Community Club

The Monahatchie Community Club found itself on a typical Tuesday in May with a newcomer. Rachel Dewberry, the town’s newest transplant, poured herself some tea and sat down, waiting for the meeting to commence. Ever the confident extrovert, Rachel knew that getting to know people took time and effort, both of which she readily possessed. 

“Well, who do we have here?” The genuine smile from Linda’s plump face assuaged any uncomfortable feelings. 

“Hi, my name’s Rachel, Rachel Dewberry. I’m new to Monahatchie.”

“Oh honey, we figured that out already. We can sense fresh blood a mile away,” Margaret sauntered up, joining the conversation in her grand voice, her fire red hair glowing. “Our tiny little town is seeing more and more new residents, but no one ever comes to join us. You’re our first recruit in ages!” She put her warm, wrinkled hand on Rachel’s shoulder.

Rachel relaxed and listened as the meeting began. 

“Let’s begin with our motto, ladies,” Margaret, the president, said.

The seven original members, six of which were distinguished seniors of the community, chanted with monotone pride: “Be the change that you wish to see in the world.” 

“Oh, that’s nice,” Rachel said, “a Ghandi quote.” 

“It’s not a quote; it’s our motto,” Ruth clarified, sneaking a piece of fruit from her bag.

“Ghandi. Your motto. It’s a quote by Ghandi.” 

“Sugar, that’s our motto. Maybe he got it from us.” Margaret winked and laid the conversation to rest; she continued the meeting without noticing Rachel’s ever-increasing eyes.  “Martha, honey, can you inform the Club of last week’s activities?” 

“Well, let’s see,” Martha said, shuffling through her notes, “the fence down by the cemetery was fixed. Wayne Lane mended the small hole from what looked like armadillos digging under it, or possums, I’m not sure, and he wasn’t sure either, but he filled in the hole—for free—and said to call him if we needed anything else like that. It didn’t take him but a few minutes, he told me, and he said he wouldn’t take no money, so don’t even offer. I ain’t been round to check it, so I can’t say what it looks like, but Wayne always does a good job, so I trust it’s done right.” 

The ladies nodded their approval of Wayne, and took a moment to contemplate their respect for him. Martha then read the brief article she would send to the newspaper, and when all agreed by vote of its acceptability, the club moved on. When asked about any improvements for the upcoming week, the ladies sat with furrowed brows and pursed lips, eyes searching their minds for an answer. 

“They’s a pothole outside’a Jiffy Mart on Main Street. Gets me ever’time.” Eunice, the oldest member at 82, drawled with a faint voice. Her stoic face, carved by experience, barely moved as she spoke. 

Martha took determined notes, underlined “pothole” and “Jiffy Mart,” and asked for suggestions on who could fix it. 

Rachel answered first. “That’s a job for the city, right?”

Linda replied, “Yeah, but you know they take forever and a day to do anything. Well, I’m not sure if they’re fast where you come from, but here, they’re slow. I bet ole Mr. Wesley could send his boy over to fix it, and he lives just down the hollow from me, so I’ll ask him, if that’s approved by everyone.”

With a motion to approve and a second to confirm, and with no other business at hand, Margaret moved to close the official meeting which opened the casual conversations. The ladies tidied up the center and asked Rachel questions, which she happily answered, feeling more at home with each one. Martha and Ruth washed the dishes, and as they wobbled out of the kitchen, Ruth said, “Well, yeah, I’m tired, and I know I look frazzled, but my Lord, my neighbor’s dog is driving me crazy. Wakes me up all hours of the night. I can’t stand it.” 

“Not the dog!” All bodies and eyes turned to Mary, and with quaint smiles, they resumed their chats until 11 a.m., when, as every week, they departed.

***

“I mean, they don’t even know Ghandi. And they’re…old. I wonder why they didn’t just make this a little old ladies’ church group.” Rachel snapped her carrot stick.  “They’re sweet ladies, but I’m not sure they’ve ever gotten out of this place or have any kind of view of the outside world.”  

“Well, can’t fault them for that, eh? If you don’t want to continue with your senior group, then don’t go.” Her husband Drew, pragmatic as usual, annoyed Rachel with his sensibility. “I don’t know what’s wrong with a group of seniors doing good for their community, do you?”

