warm brown eyes, a fondness for sweater outfits, a single strand of real pearls, and warm brown hair that uncharitable people suspected came from a Clairol bottle. When the council had elected Mrs. Shaw to be its president, Mrs. Shoup had said out loud that the forces of liberalism would have to be carefully countered.
“Well, the first thing on the agenda is the Bicentennial, of course,” said Mrs. Shaw in her soft voice. “And our progress on same. Father, last week we discussed if the St. Mary’s Home would be open in time for the Bicentennial. Do you have any more information this week?”
“Well, Beaupre told me the other day that die shipment of two-inch lead pipe finally came in,” I said. “With a little bit of luck, the plumbing can be in and we can open in August.”
“One of your first patients is going to be my mother,” said Mrs. Pufescu. “She’s gotten to be impossible. I just can’t look after her at home anymore.”
“You’ll be lucky to get her in,” I said. "We’ve got quite a waiting list.”
“Please, no out-of-order discussions,” said Mrs. Shaw. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover tonight. Father, what about the float for the parade?”
More than a year ago, when the town had to make the first decisions about how to celebrate the national Bicentennial, Mrs. Shaw had stood up at a town meeting and reminded everybody of how Cottonwood spent half a million dollars on a historical pageant for its own Centennial in 1968 and now had nothing to show for it.
“Let’s do something to improve the quality of life in Cottonwood,” she had said. “Let’s honor the past by doing something to ensure our future.”
Everybody had cheered her suggestion. The block of the oldest buildings on Main Street, the Landry block, was falling into decay. The town decided to restore them and attract some new businesses. As a result, construction people in town had gotten some badly needed jobs. This summer, Cottonwood would have its first antique shop, a singles bar and a garden center, plus an elegant little tearoom to compete with the town’s three dingy cafes and two fast-food joints. Mrs. Pawling, who refused to spend a nickel on repairing the church roof, had offered to plant two hundred new young cottonwood trees along Main Street—“It’s getting so there isn’t a cottonwood left in town,” she said. “All the old ones are dying.”
Shortly after I came to St. Mary’s, Father Vance and I had made our own decision about the Bicentennial. On one of my first parish rounds, I had visited the county old-folks’ home, and was shocked. The building was like a bare bam, with staring sick old men and women in bedrooms like little stalls. I had
‘Well,” said Mrs. Shoup crisply, “now that Father’s finally here, we can start.”
She nodded at the council president, Mrs. Ida Shaw, with the air of a famous conductor ordering the symphony to get ready.
Mrs. Shaw was exactly the opposite of Mrs. Shoup. She was the salt of the earth of my parish ladies, and if Father Vance, the Bishop of Helena and the Pope would have allowed it, I would have made her a deacon. She was spiritual, hard-working, no-nonsense, kind. She was head of the local Bicentennial Committee and the Cottonwood Historical Society, and had once confided to me that she’d like to run for mayor someday. She was a handsome widow in her mid-forties with warm brown eyes, a fondness for sweater outfits, a single strand of real pearls, and warm brown hair that uncharitable people suspected came from a Clairol bottle. When the council had elected Mrs. Shaw to be its president, Mrs. Shoup had said out loud that the forces of liberalism would have to be carefully countered.
“Well, the first thing on the agenda is the Bicentennial, of course,” said Mrs. Shaw in her soft voice. “And our progress on same. Father, last week we discussed if the St. Mary’s Home would be open in time for the Bicentennial. Do you have any more information this week?”
“Well, Beaupre told me the other day that die shipment of two-inch lead pipe finally came in,” I said. “With a little bit of luck, the plumbing can be in and we can open in August.”
“One of your first patients is going to be my mother,” said Mrs. Pufescu. “She’s gotten to be impossible. I just can’t look after her at home anymore.”
“You’ll be lucky to get her in,” I said. "We’ve got quite a waiting list.”
“Please, no out-of-order discussions,” said Mrs. Shaw. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover tonight. Father, what about the float for the parade?”
More than a year ago, when the town had to make the first decisions about how to celebrate the national Bicentennial, Mrs. Shaw had stood up at a town meeting and reminded everybody of how Cottonwood spent half a million dollars on a historical pageant for its own Centennial in 1968 and now had nothing to show for it.
“Let’s do something to improve the quality of life in Cottonwood,” she had said. “Let’s honor the past by doing something to ensure our future.”
Everybody had cheered her suggestion. The block of the oldest buildings on Main Street, the Landry block, was falling into decay. The town decided to restore them and attract some new businesses. As a result, construction people in town had gotten some badly needed jobs. This summer, Cottonwood would have its first antique shop, a singles bar and a garden center, plus an elegant little tearoom to compete with the town’s three dingy cafes and two fast-food joints. Mrs. Pawling, who refused to spend a nickel on repairing the church roof, had offered to plant two hundred new young cottonwood trees along Main Street—“It’s getting so there isn’t a cottonwood left in town,” she said. “All the old ones are dying.”
Shortly after I came to St. Mary’s, Father Vance and I had made our own decision about the Bicentennial. On one of my first parish rounds, I had visited the county old-folks’ home, and was shocked. The building was like a bare bam, with staring sick old men and women in bedrooms like little stalls. I had
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