Read Online The Fancy Dancer by Patricia Nell Warren - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Nell Warren
Tags: gay, romance, novel
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no trouble persuading Father Vance that we could celebrate God and America by creating a decent home for the aged.
One of the finest historic Victorian houses in town, the Mathers house, had been taken over by the bank on a mortgage foreclosure. We talked the bank into donating the house to St. Mary’s. One of my very first money-raising assignments had been to get parishioners to donate work and materials.
The decision that St. Mary’s would also have a float in the Bicentennial parade did, admittedly, have a worldly motivation. But the council members, in their gut, felt they wanted it, and we decided not to spend much money on it. The theme of the float would be the local settlers and the Indians working together to build the church.
“I’ve put a crew of volunteers to work on the float,” I said. “Jamie is the head of the crew. Jamie, do you want to tell us about it?”
Jamie’s face lit up as I singled him out. Suddenly, with a rush, I was reminded of talking to him Saturday evening in the sacristy, which reminded me of Vidal. That feeling of giddy frightened joy went over me all over again.
“Well,” Jamie was saying, “me and three other kids in art class are going to make the thing out of heavy cardboard. We can scrounge the cardboard from Bissell’s—the big boxes they get refrigerators and washing machines in. We’re doing it in our garage, and it’ll be light enough to lift right onto a truck. Mrs. Fulton says we can borrow some canned lilacs from the nursery to stand around it. The costumes will be easy—some paint and feathers and fringes on shirts and pants, and stuff. It shouldn’t cost more’n fifty dollars.”
Everybody smiled and nodded.
“Well,” said Mrs. Shaw, “it sounds like we’re moving right along. Does anybody have any more comments before we move on to the next item on the agenda?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Shoup. “No bare chests on the Indians on the float.”
Suddenly I felt devastated by aloneness, there in that cluttered living room. I was a priest of God, of Divine Love. I should be like a holy high-tension wire, humming with the shock current of love, • carrying love from God to man, and back. But I felt alone, and empty.
The council discussed a few more pet projects, and I tried hard to pay attention. Mr. DiSaronno had gloomy news about our county job-finding project— the sawmill was planning to lay off fifty men, because of a government decision to stop clear-cutting in the national forests. For us, that meant the Cottonwood, Elk Creek and Helena National Forests.
Finally Mrs. Shaw asked, “Now are there any new problems that anyone wants to bring up?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Shoup.
My mind snapped back to reality, and I groaned
51
inwardly. She was still smarting from her recent rebuff by the court on the bookstore issue. Now she was looking for a new hotbed of obscenity.
AH the other members’ eyes fastened on her, a little wearily.
“The other day I visited the high-school library,” she said. “I am a member of the school board, so I could demand to see the card files. And I was shocked to find that some highly unsuitable books are on the shelves for our children to read.”
The minute Laura Shoup said anything, parliamentary procedures went out the window.
“Laura,” said Mr. Meade, “you just lost a case, in court.”
“The court is not infallible,” said Mrs. Shoup.
“Are you appealing?” insisted Meade.
Mrs. Shoup didn’t hesitate a moment. “Frankly, no,” she said.
“Why?”
“My lawyer thought it would be a waste of time,” she said. “Anyway, with the school library, we don’t have to go through the courts. It’s a simple matter of frightening the principal and the rest of the school board enough to take the books off the shelves.”
“What books are you talking about?” asked Mrs. Shaw.
Mrs. Shoup had a long list. “Salinger, Baldwin, Hemingway—”
“ Hemingway P” said Mrs. Shaw.
“It was Hemingway
One of the finest historic Victorian houses in town, the Mathers house, had been taken over by the bank on a mortgage foreclosure. We talked the bank into donating the house to St. Mary’s. One of my very first money-raising assignments had been to get parishioners to donate work and materials.
The decision that St. Mary’s would also have a float in the Bicentennial parade did, admittedly, have a worldly motivation. But the council members, in their gut, felt they wanted it, and we decided not to spend much money on it. The theme of the float would be the local settlers and the Indians working together to build the church.
“I’ve put a crew of volunteers to work on the float,” I said. “Jamie is the head of the crew. Jamie, do you want to tell us about it?”
Jamie’s face lit up as I singled him out. Suddenly, with a rush, I was reminded of talking to him Saturday evening in the sacristy, which reminded me of Vidal. That feeling of giddy frightened joy went over me all over again.
“Well,” Jamie was saying, “me and three other kids in art class are going to make the thing out of heavy cardboard. We can scrounge the cardboard from Bissell’s—the big boxes they get refrigerators and washing machines in. We’re doing it in our garage, and it’ll be light enough to lift right onto a truck. Mrs. Fulton says we can borrow some canned lilacs from the nursery to stand around it. The costumes will be easy—some paint and feathers and fringes on shirts and pants, and stuff. It shouldn’t cost more’n fifty dollars.”
Everybody smiled and nodded.
“Well,” said Mrs. Shaw, “it sounds like we’re moving right along. Does anybody have any more comments before we move on to the next item on the agenda?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Shoup. “No bare chests on the Indians on the float.”
Suddenly I felt devastated by aloneness, there in that cluttered living room. I was a priest of God, of Divine Love. I should be like a holy high-tension wire, humming with the shock current of love, • carrying love from God to man, and back. But I felt alone, and empty.
The council discussed a few more pet projects, and I tried hard to pay attention. Mr. DiSaronno had gloomy news about our county job-finding project— the sawmill was planning to lay off fifty men, because of a government decision to stop clear-cutting in the national forests. For us, that meant the Cottonwood, Elk Creek and Helena National Forests.
Finally Mrs. Shaw asked, “Now are there any new problems that anyone wants to bring up?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Shoup.
My mind snapped back to reality, and I groaned
51
inwardly. She was still smarting from her recent rebuff by the court on the bookstore issue. Now she was looking for a new hotbed of obscenity.
AH the other members’ eyes fastened on her, a little wearily.
“The other day I visited the high-school library,” she said. “I am a member of the school board, so I could demand to see the card files. And I was shocked to find that some highly unsuitable books are on the shelves for our children to read.”
The minute Laura Shoup said anything, parliamentary procedures went out the window.
“Laura,” said Mr. Meade, “you just lost a case, in court.”
“The court is not infallible,” said Mrs. Shoup.
“Are you appealing?” insisted Meade.
Mrs. Shoup didn’t hesitate a moment. “Frankly, no,” she said.
“Why?”
“My lawyer thought it would be a waste of time,” she said. “Anyway, with the school library, we don’t have to go through the courts. It’s a simple matter of frightening the principal and the rest of the school board enough to take the books off the shelves.”
“What books are you talking about?” asked Mrs. Shaw.
Mrs. Shoup had a long list. “Salinger, Baldwin, Hemingway—”
“ Hemingway P” said Mrs. Shaw.
“It was Hemingway
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