Free The Quaker Café by Brenda Bevan Remmes Page A

reciprocate with an invitation.”
    “He never made a formal request.” Helen fiddled with her pearl necklace.
    “Oh, Helen!  He suggested several times that he thought Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday would be an ideal time to invite a member from the black community to preach . It never happened.”
    “For good reason,” Helen’s lips pursed in disgust . “I never approved of that holiday anyway. That man encouraged civil disobedience.”
    “Helen,” Maggie’s voice rose . “The entire American Revolution was based on civil disobedience.”
    “I don’t want to argue with you.” Helen softened her voice in contrast to Maggie’s, which had the desired effect. Helen appeared in control; Maggie appeared to be losing hers. “I think you’re turning this funeral into a political statement of sorts, perhaps to help Liz out in the election. This is your agenda, Maggie, not your father’s.”
    Maggie took a deep breath in an obvious effort to calm herself . “My father’s agenda included better education and improved economic opportunities. He worked vigorously with men like Nathan Hoole,” she nodded at the stairway in reference to Grandpa’s recent departure, “to get subsidized housing, mental health services, improved roads, water lines and industry into our county. He did all of that not just for the benefit of a few people in the community, but for everyone. That was my father’s agenda and I stand by it.”
    “That’s all well and good, Maggie, but your father understood politics and he knew that without the right timing you could lose everything overnight . To be honest, I don’t think you’ve got your father’s knack for timing.”
    “Maybe, maybe not,” Maggie conceded . “I guess we’ll see.”
    Everyone knew they had reached an impasse . Helen’s face softened with sympathetic insincerity and she reached out and patted Maggie’s hand. “I understand why your family feels it owes so much to the black community. On the other hand, those of us in the community who don’t have the same guilt struggle to just keep things on an even keel. Be careful, my dear. Don’t start something that you can’t control.”
       Maggie stood and stretched her frame to its full 5’10” . Her long dark hair, which was normally pulled back and twisted upward, had come loose throughout the day. Now fugitive strands framed her face and accentuated the streak of gray. “Perhaps it’s time you left,” Maggie said in a more controlled voice.
    The two other women scurried to get their handbags and immediately headed past Liz for the stairs, not stopping to acknowledge her presence . Helen deliberately took more time. She reached for her bag, stood up and pulled back her shoulders to gain some height. The lines on her face complemented her steely voice. “You’re making a mistake, Maggie Kendall, a very big mistake.” 
    “I’ll pray on it.” Maggie said. “Perhaps you should do the same.”
    Helen turned and walked to the steps . She saw Liz and shook her head in hopeless resignation.
    “Those idiots!” Maggie said, and dropped back into her chair . “What gall!” 
    Liz walked over and sat opposite her . The Judge lay serene, no longer stale, but dressed in a tuxedo and wine plum cummerbund. He might have enjoyed the previous exchange, although Liz couldn’t help but wonder why he had left Maggie to do the job instead of handling it himself. Too old, too tired… maybe too much water under the bridge?

    Chapter Eight
     
     
    Chase and Liz walked the half mile from their home to the funeral. Countless cars parked at angles along the street and up into various yards throughout town. The Sheriff had patrol cars blocks away from the church to prevent congestion. The chimes that the Judge had donated to the church in memory of his wife played “A Mighty Fortress is Our God,” followed by “For the Beauty of the Earth.”
                  As Liz approached Cottonwoods she saw a