Sunday Drivers - Fiction - a short short story

They forgive old women for their eccentricities, so I had worn a white silk scarf today- wrapped tightly over my head and around my neck, the ends falling down my back: ala Jackie Onassis sans the dark sun glasses. Or like those girls I see on campus, from Iran and Indonesia, their pretty brown eyes highlighted by kohl, their long tunics and pants modest yet stylish, their scarves wrapped around their heads -an assortment of pastels.  I was also wearing a black silk and cashmere sweater, Stella McCartney dark wash jeans, and tennis shoes. I like to be comfortable.

I consider it my job to greet the newcomers. Today I see a young women, heavy and sad with 2 children: a boy and girl about 8 and 10. I cannot tell if she has a wedding ring, probably not, I think.  Probably needs help with the rent.

I go to her side during greeting time, she is talking to another woman.  I will seek her out after the service. The pastor, Sam Adams, calls us back to our seats.  He is still fairly new.  He looks very young to me: his blonde prom queen wife sits in the front row with their two well behaved boys.  I miss Pastor Jensen.  He was a wise man, deep.  He didn’t try to please his church, but compelled us to give more, pray more, love more…

At 65, the church elders had told him him it was time to take a well deserved retirement.

“There’s no retirement in the Bible,” he answered.

Agnes and he moved to a small town in Ohio where a small church, Christ Our Hope, was thrilled to have a pastor of his dedication and maturity.  And the elders chose this fresh faced, eager to please boy to replace him.  I would have to suffer through his years of maturing and might not live long enough to see if he’s worth anything!  The elders had been trying to find a “minority” to replace Pastor Jenson. An attempt to color up our waspy congregation, I  suppose.  The Black minister who gave a guest sermon actually tried to get us to say “Amen” and "Praise the Lord" while he was preaching, and the Korean boy - I think he got another offer from a California church. Once my husband had been an elder; they had retired him too, but in that case they were correct.

“We walk by faith and not by sight,” read the pastor.  Melissa who sits at my right is beginning to dose. I wonder if I remembered to turned down the pot roast in the cooker to low.

The mother with her 2 children disappeared too quickly after service for me to say “Hi,” but Randall Holmes grabbed my hand.

“Don’t you look marvelous today, Mrs. Tower! So Jackie O.”

“Thank you. Aren’t you sweet?” I smiled, pleased.

“I have been meaning to catch up with you.” He took my arm and steered me to a quiet corner of the church. “That silver service you put on consignment sold very well.  I was wondering if you had any other items you would like to put in my shop? Silver is so hot right now.”

“My daughter was very angry with me,” I sighed. In fact she had railed at me saying I had sold her inheritance and should have told her if I needed any money. Who was she fooling? Jenny and her husband were always broke; they had just bought a new BMW. They were hocked to the limit with my grandson in law school and all.  Who uses sterling tea services anymore anyways?

“Bring your daughter with you.  I am sure we can find some amiable agreement,” he cooed.

Loretta Homes had been my best friend before she passed. Her son was nothing like her. Am I as blind to my children’s failings as she was, I wondered. Of course, I had never had a son. Loretta would go on and on about how handsome and smart Randall was - that he was dating So & So’s daughter.  I always had wanted to say “Please, Loretta, your son is as queer as a three dollar bill.” Of course, I never did. I was raised to believe that ”sex” was not a proper topic of conversation.  Still, he was practically family.

“Are you interested in oil paintings,” I asked? I had only promised Jenny not to sell anymore silver.

I drove slowly and carefully to the nursing home.  My eyes aren’t as good as they once were. I distinctly remember being a child with my mother in her blue Buick - in the front seat of course - this was before children were relegated to the back of the car.

“Why is everybody driving so slow?” I complained.

“Sunday drivers,” my mother answered with a smile.
"What does that mean?"
"On Sundays the elderly people drive to church," my mother explained. "They don't get out as much the rest of the week."
"Hmm,"
"The elderly drive slower, dear," she finally explained to my satisfaction.
Of course back "in the day," most stores and businesses were closed on Sundays. Sundays were for church, for picnics in the park, and walks on the beach.

As you age, life seems to circle. Now I am the little silver haired lady leaving church in her boat of a car (Toyota Avalon - not blue), I have become the Sunday driver.

After church, I go to the nursing home to see John. He was slumped down and strapped to a wheelchair, like some demented prisoner - which, I suppose, is exactly what he is.  His face was gray and haggard-very thin.

“John…” I touched his arm gently.

“What? What do you want,” he demanded? Where have you put my wife?”

“I am your wife.”

“Irene,” he began to raise his voice. “Don’t play this game with me!  What have you done with my wife?”

His aid, a gentle girl from some South Pacific island, came quickly to his side.

“Professor,” she pleaded.  “This is your wife, Helen, here to visit you today.”

“You old bag of bones,” he yelled at me. “You bring back my wife.”

I left quickly. He was having a bad day- most of them were.  On days like this, John thought I was my mother and that our daughter Jenny was me.”  When he was with Jenny, he would pat her hand and stare adoringly at her face.  Jenny soaked it up.  That girl had always loved to talk: she would chat about her week, her children, her hairdresser, the color of her nail polish, anything at all. John would just nod and smile. Maybe I would call later and see if she could drive down this week. 

I wondered if John had always disliked my mother; he was always unfailingly polite to her - not at all like he acts towards me now. I wondered how Alzheimer's could strip a person of not only their memory but of their manners. At least my father had done the decent thing and died of a heart attack. One day he was here; the next he was gone.  Good memories left intact. No prolonged suffering and expense.

I have wondered where God is in this.  Once my husband had prayed and talked about his Lord as if He were his invisible companion. Now that John’s mind is gone, the Lord seems to be gone too.  Where was God? Did he still love John if John no longer loved him?  Perhaps God saw John as John saw me in Jenny: young (well at 51, we’ll call her younger) and still lovely, and in his mind - incorruptible. Then again, comparing God to an elderly man with dementia might not make Him happy.

A harsh wind from the night before had shrouded my front yard with brown maple leaves three inches thick. “Maybe after a nap,” I sighed as I pulled into my driveway.  The sky looked steel grey and heavy with rain or maybe even snow.  Raking wet leaves is a much harder job than raking dry ones, but I felt so tired. I went inside and curled up on the sofa with my warm furry blanket. “Just a short nap,” I promised myself. When I woke up, it was already dark , and the rain had started pounding.