Читать книгу Queen Esther & the Second Graders of Doom - Allie Pleiter - Страница 12

Essie had barely caught her emotional balance when the phone rang again.

“Essie. Hi there, it’s Dahlia. Dahlia Mannington. Glad to catch you at home. Is now a good time?”

A good time? That might take a six-month delay. “Now’s fine. Josh hasn’t been feeling well, but he’s down for his nap. What can I do for you?”

“Well, you’ve had Stanton in your class for a few weeks now. I make it a point to get together with all Stanton’s teachers early in the year. You know, a bit of a ‘get to know each other’ visit.”

Wow, thought Essie, this is one thorough woman. She’d had parents like that at Pembrook High, but never ones who extended such thinking clear into Sunday school. Of course, the parents who make such heroic attempts at parent-teacher cooperation were almost never the ones who needed it. The parents of teens who terrorized classmates on the bus, or deliberately hit kids’ heads in dodgeball, those parents would never offer to meet. Many times they often refused to meet, certain their splendid offspring could never do wrong.

Almost all the time. Occasionally, a clever, manipulative child had intensely cooperative parents. It was usually then that Essie discovered the thin line between “intensely cooperative” and “cleverly manipulative.” The very thin line indeed.

“Essie?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just so surprised at your…commitment…to Sunday school. It’s nice, actually.” She really almost meant it. “Sure, I’d love to meet. Stanton’s quite a boy.”

If a mom could beam over a telephone line, Essie thought she could hear it right through the wires. “He is, isn’t he? Boys can be such a handful as infants, but Stanton’s turned out to be such a joy to us.”

On impulse, Essie asked, “Did Stanton get a lot of ear infections when he was a baby?”

Dahlia groaned. “Is that what Joshua is facing? Oh, Stanton had dozens. I ended up seeing three specialists, all to no avail. Ears will do what ears will do, evidently. Even did the tubes, but they popped out—twice.” Her voice changed as she suddenly caught the motivation for Essie’s question. “How many so far?”

“Just one so far, but it’s in both ears. His doctor tells me it won’t be his last, though. He actually said I should be pleased he didn’t get his first one until he was this old.”

“How old is your son again?”

“Six months.”

“Six months and this is your first infection? Oh, I’d have to say I’d agree. I think Stanton had been through at least two by then. Maybe even three.”

Now it was Essie’s turn to groan. “I want to feel lucky, really I do.”

“By the fifth infection, you won’t even flinch. I guarantee it.”

Fifth?

“And if you have to do the tubes, I know a fabulous specialist.”

Of that, Essie had no doubt.

“Well,” continued Dahlia, “I’m glad you’re amenable to a meeting. How does ten-thirty Thursday suit your schedule? I’ll have Carmen whip us up some sweet rolls.”

Essie could guess who Carmen was, and how much work might be involved in “just whipping up” some sweet rolls that met Dahlia’s standards.

“I’d love to come. Ten-thirty is perfect—it means Josh will conk out in his stroller for most of the meeting.”

“Splendid.” Dahlia gave Essie the address, even though Essie had a class list with all kinds of contact information. Essie took it down, mostly to be polite. Sure enough, it was in one of the spiffiest sections of town.

Essie was just talking herself out of a case of nerves when Dahlia added, “I’ve got a few papers I was hoping you could read before we meet. You don’t happen to have a fax machine at home, do you?”

“Uh, no.” Fax machine? Essie was glad they’d managed to pay for Internet service. Forget about a fax machine. Then again, Doug did work in computers and Dahlia knew that, so maybe it wasn’t such a stretch for some.

“Do you think I could fax it to your husband, or your brother, and have them give it to you?”

Obviously, Dahlia wanted Essie to do her homework before they met. On a quick analysis, Essie decided Doug was the better candidate, and she rattled off Doug’s office fax number. “I’ll just call Doug after I hang up with you and tell him to expect something.”

“Marvelous.” A cascade of Spanish erupted in the background and Dahlia let out an exasperated sigh. “Uno minuto, Carmen. Sorry, but I’d best get going. See you Thursday.”

Doug chuckled when Essie called him to alert him to the incoming fax.

He was laughing out loud when he delivered the seventeen-page document into her hands that night. Seventeen pages.

Essie pulled off the cover sheet expecting to find half a dozen articles on the proper spiritual education of second-grade boys. What she found couldn’t have surprised her more.

In her hands was an extensive analysis of Stanton Mannington’s spiritual strengths and weaknesses. Dahlia had actually taken one of those books with tests to help someone discover their “spiritual gifts”—things like hospitality, wisdom, leadership, prophecy—and filled it out for Stanton. There were no less than ten pages of test scores, four pages of commentary and three pages of Dahlia’s recommendations for Stanton’s areas of potential ministry.

All this for a seven-year-old boy.

