The Residency Issue Ch 01

NOTE: Any resemblance to people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

_________________________________________________________________

The land line rang; I didn't recognize the number, but it looked local. "Hello?"

"Hello, Vera?" I recognized Alma's voice after a second. "Hi, it's Alma." She took a deep, ragged breath.

"Alma, hello. You're well, I trust. What's up?"

"I... I was wondering," she said, "if you'd be around for a little while--maybe I could come by for some coffee?"

This was new--more than new or unusual, it was unheard of. Alma and I knew each other very little other than by sight. I'd seen her a few times in the village, but only once this year, when we exchanged friendly greetings. The longest conversation I'd ever had with Alma went on for maybe five minutes outside a florist shop about two years ago. We admired the zinnias, I think it was. I'd heard she was deeply Christian, so it wasn't likely we'd be close. She and I nodded our acquaintance, but we didn't socialize. I thought her harmless enough. I would have hesitated to call her boring, because I didn't know her well enough. But it would not have surprised me.

"Alma, what's wrong? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Vera, please don't worry," Alma said. "I just thought a friendly ear was what I needed. If you're not busy."

"I'm not doing anything right now, Alma, just looking over the paper and planning to put some new peonies in later in the morning," I said. "I'll put on a fresh pot; you come right over, you hear?"

"Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. Bless you. I'll see you in a few minutes." And she hung up.

I shook my head. I honestly couldn't imagine what Alma might want with me. It was true we were roughly the same age, and there weren't many women around the lakeside cottages and homes--was I the first call she made? She dressed plainly, and offered to the world a friendly, almost smug countenance, as though she knew what virtue was, and looked for it in all of God's creatures. She and I were each past our primes, truth be told; maybe she was counting on me as a resource who'd seen the world, which I had. There was no telling.... Well, this was different. It sure made for a novel morning anyway.

Her car raised a dust cloud, sunbeams shining into it through the trees on this calm morning, and crunched the short gravel driveway as she drove cautiously in. I came out on the porch to greet her. She went through the laborious process of getting out of her car, and smiled as she approached. I hadn't remembered her being quite so full around the hips. Well--I was no one to judge another woman's weight.

"Hello, good morning," I called.

Her smile remained. "Oh, I'm so glad you're home!" she said. "Thank you so much--I know this is an imposition."

"Oh, nothing of the kind, now you just hush about it, all right?" She was a neighbor; my house was open to her.

She faced me from a few feet away. Her smile looked genuine, appreciative. I opened the door, and she made her waddling way in. I always thought the tight perm she had her hair in was so out of style, and so unflattering to her round face. Her neck was in better shape than mine - not as baggy or wattle-y, but her upper arms were flabbier, and her hips... well, Alma was certainly shaped like a pear. I'm a heavy woman, but I hold my weight more in my abdomen--let's be honest, I resemble an apple rather than a pear.

"Oh, thanks so much!" she said as I set a mug of coffee in front of her. She wrapped her hands around it. She looked around my kitchen; I couldn't tell if she approved or not, but it certainly didn't make a difference to me. I poured my own cup and pulled up a chair across from her.

I said, "Well! It isn't often I get visitors. Have you been keeping well? And busy?"

"I have been fine and dandy, thank you, Vera," Alma said. She took a deep breath. "And it isn't often I find myself in need of anyone's confidence..."

I tilted my head. Confidence? I couldn't believe Alma Hayward would need to divulge any kind of deep dark secret, particularly to me. I waited.

Finally, staring at the surface of her coffee, she began. "You know I keep the Reverend Hall's Congregation property by the lake here, you know, on the yonder side." She jerked her head in a vague direction. "I come up here in the summer and keep things fresh, you know, spruced up. Sometimes he has some groups come up--usually it's Congregation trustees for a relaxed meeting and get-together, or maybe youth prayer groups.

"Well, late in May, he informed me that Jack Wheatley--he's someone everyone knows and respects in the congregation, an executive in an insurance company I believe--had to pick up and move to Jacksonville. In Florida!" I knew where Jacksonville was, but observed her determination to tell her story. I was determined and not a little curious to hear it out. I sipped my coffee. She sipped hers.

