PRAISE FOR BAD HEIRESS DAY

“Delightful and clever, this first novel is worth reading.”

—Library Journal

“Pleiter’s inspirational debut…reflects the true meaning of faith and family. Characters learn to trust God’s goodness and provision even when things appear hopeless.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“Bad Heiress Day is a heartwarming and soulful book for cold winter nights…. Darcy and the secondary characters are warm and real, and this book will not let you go. This is a top-notch story for all of us, and brings to light some of life’s problems and the surprising answers God can guide us to.”

—Romance Reviews Today

PRAISE FOR ALLIE PLEITER

“With humor, wisdom and lots of practical ideas, Allie encourages us to renew our commitment to the high and holy calling of motherhood.”

—Cheri Keaggy, Christian recording artist, on Becoming a Chief Home Officer

“Whether you’re desiring to learn how to apply your business skills to the business of parenting, or wondering why and how fancy underwear can help your mothering, Allie Pleiter draws you the perfect word pictures.”

—Charlene Baumbich, bestselling author of the Dearest Dorothy series, on Becoming a Chief Home Officer

Queen Esther & the Second Graders of Doom
Allie Pleiter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Christopher John Pleiter

My Second Grader of Delight

And

To

Anyone

Anywhere

Who’s ever taught

Anyone under ten years old

And lived

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Some books just come to you. The Doom Room and its burping crashed into my imagination one afternoon and simply refused to leave. Those are the books that are joys to write, because it is like unwrapping a gift of many layers—your efforts are filled with ooohs and aaahs as you discover what it is you’ve been given.

First, thanks should probably go to my own son, CJ, who was in second grade when his imaginary counterparts invaded my life. I must emphatically state that none of the antics portrayed in this book were from CJ’s actual second-grade existence. Some, however, come mighty close. Any mother of any second-grade boy anywhere will attest to the universality of bathroom humor, bug fascination, airborne objects and the ability to start a tussle in seven nanoseconds. Still, son of mine, you remain as joyful as you are jumpy, and much of Esther’s experiences comes from my own journey of motherhood—including Josh’s non-stop teething. It seems like all too soon we’ll be marching those pearly whites to the orthodontist….

The rest of my family, even if not so accurately depicted, shoulder the burden of living with me during the writing process. For that I will forever be grateful.

Rachel Young, my own personal New Jersey shot-put champion, served not only as a sparkle of inspiration, but also my resident expert on the athletic details. Any botching of the details is purely my own fault. Caroline Wolfe assisted me in several of the medical details—how many friends can help you pick out the perfect annoying geriatric female ailment?

I’m continually grateful to the team of professionals that keeps me on the bookshelves. My editor, Krista Stroever, always knows just when to let my wacky sense of humor fly, and when to…ahem…rein it back in. My agent, Karen Solem, continues to be the wisest of counsel in this wackiest of worlds that is publishing. Add those fine experts to the high-octane fuel of mocha lattes and Skinny Cow ice cream bars, fold in one kitchen counter and one laptop computer, and you’ve pretty much got the Allie Pleiter production mechanism.

And, as always, I’m grateful to the God who made me, wackiness and all. Who else but our Lord could create the marvelous surprises that have filled my life and gifted me with such wonderful stories? I am truly, abundantly blessed.

Blessings to all,

Allie Pleiter

Contents

Chapter 1: Of Salt Air and Soy Sauce

Chapter 2: Zacchaeus Was a Wee Little Man…

Chapter 3: Stinky Whale Guts

Chapter 4: How Many is the Norm?

Chapter 5: The Box Marked “Those”

Chapter 6: Play to the Strengths

Chapter 7: And on Some Sunday Afternoons…

Chapter 8: The Downpour of Demands

Chapter 9: Attack of the Ph.D.

Chapter 10: The Myth of Just Watching

Chapter 11: Thou Shalt Never, Ever, Ever!

Chapter 12: Reluctant Coffee to Go

Chapter 13: On the Verge of Pop-icide

Chapter 14: The Family History of Airborne Produce

Chapter 15: Just When You Thought it Was Safe To Go Back in the Kitchen…

Chapter 16: Endless Opportunities for Bad Behavior

Chapter 17: Something Bigger To Think About

Chapter 18: The Thanksgiving That Wasn’t…

Chapter 19: And the Victory Goes to…Whom?

Chapter 20: World War Three and the Base-Level Bailout

Chapter 21: Fighting the Undertow

Chapter 22: Deck the Halls

Chapter 23: Athletic Intuition

Chapter 24: The Problem with Queen Esther’s Realm

Chapter 25: Heroics

Chapter 26: Life’s Major Moments

Chapter 27: The Celebration of Bible Heroes

Discussion Questions

Chapter 1
Of Salt Air and Soy Sauce

Essie burst into the room.

Well, that wasn’t unusual—Essie always burst into rooms. It was the look on her face, though, that made Doug put down his hacksaw. It wasn’t very often he saw his wife in a state of panic.

“Essie?”

She groped for words. It didn’t seem to be about Josh: he was right there, tucked baby-perfect into her elbow and chewing on her knuckle, looking as content as a five-month-old teething baby could. Staying in the church nursery during Sunday school obviously hadn’t done him any bodily harm. The walk home perhaps? Had something happened then?

“Promise me!” she blurted out finally.

Doug stashed the saw in its proper drawer and began walking toward Essie to take Josh. “Promise you what?”

“Promise me Josh will never make bathroom jokes, or think crawling under the sanctuary pews is cool, or try to blow Kool-Aid out his nose because he was dared to, or draw the Apostles having a belching competition on his gospel lesson papers—promise me!”

Doug tucked Josh onto his shoulder, feeling his shirt dampen. His new son seemed to be a constant source of saliva. “Slow down, Essie….”

Which was useless, since Essie had now begun to pace the tiny workshop they’d carved out on the back porch of their San Francisco apartment. “Promise me he’ll never see who can say booger ten times fastest, or bark like a puppy for ten straight minutes while someone’s trying to teach him about forgiveness, and that he will possess the seemingly rare ability to sit still for thirty seconds, and that he won’t turn into one of them!”

Doug wasn’t sure there was a safe response to that. He tried to catch Essie’s hand as she paced the short length of the deck, but she slid out of his grasp. She turned and crossed the length again, tugging at her ponytail. She looked like she had another hundred such laps in her.

“They’re animals,” she said to no one in particular. “They’re little beasts in tiny khaki pants and itty-bitty loafers. They couldn’t have been raised by humans. They’re animals.”

“They’re second-grade boys. That’s pretty close to animals in my book.”

“No.” Essie turned to him, eyeing him like a biology specimen. “These aren’t normal boys. Men who run companies and drive school buses and file tax returns don’t start out like this. Mobsters start out like this, not nice boys.”

“You just had a bad day.”

“You know,” she replied as she rubbed at a marker stain on the cuff of her shirt, “I thought that. Last week. But this week was just the same. They’re lunatics, these little boys. It’s like trying to teach a band of chimpanzees on a sugar high.”

She stopped pacing and leaned her body back against one of the support columns. Strands of curly hair had escaped her ponytail, and she pushed them aside with an annoyed gesture. “I don’t why I ever let Mark-o talk me into this.”

Doug offered Josh a knuckle, wincing as the tiny edge of a new tooth made itself known. “You were excited about this. Essie, you’ve always been great with kids. You’re great with Josh. You were voted Teacher of the Year before we left New Jersey. You can do this.”

She turned her gaze out over the alley, away from him. “No one in the hallowed halls of Pembrook High School ever called me Mrs. Poopy-head.”

“Well, not to your face, maybe…”

“Doug…”

“Okay, okay.” He came up behind her and kissed one shoulder. “So they’re a rough crowd. And they lack certain social skills. That doesn’t make you a bad teacher. From what I remember of second grade, ‘poopy-head’ is a compliment.”

A tiny laugh escaped her lips. “So this is like kindergarten, where if I hit you it means I like you?”

“Not exactly. By second grade the ‘cootie factor’ comes into play. Look, Essie, Mark’s under a lot of pressure from those private-school-types to get things right. He wouldn’t have asked you to teach at his church if he didn’t think you’d do a great job.”

“I bet he’ll get calls today. Mrs. Covington’s gonna pop right out of her Guccis when she sees her son’s ‘Burping Apostle Peter.’ Where do those little minds dream up this stuff?”

“You were expecting them to line up and sing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ in harmony? Don’t you remember second grade?”

She rested her head against the pillar. Josh reached out a chubby hand to grasp at his mother’s curls, now within reach, and tried stuffing one in his mouth. Essie winced at the pull and turned to face them. “I thought I could handle them, Doug.”

“You can. You’re just going to have to work a little harder than you thought to pull it off.”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. The Essie Walker I married can’t be conquered. You could shot-put one of those kids across the room if you had to, and I bet they know it. Perhaps during next week’s lesson you could mention that you are the New Jersey state champion.”

“These boys don’t even respect the laws of gravity. They’re not going to respect the 1993 New Jersey state shot-put title.”

“I don’t know,” said Doug, breathing in the particularly wonderful scent of his wife’s neck. “It goes a long way with me.”

“You,” she said, her voice pitching a bit higher when he kissed her in just the right spot, “don’t count.”

“Joshua and I are insulted at that remark.” Doug pulled away in mock indignation.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

She leaned in to kiss him, her hair glinting in the early afternoon sunlight. Doug inhaled in sweet expectation.

Only to hear his son fill his diaper. Enthusiastically. And then snort in manly satisfaction.

Doug rolled his eyes. “Boys and their bodily functions.”

Essie sighed. “I’ll change this one.”

