A New Concern for Phoebe
“No,” Phoebe said. Beatrice never talked about her work on the turkey-processing line. Mostly, they talked about the children.
“ICE raided two in the northern part of the county last week,” the priest said. “They’re detaining undocumented workers, intending to deport them.”
“Mercy!” Phoebe said. “I hope Beatriz’ friends will all be safe.”
“Tell her to be careful,” he said. Then he stood.
Phoebe supposed that even immigrants with work permits were vulnerable; she had read in the paper a few days earlier that police officers in California had stopped a Mexican man for driving with an expired inspection sticker. He’d been taking his pregnant wife to the hospital for a scheduled Caesarean section. When he couldn’t produce his papers, they jailed him, leaving the woman to complete the drive and give birth alone.
“I will,” she assured him. “And I’ll tell her that you asked about her and the children.”
By the time they had said their farewells, the large meeting room was nearly empty. The guest speaker was gone. Phoebe made a note on the pad in her purse to send her an encouraging note. Having forgotten about Miriam’s invitation to stop by the kitchen, Phoebe started instead down the hallway to the pastor’s office, assuming he would have the speaker’s address in Charlottesville, but then she decided to search for it herself on the internet. “Ron Rutt ought to like that,” she thought. Then, feeling self-conscious, she chuckled. How on earth would Ron know? And besides, she reminded herself, he’s not the boss of me. Not ultimately.
Her work day was fairly uneventful: visits to rehab and extended-care patients in the morning, a take-out salad at her desk while she updated records (and found that young Hebrew professor’s email address!), and a longer-than-necessary activities council team meeting in the afternoon. When 5 o’clock arrived, Phoebe found the climb to Dorcas’ room rejuvenating after having sat in the conference room for nearly two hours.
Her mood rose further when she realized that Damaris was visiting. She recognized her younger sister’s lilting voice as she neared the open door.
“Damaris!” Phoebe exclaimed.
Damaris rose from the loveseat where she had been reading a Dr. Seuss book to the dusky-skinned toddler beside her. She rushed to embrace Phoebe while Dorcas watched from her rocking chair. Then, realizing that she needed to greet Dorcas, too, Phoebe went to their older sister’s side. She squeezed her hand and asked, “Isn’t this a nice surprise?”
To her astonishment, Dorcas nodded slightly. Was she even smiling a little?
“Jerome had a doctor’s appointment,” Damaris explained, “and I told Joanna I’d bring him to town so she could have a nap this afternoon. I had the driver drop us off here to return at 6:30 so we can have a good visit.” Joanna was Damaris’s middle daughter, nearing the due date for her sixth child. Joanna and her husband Ben had begun fostering babies four years ago when they concluded that their biological family was complete, but she had found herself pregnant again just two months after Jerome had arrived. “Oh, well,” she had laughed. “The older kids take care of Jerome, and if he’s still here when the baby comes, he can help.” Damaris had confided in Phoebe that Joanna’s blitheness was largely bravado. Preeclampsia in her last pregnancy had necessitated bedrest; moreover, she had mourned the departure of each of the foster-children preceding Jerome. He was such a charmer that saying good-bye was sure to be difficult.
“I brought supper for us all,” Damaris announced as she headed toward a small cooler on the coffee table. Jerome abandoned his book and slid from the loveseat to see what would emerge. First came a plastic bag containing crusty rolls, then glass containers holding meatloaf, potato salad, and succotash. She’d even packed paper plates and cups and napkins—and jars of fresh butter and strawberry jam. “It’s for you to take home, Phoebe,” she said. “Whatever we don’t eat.”
“Wonderful,” Phoebe said, surprised to realize she was hungry. After she had heated the food in one of the warming kitchen’s microwaves, she and Damaris filled the plates. She helped Dorcas eat, while Damaris helped Jerome. All the while, Damaris reported on goings-on at the farm. As they finished their butter-and-jam-dabbed rolls (a third for Jerome), Phoebe decided to tell Damaris about Ron Rutt’s request. She’d considered the prospect all through supper, not sure whether she wanted to bring Dorcas into her confidence, too. At least she won’t comment, she told herself—but then felt ashamed for finding a benefit in her older sister’s silence.
Although she tried to respond matter-of-factly, Damaris couldn’t hide her shock. “I would have expected him to be more understanding, given his background. Besides, can he even ask that?” she said incredulously. “Isn’t it against some law?”
“He presented it as more of a suggestion,” Phoebe explained. “He said that I might be able to connect better with a wider range of residents.”