"He's been a widower these five or ten years, but he has a son, Paul, in college. Now the thing is, it's been arranged that Paul is transferring to the University of Tennessee, in Nashville there, after his first year at the community college. And that created a problem for him, residence-wise. He has to be residing in the state to get in-state tuition fees. You know, as opposed to his living in Florida, or North Carolina, where he's actually from." So far, I got the picture. I waited.

"Well, I don't know all the ins and outs of it, but it turned out to be some kind of knotty problem for Mr. Wheatley. He and his son agreed about his going to the University, that's all settled, everybody's fine with it, but they had this problem of what to do about his residency. It happened, I guess, that he mentioned it to Michael, Reverend Hall that is, and just as quick as that, the Reverend mentioned the place here by the lake. It's here in Tennessee, and the right side of the state line. And as quick as that, it seems I have a boarder to take care of through the summer!"

"Well, that came without warning, it seems to me," I offered, raising my brows a bit.

"Well, yes," Alma said, "but after meeting him I learned... he's really sweet and polite and all, so helpful, he's really no trouble at all..."

I began to wonder what this visit was about, and I think Alma could sense my confusion. She said, "He's no trouble, and so young, he's still quite sensitive." Alma breathed deeply. She was finding this part difficult, apparently.

"He's completed a year at junior college," I said. "How old is he?"

"Oh, he's nineteen, you see, very young."

I watched emotions cross her face--what they were I couldn't say--and waited, taking a sip of coffee. It started to look like hers would cool off without her enjoying it.

"We were sitting on the screened-in porch," she went on, "just looking out at the lake, night before last this was." She got a far-off look, which I doubt she gets very often. "He had a sadness in his eyes, a vulnerable look, and seemed to want to talk." Holy Moses, I thought, Tugboat Alma here's in love with the boy!

"He was looking out over the water, so still, and he talked about being in the theater group at the junior college. When he mentioned that, I naturally thought, oh, he's an actor, maybe a song and dance performer. You see he's just so handsome, with those soulful eyes." Boy, she's got it bad. Must be hard for a lonely old thing. Maybe I'll get to meet him.

"But it turns out," Alma said, "he's not. He's interested in the technical side, the sets, lighting, backstage things. He even mentioned some scientific facts about acoustics--that's what gets him excited. Said he is way too shy to be a performer."

I waited. For her to get in the car and drive around the lake to see me, someone she barely knew, there had to be a point.

"Well, he seemed so crestfallen..." the faraway look returned, "he told me about what the mean, horrible people in the theater group did to him, especially this girl..." The memory seemed to hurt Alma. I was getting more curious all the time, and waited. I was prepared to be quite patient with her.

"Well," she said, glancing at me, "honestly, he was close to tears, telling me this story, and it did seem so mean and petty. I guess they said some pretty outrageous things out loud for everyone to hear, this girl and her group."

"Oh my," I said. "Really? That does sound hard-hearted."

"Yes!" Alma said, "I thought so exactly." She paused, recollecting. "I... well, I stood up and went around to where he was sitting, behind his chair, and put my hands on his shoulders."

Her voice went deeper, as though following the emotion of her memory. "I... I started to rub his shoulders, like a massage, you know, just trying to add a little comfort.... He leaned forward and lay his head on the table... and he moaned... and he said for me to please not stop."

Talk about unexpected! I was watching this old barge--whom I shouldn't call old, because I'm pretty sure we're both pushing sixty, and if she's old, then I'm old--get feelings for a teen-age boy. I knew I was witnessing something mighty unusual, and pretty difficult for her. Yet I couldn't imagine where all this was going.

Alma was shaking her head. "He's such a sweet-tempered soul, so sensitive..." She was speaking to herself.

She snapped out of her reverie and looked at me. "Well, Vera," she said, "I feel what I'm going to ask you--I just need to tell you everything."

I raised my eyebrows in response.

"I stood there with my hands on his shoulders, kneading them, working on comforting him, and he moaned and everything..." This was extremely hard for her. She took a breath, an audible gasp as though she didn't believe what she was telling me. "Next thing I know," she said, "he's standing up and holding on to me. He was hugging me, you see, saying he was thankful and how nice it felt to have someone listen. Oh, my land! Just being held in someone's arms, and a fine-looking young man, and so nice!"