“No,” Doug countered. “I think you’ve had enough of male physiology for one morning. I’ll take this one. There’s some pink lemonade in the fridge. I’ll take care of Mr. Toxic Pants here and meet you back on the deck chairs.” He used his free hand to nudge her shoulders toward the kitchen.

Essie didn’t argue. Which could only mean those boys really had been beasts.

The second-grade boys’ Sunday school class at Bayside Christian Church was proving to require stamina of Olympic proportions. Two weeks into the job—no, Essie corrected herself, into the ministry—and she was up to her earlobes in doubt. She was a fine teacher, but try as she might, she could not get the upper hand with this squirrelly class. Essie was still shaking her head as she closed the fridge door and returned to the porch to sink into an Adirondack chair.

She loved these angled wood chairs. They barely fit on the deck, and their New England rustic charm clashed with the jazzy Euro-style that was San Francisco. Ah, but Essie wouldn’t give these chairs up for the world. They were home. Barbecues in the backyard followed by walks to the beach. They were morning coffee cups steaming into the salt-laden air, they were lemonades on the lawn when it was hot and sticky. Essie let her head fall back against the wood and tried to conjure up a New Jersey Sunday from the scents that lingered in the grain. Of a life where she knew what to do and where she fit in. It worked a bit—just the hints, the barest fragments of a Jersey shore summer came uncurling out of her memory. Had they really been in San Francisco for a month? Had she really jumped straight from the shores of one ocean to the shores of another? The tang of soy sauce from the sushi bar on the corner floated in on the breeze as if to confirm her thoughts.

Josh’s post-baby-wipe coos came through the doorway. “Wow!” commented Doug, wrinkling his nose as he tucked Josh back onto his shoulder. “Can all that come out of one baby at one time?”

“Please…not one more shred of conversation about body functions. Even from you. Even about Josh.”

Doug chuckled as he eased himself and Josh into the other chair. “Deal. Hey, look, Essie, you’ve done your tour-of-combat duty for this week. Josh will practically sleep through couples’ Bible study tonight, it’ll all be grown-ups, and you’ve got six days before you even have to think about apostolic burps again. Just let it go for now.”

Esther drank her lemonade, wishing it was as easy as that. “I wish you were right, but I said I’d come to their Christian education committee meeting on Tuesday morning. They even promised to get one of the committee member’s daughters to sit for Josh if he got antsy so that I could attend. I’m gonna get grilled, I know it.”

“That’s your game-face talking, Essie. They are not going to hold up score cards to rate your first two weeks with that class.” He turned to look at her. “Did you ever stop to think that Mark invited you so you’d get a chance to meet some of the other mothers in the church? To help you make a few friends out here? Did you consider that?”

“No.”

“Well, you ought to. Your brother’s no fool. He’s smart enough to know that if we had to count on the finely tuned social graces of my coworkers at Nytex, we’d never meet a soul. Software engineers don’t have a geeky reputation for nothing. I’m living in the land of the pocket protector here.”

There was just a bit of an edge to his last remark, and Essie realized she hadn’t thought about that. She’d just assumed that Doug had grafted himself into a ready-made circle of friends. She imagined him lunching with buddies and rehashing baseball games at the watercooler. They’d made this cross-country move for her more than for him—it was purely God’s grace that he was able to land a job so easily after they decided to join her brother out here to help with her aging parents. Sure, he’d never once griped about moving to San Fran, but that didn’t mean he was enjoying it. Doug wasn’t the kind of man who complained. Essie wanted to whack herself on the forehead for being so self-centered.

“Office a little geeky this week?” She’d never even thought to ask before now. Nice wifely behavior. Way to be that strong support system, Essie.

Doug’s sigh told far more than his words. “A bit. I’m fitting in.” After a long pause he added, “Slowly.”

“We did the right thing, didn’t we? Made a good choice?”

Doug turned immediately and caught her hand on the armrest next to his. “Yes. Essie, I don’t doubt it for a second. You know I agreed to this fully, of my own geeky free will. My parents in Nevada aren’t so far away now—we’re nearer to both our parents.”

“Why isn’t it easier?” Essie was amazed at how much the words caught in her throat. Josh stared at her, his wide gray eyes beaming love out from their perch on Doug’s shoulder. He made a gurgling sound and waved a tiny fist in the air. She caught it, and reveled anew in how his minute grasp fit perfectly around her finger. She’d wanted to be a mother since forever. No book or magazine, though, did justice to how just plain hard it was. She’d never felt further out of her element than she did this past month.

“Let’s see,” said Doug, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “New job, new city, new baby, new home, new weather—well, okay, that’s more of a fringe benefit. There’s a hunk of adjustments in that list. I think we’re doing pretty good. Most of my programs don’t even adapt this well—and I design relocation software, remember?”

“Can you design a—what do you call it? An integration program—for one small family? Make a button for me, Doug. One I can push and make all the uncertainty go away.”

Doug chuckled. “I did, sort of.”

“No kidding? Where is it?”

Doug held up the cordless phone he’d evidently brought onto the deck with him. “Pepperoni pizza, really thin, New York-style. Coming up.”

“I’m liking this.”

“A guy at work—one of the less geekier ones—recommended a place. His uncle moved here from Manhattan, and called it his ‘relocation coping mechanism.’ I’ve been saving its implementation for just such a moment.”

“Doug Walker, I love you.”

He winked. “Nah, that’s just the pepperoni talking. Is this a ‘medium,’ or a ‘large’ kind of day?”

Essie smiled, too. For the first time since she came home. “Do they make an extra large?”

Chapter 2
Zacchaeus Was a Wee Little Man…

She wasn’t supposed to be this nice.

When Essie first spied Celia Covington—and even more so when someone called her “Cece”—she was supposed to fall easily into the well-to-do-nitwit category. The twinset was a dead giveaway. Essie was always suspicious of women who wore twinsets. Those bearing sweaters in pastel colors, and most especially when adorned with a string of tasteful pearls, were to be avoided at all costs.

Essie had her own personal classification system for the branches of womanhood. There were “the ponytails,” which had a subset containing the unpretentious and practical, and another subset of the entirely-too-perky. This could usually be distinguished by height. Not of the woman, but of the ponytail. High ponytails signaled high-level perkiness. Low ones generally denoted practicality.

On another branch of the tree of womanhood sat “the headbands.” There was a certain kind of woman, Essie surmised, who wore headbands. Personality was then telegraphed by the type of headband selected—fabric, tortoiseshell plastic, wide, thin, etc. But it was the well-off, well-bred, well-dressed woman who generally opted for the headband as hair accessory. Or, on rare occasions, the headband became the tool of choice when the practical woman wanted to dress up.

Put a headband and a twinset together, and a smart gal runs quickly in the other direction.

Celia Covington, however, didn’t fit the twinset mold. She passed by the precise corner of pastel-sandaled women who flanked the far end of the table and plunked herself down in the middle, with a heavyset, friendly Japanese woman on her left, and an Hispanic grandmother-type on her right. This placed Celia directly opposite Essie across the rectangular table. Essie had opted for the middle of the table as well, seated next to Mark. As in her brother Mark-o, or as everyone called him, Pastor Taylor.

“You’ve got to be Mrs. Walker,” Celia said, smiling. “David went on and on about you the other day. You’ve made quite an impression on my little monster, and that’s no small feat.” She had an authentic, squint-up-the-corners-of-your-eyes smile that lit up her face. Essie tried not to like her—on account of the headband and all—and failed.

“Please, call me Esther. Actually, call me Essie. Everyone else does.”

“I’m Celia—Cece, actually. David, the little tornado in your class, he’s my youngest. He’s a handful, especially after he’s sat through a Sunday service. There’s only so much patience a roll of Life Savers can buy.”

Well, it was a small headband, after all. And coral isn’t really a pastel. “He’s a good kid. Very creative. I think he really enjoys drawing, and he seems to be rather good at it. I could tell right away that his gray blob on Noah’s ark was a rhinoceros. Most of the other blobs were undistinguishable. And no one else thought to put rhinos on the ark.”

Celia laughed. “That’s David. Always thinking out of the box. My oldest, Samantha? She’s in the nursery with her nose in a book, ready and waiting should your little one get too squirmy.”

Nice lady with babysitter daughter. No, coral is definitely not in the pastel family. “Thanks, but I think Josh is out for the count. You never know, though.”

“Don’t worry. Sam would consider it a treat to tuck a little cutie like that into her arms. Want some coffee?”

Essie sighed. “Oh, you wouldn’t think Josh was so cute if you’d seen him screaming his adorable little head off at two-thirty this morning. Sugar, please.”

“Teething?” Celia called over her shoulder as she walked to the sideboard.

“Like a pro.”

“Have you tried a grapefruit spoon?”

A what? Why would you hand spiky silverware to your newborn? Who actually had one of those? “Uh, no.”

Celia laughed at Essie’s apparent shock. “I know it sounds barbaric,” she said, bringing back the coffee, “but the metal stays cool, and as long as the serrated edges aren’t really sharp, it helps the tooth break through the gum. It’s all that straining against the gum that makes babies crazy. Once the full surface of the tooth breaks through, they settle right down.”

“Really?”

“I’ve got four sets of healthy gums marching their way to the orthodontist to prove it.”

Lean, lovely Celia Covington was way too toned to have birthed four children. Not if Essie’s own lumpy belly was any indication. Still, she had returned from the sideboard with java and cookies, not the spiffy-label bottled water that seemed to be the beverage of choice over in the corner. Those women looked like they’d not touched a cheese-burger since high school. “I’ll take your word for it. But I don’t own one. I don’t even know where you’d get one.”

