The Accidental Siren

3.2 Saintly Ms. Grisham

Saturday.

Dad caught me on the way to the mailbox and informed me that the USPS never ships on weekends. Crap! Our film was probably sittin' on a warehouse shelf like the Ark at the end of Raiders. He assured me it would arrive on Monday, then drove me to Whit's house and dropped me off.

We wasted no time devising an excuse to “go for a stroll,” then took that stroll directly to the big blue mailbox across the street from Ms. Grisham’s house.

“I don't see Mara,” Whit said.

“Shh.”

“Think she's inside? It doesn't look that scary. Maybe you should ring the bell. Were all those cars here before?”

“Calm down. No, the driveway was empty.”

“Who are all those people? Looks like old-folks cars. Ring the bell. Lemme see if this girl's as hot as you say.”

“I never said 'hot.'”

“Prettyyy, then.”

“Beautiful.”

Whit pulled two candy bars from his backpack. “Here,” he said. “For takin' me with.”

I considered the chocolate, then held up my hand. “No thanks.”

“Wouldja look at that? James Parker... turnin' down food! I do declare!”

“Shh! Shut up!”

For a split second I thought the music was another realistic echo of “Amazing Grace,” but it was a different song and it was coming from the house. 

My soul was complete. 

“O God of loveliness,

O Lord of Heaven above

How worthy to possess

My hearts devoted love.”

CRASH!

I looked left. Whit was belly down. His chair was on its side.

I abandoned my cover, flipped the chair to its wheels, then darted to Whit. I slipped my arms beneath his pits and pulled him back to his seat. “Are you okay?”

“Listen!” he said.

“So sweet Thy Countenance, 

So gracious to behold

That one, one only glance

To me were bliss untold.”

The song finished and the house expelled a round of muffled applause that reminded me of locust wings. I pulled Whit back behind the mailbox and peeked over the hump.

“You were right,” he said.

“About what?”

“Her.”

I raised my hand to shield the sun. A minute later the front door clicked three times, opened, and spewed a dandy parade of canes, walkers, floral print, society hats with sagging brims, and uniform bibles with purple leather covers. The women filtered onto the grass and dabbed their eyes with hankies. Leading the gaggle was Ms. Grisham, less curmudgeonly than the night we met, basking in hugs and handshakes and nods of approval from her blubbering flock of groupies.

“I don't see Mara!” Whit said.

“She’ll prolly stay inside. What do those pins say?”

“Pins?”

“On their lapels.”

“I can't read ‘em from here.”

“Go check.”

“You go check!”

“Ms. Grisham doesn't know you. Just roll down the sidewalk and find out where those ladies are from.”

Whit accepted the challenge. He wheeled away toward the dead end of the cul-de-sac, followed the curve by the woods, then slid past the house as the women worked their keys into the locks of their cars. No one paid the boy any attention except Ms. Grisham; she watched the rolling rodent like an owl with yellow eyes and a detached neck.

Whit didn't look back, but scooted along with surprising self-control. 

When the women were gone and Ms. Grisham was back inside, I left the mailbox and ran to catch up. “Well?” I asked.

“The pins were all the same,” he replied. “'The Holy Trinity Cathedral of the Dunes, League of Catholic Women.'”

“Geez o' peets!” I said. “How'd you remember all that?”

Whit grabbed my wrist.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“I wanna meet her, James.” He pulled me closer. “I wanna meet that girl.”