To Helen Back by Susan McBride Page A

unwilling to bend.
    “Ida, I said maybe we should go back . . .”
    “Did MacArthur throw in the towel?” she argued under her breath. “Did Eisenhower capitulate? Did Lee?” she uttered, every muscle within her thin body tensed.
    “But Lee surrendered at Appomattox,” Dot told her, and poked her side.
    Ida swatted at her. “Pish posh!” she hissed, and shook with indignation. “I will not be defeated now nor ever, do you hear me? I won’t let them win. I won’t!”
    “Ida, be reasonable . . .”
    But reasonable was the furthest thing from Ida’s mind.
    Tossing aside her handmade sign, she strode forward, her riding boots crashing through the high grass.
    “Ida, wait!”
    But she did not slow her steps or back away when the red-tied Ridgely scowled and screamed at her: “Take your friend and get off this land, old woman, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing!”
    Ida forged ahead, undeterred, brushing off the pale hand of Johnson as he stammered at her, “Please go, ma’am, please.”
    Still Ida didn’t hesitate. She stopped only when she stood before Ridgely, staring fearlessly into his face, red with fury.
    Then she lunged forward, grabbing the wooden handle of the shovel, jerking him off-balance. His foot, which had been propped atop the metal spade, came up from beneath him.
    “Now maybe you’ll listen!” Ida told him, the rise of her voice causing a nest of bluejays to squawk from the branches of a tree above. She brought the shovel up over her shoulder and swung it down like a hatchet.
    Dot screamed.
    Ridgely flung his arms over his head.
    A hand reached out from behind and grabbed Ida’s arm, deflecting the shovel from its mark.
    But not before the Telegraph photographer snapped a shot of Ida attacking Wet ’n’ Woolly’s senior vice president.
    “I could sue you for assault and battery, you crazy hen!” Ridgely shouted as Ida marched undaunted toward the Jeep. A string of curses reached her ears as she tossed the signs into the back of the car, not bothering to fasten the soft cover.
    “Come along, Dot,” she said to her wide-eyed partner, climbing up and into her seat behind the wheel.
    With a squeal of tires, she pulled the Jeep onto the highway, U-turning across the yellow line between the lanes. Then she headed away from the construction site, thinking as she raced back to town that it was too bad she’d been stopped from banging that foul-mouthed Ridgely on top of his fat head.
    It might have rid the world of one more despicable fellow.

 
    Chapter 14
    S UNDAY DAWNED WITH nary a storm cloud on the horizon. The air seemed oddly calm, Helen thought, peaceful after the rather turbulent days that had preceded it.
    The bells from the chapel clanged promptly at eight and then again at half-past when the morning service was to start.
    The half-dozen members of the church choir stood on the dais singing “The Garden of Prayer” as Helen entered in the company of Clara Foley and Lola Mueller.
    Fanny and Amos Melville greeted them as they passed through the vestibule. The pair handed out copies of the morning’s program and welcomed all with warm hellos.
    Madeline Fister sat at the helm of the old organ again, and Helen supposed Emma MacGregor must still be having those arthritis flare-ups. The girl played in the same hesitant manner as she had at the funeral service. Helen wondered if she felt no better now than she had then.
    Slipping into a pew midway up the aisle, Helen scooted in beside Clara. Within another few minutes the place was nearly filled.
    The choir sung the final chorus of the hymn, the birdlike soprano and bullfrog bass of their voices trailing off. There was a moment of relative quiet, of rustling programs and whispers, before Earnest Fister emerged from the door to the right of the dais and approached the pulpit. He was draped in his familiar white robe, his bearded countenance as solemn as ever. “Good morning,” he said.
    “Good morning, Dr. Fister,”