“Well, you could go to TableSets and pay a ridiculous amount of money for some, or you could stop by Darkson’s restaurant supply just down the block and pick up a half-dozen for peanuts. If Josh is crying as you walk in the door, they might even give you one for free out of sheer sympathy.” She winked as she dipped a cookie into her coffee.

Essie decided that she might want to start liking Celia Covington.

“Now that we solved a few pediatric issues, here,” interjected Mark, looking at his watch, “we need to get started so I can give you ladies as much of my time as I can before my eleven o’clock appointment. Dahlia, do you have an agenda for today?”

Dahlia, who looked like she’d just walked off the cover of a magazine, flipped open an expensive-looking notepad. “Just two items, Pastor, but they’re hefty ones. One—” she held up her substantial silver pen and flicked it like an orchestra conductor “—I want to run down how things are going with Sunday school. It’s been two weeks, and we ought to be able to see the problem areas bubbling up by now.”

Essie gulped. Somehow she just knew this woman had a second-grade boy.

“Second—” the pen bobbed again “—it’s time to start the ball rolling on the Celebration.” That seemed to surprise some of the women around the table. “Now, gals, every January we’re caught scrambling. I know we’re all just getting our feet underneath us with Sunday school for the year, but I can’t help thinking now’s the time to start planning.”

Celebration? Could that be that “little drama thing later in the year” Mark-o mentioned? That thing he distinctly described as “nothing you’ll have to worry about”? She’d taught school long enough to know that any event requiring several months’ worth of preparation could never be classified as “nothing much.” Most especially when parents were in charge. Essie shot a look to her brother out of the corner of her eye. He knew this was just a trial stint. He knew she and Doug weren’t sure they could make it on one income, and that Essie going back to work in the new year was a distinct possibility. Now there was this Celebration thing in the mix? If she did go back to work, Essie was pretty sure she couldn’t handle this on top of it.

“Wise indeed, Dahlia,” Mark said in a pastoral tone. “It does feel like we scramble just after the holidays, doesn’t it? But I do think we ought to tackle the Sunday school stuff first, as I doubt my skills are really required for Celebration discussions.”

Oh, yes, Mark-o, get out while you can. Remind me to thank you later when I’m hand-sewing second graders into sheep costumes….

“Sorry I’m late. Max forgot his trumpet again and I had to swing by school. I think I’m going to make him take up the piccolo and tie it around his neck.” A woman in jeans and a red sweater dumped her large canvas bag on the floor next to one of the empty chairs and turned toward the coffeepots. “One of these days I’ll make it on time to a meeting.”

“We wouldn’t recognize you if you did, Meg. Come on, you haven’t missed much at all.” Celia waved her arm and pulled out the chair Meg had chosen.

“Which reminds me,” Mark said. “I’ve clean forgotten the introductions. Ladies, this is my sister, Esther Walker. She just moved here with her husband and baby to help us with Mom and Pop. Some of you already know her as the second-grade boys Sunday school teacher. Essie, these are my school soldiers. The fine ladies who keep Bayside’s Christian education programs up and running.”

“Pastor Taylor’s sister, hmm?” said Meg, plunking herself down in the chair. “I was wondering how he’d wrangled a newcomer into that spot. You’re either a brave woman, or you owe your brother a very big favor.”

“Now Meg, be nice….”

“I taught the Doom Room one year. I speak from firsthand knowledge.”

The Doom Room? The Doom Room? Essie swallowed hard. Just exactly what is it I’ve promised to do?

“Meg,” said Celia, “no fair scaring our new friend here. Just because you’ve now upgraded to the compliant third-grade girls’ class is no reason to think…”

“Ladies,” interjected Mark for the second time that morning, “Essie can handle our little men. I’d say one state champion athlete against eight small boys is more than a fair fight.”

“State champion athlete, is it?” said Celia, flexing perfectly manicured fingers. “Good. You’ll need it. What event?”

“Shot put.” Essie waited the obligatory ten seconds it took everyone on Planet Earth to realize all female shot-put champions did not necessarily look like pro wrestlers or have names like “Uta.” It happened every time.

The pastel corner didn’t seem to know what to do with that information. Nola nodded her head in a show of respect, Jan merely raised a dark eyebrow. Meg, however, looked downright tickled. “Shot put? Well, that ought to do nicely. Wow. How much does one of those things weigh, anyway?”

“About the weight of your average second grader.” Essie amazed even herself with the zippy comeback.

“I’d share that with the class next week,” Celia added.

“I just might.” Even the pastel contingency managed a giggle at that. Adding his own voice of approval, Josh produced a loud, squeaky grunt and shifted in his carrier. “Excuse me, but it seems I have a little business to take care of.”

“Want me to get Sam to handle it?”

“No, thanks, I think I’ll spare her the joy of diaper changing.” Truth be told, Essie wasn’t even sure he needed a diaper change—she was just glad for a reason to leave the room before the dissection of Sunday school began. Those women in the corner looked like they were in possession of firm opinions on all kinds of subjects. If they had suggestions—those kind of parents always called them “suggestions” rather than the more truthful label of “complaints”—Essie was sure she’d rather hear them through Mark-o’s compassionate filter than straight from the source.

Essie picked up Josh’s carrier as a pointed “Well now!” from Dahlia signaled the evaluation starting gun.

Go easy on me, ladies. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in twelve weeks.

“They gave it at least a seven-point-oh,” whispered Mark as she returned. He accompanied that last remark with a discreet thumbs-up under the conference table.

“Bible Heroes’ it is, then?” Dahlia was saying. “Arthur has a friend whose son is majoring in children’s theater at BSU—a fine young Christian man, someone we can trust with a project like this. I feel certain we can draft him into scriptwriting.” Essie was both impressed and baffled. This was a church play they were talking about, wasn’t it? One of those little forty-minute drama things? Where she came from, church plays were bought from the script rack at the local Christian bookstore or whipped up by someone’s good-natured mother. Drama penned by an advanced degree theater major; well, that was pretty hot stuff.

From the way Dahlia put it, however, it sounded as if the committee was going to request a statement of faith and four references from the poor young man. She could see it now: Dahlia’s silver pen slashing its way through the poor young scriptwriter’s first drafts, editing, cutting, changing. Asking for the theological reasons for dressing the wandering Israelites in blue, rather than beige.

Three years of teaching had taught her to spot this type of parent. Essie was glad it wasn’t Dahlia’s son who’d sketched the belching apostle. Dahlia looked like the kind of mom who would write a long letter over something like that. A really long letter. Anyone with a pen that formidable would know how to use it.

Twenty minutes of discussion followed. After they gave her class the story of Zacchaeus, Essie didn’t catch much of the rest. Her brain was busy concocting the image of second-grade boys launching themselves off of piled-up classroom chairs while others shouted, “Zacchaeus, come down,” in their best deep Son-of-God voices. Evidently, each classroom was being assigned their own hero. Mr. Scriptwriter would be given his detailed marching orders, and the “Celebration of Bible Heroes” was born.

Dahlia snapped the cap on her pen, signaling the end of the meeting.

“Come on,” said Celia as she stuffed her notes into a canvas bag. “I’ve got a bit of time before I have to drop Sam off. We can go get you those grapefruit spoons.”

“Just give me a second.” Essie ducked back into the church’s administrative offices, leaving Celia to grin at Josh as he made faces at her from his carrier. Waving at the harried-looking secretary, Essie snagged a Post-it note and pen off the woman’s desk. She wrote, “Mark-o, call me” in her large handwriting and stuck it to Mark-o’s closed door.

September in San Francisco was feeling complicated, but evidently it was going to make February look like a walk in the park…if she even lasted that long.

Chapter 3
Stinky Whale Guts

“You’re not going to let Joshua chew on that thing, are you?” Dorothy Taylor eyed the evil implement Essie was about to hand the First-Ever Grandson.

“Actually, yes. It really works.” Essie assumed the position she’d held every waking moment for the past two days. Josh in one arm, grapefruit spoon in other hand. Chew, drool, repeat. Sleep for thirty minutes, wail, then begin again. Essie had decided she was developing a healthy hatred for teeth. Teeth=no sleep. No sleep=bad days and worse nights. She had begun scouring the baby books this morning to see how much longer it would be before Josh could hold his own spoon, thereby buying her perhaps forty-five minutes of uninterrupted sleep. Evidently that precious mercy wouldn’t be forthcoming for at least another month. She yawned involuntarily at the thought of so little sleep for so long. “He’s having such trouble cutting this first tooth. I hope they’re not all like this.”

Dorothy Taylor eyed the handle of the grapefruit spoon, now wobbling with every gummy chomp as it stuck out of Joshua’s tiny mouth. She frowned again. “I just don’t know, Essie. I never gave you or Mark any such thing. I remember I just woke up one day…”

“And noticed we had teeth. Yes, Mom, you’ve told me.” And trust me, it’s not helping to hear how you never went through any such thing. I’m already feeling so confident in my parenting skills. Really, it does wonders for you to hand me another reason to question things. Please, if you think of any more, don’t hesitate to bring them up. “How’s Dad liking the new doctor?”

“Oh, he argues with this one just like he did in New Jersey. Yesterday he told Dr. Einhart that he walks thirty minutes each day.”

“He what?”

“He spent ten minutes telling Dr. Einhart how he exercises each day.”

“Mom! That couldn’t be further from the truth. Why did you let him do that?”

Essie’s mom blinked. “Do what?”

“Lie to his doctor? It’s ridiculous.”

“But he’s supposed to walk each day. They’ve told him he should walk each day.”

Essie shot out a frustrated sigh. “Well, he doesn’t, does he? We both know he doesn’t.”

