MISTER - Chapter II

Chapter Two - Summer, 1971


Mister was preaching for what seemed like forever. He had his Bible open, but always quoted most of his sermon verses from memory, just like at home. He was telling the congregation about The Boylston Home for Girls, a ministry of WCTU and Child Evangelism Fellowship, which housed ten or more of us girls at any given time, finding ourselves at The Home for many different reasons. We all had one thing in common. We weren’t able to live with our parents. Beyond that, our stories were all drastically our own. At five years old, I was the baby of the group.

We girls were supposed to be good ‘examples’, and didn’t get to play with the visitor pencils or draw on the church bulletins like the other kids, so my vision glazed over at the stained glass windows, as I conjured up my favorite Sunday sermon daydream.

Looking down, I spied my very own white, fluffy invisible dog patiently lying in the church aisle next to my pew with a parrot on his head. The parrot hopped onto my lap, then up my arm to my shoulder. It was a very tame bird and tickled my ear with its beak. The minutes ticked on and on as my imaginary bird kept me company with his tricks. My knee-sock was slipping down my right calf, causing me to absentmindedly use the toe of my other shoe to inch it up my leg as I began to wiggle and fidget in the pew, and Missus glanced down to give me a stern look. Suddenly, I realized I was supposed to bow my head. I didn’t know how long Mister had been praying, but church would be over soon, so I lowered my bird down to the dog’s head. If I didn’t know any better, I would have said the dog smiled at me.

People rose to sing, and my fluffy white dog stood too, patiently waiting for me. I tried to figure out which people in the congregation knew all the words to each song, even in the second and third stanza. It was a tie between an older woman across the aisle and an even older man in the row in front of me. Earlier, the man must have really known the hymn, because he just held the closed hymnal in front of himself the whole time while he sang. For this one, though, I caught them both peeking at the words to catch up in-between verses.

I knew the service was officially over when I heard Mister say, “The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift His countenance upon thee and give thee peace.” The dog, bird and I followed Missus to go stand with Mister in the back of the church. When our foursome reached him, he effortlessly scooped me up into his arm, handing his Bible to Missus so he could shake hands with the congregation as they meandered past us, two-by-two. My animal friends disappeared into the crowd. I was sure they would be waiting for me when I came back tonight for the evening service.

Mister’s hand was warm. It enveloped my own, blanketing me to my forearm. His fingers were rugged, knuckles dotted with black and gray hair, holding me as people shuffled past, smiling, thanking him for his sermon and asking if the cat had my tongue. I relished the crowd, the tickle of fearful shyness tamed because I was safe in his arms.

“Great message, Pastor Beal! I’ll bet this little one talks your ear off at home, doesn’t she?” a dark-haired lady with her hair pulled severely into a bun helped herself to my knee, playfully pinching it as she sidled up to Missus.

Missus smiled, “Not really. She’s normally a quiet child.”

The lady leaned in closer to Missus, “It’s a shame she isn’t up for adoption. Which ones are her sisters again? That middle one is so striking with her dark hair and pretty blue eyes. The blonde - she’s the oldest? Why don’t their parents just let them go, or at least give up this little one?”

“Elizabeth came to us when she was only eight months old, and we’ve loved her ever since,” Mister said in response to the lady, who was now smoothing my dress over his arm. “When we first met the Bennett girls, we were so thankful we could keep them all together, and that continues to be our desire.”

While the lady continued to pepper Mister and Missus with questions, my skin shrank under my ruffles at her touch. I thought she was nosey, and whatever adoption was, I was very glad I wasn’t up for it. Finally, the lady moved on after commenting on my pin-straight brown hair, and the crowd grew sparse. Mister put me down, but I remained close at his side.

The other girls were gathering in the vestibule, some vying for attention, some whispering secrets to each other, all hungry and ready to go. Today we performed Jesus Loves Me in Spanish and the dwindling congregation offered praise to each girl they met as they made their way out of the church.

I held on to Mister’s finger as we walked to the station wagon, where he lowered the armrest in the front bench seat, letting me sit on it between Missus and him. I loved being next to him, tall enough to peer out the front windshield, away from the other girls. Sometimes, I had to crouch on the floor at someone’s feet or sit on a lap when we were all together, but this day, there was enough room for us all. We traveled a few miles, down Cilly Road, which, when you said it right was pronounced “Silly Road”, past the brick houses that lined our street, and pulled into the driveway of The Home.

As we all scrambled out of the station wagon like clowns from a buggy, I stretched my neck to see whether there were any black crows perched on the roof of our three-story home. The big, white house seemed like the tallest building in the world to me with its 1800’s Victorian ceilings, steep staircases, wide banisters and cement cellar. Though it was the only home I’d ever known, it still held mystery and the promise of an ever-elusive-trap-door-that-must-lead-to-a-secret-tunnel-somewhere. I had never found said trap-door, but imagined it was hidden so secretly, it would probably take years to discover.

My sister, Lisa, raced past me, stubbing her toe on the porch step, then planted herself on the ground and began to howl as the Older Girls swarmed past her into the house. Lisa and I, at seven and five years old, respectively, were members of the group called the Younger Girls. Our older sister, Robyn, age nine, was a Younger Girl, too, but got to do things with the Older Girls, sometimes. Ade, who was almost a grown-up, helped Lisa to her feet and ushered her inside.

