AN: Here we are, another piece to this one.
I hope you enjoy! If you do enjoy, please don't forget to let me know!
111
"Before you all leave, I'd just like to make a quick announcement," Judy Rigors had said, addressing the congregation—or, at least, what was left of it. The back pews had already hit the parking lot and the middle pews were filtering out of the door. "There will be a social next Saturday to shower Carol Dixon as she welcomes her new arrival. Refreshments will be served on behalf of the Senior Ladies' Sunday School group, and everyone is asked to bring a gift, a piece of advice, and some well-wishes, if they feel moved to do so."
Daryl had stewed over the damned announcement for nearly a week, but he had promised not to make a scene, and he wasn't making a scene.
Carol had wanted a social, and he'd asked for her to have one. Technically, she was getting one—even if it was announced last minute and only through a quick announcement that didn't even include tacking up a piece of paper on the church bulletin board.
"You know—you can complain to me, if you want," Alice offered.
She and Daryl were both on a smoke break at the hospital. There was a comfortable waiting area where they liked to meet, whenever possible, to smoke. It was somewhat out of the way, and barely ever seemed to have more than a few people in it at any given time. It was a halfway point, usually, between their respective "stations" at the medical structure, and they liked sitting together at one of the little tables stuck in the corner of the room.
"What am I going to say?" Daryl asked. "I wanted her to have a good social, you know? I wanted her to feel special. I wanted people to recognize what a big deal this is to her—to both of us. I wanted her to get all the congratulations she could handle and be the center of everyone's attention for what? Two hours or somethin'? But it's too much for that…"
"The social's Saturday," Alice said. "Starts at two."
"And it's expected to end by three," Daryl said.
Alice laughed quietly.
"If it makes you feel better, I'll go…even though I know those biddies are looking at me like they just know where I'll be spending eternity."
"Wouldn't do that to you," Daryl said.
"You wouldn't be doing anything to me," Alice said. "Mel and I like a reason to get out every now and again."
Daryl felt a little better simply knowing that Alice and Melodye would be there. At the very least, he thought somewhat bitterly, there would be two people there who were genuinely happy for Carol.
"They'd have a fit if I went," Daryl said.
"They'll have a fit anyway," Alice said with a shrug.
"I just wanted her to feel like she fit in, you know? She was finally doin' what the hell they think she oughta be doin'. This is what they wanted, right? Married all proper like with a family. Having a kid the way they seem to approve of it most. I just wanted her to feel like she was finally accepted."
Alice shrugged a shoulder half-heartedly.
"She'll never be accepted, Daryl. Not really. Not entirely. And neither will you. And neither will I. And neither will Mel. And, really…if you look at the people who refuse to accept us, is it really all that terrible to say that we'll never fit in with that?" She shook her head at Daryl. "I don't think I want to be one of them, and I don't think Carol does, either. Not really."
Daryl's stomach ached, but he agreed. He nodded his head.
"I just wanted her to feel...loved, I guess."
Alice smiled at him.
"Oh—she's loved," Alice said. She winked at Daryl and stood up, smoothing down the pleats of her skirt. "And she knows it. You make sure of that. Still, on Saturday, we'll be there, just in case she needs a reminder."
111
Carol sat in the metal folding chair and looked around her.
The room was in the basement of the church's main hall. Sunday school was sometimes held down there, particularly for the children, so that their noise didn't filter up the stairs and disturb those who didn't wish to be bothered by the sound of children. The room smelled damp and dank, like there had been a leak and the carpet had gotten wet and never properly dried. Carol had been down there before, but she'd never noticed the smell so profoundly. Of course, Daryl teased her that her sense of smell was something inexplicable these days.
Her "social," because that's what Judy Rigors was calling it, had been in progress for about fifteen of the allotted sixty minutes it was expected to run.
So far, Carol was in attendance and Judy Rigors ran in and out pretending that she had a thousand very important tasks to tend to in the otherwise almost empty church. In addition, there were two old women who were staples of the church, but not quite in the way that most people might have imagined.
The two old women in question were nearly ancient. Carol was certain that their minds weren't what they had once been, and their hearing most certainly wasn't either. They were both at the age where their "devoted" children were tired of them, and they often brought them to church and left them there for nearly every event that took place. The two old women were best friends, or so everyone assumed, and spent all their time together. Carol wondered if, really, they'd only become the best of friends through the fact that they were continuously left together. They hardly spoke to anyone—not even to each other—and they sat knitting things in amiable silence during nearly every event.
This so-called social was no different, and Carol doubted that what they were knitting—which looked to be a blanket on both counts—was for her or her little one.
She didn't care, honestly. She didn't really need things for the baby. If she needed something, Daryl would get it. Anything that anyone gave her would sincerely be a gesture and little else.
Nobody wanted to make any such gesture of congratulations to Carol, and she didn't care, any longer, for their approval.
Any care she had ever really had, at the moment, was gone. It left her body. There was an evaporation, of sorts, like she could feel it—like smoke from incense—drifting upward toward the ceiling, hoping to escape where the musty scent of mildewed carpet hadn't yet found a way out of the dark, dank little room where they held their children captive a few hours each week.
Daryl wanted this, and he wanted it for her. He wanted her to feel approved of by a community that would never approve of her. He wanted her to feel accepted by a community who would always view her as something different and, therefore, at least a touch dangerous—something outside of them.