“Well, of course he doesn’t. His knees bother him.”

“Mom, we’ve been over this a gazillion times. If he’d walk more, his knees wouldn’t bother him, then he’d drop some of that weight, then his knees would bother him less. It’s just going to get worse if he keeps sitting there. No, no, it’s not just that, but sitting there and lying to his doctor.”

Mom crossed her arms. “I’m not going to make him look bad in front of his doctor.”

Essie wanted to scream. “This is not a popularity contest, this is Dad and his doctor. What’s the point of going to a doctor if you don’t actually tell him what’s going on?”

“How’s Doug, dear?” Mom clipped that thread of conversation clean off. It was quite clear no further discussion on the subject of honesty with one’s doctors would be allowed. Essie fought the urge to go find her father and shake him by the shoulders. Lord, help me. They sure won’t help themselves. Patience, just send gallons and gallons of patience. Right this minute, or I’m going to go out of my mind.

Essie let out a long, slow exhale, rolling her shoulders back as she watched Joshua inspect his thumb. “Doug’s doing fine. The new department has more people and more resources than he had in Jersey, so he’s happy. It’s been a good move for him.”

“That’s nice, dear. Have you talked about having another child? Soon?”

Essie popped her eyes wide open. “Mom, Josh is five months old!”

“I had you and Mark only a year apart. You played so well together.”

Oh, yes, Mom, I have such happy memories of tearing Mark-o apart in joyful siblinghood. Not to mention I’d like to get acquainted with the sight of my toes again.

“Really, Mom, it’s a bit early for that sort of thing.”

“Nonsense. You’re thirty-one. Life won’t go on forever you know. An old woman can pine for grandchildren, can’t she?”

Essie didn’t quite know how to convince her mother she didn’t want to be pregnant for every waking moment of her thirties. Deflect the attention. “You know, there’s always Mark-o. He could have children. He’s married, you know. Married people do that sort of thing.”

Her mother waved a hand as if that were an absurd suggestion. “Oh, yes, but Mark is so very busy with that church. And Peggy—well, I just don’t see Peggy being ready to have children soon. She’s just not that motherly type.”

So I should pop out a gaggle of grandchildren to compensate? And aren’t Doug and I busy? Now that I’m at home with Joshua, is procreation my only purpose in life?

“You, my little Queen Esther.” Essie watched her mother burst into a wide smile. “You were always meant to be a mother. I always knew you’d give me precious, beautiful grandbabies to love.” She scooped up Joshua just as he was dozing off, and made loud snuggly noises into his neck.

Which, of course, sent him into a full-fledged wail.

“I just never thought I’d see the day my Essie fed her children silverware.” Her disapproval of the now-revered grapefruit spoon trick was almost palpable. “Really. No wonder he cries so much.”

He cries so much because you just did the unthinkable: you woke a sleeping baby. A sleeping cranky baby. My sleeping cranky baby that almost never sleeps. Mother-r-r…

“How can such a darling boy be so miserable?” Dorothy made a sour face and handed her “precious grandbaby” back to Essie, obviously unwilling to hold anything making that much noise, even if it was flesh of her flesh.

“He’s teething, Mom. Don’t you remember how miserable a toothache is?” Essie fished around on the couch for the spoon, mentally convincing herself it didn’t need reboiling just because it had endured forty-five seconds on her mother’s couch cushions. She returned it to Joshua’s gaping mouth.

Within fifteen seconds Mount Joshua ceased to erupt. With a dying chorus of wet gurgles, Josh settled into a slow, relieved chew. Essie felt the spoon’s handle wobble up and down as Josh’s besieged gums found their solace. “I know it’s weird,” Essie replied to her mother’s subsequent frown. “But it works. See? It works. I don’t care how, I don’t care why, I just know it works. If putting him in purple socks worked, I’d probably do that, too.”

The front door pushed open and Essie’s dad shuffled in, clutching a white paper pharmacy bag. Mark-o entered behind him, holding a paper bag of groceries. It took Bob Taylor four full minutes to make it from the front door to his permanent spot on the recliner beside the couch. He grunted with every step, and groused with every breath about “those knuckleheaded quacks and their useless pills.”

“I’m gonna spend my pension at that pharmacy,” he grumbled as he eased his large frame into the worn chair. “Every day and every dollar’s gonna buy some drug executive a shiny new yacht.”

“Now, Pop—” Mark-o had put on his counseling persona; Essie could tell by his voice. “If it weren’t for those useless pills, you’d be in the hospital looking at a shiny new wheelchair.”

“Baloney.” Essie’s dad tossed the bag on the coffee table in disgust. “I’m slow, but I’m still moving. Since when is it a sin to get old and slow?”

“At your young years,” Mark shot back, his fraying patience beginning to show through the practiced calm, “it’s a sin.”

“So’s lying.” The words jumped out of Essie’s sleep-deprived mouth before she could think better of it. “As in lying to your doctor.”

“Oh, honey…” began her mother.

“Pop, all she’s…”

Pop’s next booming question stopped the argument in its tracks: “What on earth is that in my grandson’s mouth?”

“Now, who knows the story of Jonah?”

Four cookie-crumbed hands shot up. Essie passed out a second set of napkins before she allowed Justin to answer.

“He got stuck inside a fish.”

Essie smiled. “He sure did. You were listening in assembly this morning, Justin. Who knows how he got there?”

Stanton, a tall boy in pressed pants and gelled hair, strained to get his hand as high as possible. He yipped a series of small “Me! Me! Me!” s. Frantic to be picked, he seemed oblivious to the fact that his was the only hand aloft.

“Stanton?”

“I bet he was swimming. My dad, he took us swimming once, on vacation, and I was really worried about the fishes when we were swimming. I didn’t want to swim where the fishes were, but he told me pools don’t have fishes,’ specially hotel pools. And we were in a hotel ’cuz we were on vacation and stuff, ’cuz we went on vacation over Christmas and we got to go somewhere warm so we could go swimming, but my big brother got in trouble ’cuz he…” The entire speech whooshed out of him in a single breath.

“Okay,” Essie cut in, placing her hand on Stanton’s arm. The boy was wearing a watch. A fancy one. Who buys designer watches for their eight-year-old? Dahlia Mannington, of course. For all his dapper duds, Stanton was a sweet boy with tender green eyes and a near insatiable appetite for attention.

“Swimming is fun. But Jonah wasn’t swimming for fun. Can anyone tell me why Jonah was in the water?”

“It’s hot where he lives!” said Decker Maxwell, as he tipped his chair back far enough to send himself head over heels. The resulting laughter stopped any hope of education dead in its tracks for the next five minutes, as all the other boys tried immediately to follow suit. Essie finally had to resume her lesson on the floor in a circle, without the benefit of chairs. She tried to ignore the sensation of her legs falling asleep as she patiently suggested that Jonah was running from God’s commands.

“Did Jonah get a time-out? I wanna do my time-outs in whale guts!” Peter, a smaller boy with wildly curly hair and an obsession with all things bug-and animal-related, pushed his glasses back up on his face as he joined the conversation.

“Well,” replied Essie, catching a pencil as Stanton sent it through the air in another boy’s direction, “it was sort of a time-out. In one way, God saved Jonah because he wouldn’t have survived being thrown out into the middle of the ocean like that. But in another way, God gave Jonah a good long time to think about what he’d done.”

“My mom does that,” grumbled Peter. “In my ‘Think It Over Chair.’” He crossed his arms over his chest in an exaggerated fashion that made his next comment almost unnecessary. “I hate my Think It Over Chair.”

“Discipline isn’t much fun, is it?” Essie passed around the large blue whales she’d spent two hours cutting out last night.

“What’s dicey-pline?”

“Di-sci-pline.” Essie made a mental note to strike any word over three syllables from her lesson plan. “It’s what your mom or dad does to help you think about something wrong you’ve done.”

“You mean like getting spanked?” Steven Bendenfogle offered. Essie continually felt sorry for a little boy with such a mouthful of a last name. She guessed Steven’s meek demeanor came from endless teasing.

“That’s one kind of discipline, yes.”

“God spanked somebody?” Steven seemed scandalized at the idea. “Wow, I bet God hits really hard.” Essie wondered if Steven even realized he was rubbing his backside protectively. Which made her wonder if Steven had considerable personal experience. Did people still spank their kids?

Would she ever spank Josh? It seemed hard to imagine. She couldn’t fathom doing anything like that to her son. Then again, when Decker took the paper whale lovingly prepared for him, crumpled it without a moment’s hesitation, and threw it straight into Steven’s face—hard—Essie could see where a spanking might have its uses.

Well, she’d taken on this class as a chance to see what young boys were really like. Oh, Essie, she chided herself, when will you realize it isn’t always great when you get what you pray for?

“God has never spanked someone, Steven. He— Decker, uncrumple that whale right now, you’re going to need it in a minute. And say you’re sorry to Steven. Nobody throws anything at anyone in this class. God’s so smart, He can find different ways to let us know we’ve not obeyed.”

“I still like the whale guts,” said Peter, obviously disappointed that a stint in whale innards wasn’t in his immediate future. “I bet they smell really gross.”

The suggestion sent the boys into a flurry of stinky adjectives, each in a full-out competition to find the grossest possible description for how bad whale guts would smell. How can I hope to teach obedience here, Lord, when I can’t get past the stinky whale guts?

Just when she thought she could restore order, Peter remembered the lyrics to “Gobs and Gobs of Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts,” a revolting camp song Essie was horrified to discover had still survived even from her childhood. Within seconds all decorum was lost. Essie stood up as fast as her thirty-one-year-old knees would allow, bellowed out a menacing, “Settle down!” in her most authoritative voice and flicked the light switch. It sent the room into darkness.