Bible and Sunday School papers put away and hands washed, I made my way to the table, leery of what I might find. Sunday dinners weren’t usually too bad, in my estimation, but they usually included a vegetable that came from one of those big, silver, government-sized cans that Mister got down at the Wholesaler’s. My eyes spied canned carrots - the kind that have a brownish circle in the middle and turn to mush if you press on them with your fork. I snuck into the kitchen to ask Missus if I could have raw carrots with my dinner instead, but she was talking to one of the Older Girls, and I was taught that it wasn’t polite to interrupt a conversation. I ducked back into the dining room to see what else was on the table. Not finding anything interesting there, my eye caught Lisa, rolling around on the enormous braided rug in the living room. Giggling, I ran to her, begging her give me a pony ride while we kept out of the big peoples’ way. Obliging, she crawled as fast as she could with me on her back, whinnying and snorting with laughter as I held on for dear life to the back of her dress.

“Gir-rls. Din-ner,” Missus’ sing-song-y voice rang out from the dining room. Lisa and I made our way to one of the long tables as chairs scraped in and out, taking on the girls and workers of The Home. We all bowed our heads to pray as Mister’s booming voice gave thanks for the food.

I surveyed my plate, deciding what to eat first. Lisa and I had many previous discussions about how to approach a meal with both good and bad bounty. We always agreed that we should eat the unpleasant food first, then eat the best food last as a reward, but, as most days, I filled up on the delicious mashed potatoes first, then the meat, and finally, faced the remaining orange and brown mushy carrots.

“You’d better eat those while they’re warm,” some distant voice across the table warned, “or they’re going to taste worse when they get cold.”.

I held my stare, watching the steam from the vegetable slowly fade to nothing, then touched one of them with my finger. Right. They were cold.

Mister began his departure by stating that he’s ‘sufficiently sufficed’, excusing himself. We all held our breath, wondering if we were ‘it’ today.

“Would you be so condescending, stoop so low and be so bending, to excuse me from the table, Missus, Ann, Ade, Paula, Mary, Carol, Darlene, Shirley, Rosemary, Robyn, Elizabeth - and Mable?”

My sister, Lisa, let out an indignant squeal of delight. “I am NOT Mable!!”

We all laughed as Mister flashed a grin at Lisa, patting her head on the way past, and exited the dining room. Others followed suit, politely excusing themselves and clearing dishes off the table as they went. Soon, I was alone at the table, with only the cold carrots to keep me company, the once melted butter forming a yellow, spotty film on each one. If I could just slink away when no one was looking, I might make it to the second floor Den, where Mister was already watching something on the old T.V.

Pots and pans banged in the kitchen among the cheerful chatter and banter of some of the Older Girls. I made my move, sliding my chair out in slow motion so it wouldn’t screech across the bare floor. Walking backward into the living room, I knew my best bet was to go up the front staircase, avoiding the creaky stairs next to the kitchen. Past the living room, I raced through the front entryway, up the stairs, into the Den and hopped up on Mister’s lap. He was my ‘goals’, like at recess. Having safely reached him, I knew I would only get one or two disapproving looks later from whichever worker or Older Girl found my abandoned plate of vegetables.

I nestled in and placed my ear over Mister’s heart, listening to each beat. I liked how my head raised and fell as he breathed deeply and slowly, peacefully watching Shirley Temple call out for “The Grandfather” on the television set.

Eventually, I was found and told it was time to rest. We always rested after dinner on The Lord‘s Day. Usually I engaged Missus in a discussion about what resting means, and what if I couldn’t actually sleep - what would I do then? In vain, I explained the dread of complete boredom, and how long would I have to TRY to rest, and what time is it now, and will she remember to come get me because I won’t know what time to come out of my room, and what if she forgets and I stay in my room until bedtime - will I have to stay in bed for the whole night, too?

Resigned, I was ‘resting’ in the front Guest Room on Second Floor, which faced the road, excited to realize a parade was heading up the street toward the house. I hoped no one knew I was standing at the window, because rest time meant I had to lie in bed, whether I was tired or not. The drum of the marching band beat in my chest and I spied a clown or two and a Girl Scout troup. Coming up the road, I saw a beautiful woman in a gown with a white sash slowly being driven in a convertible car, waving to a small group of people a few feet beyond my view. Suddenly, she looked up to my window and waved at me, smiling. I fought the urge to look behind me to see if the wave was meant for someone else, and pressed my hand to the window, allowing one side of my mouth to curl up into a half-twitchy grin. I just knew Missus must have seen her wave to me from the music room below, so I dove onto the bed.

Now positive that I was much too excited to sleep now, I lay there counting as high as I could, breathing in at one, out at two, in at three, on and on past one hundred. Somewhere around one-hundred-thirty-six, my breathing became deeper and I slipped into a sunny day-nap dream of crickets and daffodils under a blue sky. If anyone was not as content and peaceful as I, on this day, I was blissfully unaware.