            Rachel’s feelings shifted throughout the week, and by Sunday evening, she decided that perhaps some elder knowledge and camaraderie would not be a terrible thing, and going to a meeting would get her out of her isolated house. 

*** 

“Welp, I clean forgot to ask Mr. Wesley.” Linda chuckled, which shook her whole body up and down. “Put it down for this week. I promise I won’t forget.” She began searching for any type of paper in her purse to write herself a note. 

            As the Club decided years ago that it would handle only one task per week, the news of Linda’s mental lapse abbreviated the meeting time, and Margaret moved to adjourn the meeting until next week and insisted the ladies try her lemon bars. 

            “Well, you look better this week, no offence to your face last week,” Martha commented to Ruth as they snacked. 

            “None taken. I been sleeping like a baby! I heard the neighbor’s dog ran away. They ain’t too happy, but I sure am!” Ruth beamed and caught the approving eyes and smiles of several members. 

            “Well, that must be nice,” Eunice added in her wispy, sloth-like voice. “I got a boom box truck that runs up n’ down my road so loud it shakes my winders. Seems the Taylors’ kid got a new boyfriend. I think the boomin’ gets louder ever-day. Goodness knows I need my beauty sleep.” 

            “That’s unfortunate. Someone should do something about that.” Margaret’s said.

            Rachel, remembering that the Club didn’t usually go through proper city channels, masked her sarcasm. “Are there any special people you call for that?” 

            “I’m sure there’s someone.” Margaret winked a reply. 

            “Poor boy,” Mary muttered while no one listened, picking a stubborn ball of lint from her stained sweatshirt.

***

            Rachel drove past the Jiffy Mart on Main Street on a smooth patch of road, and she whispered, “Mr. Wesley’s boy.” Tuesday brought a soft rain that slowed traffic, and with the delay, Rachel noticed some improvements that could be made around the town. At the community center, she arrived after Mary and Martha, but the rain had impeded the arrival of other members. Margaret drove up shortly afterwards, and the other members trickled in with the rain. 

            “Well, the pothole on Main is fixed,” Rachel said after the meeting began late. Linda shot her a noticed glance. 

            “Yes,” Margaret replied. “Linda, sweetie, please cut Donnie a check for his services. Any suggestions for this week’s town improvements?” 

            Rachel answered quickly as she sat more erect. “I do. I saw that the First Baptist Church’s sign was broken; it may be the responsibility of the church, but I figured that we could fix it anyway.” Silent stares replied to her comment and dampened the atmosphere.

            “Brother Ken is aware of the sign and has asked someone to fix it already.” Margaret broke the stillness. “I talked with him on Sunday.” 

            Ruth further cut the heavy air with her suggestion. “Harold’s Farm Supply’s flowers’re getting pretty puny again. You know he won’t change them out. They been like that for a couple of weeks now.” 

            “Speaking of, the flowers in the town square are full of weeds. The flowers were changed for spring, but I guess nobody cared to pull the weeds, or they’re trying to grow both,” Martha noted.

            “Weed’s good!” Mary shouted as she stared at the back of a chair without expression. 

            “Mary! Shut your pie hole!” her mother, Martha, snapped with a swat to Mary’s knee. 

            With two suggestions and only one slot for renovation, the club members, excluding Mary, who never raised her hand anyway, voted. The town square flowers won by a landslide, and with a suggestion for Barbara Ann at the nursery to help with this botanic assignment, the meeting concluded. 

            Conversations meandered their way to Eunice who, when asked by Jean about the loud truck mentioned last week, answered in her signature way: “Well, he don’t come round no more. Regina Taylor said her girl ain’t going with him no more. They’s just kids, ain’t got no business being more than that.”

            “Well, I’ll tell you who’s not a kid.” Linda’s voice lowered to just above a whisper, burdened by the weight of the gossip unwittingly masked as sympathy. She glanced around to find a few trusted members listening. “My sister’s husband has been messing around with a prominent person’s wife and she’s none too happy about it.” The gasps supported the gravity of the situation. “I can’t tell you exactly who, of course—you may know her—but she is a leader’s wife, and she goes to my church.”