That shocked ’em. All noise and movement stilled.

“When I turn these lights on, I want everyone to pick up their paper whale and come back quietly to the table. Okay?”

A few whimpered “Okay” s signaled her return to superiority.

“Now,” Essie said in a calm voice as she turned the lights back on, “I want each of you to think about something that you know you should do, but is hard. Something that you know you have to do, but you don’t always want to do. Those things are like Jonah’s trip to Ninevah. We’re going to write those things on your whales. Raise your hand when you have an idea of what to write, and I’ll come help you.”

Peter’s hand shot up first. “I hate getting my allergy shots.”

Essie nodded in agreement. “That’s a good example. It’s no fun, but you know you’ll feel better when you get them, right?”

“Yep, but they hurt.”

Essie wrote “allergy shots” in large letters on Peter’s whale. “When you get them, you can remember that you’re being obedient, and doing what you need to, even though it’s tough. God is very happy when we do obedient things like that.”

Soon the other boys chimed in with their ideas. “Practice piano.” “Be nice to my new baby sister.” “Go to bed.” And a host of other examples until one little response gave her pause.

“Like my new stepmom,” said Alex Faber quietly. “She’s my third stepmom,” he added, kicking his chair with his foot over and over. “I don’t like her. And I don’t think she likes me very much.”

What do you say to something like that?

“It’s hard to be the new person,” Essie responded. “It’s hard to get used to new people. What makes you think your stepmom doesn’t like you?”

“She said so.” Alex kept kicking the chair.

Oh, my.

“I wonder if that’s really true, Alex. Grown-ups have a funny way of saying things sometimes that little boys don’t always understand.” Essie squatted down beside him, warning her knees to cooperate in the name of human compassion. “Can you remember what she said?”

“Well—” Alex took his crayon and began drawing swirly circles on his whale as he talked. “She was talking to Dad at night. I wasn’t s’posed to be up, but I was thirsty so I got a drink and I heard them talking down the hall. You know, in Dad’s room. Vicki—that’s her name, Vicki—didn’t have kids before she married Dad. She was telling him how she didn’t like being a mom so quick.” Alex looked at her with hard eyes. “But she’s not my mom. My mom’s in Minnosoda now.”

“That’s hard.”

“Vicki doesn’t now how to make peanut butter sandwiches or play Uno or do any mom stuff. My sister calls her Icky Vicki. That’s when Vicki gets all mad and locks herself in the bathroom and tells me to go play outside.”

Essie didn’t think it would be wise to admit that she’d have liked to lock herself in the church ladies’ room a couple of times in the last few Sundays.

She took Alex’s hand, stilling the flow of crayon swirls for a moment. “You’re right, Alex, that is a hard thing. And God would want you to learn to like Vicki. And I think He’ll help you if you ask Him.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “I dunno.”

“I do. Every family’s got an Icky Vicki. Someone who’s hard to like. But sometimes, the Icky Vickies turn out to be the nicest people if you just give them a chance.”

“Yeah,” offered Justin with sudden enthusiasm. “I thought my Uncle Arthur was really boring until he showed me how he can take his teeth out. All of ’em.”

That brought a chorus of approving oohs and aahs—the gross-out factor of extractable teeth was a sure-fire hit with this crowd.

“Justin’s right. People surprise you.” Essie pulled the Children’s Picture Bible off the shelf behind her where it lay open to the Jonah story. “Jonah thought the Ninevites were a whole city of Icky Vickies. He didn’t want to go teach them to act better. He didn’t want to care about them one bit. But God wanted him to care, and to go there. And so, when he did, the Ninevites changed their icky ways and Jonah learned it’s a good thing to be obedient to what God wants.”

And what do you know, those tiny faces actually registered understanding! Little heads were actually nodding.

If Jonah could work with the Ninevites, maybe there was a shred of hope for the Doom Room.

Chapter 4
How Many is the Norm?

Josh wailed every single moment of his doctor visit. This morning’s fever had called a halt to any hope of Josh’s grumpiness being “just teething.” Essie was barely conscious. She couldn’t remember if she’d brushed her teeth yet this morning, so she tried to smile for the doctor without opening her mouth. She tried to look like an intelligent member of the human race, even though she was feeling pretty much like an amoeba.

“Yes, there, Master Walker. That’s one whopping ear infection you’ve got. Both ears, too. Overachiever, I see.” Dr. Martin was trying to put a good spin on things. The man could even be called cheerful. But to Essie right now, twin ear infections sounded like the end of the world.

It must have shown on her face. Dr. Martin walked over and returned screeching little Joshua to her arms with an understanding smile. His appearance and demeanor were so completely, perfectly “doctorish,” that the guy belonged on television. “You’ll be amazed,” he commiserated, “what a little pain medicine will do for the guy. Half an hour, a couple of squirts of pink stuff and he’ll be snoozing in no time.”

“Could I have that in writing?” Essie whimpered.

“Next best thing,” replied Dr. Martin, scribbling off a set of prescription notes. “May I introduce you to your new best friend, amoxicillin? You’ll be very well acquainted by the end of the year. There are two kinds of babies in this world. The kind who hardly ever get ear infections, and…the other kind.”

“Josh is an ‘other,’ isn’t he?”

“I could lie, but you look like the kind of person who prefers a straight story.”

Essie juggled Josh onto her shoulder, which settled his wailing down into a low-grade, pitiful moan. “And the straight story is I’m going to see a lot of amoxi-whatever.”

Dr. Martin touched her shoulder. “It does get easier. When he gets old enough to have good control of his hands—which should be soon—he’ll grab at his ears and you’ll catch on before it gets full-blown awful.”

This was not comforting. Essie felt as if she might burst into tears. Some small part of her knew it was only the sleep deprivation, but right now Josh was looking disabled, scarred and victimized. “Okay,” was all she could sputter out.

“Mrs. Walker, it’s going to be fine. The first one is always the hardest. There’s one thing you should know, though, if you don’t already.”

Your child will never hear again. His brain will be permanently affected. He will…

“This stuff stains.”

“Huh?”

“Amoxicillin. It stains. Keep Josh in old onesies or whatever for the first couple of days because it seems to get everywhere, and it stains. You, too.” He chuckled. “I’d lay off the evening gowns for the next few days so you don’t end up pink, too.”

“Yes, of course,” Essie replied, but in her head she thought, You wouldn’t be laughing if you knew I’ve had this same shirt on for three straight days.

“Mrs. Walker?”

“Yes?”

“That was a joke. A bad one, but still a joke. You’re going to be fine, both of you. Make a follow-up appointment for two weeks from now on your way out. And if you don’t have one of those tiny medicine things that looks like a miniature turkey baster, make sure you pick one up at the pharmacy—it might save you a lot of trouble and a lot of upholstery.”

Josh had settled down to a grumbling whimper by the time Essie reached the pharmacy. “I need amixibillin and a turkey baster.”

An older woman behind the counter blinked from behind her thick black glasses. “Pardon me?”

Essie shifted the baby carrier to the other hand and fumbled in her purse until she found the square of blue paper. She pushed it across the counter to the pharmacist. “This. I need this prescription filled.” Essie’s keys tumbled out of her purse and fell on the floor. She noticed the candy bars beside the counter. How many would it take to be considered a glutton? Sixteen?

“The amoxicillin I guessed. No problem, I have that. It’s the turkey baster that has me stumped.”

Oh, my, had she really said that? Essie pulled in a focusing breath, just like she used to do before she competed. “My doctor,” she began, letting the breath out in a slow, deliberate exhale, “well, Josh’s doctor, recommended a medicine spoonish thing he said looked like a miniature turkey baster. For the amoxicillin. Do you know what he means?”

The woman’s face spread into a smile. “Oh, of course. Look down to your left. And if I were you, I’d get three of them. You can never find them when you need them, especially in the middle of the night. They work wonders, these little things, but don’t use them if the baby’s asleep. You always need to make sure they’re awake when you give them the medicine. Even if you have to wake ’em up, which I know no one wants to do.”

“Okay, good. Three of them it is. Thanks for the tip.”

Essie noticed the pharmacist, who now seemed infinitely friendlier, was looking at her with an odd, knowing expression.

“How many chocolate bars do you want me to put in the bag with that medicine?” She winked. Really, she winked. It made her look like a great, gray owl with those magnified eyes.

Surprised into honesty, Essie blurted out, “How many is the norm?”

“I’ve seen one mom take eight. Of course, that was a case of scarlet fever, so extreme measures were called for. I don’t usually recommend that many.”

Scarlet fever? Didn’t people get that in Dickens novels or something?

“I’ll take four.” Just then Josh let out an ear-splitting wail. “Five.”

The pharmacist dropped the bars in the bag and leaned over to see the source of the five-alarm screech. “He’ll be a new man by tomorrow, you’ll see. This stuff works wonders.”

“The chocolate or the medicine?”

“Same thing in my book, sweetie. I’m a bar-a-day chocoholic myself. Don’t forget your keys.”

Doctor Martin was right. Amoxicillin did get everywhere. It looked and smelled like Pepto-Bismol, and trying to get it into squirming, wailing Josh’s mouth with that baster thing felt more like target practice than medical care. This child, who had no practical use of his hands yet, seemed to acquire perfect aim and swatted the medicine away just as it hit his mouth. Should any of it actually make it into his mouth—which should have been simple because it was open in a non-stop screech during this procedure—he coughed and sputtered it back out in a shower of pink drops.