For a moment, they sat quietly. Then Damaris began packing up the picnic containers.
“The driver will be here soon,” she said, glancing at the clock. She smiled encouragingly at Phoebe. “I’m sorry that you have this decision to make, but you’ll know what to do. You always listen,” she said, glancing upward as if through the floors above to the heavens, “and you’re brave.”
Phoebe swallowed and smiled back, weakly, she knew. She hadn’t heard any divine counsel yet, and she didn’t feel brave. “Hold that thought,” she said fervently, “and remind me the next time we talk.”
“Oh, I will,” Damaris assured her. “C’mon, little man,” she said to Jerome, who had managed to pull down Dorcas’s basket of cassettes and dump them on the floor. He had stacked some of them in short towers while Dorcas watched, apparently undisturbed by his activity. Phoebe was surprised that her older sister’s expression appeared so benign.
“Please put those back in the basket,” Damaris directed Jerome. She turned to Phoebe. “How old are those?” she asked. “Even I know that technology is obsolete.”
Phoebe chuckled. “Apparently not. One of the aides keeps bringing them to Dorcas. They’re recent Sunday sermons from a church north of town. Dorcas likes them, don’t you?” Again, Dorcas nodded, almost imperceptibly.
Damaris lifted the basket back into place and bent to hug Dorcas. “I’m glad,” she said, looking deep into Dorcas’s eyes. “I’ll listen to one with you the next time I come.” Dorcas looked back at her, her eyes glistening.
“Well, I’d better get going, too,” Phoebe said. “I’ll walk you two down—or would Jerome prefer the elevator?”
“Yes!” he said. “Jelly-vator!” Pheobe and Damaris laughed.
“This child has a sweet tooth,” Damaris said, taking his hand.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Phoebe promised Dorcas, bending to kiss her before picking up Damaris’ cooler in one hand and Jerome’s book in the other. “Sleep well.”
“So how do you think she’s doing?” she asked Damaris when Dorcas’s room door had closed behind them.
“Much better,” Damaris said decisively. “She doesn’t need nearly as much help eating as she did when I was here last, and she just looks brighter, somehow. Do you agree?”
They were in the elevator by this point, with Jerome beaming up at the buttons as one under another glowed, signaling descent.
“I thought she seemed more cheerful, too,” Phoebe agreed, “and I’ve noticed the improvement in her use of the fork.”
“Do you think she’s ready to go back to Silas and Mildred’s?” Damaris asked as the door slid open at the ground level. She looked down at Jerome, who was tugging at her hand. “Yes, honey?”
“Again!” he said, smiling.
“What time do you have?” she asked Phoebe, who consulted her watch.
“You still have five minutes,” Phoebe replied.
“Okay, Jerome,” Damaris said. Before she could direct him, he had pushed all the buttons. “Oh, my! This may take more than five minutes!”
“Are Silas and Mildred ready for her?” Phoebe asked, recovering the thread of their conversation.
“I think so,” Damaris said, not taking the bait. “Everybody’ll pitch in, and Dorcas may continue to improve.”
“Maybe,” Phoebe said skeptically.
“Well, talk to her about it,” Damaris urged. “You’ll be able to tell from her eyes, even if she won’t say what she’s thinking.”
“I know,” Phoebe said. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about the impending move. “I’m happy for her to stay here indefinitely,” she said, wondering if she were speaking truthfully.
“You’ve been very generous already, Phoebe,”” Damaris said. “The rest of us can help more.”
“How’s Philemon’s cough?” Phoebe asked, changing the subject.
Damaris shook her head. “Not good. He’s puny enough that we insisted he go see Dr. Wenger last week. I hope he can straighten him out.”
They had reached the ground floor again, and this time Damaris resisted Jerome’s pleas. “No,” she said, kindly but firmly. “We mustn’t make the driver wait.” Phoebe handed him his book.
The driver was sitting in a white van just outside the entrance, so Damaris and Phoebe hugged each other quickly at the curb. “Give my love to all,” Phoebe said as Damaris buckled Jerome into a booster. Then she stood waving, watching as the van disappeared onto the main road.
“What are you still doing here?” Andrew asked accusingly, coming up behind her.
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Note: My recent search for 2018 news articles I read when writing this section led me to subsequent reports that point to even more complexity than I remembered.
“Tbe price of cheap meat?” https://wapo.st/4l4ekEI
https://www.snopes.com/news/2018/08/21/facts-behind-arrest-immigrant-accompanying-pregnant-wife-hospital-remain-unclear/