Alma was getting a little breathless here, and I couldn't begin to blame her.

"I could feel his arms around me--well mine just went around his neck, like they'd thought of it themselves. I could feel his hand at the back of my head, oh just standing there, in his arms, it was heavenly, if it isn't indecent of me to say."

"No, of course not," I said.

She looked at me again. "Vera," she said, "he leaned back just the littlest bit and looked me in the eye. And then heaven help me if he didn't kiss me!"

"Oh my heavens!" I said. "Really?" I was trying hard to decide whether to believe her.

"Really and truly. Directly on the lips," she said. "I would never tell a falsehood about anyone, particularly that angel of a boy." Then, in her own little world, she said, "I can still feel his lips, that kiss..."

"Well," I said, "that certainly is a memorable story, Alma, and I'll never breathe it to a soul." I said it and I meant it. "But I'm trying quite hard to figure out why you told it to me." I was going to say "of all people," but left it out.

"Well now, here's why," she announced. "I think you're here through the summer, correct?"

I nodded.

Alma went on: "Paul joined us--me--at the Congregation's lakeside retreat at a time when there were no other events or groups scheduled. But suddenly yesterday afternoon the Congregational Conference in Raleigh--that's the higher-up Congregation, where Reverend Hall is now--he reports to them--they sort of single-handedly decided that they wanted use the retreat here as a meeting site for one of their committees. The Reverend didn't want to tell them no, you see, and he called me somewhat agitated about what to do with Paul."

Well, now. Curiouser and curiouser.

"Listen, Vera," she said, "would you come to lunch today, over at our retreat property, and meet him, and maybe help us figure out what to do? Reverend Hall was so busy at the conference, he just kind of left it for me to figure out." She looked at me with pleading eyes.

"Alma," I said, "I'm glad to come to lunch. Certainly. But are you asking me to be part of the solution?"

"No," she said. "Maybe. Just to help us decide. I thought of you over here on this side of the lake, but... I only thought if maybe we could put our heads together... I don't think the Reverend or Mr. Wheatley is looking to shell out money to shelter him over the summer." She was anguished. "I want so much to do this for the Reverend. To settle it all so he wouldn't have to be bothered with it. And Mr. Wheatley, too.... Please join us for lunch and just meet the boy, and maybe we can figure something out between us."

That much I could agree to.

After she left the shock of what she was asking sat heavy. Certainly I would meet Paul, and offer ideas on what to do, but one thing: during her visit Alma impressed me with her combination of honesty and sophistication. Clearly she knew she couldn't just come out and ask me point blank to put up a young man in my home over a whole summer, and she also displayed a worldly urge to be a competent assistant to her boss--or bosses, if you counted Paul's dad. In twenty minutes' time you can learn quite a bit. She seemed so relieved when I accepted her invitation to lunch, as though that would clinch it. But... why tell me the titillating story of the kiss?

Clearly I wouldn't be missing this lunch.

The hour came, rather more quickly than I expected, and after parking, I walked down the sloping trail toward the Reverend's retreat--I had been once before and knew I had to park in the small gravel lot near the road. It was a lovely noon hour as I enjoyed the dappled shadows of the forest. The day was very quiet, and I heard faint women's voices from the far side of the house; I headed around it toward the conversation. When the picnic table came into view I saw Alma and another, much younger woman chatting. A number of fixings were out on the table, on a red-and-white checked oilcloth covering. The woman Alma was talking to was an attractive blonde, short and slender, no older than 35. She wore a brief sun dress that left her lower legs visible--very well-shaped. She and Alma stood near each other by the table, and were chatting in a friendly way. Finally they saw me.

"Vera!" Alma called. "So nice of you to come!" She approached to greet me.

"Well, so here I am," I said. "Hello," I said to the young woman.

Alma led me to the table and the woman. "Vera, this is Miranda, a friend of mine from church," she said. "She and her daughter are making a special visit. Miranda, this is Vera, the friend I told you about." We exchanged friendly greetings.

"Paul is just down by the lake with Taylor, Miranda's daughter," Alma said.

I looked at the table, laden with containers of ham, a pasta salad, a foil pan with hot barbecue in it--at least it looked like that generic pulled pork dish known as "barbecue" in these parts. There were also buns, rolls, and drinks in containers. It was quite the full spread.