Finally, Essie fell back on deception as a tactic. She nestled him in her arms as if to nurse him, which of course sent him into instant sucking mode. Before he knew what hit him, she snuck the tip of the medicine dropper-thing into his mouth and gave the bulb an authoritative squirt. He coughed, and sputtered, but this time the actual majority of medicine remained in the baby, where it belonged.

The rest, though, was just about everywhere. By the time they were done with both medicine and baby aspirin, Josh’s onesie had more pink than its original blue. He was verging on sticky from all the drips, and Essie’s shirt was beyond repair.

But he calmed. When he produced a yawn—an actual, nonwailing yawn—Essie set the world’s speed record for quick baby wash-down and insertion into a clean onesie.

And the child slept. The silence was the most beautiful sound Essie had ever heard.

She threw her dank shirt off, grabbed a T-shirt of Doug’s and collapsed on the couch. A glance at her watch told her over two hours had gone by when the phone woke her up.

“Hello?”

“Essie?”

“Anna! Oh, Anna, God must have known I needed to hear your voice today. It’s wonderful to hear from you.”

“Essie, no offense, but you sound awful. How’s life on the other side of the continent?”

Even though she’d had enough sleep to take the edge off, Essie burst into tears. “Awful. Josh has ear infections and I haven’t slept and Doug’s been working late.”

“Ear infections, ugh. Josh is going to be one of those, huh? Danny was one. That’s rough—I’m sorry you’re having such a tough go of it.”

Essie nudged the box of tissues on the floor with her foot until she pulled it within reach. “How come nobody tells you this stuff? It’s so hard….” Essie was trying to cry as quietly as possible, desperate not to wake Josh. She’d even stuffed the phone under her pillow so that only she would hear it ring. She walked out onto the back balcony, thanking God—again—for giving someone the idea for the cordless phone. “I miss you—all of you—so much.”

Essie could hear Anna’s voice catch. “I’d give anything to be able to pile in the car and come over there right this minute. I hate it that you’re so far away.”

“Me, too.” It was more sob than sentence.

“But you know, Essie, this is where you’re supposed to be right now. We went over this so many times. You’re supposed to be in San Francisco. Your family needs you. But I hate it all the same.”

Essie wished she had a pink medicine to make the ache in her heart go away. “I just can’t see how it’s good now. I remember being so sure.” She ran her hand along the curved edge of the toy box Doug was building out here. “Now I’m not sure at all. Wait a minute…I needed to get the monitor thing, Anna, sorry.”

“Monitor? How big is your apartment, anyway? I thought Doug told us it seemed like he could only afford something the size of a two-car garage out there.”

“Very funny.” Essie was glad to hear one of Anna Miller’s wisecracks. She missed her more than she realized. “I need to know he’s okay while I’m out here on the deck.”

“He’s got Walker-powered lungs. I could probably here him over here.”

“Oh, yeah?” Essie found herself smiling, just a bit. “Well, then you didn’t get any sleep last night, either, did you?”

“Okay,” Anna relented. “Okay. Is he doing better?”

“I’ve learned how hard it is to get amoxicillin from the bottle and into the baby, if that’s what you mean. It’s working—he’s finally sleeping. I even got to sleep.”

“I woke you up, didn’t I? Sorry.”

“No,” sighed Essie, easing herself into the Adirondack chair and wishing with every cell in her body that Anna was on the chair next to her and they were in New Jersey again. “No, I’m really glad to hear your voice. I’d have been sick if I missed your call.”

“Listen, I’m sorry things are lousy right now, but I have some good news—it’s one of the reasons I called.”

“I could use good news right now.”

“Kevin was at some athletic thing last night, one of those association meetings or whatever those monthly things are, and he ran into someone.”

“Yeah?”

“Some former college buddy who knows a bunch of people out in California. Essie, he says he knows of a junior college right by you looking for a women’s track coach. Starting in February. Isn’t that when you said you would need to go back to work?”

Essie took a deep breath. “It’s too early to be making those kinds of plans. I’m lucky to be walking and talking these days, much less launching a job search.”

“This could be God working things out for you. Think about it—what are the chances of Kevin bumping into this guy and hearing this kind of information?”

“No, you’re right, it does sound like it’s worth checking into.” Essie thought that last bit sounded less comatose.

“Good. Check your e-mail tonight. Kevin is sending the details. And I want photos of my little godson. He must be growing like a weed by now.”

“At the moment, he’s just growing viruses. Well, I do think he’s up a pound or two. I didn’t take much notice at the doctor’s this morning.”

“You found a good doctor?”

“Yes, he seems great. Your standard nice-old-guy pediatrician.”

“You mean they don’t all look like George Clooney out there?”

“I wish. No, this guy looks closer to Ed Asner. Or that oatmeal spokesman—what’s his name?”

“Beats me, I’m strictly a toast kind of woman. But I think I know the type.”

Essie let out a long sigh. The kind of shuddering sigh a body gives out after too many tears. “I want to come home. I’d never say that to Doug—or to Mom and Pop—but I want to come home.”

“You are home, Essie. You just don’t know it yet.”

No, thought Essie, laying her cheek against the chair back, I don’t know it at all.

Chapter 5
The Box Marked “Those”

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?

Chapter 6
Play to the Strengths

Essie changed her own clothes twice, and Josh’s three times, before declaring herself ready for the Manningtons’. For all its exclusivity, the area wasn’t hard to get to—Essie was still surprised at how easy it was to navigate San Francisco. Most of her home state couldn’t be called pedestrian-friendly—a car was essential to one’s very existence. She’d been reluctant to take only one car to San Francisco, but everyone’s insistence that she would rarely need it finally won out. Even encumbered by baby, stroller and diaper bag, it was still unbelievably easy to get around—except for pushing the stroller up all those hills.

Dahlia’s house was on the ritzy side of town, away from the T-shirt shops and silkware stands of the tourism center. Here, tourism rarely crept in to spoil the carefully crafted atmosphere. Each house looked like its own perfectly composed watercolor painting. Charming little gates and artistic walls tucked each family into its tiny, manicured kingdom. No one had a mere yard and house here—no, here it was all “landscaping” and “architecture.”

Essie maneuvered Josh’s stroller up the small, curving walkway, then took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. A dignified chime echoed from inside the artfully carved door. Essie checked her own outfit and made sure Josh hadn’t repeated his favorite trick of removing his socks. After a short pause, the locks began to rattle and a small woman in a blue dress pulled the massive door open.

“Hello,” Essie blurted out, her voice revealing more tension than she would have liked. “I’m here to see Mrs. Mannington. I’m Esther Walker.”

The woman produced a rehearsed smile and reached down to help hoist the stroller over the threshold. “She’s expecting you. I’ll show you to the sunroom.”

The sunroom. Uh-oh, that sounded far too spiffy. Maybe she should have worn a skirt or something. Or a twinset. She should probably have gone out and gotten a twinset.

Now wait a minute, you hate twinsets. Essie gave herself a little pep talk as she went through the rigors of detaching Josh’s carrier from the stroller mechanism, removing his sweater and all the other details involved in transporting a now sleeping Josh into the sunroom.

This is a parent, Essie, plain and simple. You’ve gone into battle with football dads who can’t understand why their son isn’t captain of the track team as well as starting quarterback, you’ve dealt with schedule-crazed moms who want you to excuse their little darling from practice so she can get the only open manicure appointment; you’ve dealt with far worse with far more at stake. Don’t tense up now. You’re going to spend twenty minutes listening to every good and perfect character trait of Stanton Mannington, eat some free pastries, drink some decent coffee and nod a lot. That’s all you have to do.

As she walked through the well-appointed house, devoid of undone laundry, strewn toys, or any other signs of juvenile life, Essie couldn’t shake the feeling that this wouldn’t be that simple at all.

“Oh, Essie, I thought that’d be you. Did you have any trouble getting here?” Dahlia rose elegantly from her wrought-iron bistro chair and reached out a hand to take Josh’s carrier.

“Not at all. I’m still getting used to how easy it is to get around here.”

“And your little one is out cold, just like you said.” She smiled warmly down at Josh, touching a little green sock with a tender hand. “I miss the socks most of all. The tiny little socks in such fabulous colors. He’s darling.” She settled the carrier into a chair placed beside the table—just for the purpose of holding Josh, Essie suspected. The woman never missed a detail. “Now, Pastor Mark told me you drink coffee, so I had Carmen brew up some decaf because I remembered you’re still nursing. Carmen makes fabulous coffee—even decaf—so drink the whole pot if you like.” Dahlia motioned for Essie to take a seat in the other chair. The table was set like something out of a department store display—fresh flowers, starched napkins, rattan place mats, gorgeous china.

On cue, Carmen reappeared, bearing a tray of goodies. The scent of the sweet rolls could have made a grown man salivate, much less a mom who’d quickly downed a plastic bowl of wheat flakes an hour ago. A set of twin miniature coffee carafes took their place at the table—one with the universally recognized orange “decaf” marking, only this one was an elegant beaded clip rather than a plastic dot. Dahlia’s idea of “just whip something up” was a lot different than most of the world’s standards. Well, most of Essie’s world, anyway.

“Wow,” Essie commented. “This looks great.”

“Carmen knows her way around the kitchen, that’s for sure.” Dahlia tossed Carmen an efficient nod. “Gracias.” She poured herself coffee and whipped out the familiar Montblanc pen and leather notepad.

“Yes,” added Essie, looking up at Carmen. “Thank you.”

“So, how’s the class?” Her voice had the musical tone of someone who was being polite, but taking mental notes. Lots of them.

“They’re a…spirited lot, that’s for sure. It’s not hard to see where the nickname came from.”

