Chapter 7 Divine Secrets of the Ladies' Auxiliary



"I feel like something out of 'Gone With the Wind,'" Donna Moss adjusted, again, the flowered straw hat that now perched on her head, warm spring breeze twisting her gauzy skirt around her knees.

"More like 'Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood,'" Evangeline Taylor teased, fabric magnolia adorning her straw chapeau. "Besides, if you get more than ten women together for any outdoor, afternoon tea or such-especially if we're at a church, we're required to wear something on our head that looks like we yanked it out of the garden. It's a Southern thing."

"I'm from Wisconsin."

"When in Rome, dear . . ." Eugenie Taylor advised from beneath her crown of silk lilacs. "It could be worse. We could be wearing those cursed white gloves."

"Now that was a joy," Evangeline agreed, tugging Donna to a seated pair of blue-haired matrons. "Ladies, may I present Miss Donna Moss?" She turned to Donna. "Donna, may I present Mrs. Bascom Yager . . ."

"Mary, dear," Donna shook the proffered hand that was as white as the glove that covered it.

". . . Mrs. Winston Brunswick . . ."

"Aren't you lovely?" a warm smile split the gentle face that shone like polished walnut. "I'm Mary."

Dr. Taylor continued, "Miss Mary Winston and Miss Mary Bascom are the oldest members of our Ladies Auxiliary."

"You could have gone all day without using the word 'old,' Evangeline," Mrs. Brunswick chided.

"We prefer 'wise,'" Mary Yager's eyes sparkled. "Now you go on," her hand shooed. "A politician's lady has to work the crowd."

Donna's eyebrow's shot up. "How did you . . ."

An elegant brunette slid along side them, "The Marys know everything about everybody," she warned with a bright smile. "I'm Candy Edwards."

"Candace, honey," Miss Mary Bascom began, "bless your heart, did you have to use those decaffeinated leaves in Virginia Rose's honey mint tea recipe? Virginia Rose is near ninety but she walked down to the river, herself, to pick the wild mint . . ."

Candy Edwards kneeled, full skirt perfectly billowed about her, "Now, Miss Mary, you know none of us needs all that caffeine."

"Besides," Evangeline Taylor tossed her head, "we were hoping it would keep you from noticing what we left out of the cucumber sandwiches."

"Evangeline, you are a born troublemaker," Mary Yager sputtered.

"I learned from the best," Evan Taylor tipped her tea glass towards the ladies. "Candy, don't we need . . .?" She eased away, tugging Donna and Candy with her.

"Bless you," the easygoing brunette grinned to Evangeline once they were in the relative privacy of the Hickory Grove United Methodist Church's kitchen.

"Just remember that the next time they have me cornered," Evangeline admonished. "Candy, have you met Donna . . ."

"Donna Moss," Edwards finished for the doctor. "Bryant said you were down here with Josh. How's he doing?"

Donna was a bit taken aback, "You know Josh? Bryant, oh my gosh, Bryant Edwards, Tennessee Eighth. I'm so sorry, I should have, I didn't realize, we met at . . ."

"Honey, calm down," the legislator's wife soothed. "It's okay, really."

"The Marys are leaving," Evangeline reported from the window.

"Well," Candy paused in the doorway, "let's see if we can shoo the rest of these ladies on home."

Donna followed the older women, smiling, shaking hands, enduring being called "precious" a thousand times until she found herself, back in the kitchen, separating different patterns of silver flatware into their respective chests. The group had dwindled to six, including herself, and hats had long ago been discarded, along with shoes, it seemed. They ranged in age from forties to sixties, Donna the exception, and, along with their shoes, had put aside their demure demeanor.

"I hear that, by the time he got home, 'Lizabeth Ann had the locks changed, his bags packed and waitin' for him outside the front door," Cassandra Roush, the wife of the county mayor, was a striking African-American woman, medium-length hair done in "sister locks." She rinsed off another plate, passing it down the line. "It must have been mortifying for her to see him on the news with that woman and the child."

"This isn't the first time His Honor, the City Mayor, has strayed," Althea Horton, wife of US Senator and NAACP board member Tom Horton, dried another plate and set it gently on the stack. "What made her finally toss out the old tomcat?"

"Sometimes, Althea, you just can't take it anymore." Donna shyly looked over the respondent, Ginger Whiting. Her snow white hair and perky demeanor didn't quite mask the sadness in the eyes of the former Tennessee First Lady. "At least she had the nerve to toss him out of the house and not just her bed." She blushed at the silence that ensued. "But not everyone's like that. Just look at Bryant and Jackson."

Candy Edwards lifted a stack of plates into the cabinet, scarlet face saying far more than words ever could. The other ladies' eyes grew round, prompting an explanation. "Bryant had a hard time, after his bypass surgery, bein' over forty and all and . . ." Her eyes overflowed and she wiped away the tears with a linen tea napkin. "But, that's all in the past," her smile returned, although bittersweet, as she put away the last of the dishes. "Ladies, I thank you."

Her dismissal prompted a round of hugs and luncheon promises before Donna and Evangeline began the stroll back to the farm in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. "You've been awfully quiet today," Taylor prompted.

Donna's hat brim followed her gaze groundward, her shoes scuffing the gravel alongside the road. "They're pretty overwhelming," she covered, eyes still cast down.

"They are forces of nature," Evangeline agreed, gazing down the road, "but that's not why you're quiet, is it?"

Donna shook her head, peering down the road occasionally. "He's not coming back as quickly as he'd expected. Physically."

"He's older now, Donna."

They passed a cattle gap, stepping carefully over the grate. "And his memory. He's having to relearn things . . ."

Taylor sighed but kept walking. "It's the ventricular bypass, Donna. Neural deficits are . . ."

"I know that; he understands that." Donna's eyes searched the older woman's face as they paused on the brick walkway to the house. "How do I make him accept it?"