Miranda was looking down the curving path that led to the lake. "I wonder where they could be? We wouldn't want lunch to get cold."

Directly on cue, the young man and the little girl appeared on the path, walking toward us hand in hand. I tried to recapture my breath and I hoped no one heard; my eyes just drank the boy in. When you see impossibly good-looking people, you do a double-take first. You don't trust what you're seeing, so you check again, and find out, yes, they are actually that stunningly beautiful. When you settle that, your eyes decide to rest on the creature and in a few moments you realize you're staring. All three of us women were staring at Paul, who was engaged in conversation with his seven year-old companion.

He was just slightly taller than average with medium-dark hair, which I noticed, when the sunlight hit it for an instant, had red highlights. His hair was a little long, but the result was you could see its waviness, which contributed to an adorable dishevelment. His face was even and symmetrical, and his eyes were dark, large and soulful. His jaw and forehead were perfect, masculine and beautiful. His skin had a medium cast, a light bronze color without apparent help from the sun--he'd only been out by the lake less than a week. He was lanky in the way nineteen year-olds are, with just the beginnings of definition in his shoulders and arms. He was wearing a tight pale blue t-shirt--my God, did it show off his torso!--and, sleeveless, it left his arms completely open to admiration as well. And I dwelt on them and admired them. His shapely legs had a pleasing and manly decoration of hair. The legs with their hair were open to display because of his very abbreviated gym shorts.

If he dressed this way on purpose to totally distract us three women, it worked. We silently watched as he approached with young Taylor. She and Paul stopped suddenly and went to the side of the path where Taylor sat down on one of the railroad ties that marked the way. Paul squatted before her and took one of her sandals off, shook it, and swiped his hand on it once or twice to clean it off. Then he took Taylor's bare foot in his (yes) beautiful, strong-looking hands and wiped off her sole and gave her a little rub from the ankle down. Taylor watched his face, transfixed. They were out of earshot, but clearly he asked her, Was that better?, after putting her sandal back on. She stood, testing it--All Better, and they resumed their approach, hand-in-hand.

As they arrived at the picnic table, Taylor let Paul's hand go and went to her mother and showed her a collection of stones in her hand. "Mama," she said, "Look what Paul found for me!" She showed Miranda the small group of shiny white faceted rocks. To Taylor, they must have been jewels.

"Oh, aren't they pretty, Sweetie," she said. "Did you tell Paul thank you?"

Taylor re-crossed to Paul and took his hand. "Yes... And we saw bugs walking on the water, and birds..." she looked up at Paul.

"Kingfishers..." he offered.

"Yeah, kingfishers and pil... pilly..."

Paul helped again, "A Pileated Woodpecker."

"Yeah, a Pileated Woodpecker!" she crowed in triumph.

When Paul smiled at her and then at us--I wouldn't have thought it possible, but he became even more beautiful. His smile was divine: bright, enlivening, his eyes sparkling. I had to work to make sure my jaw hadn't dropped. Any more than either of the other ladies'.

Introductions went all around and after the tiniest bit of small talk we sat to lunch, and Taylor made sure to continue her monopolization of Paul. He spooned baked beans and macaroni salad onto her plate; served her the pulled pork barbecue, made sure she had a drink. When he looked at us ladies at the other end of the table, he glanced back at Taylor and raised his brows, as if to say, "How cute is she?" We adult ladies otherwise made do with each other; between distracted bites of this and that we watched Paul care for seven year-old Taylor. I might have been tempted to call her a little hussy, but honestly I couldn't blame her. We adult ladies were transfixed when he spoon-fed her some ice cream. I swear we each squirmed a little when he held the back of her head and drew his face close to hers to clean it with a dampened napkin. He even finished his little cleaning job by shaking a dry portion of the napkin across her face, light and playful, and she rewarded him with a lovely lilt of laughter.

Lunchtime substantially over, Miranda and Taylor had to get back to Asheville. This caused severe disappointment in Taylor, who rightly felt she'd conquered a damn fine beau, and hardly wanted to abandon him. Paul's solemn promise to visit was given, and after its reaffirmation by Miranda, Paul stood and held poor, stricken Taylor off the ground; she squeezed him with her arms and legs. They finally left.