That got a look from Dahlia. “I’ve never liked the nickname myself. I believe children rise to the expectations you set for them. Call them doom, you’ll get doom. I’ve never been asked to teach the class myself, but I can’t imagine that all that energy can’t be channeled with the right techniques.”

Essie had heard some version of that speech dozens of times in her teaching career. The women’s-magazine-TV-talk-show lingo of the enlightened parent. The parent who didn’t believe in “C” s. Who felt that defiant children simply “weren’t being challenged.” The kind of mom who would never let their child mix cookie dough with their fingers or roll down a hill that might cause grass stains, but signed them up for French lessons when they were five. The parents who inserted their children—whatever their shape—into neat, successful, boxes chock-full of brilliant potential.

“Seven-year-old boys are bundles of energy.” It was a poor response, but it was all Essie could think of to say. Last week Stanton had pushed up the tip of his nose with his finger and made pig sounds through the entire reading of the Bible story. She wasn’t sure “the proper channel” had anything to do with that kind of behavior.

“Well, Stanton certainly is high-spirited.”

Ah, there it was. That phrase. “High-spirited” was one of Essie’s favorite euphemisms. Kids weren’t bouncy or hyper or fidgety anymore, they were “high-spirited.” As if the inability to sit still for thirty seconds was an early symptom of visionary thinking.

“I hope you’re not finding him too challenging.” There was an edge to Dahlia’s voice. Not quite a challenge, but not quite an actual question, either.

Essie had long since learned that such a remark was a cue to gush about a child’s outstanding class behavior. Anything else would be viewed as a deficiency in one’s teaching skills. In her high school career, this remark—or anything close to it—was a parental “weather balloon.” Something lofted by a parent to see if Essie was up to the challenge of their brilliant but slightly misunderstood progeny. Evidently, it was no different with the younger set.

Taking a sip of coffee, Essie did what was expected. She launched an enthusiastic rendition of Stanton’s admirable qualities, concluding with, “Those papers you sent over didn’t surprise me one bit.” Okay, not exactly the truth—it floored her that Dahlia’d done what she did—but it was optimistic. Sort of.

They played this verbal game for the next twenty minutes, taking turns identifying Stanton’s strengths and talents. Here and there each of them cited the lengthy paper, using the data as the springboard to a compliment. It was a taxing, almost choreographed conversation. Essie was used to it, but mostly involving the complexities and large-scale behaviors of teenagers. Trying to make the case for Stanton’s often-violent obsession with being first in line as a precursor to leadership skills, well, that took a little more verbal agility. It was always a precarious knife edge on which to balance a conversation; when to be direct, when to hint at a problem, when to tell the parent what they wanted to hear. Essie was exhausted by the end of her third cup of admittedly excellent decaf. Come on, Josh, wake up and give me a diaper change to catch my breath here.

“What does the class need, in your opinion?”

Sedatives, Essie thought before she could stop it. Instead, she attempted a braver course. “In all honesty,” Essie ventured, “another set of hands would make things much easier.”

Dahlia didn’t even recognize the veiled request for her time. “Well, yes, of course,” she said, as though it were obvious that it should be someone’s—but clearly someone else’s—job to take care of such details. “It’s church policy to have two teachers. I’m sorry your co-teacher moved on such short notice and we’ve not yet found a replacement. I was thinking, though, more in the way of equipment, materials, that sort of thing.” In other words, what can I buy you? Because I have no intention of coming in there and helping you myself. Nope, no surprises here. “I am very busy with coordinating the Celebration, of course, but I do want to do my part in helping out the class.”

No, you don’t, thought Essie, you want me to give you an out. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but do you think Carmen could whip up some of these goodies for the Harvest of Witnesses event in a few weeks?”

Bingo. She’d hit the target. Dahlia fairly beamed. “Why, of course. Something a tad more nutritious, of course, but goodies nonetheless.”

“That’d be great. And I know we need someone to make up little baskets—nothing too girly, but still creative—for the class to use that day.” The children had an event where they went around the church “harvesting” goodies and information about great figures of the church. A few years ago, at Mark-o’s suggestion, a group of moms had created this event—a combination of scavenger hunting and gift-giving on the first day of November. It had become one of the things the church was known for, one of those things that drew new families to the church. Essie had always considered it one of the coolest things her pastor brother had ever done. “Can you think of someone who’s got those kind of talents?”

Dahlia’s pen bobbed again. “Oh, I’ve just the person. Vicki Faber—Alex’s new stepmother? She has a decorating business. She’s redone the house beautifully. I’m sure she’s got someone who could whip together just what you need.”

Alex Faber’s stepmother. Icky Vicki. Vicki and Alex’s dad had been one of the class’s invisible sets of parents. Alex’s older sister Sharon—the one who’d come up with the “Icky Vicki” moniker—always collected Alex from class.

“Here’re her numbers, why don’t you ring her up?” Dahlia said, handing her a thick card with the heading “From the desk of Dahlia H. Mannington” across the top. Pouring more coffee, her voice took on an “I don’t mean to be unkind” tone. “She is a bit younger than you, but I do think you might enjoy getting to know each other.”

I’ll just bet she’s “a bit” younger than me, Essie’s thoughts replied. And probably looks like she walked off the set of Baywatch. What am I doing with these people?

“I think Vicki has had difficulty adjusting to her new role. It was a nasty divorce, really. Vicki’s had her hands full trying to smooth things over. I imagine she’d welcome a little project to do for the class— I’m sure she knows loads of designers who could whip up a dozen or so perfectly manly baskets. I’d try the cell phone number first—Vicki is out and about most of the time.”

“Thanks, I’ll call her.”

Dahlia closed her organizer and notepad. Again on perfect cue, Carmen appeared in the French doors with a small white bakery box. “I had Carmen pack up a few of these rolls for you to take home. They’re far too good for me to keep in the house without gaining a dozen pounds, and I wonder if that husband of yours can help finish them off?”

Dahlia Mannington did think of everything.

“Oh, Doug will be more than happy to have these. That’s really nice of you.” And, believe it or not, she meant it.

Chapter 7
And on Some Sunday Afternoons…

“I’d never eat fish for lunch. Yuck.” Decker made a face as the Doom Room pondered the Bible story of the loaves and the fishes.

“Not even fish sticks?” Essie ventured. She fondly remembered the special days of fish stick and French fry frozen dinners on folding trays in front of the television. They were one of the great treats of childhood to her. She and Mark-o would usually have a competition of sorts as to who could glob more ketchup on a fish stick. Essie usually won.

“Fish sticks are gross,” Decker replied. “Besides, Mom says they’re fattening. She makes me eat Sam Man—you know, the pink fish—every Tuesday for dinner, but I hide it in my napkin and give it to Sparky. What’s ‘brain food’ anyway? I’m not eating that Sam Man’s brains, am I?”

Essie guessed that either Decker’s dog or cat was eating very well on Tuesdays lately. Salmon versus fish sticks. It sounded like a bad country song—

I’m just a fish stick gal,

Caught in a salmon fillet world…

“Salmon, Decker, is a fish, you’re right. But, no, it’s not brains. It’s good for your brain like lots of other kinds of protein—those are the types of foods that give your brain the energy it needs to do its job.”

“I think better eating cookies,” Dexter proclaimed, clearly unswayed.

Essie dragged the discussion back to the topic at hand. “Well, then, it’s a good thing you’ve all had a cookie or two, because we have lots of thinking to do today.” She clasped her hands. “Now, we’ve already read the story about this boy and how he brought his bread and fish to Jesus.” Decker opened his mouth, presumably to start up again about the grossness of fish for lunch, but Essie held up a silencing finger. “Almost everyone’s dad was a fisherman there, so bread and fish would have been like…like peanut butter and jelly to us. Everybody ate it.”

“I’m yullergic to peanut products,” pronounced Peter with a resigned voice. Just as Essie knew he would. Peter, it seemed, was “yullergic” to just about everything. Some days all Peter could add to a conversation was a list of relevant items to which he was allergic. On those days he would sigh, speak without enthusiasm and generally look as if the entire world was gunning for his immune system. How he reconciled such an outlook with his love of bugs and other slimy creatures, she couldn’t really say. An image of Peter, foraging under a rock with latex gloves on, flashed uninvited in her brain. Focus, Essie, focus.

“Okay,” she continued, “what he ate isn’t really the point here. The point is that he gave what he had for Jesus to use, even though it didn’t seem like much at the time. “David,” Essie said, turning to Cece’s son in an attempt to get things on the right track, “do you think five loaves and two fishes is enough to feed thousands of people?”

David scrunched up his forehead in thought. “You’d have to break it into really tiny pieces.”

Essie had to laugh at that one. “Even then, what that boy had just wasn’t enough to go around. Remember, it said that there were baskets of leftovers even after everyone had eaten. That’s why it was a miracle. Jesus took that food and made it able to do something very special. Something only God could make happen.” She looked around the room, trying to catch each boy’s eyes. “Sometimes the stuff we have to do in life feels like more than we can handle. Like we don’t have what it will take to do what needs to be done. Does anyone have an example?”

Justin’s arm shot in the air. “My baby sister. Sometimes she cries so much, I think I’m gonna explode.”

Essie thought about Josh’s most recent teething episode and could only nod in sympathy. “Babies are a handful, aren’t they?”

“I heard Mom telling Dad she thought she’d never, ever get to sleep again. When I told Dad we ought to make baby Megan sleep in the garage, he told me not to say that in front of Mom, but he was smiling when he said it, so I know he thinks we oughta try it.”

Essie could only imagine.

