“Sorry to startle you,” I murmured.
She shook her head as if to pull herself together and shifted to face me. “Not at all. Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m looking for the pastor,” I told her.
She nodded, her lips curving up slightly. “Reverend Fletcher, my husband, isn’t here.” She suddenly appeared concerned. “Was he expecting you?”
“No, no,” I assured her, shaking my head. “I just popped in. Actually, I’m new to Magdalene and he doesn’t even know me.”
She rested her thigh against the desk, lost the concerned look, her features moving back to friendly and she asked, “Maybe I can help. Or I can leave a message for him or set an appointment, if you need to speak with him.”
I took a step in, looking at the pastor’s wife, knowing the woman behind such a man was probably just as good.
Or better.
“I’m thinking perhaps you can help,” I said.
Her friendly look became friendlier as she invited, “Try me.”
I nodded and strangely found I didn’t know what to do with my hands. It was like I was at a job interview, coming there wanting, being found lacking, and I hadn’t even presented my résumé.
I clasped my hands in front of me.
“Okay, as I mentioned, I just moved here, however, I’m…well…” I licked my lips, pressed them together and rolled them before I admitted, “independently wealthy.”
She nodded, appearing to take that admission in stride, and said, “Welcome to Magdalene.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled, cleared my throat and continued, “I’m here because I thought…well, it’s a church and I figured churches need volunteers and I don’t work, or have to work, or really know…” I trailed off then bucked up and started again, “Anyway, I know my way around a computer and I’m really organized…” Again I had to let that hang because I couldn’t think of any other skills I had. Therefore, I was forced to finish feebly, “Do you need someone to help with things around here?”
She smiled and I knew the careful, gentle way she did it meant she found my résumé seriously lacking.
“We have a small congregation, it being a small town, but we’re lucky because they’re also very generous. We’re covered when it comes to volunteers,” she told me.
I bit my lip and nodded.
“How much time to you have to volunteer?” she asked.
All the time in the world, I thought.
“I’m not really sure,” I said. “Maybe two, three days a week for two or three hours?” I suggested, like she could tell me what I was able to offer.
“Are you good with senior citizens?” she asked and I felt my head twitch with surprise at that question.
“I’m sorry?” I asked back.
She straightened away from the desk and took a step toward me, slightly lifting her hands out to her sides before she grasped her opposite elbows in her fingers loosely in front of her. It was a strange stance. Strange because it wasn’t cold and shut off but somehow welcoming, as if she was folding something lovingly in her arms.
“We have a nursing home run by very kind people. People who are overworked and underpaid. They do the best they can and they do it because they genuinely like their jobs. Or because for them it’s not a job, it’s a calling. But there’s always a good deal of work and they can’t seem to keep some of their staff or volunteers. Probably because they can’t pay much and volunteers find the work difficult, sometimes tedious, at times heart wrenching, but all the time constant. They called a few days ago, saying that a volunteer had quit in order to go back to college and another one simply stopped showing. They asked us to keep a look out. I’m going to help until they find some people to do so and do it regularly. But if you have time and don’t mind hard work, they could use your help.”
I had time but I didn’t know if I minded hard work. I’d never had to do any. Growing up, we had actual live-in maids and cooks and the like. The rest of my life, I’d had services take care of everything.
There were times when Conrad and I would move, before I found cleaning services, that I did the cleaning, and right then, new to Magdalene, I’d been doing it at Cliff Blue and I liked it. I didn’t want to do it for eight hour days, five days a week, but it wasn’t terrible. And it felt nice to accomplish something.
No, it felt nice just to do something. Something needed. Something real.
And I’d never thought of senior citizens but I didn’t have an aversion to them. All my grandparents had loved me, so had Conrad’s. They’d really, really loved me. In fact, anytime we were together, I’d always end up sitting with them or off somewhere with them, talking, sharing, joking, laughing. I liked my grandparents and Conrad’s a whole lot better than my own parents (and, incidentally, Conrad’s) and I’d been devastated as, one by one, we’d lost them all.
Maybe that was something else I had a talent with.
Still, I said to the pastor’s wife, “To be honest, I would need to discuss what was needed of me but I can clean. I can cook. I can talk. I can tidy. I can organize. I can look after people. And I like doing all of that. So I’d like the opportunity to discuss it.”
Her eyes slightly narrowed, not in an unkind way, but in a speculative one when she said, “I wouldn’t like to introduce these people to a volunteer who isn’t interested in helping out how they need it, and just as importantly, for the long haul.”
“I would agree,” I replied. “That’s why I think I should know what I’m getting into so I can know if I can give them what they need. However, I do want to find something I enjoy doing, something that’s useful, and do it for the long haul.”
I drew in breath as I bought time to say the words I needed to say without lying in a house of God.
Then I said, “My children are older. They don’t need me as much anymore and my husband and I are divorced so I actually don’t have them all the time. I’ve never worked, but with an empty house, I need something to fill my life. I think I might like it filled with some elderly who are doing me a return favor by keeping me company.”
She studied me a moment before she said softly, “I like that you think of it that way.”
“I’m glad,” I replied then introduced myself. “I’m Amelia Hathaway.”
She lifted her hand and started to me, with me meeting her halfway. “Ruth Fletcher.”
We clasped hands and her hold was firm and warm. “Lovely meeting you, Ruth.”
“And you, Amelia,” she replied.
We let go and she motioned to the desk. “How about you give me your telephone number? I’ll call Dove House and we’ll set up a meeting with Dela Coleman.”
“Excellent,” I agreed, moving with her to the desk.
I left my number, we said warm good-byes and I went back out to my car.
I didn’t dally in front of the church wondering if I’d done the right thing.