She had sealed her fate, perhaps, when she had trusted the man who promised to marry her. She would, forever and always, be the woman who lost her virginity in a disrespectful manner, lost her would-be husband, lost her daughter, lost her mind, and lost her way.
And Daryl would forever be the man who brought her back—a gift to her, but something they somehow found easy to criticize.
He hadn't brought her back correctly. He hadn't brought her back in the way they thought was best—whatever way that was. Of course, none of them had come into the darkness for her, but they still criticized his choice to do so and his methods of pulling her out. She had done wrong and, for that, maybe, they believed she should be eternally punished.
They didn't know that, sometimes, especially when all was dark, and still, and quiet, she was still punished. She still punished herself.
They didn't know that, and so they thought it was their job to keep on punishing her, perhaps.
Of course, she thought, her eyes drifting over to the two old ladies turning yarn into unremarkable squares in silence—both of them put in a corner, perhaps, for easier storage, and to keep them out of the way—the community punished anyone that they somehow saw as less valuable than whatever imaginary standard they'd created.
Carol got up. From the table, she selected two plates. On them, she put an array of the rather sad sacks on offer—a few sandwiches cut into squares, pretzels, and butter cookies. The snacks seemed almost like something left over from the children's offerings on Sunday morning.
She took the two little plates to the old women that looked at her with clouded eyes. One smiled at her, enough thanks in the smile to tell Carol all she needed, when she took the plate. The other didn't smile, looking at Carol, instead, with a steady gaze that said she was trying hard to place her. Carol didn't take the stare personally. Instead, she did the smiling.
"I'll bring you some lemonade," she said. She did just that, offering them paper cups before she took a seat again, empty-handed, in the hard metal folding chair.
For a few minutes, the stale little room was silent except for the sounds of the two old ladies munching loudly on their snacks, the ticking of the clock on the wall, and the distant sounds of footsteps echoing through an almost empty church.
Carol looked up from her contemplation of the stained carpet when she became aware of footsteps reaching the door. She expected Judy Rigors. Instead, she was surprised to see Alice and Melodye.
"What the hell?" Alice remarked, entering the room. Melodye visibly jostled her by catching the top of her arm. Alice laughed in response, and so did Carol. "I'm sorry—I thought this was a social."
"Welcome," Carol said, standing up and waving her hands to show off the room, "to my church social."
Alice walked straight to the table and examined the food before picking up one of the butter cookies.
"I've seen wakes with more pep than this, Carol Ann," she offered. "These cookies are stale."
"I'm guessing they were offered to the children last week," Carol said, "and left on the table until this morning."
"Pretty accurate guess, I'd say," Alice said. "Myrna…Beatrice. What's shaking, ladies?"
She walked over to the small side windows that were up near the roofline. The only light, other than that from a dull bulb, came in through the little windows that were at ground level outside of the church. Carol assumed the windows might also be the culprits for the leak that had left the room smelling like dampness. Alice pulled a small table over, checked it for sturdiness, and kicked off her shoes. She climbed up on it, pushed the window open, and lit a cigarette, standing beside the little window and peering out at what was ground level outside the window.
"Anybody going to talk about how it smells down here?" Alice asked. "We ought to open all of these and air the place out a bit."
"Alice—you're going to get us thrown out," Melodye offered.
"That would be the greatest tragedy of my life," Alice offered. "Maybe we could spring Myrna and Beatrice. Take the ladies out to see what there is to see. What do you say, ladies? You wanna get out of here? Really go somewhere and flip your lid?"
The two old women only somewhat looked at her before returning—one to her snacks and the other to her knitting.
Alice hummed.
"I don't think we're moving this party anywhere else," Alice said. Her pretended disappointment came through almost as sincere disappointment, and Carol nearly choked on her laughter.
The laughter, perhaps, echoing in the nearly empty building was what brought Judy Rigors back to the room.
"What are you doing?" Judy exclaimed. "Get down!"
"I'm trying to breathe," Alice offered. "Which is hardly possible given the quality of the air in this room."
She did come down off the table, though, and she put her shoes back on before putting her cigarette out in Beatrice's discarded plate.
"I have to give it to you, Judy, you do know how to throw a party," Alice said. "We are having a ball. I hope you won't be too offended when we leave, though."
"I think it's better if you leave," Judy said. "And quickly."
"Going," Alice offered. "Carol…did you need a ride?"
Carol didn't hesitate. She only half-heartedly thanked Judy as she rushed by, with Alice and Melodye, and left Judy with the two old women that she'd have to care for until whichever of their children came by to reclaim them.
Outside, she followed the women across the parking lot.
"I'm sorry your social was such a bust," Melodye offered.
"It's OK," Carol said. She realized, as she walked, that it was true.
"It's not the real social anyway," Alice said.
Carol laughed.
"What do you mean?" She asked.
"That was an insult," Alice said. "We're doing the real thing. Mel and me, both. Next weekend—and it's not at church, and the likes of Judy Rigors isn't invited."
"You don't have to do that," Carol said. "Really. I don't need anything, and…I don't really care anymore."
"You're right," Alice said. "We don't have to do it. We want to do it, and that's what'll make the difference. Come on—let's get you home before Daryl starts trying to get the children in the car to come get you. There's no need for him to waste all that effort and stir the kids up."