“My dad has a new job this month, and it’s making him really nervous,” offered Steven Bendenfogle. “He gets grumpy a lot. And sometimes he doesn’t come home till way after my bedtime. And he brings home lots of homework, besides. I think he feels like it’s too hard.”

“New jobs feel too hard lots of times. You could really help cheer him up, Steven.”

“I don’t know.” Steven shook his head. “He’s really grumpy some nights.”

“Well, now you’ve got something that feels too hard now, too, don’t you? It feels like it may be too hard to cheer up someone who’s really grumpy, doesn’t it? That’ll take Jesus’ help, too.”

Steven thought about that for a while, but then nodded.

“It’d be too hard,” said Stanton loudly, “to beat Jesus in a jumping contest, ’cuz He’s God and He’s got superpowers and stuff. He’d beat you at anything!”

Well now, superpower was an odd definition of deity, but it must have rung true to the average eight-year-old, because the other boys all immediately agreed. Instantly, boys began shouting examples such as “I bet He could spit a watermelon seed around the world,” or “He could kick a soccer ball through a brick wall,” and even several instances of X-ray vision.

“Or,” interjected Essie in a voice loud enough to cut through the din, “transform one little boy’s lunch into enough food to feed thousands of hungry people.”

Everyone had to think about that for a moment. Then, very quietly, Stanton said, “Yeah. Cool.”

Was it okay to think of Jesus’ miracles as superpowers? She hoped God didn’t mind a little creativity, because clearly Jesus just went up a couple of notches in the “cool” department for a few of these boys. And that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

“Superpowers aren’t real,” she said, because she felt it ought to be said. “But Jesus, and the things He can do with us when we believe in Him, those are real. And yeah, Stanton, they are cool. The older you get, the more you believe, the cooler it gets.” Nods and a few amazed faces.

Zing. It sunk in. Score one for the crazy mom from New Jersey.

And the very cool God who brought her here.

As she put away the workbooks after class, Essie pondered how overwhelmed she had felt about this “Doom Room” class. Hadn’t she felt like it was way too much to handle?

Suddenly, it wasn’t exactly clear who was teaching whom.

Cool.

Oh, it was cool all right, right up until Mark-o’s phone call that evening.

“Congratulations, Essie, you made it four whole weeks before the first call. That may be a record.”

Essie put down the stain stick she was using to try and get the Baby Tylenol stains out of a batch of Josh’s onesies. “What?”

“I was just congratulating you on going a full four weeks before some parent found something to gripe about it. That’s a pretty neat trick in my book.”

Essie sunk to the couch, deflated even before she heard the details. “Yippee. What is it?”

“Do you want the pastor version, or the brother version?”

Essie found the sheer fact that he had versions to be mildly annoying. “Which one’s more amusing? I gather this isn’t exactly good news.”

“Well, I admit to some level of bias, but I think the brother version has a bit more humor to it.”

“Ooo, I can hardly wait. Okay, let’s hear it.”

“Steven Bendenfogle’s mom is concerned that her son now accredits our Lord and Savior with the powers of X-ray vision.” He was laughing when he said it.

“That’s the brother version? And no, I did not say that Jesus has X-ray vision. As a matter of fact, I went out of my way to point out just the opposite.”

“I believe you, relax. How did the subject of X-ray vision come up, anyhow?”

Essie wanted to hold her head in her hands. Here she’d been spending the afternoon in a glowing joy about how the kids had really grasped the truth of miracles, and it was all coming undone in the space of one disgruntled mother’s phone call. “We were talking about the miracle of the loaves and fishes. They were really getting into it—you know, trying to figure out how that little bit of food fed all those people. We talked about God’s power, and what miracles are. They saw Jesus’ power as a sort of superpower. I think that’s a pretty good grasp for kids of that age. Oh, Mark-o, you should have seen their faces. They began to think of Jesus as cool. As someone to help them when they felt overwhelmed. It was great. And now this. I could just scream.”

“Look, Essie, don’t get worked up about this. You need to remember that we’re working on thirdhand information here, with one of those hands being eight years old. Things are bound to get twisted. You can’t let it get to you.”

“Then why am I suddenly envisioning ‘This session may be recorded for quality control purposes’? She doesn’t really think I told them Jesus has X-ray vision, does she? It’s…she can’t…”

“It’s no big deal. Actually, I think it’s rather funny.”

“You would, but…”

“What it does tell me, is that you have these kids thinking. Engaged. Working through ideas in their own terms. Surely the educator in you can see what a good thing that is. I’d much rather have this than a group of kids who can recite the books of the Bible in bored voices.”

“But…”

“It’s an imperfect system. We’re imperfect teachers. You’re not going to get perfect scores on this, Essie, ever. You’re going to miss the target lots of times. But it seems to me you’re going to hit the mark lots more times, and in the end these kids will be the better for it. Will you believe me if I tell you that this phone call just reinforces for me that I got the right person for the job?”

“Oh, yeah? Then why’d you call me to tell me Mrs. Bendenfogle believes I’m bordering on blasphemy? Why didn’t you just keep your satisfaction to yourself?”

Mark-o’s reply was a frustrated groan. “Be-cause, Mrs. Extreme Drama, I need you to tell Steven Jesus doesn’t have X-ray vision so he can go home and put his mother’s mind at ease next week.”

“I already told Steven Bendenfogle that superpowers aren’t real.”

“Then be more specific. Something along the lines of ‘Steven, Jesus does not have X-ray vision’ ought to do just fine.”

“Mark-o…”

“One kid got his information twisted. Now stop getting all worked up, simply set him straight and get on with it, no matter how ridiculous it seems. You missed one shot, Essie, not the whole track meet. And it’s not a competition. Look, if you knew how many calls like this I get a week, you’d see this for the minor detail it is. I get notes about how I don’t comb my hair, or how I don’t use the Bible translation they like, how the organ’s too loud or the praise band isn’t loud enough, or that we should be using white bread instead of wheat bread for communion—all kinds of tiny grievances.”

Essie moaned. “How do you stand it?”

“I try to remember that if they care enough to make a comment, then I’m at least getting them to care at all. In my business, opinion isn’t the enemy, apathy is.” He paused for a moment before adding on a sigh, “And some Sunday afternoons, you hit the golf ball really, really hard.”

“Okay. Young Master Bendenfogle will get his X-ray vision thing straightened next week, count on it.”

“I knew I could. And promise me you’re not going to get all worked up about this. It’s one detail in a whole stack of successes. Got it?”

Essie sighed. “Got it. Hey, wait a minute! Doesn’t seeing into our hearts, seeing past our actions into our intentions count as a spiritual sort of X-ray vision?”

The Pastor Taylor tone came back into his voice. “Essie…”

“Okay, okay, point taken. I’ll be crystal clear next week. By the way, what did Dr. Einhart say about Pop’s latest blood work?”

“The appointment got moved to this week. I…uh…meant to talk to you about that.”

In Mark-o’s world, “I meant to talk to you about that” translated directly to “I need you to take care of this for me.” Esther didn’t even have to guess what was coming next.

“The appointment was moved to this week on Wednesday at eleven o’clock, and I had to book a counseling session for that time. You can take Pop, can’t you?”

Essie fisted her hands around an unsuspecting bath towel. “We agreed to split these. I’ve done the last two. I’ve got something going on Wednesday.”

The silence on the other end of the phone spoke volumes about how much Mark-o thought Essie might actually “have going.” He didn’t even have to say “can’t you move it?” His pause said it for him.

She beat him to the punch. “And no, I don’t want to move it. It’s an appointment, by the way, that I’ve had to bail on twice because you called me to pick up your end with Pop.” She stood up off the couch, pacing the room now, her agitation growing. “You keep saying ‘it’s just this once,’ but it never is. Both of us need to deal with this, whether you’re off saving the world or not.”

“I thought you came out here to help with Pop.”

“Hold on there. I came out here to help, not to take over so you could get back to your oh-so-busy life. I know you did lots of this before, and I know you’re an important man, but don’t go dumping all of this in my lap just because I showed up on the West Coast.”

“So you want me to tell this woman that I have to put off her counseling session—with a depressed daughter who has resisted counseling for six months and has finally relented—because I have to drive my Pop for a checkup?”

Oh, she hated it when Mark-o played the emergency card. Yes, lots of what he did was urgent, but it was always urgent. She hated how he made her life feel mundane and insignificant. How he made her feel selfish for wanting to keep a much-needed lunch with Cece. She’d already had to cancel twice on Cece in order to cover for him. He was a lifeline to lots of people, but did that mean she had to go without her own lifelines? “I want,” she said slowly, “for you not to have said ‘yes’ in the first place. To have found another time because you had a prior commitment. What about Peggy? Can’t she help you out?”

“Peggy’s got a sales meeting in L.A. for two days. I just thought…” His voice was so annoyed that he didn’t even finish the sentence.

“I know exactly what you ‘just thought.’ It starts with ‘since you’re not working anymore and babies are so marvelously portable.’ Taking Pop to the doctor’s is a pain, but when will you to realize it’s just as much a pain for me as it is for you?”

His silence told her he didn’t exactly see it that way. After a long pause he said, “So will you do it or not?”

Essie rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Were you listening at all?”

“Look, Essie, I just need you to cover for me…”

“Don’t you dare say ‘just this once’!” she yelled into the phone. Loudly enough, unfortunately, to wake up Josh, who was napping in the swing beside her. “Oh, great. Thanks, Mark-o, this is really how I wanted to end my afternoon.” Josh wailed, angry at having had his late afternoon nap cut short. “I’ll talk to you at adults’ Bible study if I see you. I’ve got to go take care of Josh.” With a growl, she stabbed her finger onto the off button of the cordless phone.

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