            “Are you sure? Those are pretty heavy accusations. We don’t want to spread gossip that isn’t the truth.” Margaret leaned in to tighten the circle. 

            “My sister saw some messages, and it’s a pretty sure thing. She confronted him, and he just turned around and left for the night. She’s so upset she threw all his clothes out on the driveway. I had to convince her not to set them afire.” 

            “She’s a goner,” Mary mumbled. 

            The Club members drove home on the steaming pavement, as Rachel pondered the secret conversation she overheard. 

***

            “I can’t figure them out, Drew.” Rachel began with a sip of wine. “They take initiative to fix things that other people should fix, but when I mention something that needs repairs, they give me the death stare and shut me down.” She gulped. 

            “You’re still learning how they work, babe. Give it time.”

            “Still, something seems weird. Something’s not right.” 

***

            The following week’s Community Club meeting, abbreviated by a funeral appointment, lasted only 15 minutes, and Rachel wondered why they would even meet at all. Barbara Ann had the flowerbeds at the square devoid of weeds, and the new order of business moved to Harold’s Farm Supply’s dilapidated flowers. With the newspaper article approved, the meeting quickly closed, and members busied themselves with tidying up so as not to be late. 

            “Good Lord, who has a funeral at 11:00?” Martha said to herself as she moved the chairs back to their place. 

            “Don’t speak ill of the dead, Martha. She didn’t plan her own service.” Ruth chided her friend with a quirky frown and a wink. 

            “I still can’t believe it. She shot her head clean off! Poor Mayor Cole. I heard he ain’t slept since she did it,” Linda said, her eyes glazed with thought. 

            Margaret added her insight. “Well, it really is a shock to our community, so I’m sure he’s more distraught than we are. Linda, honey, you did send some flowers from the Club, didn’t you?” Linda nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

            Eunice, too old for a filter, stated what all were thinking: “Well, I ain’t saying she deserved it, but you can’t be acting that a’way and expect to have a clean conscience.”

            Linda’s strength faltered, tears now burning down her face, and she burst. “My sister don’t know what to do. If she goes to the funeral, it looks like she’s gloating. If she don’t go, she looks cold hearted, and not everybody knows the story, so they won’t understand.” 

            “Well, Ronnie ain’t going for sure, so if he doesn’t go, then she doesn’t have to go. She should probably take him to a hospital, in another city, of course. He’ll need some help after this, not that she’s obliged to help him.” Ruth consoled her dear friend with a warm arm around her shoulders. 

            Rachel absorbed the conversation, trying to connect happenings of unfamiliar people. As the members departed, Rachel sat in her car thinking. She put the car in drive and headed to the sheriff’s office. 

            “Sorry, ma’am, he’s not in right now. He’s at a funeral,” the deputy lowered his head in condolence. 

            “Of course he is. Well, I’d like to file report. There are some strange things going on at the Community Club here in town.”

            “Oh they’re a bunch of sweet ladies, ain’t they? My Aunt Jean goes there.” This piece of information paused Rachel’s determination, but she persevered to the wide eyed, head wagging, disbelieving and finally judging manner of the deputy, who, out of duty took notes for a potential report. When she left, he shook his head, “City folk. Sheriff’s gonna get a kick outta this!”

The following meeting of the Monahatchie Community Club began as usual with the recitation of the motto: “Be the change that you wish to see in the world.” The Club approved the newspaper article of Harold’s Farm Supply flowers being updated and a new task of repainting the base of the town square statue. With business aside and fresh pound cake in hand, the ladies began the other side of their meeting. 

“Shame about Rachel’s house. Bless her heart,” Jean said. 

Martha added, with spongy cake splintering from her mouth, “Well, that was a very old house, and I suppose they didn’t think to replace the wiring. Of course it’ll get overloaded with too many appliances and gadgets and whatnots plugged in.” 

“Yes, it sure is a shame. That was a lovely property,” Margaret said.  I heard they salvaged what they could but high-tailed it out of town.” 

“Margaret has fire on her head,” Mary said to no one.