Maybe “thorough” wasn’t quite the word to describe Dahlia Mannington.

Mouth open, Essie stared at Doug. He looked as baffled and amused as she felt. “That lady tied up my fax machine for eleven minutes. Next time tell her I’ll swing by on my way home.” He pointed at the packet. “What in the world is that thing, anyway?”

“Test results. Dahlia Mannington filled out one of those spiritual gifts tests for Stanton. Then she interpreted the results. Extensively. It’s a what-you’re-good-at, where-you’d-do-well kind of thing. For adults.”

Doug looked skeptical. “Like those tests we used to take our senior year in high school? To tell us what to major in?”

“Same principle, just applied to the different types of spiritual gifts Paul mentions in the Bible. Someone took the idea of Paul’s that each of us is wired by God for different types of service, and applied the idea to those school tests.” Essie narrowed her eyes. “It’s fascinating, actually.” She fluttered the papers. “But this is just crazy.” She fanned through the thick, official-looking packet again. “Look at this—can you believe she did this?”

Doug smirked. “Somehow I think Mark-o has a thick file of paperwork on each of the Mannington children. Probably the parents, too.” He parked his briefcase in its designated spot by the front-door umbrella stand and tossed his keys onto the hall table. “I admit, it’s weird, but still, when is the last time you met someone who took their child’s spirituality so seriously?”

“‘So seriously’?” Essie cocked an eyebrow. “I think this qualifies as too seriously. Stanton’s only seven. How’s anyone supposed to have any idea what his spiritual gifts are? Why does anyone even need to know? I’m sorry, but this qualifies as wa-a-ay over the top.”

Doug crossed his arms over his chest and laughed. “This, from the woman who spent the last year groaning to me about parents who didn’t care enough, who wouldn’t get involved, or didn’t think track and field ranked anywhere near football in importance. Now you’ve got yourself a parent who pays a boatload of attention and you’re griping?”

He was teasing her, she knew it, but it still got under her skin. “This is overboard, Douglas Walker, and you know it. I can spot this kind of parent a mile off, and it’s never good. I’m going to have Dahlia Mannington and her spiritual recommendations breathing down my neck and I’m not happy about it.”

“Well, I was wondering if she’d pull something like that.” As they sat in his office the next morning, Mark-o’s reaction told Essie that this was not at all out of character for Dahlia Mannington. With a wince, Essie remembered that it was Dahlia who had “commissioned” the Ph.D. student to write a simple Sunday school drama. Simple, it seemed, was not in Dahlia’s vocabulary.

Essie shot her brother a sidelong look. “You knew she would do this. She’s done this before. Mark Andrew Taylor, you knew exactly what you were letting me in for. Shame on you, duping your little sister.”

“Hey, you’re the one who told me you wanted to learn about raising boys. I distinctly remember you saying during some dinner at Mom and Pop’s that you knew enough about teenagers, but needed to figure out how little boys worked. That’s a wide-open door in my book. I just figured God was being obvious.”

Essie leveled a look at her brother that she hoped told him such a story wasn’t working. Understanding little boys was one thing. Corralling them into higher levels of spiritual development without major bloodshed—well, that was quite another. “You knew about Dahlia.”

He acquiesced. “Okay, I knew Dahlia was a handful. But I also knew Cece Covington was in there, too, and you two have seemed to hit it off.”

Essie couldn’t argue with that. She and Cece had met for coffee twice since that first committee meeting. Every minute of happy grapefruit-spoon quiet proclaimed that Cece was a mom who knew her stuff. Plus, it was just plain fun to be with someone who declared for certain that children aren’t in diapers forever and they do actually sleep through the night eventually. “Still…Mark-o, Dahlia’s one of those. You know how I hate them. Next thing she’ll be telling me I can only use recycled drawing paper or organic crayons. Soon, I’ll be getting magazine articles in the mail, and then it will be e-mails with links to Web sites helping me to teach The Lord’s Prayer in Latin to grade-schoolers.” She was on a roll now, imagining all kinds of havoc Dahlia Mannington and her kind could wreak in her classroom. “She’s one of those, Mark-o, and you did this to me!”

To her surprise, this got his back up. She’d gone too far—she knew it the minute he set down his coffee mug with a loud clank. “I think, Esther—” and it was never good when he called her Esther “—that you ought to give Dahlia half a chance before you stick her in some box marked ‘those’ and write her off as nothing but a nuisance.”

Mark-o had always had the ability to halt one of her tirades in a single sentence.

“If one quarter of the people in this church cared half as much as Dahlia and Arthur do about spiritual growth,” he continued, lowering his voice again, “Bayside would be an astounding place. Sure, Dahlia’s a bit of a pain, but I tell you, Essie, we’re all a bit of a pain. If I had a dozen more like her there’d be no telling how much we could do here. No telling. Don’t label her. It’s not fair.”

Since when was life fair?