VIRGIL AND THE GIRLS

I amble down 17th Street to Harris Teeter three times a week. It’s a supermarket. Usually I’m in search of a big donut with chocolate slopped all over it, or some southwestern chicken soup. About a month ago, I was headed there with every intention of turning left at Kalorama to go into Teeter. Didn’t do that. Turned right.

As I got to the Emanuel Baptist Church, I saw Rachel Bernstein coming down the the short flight of steps to the sidewalk. Have always had a thing for Rachel. She’s full figured and has a face you might not call pretty. “Handsome” maybe? Big nose, piercing brown eyes, and an expression that says she can make your cares and woes melt away.

“Virgil, you don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t email. So what did I do to get such shabby treatment from one of my best boyfriends?”

“Could be the problem, honey. You haven’t moved me to the top of the list.”

“You’re such a putz,” she said as she moved in on me, grabbed my chin, and planted a wet one on my lips. “But with a punim like that, what girl could say no to you?”

“Point of fact, most of ’em say no. Anyway, what’s a nice Jewish girl doing inside a baptist church?”

“You don’t know about our little group?”

“Know it’s not AA. You don’t need to drink. Always act like you just sucked down two or three to loosen up.” That got me a punch on the arm.

“No. But it’s modeled after AA, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Come to our next meeting. Be nice to have a man in the group.”

“I’ll do that.”

The Emanuel Baptist Church is a stone and mortar structure built a good while back. Maybe in the thirties when DC was just as segregated as any other southern city. Never mind it was the headquarters for our “great experiment in democracy.”

In those early days, the church had to be one rocking place on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. But the inexorable Caucasian incursion had surrounded it with buildings that had none of its soul and character. So what was once a devoted and loving congregation had dwindled to a few older folks. Ones who’d probably gone down to see Mr. Roosevelt’s funeral train as it chugged northward from Georgia in April of ’45.

When I walked in, the first thing to hit me was the church smells. It must be the wood and the paper that the bibles and hymnals are made of. I like those smells. Wasn’t for all the hypocrites, I’d frequent churches more often just to savor them.

Even before I got inside, I could hear Rachel’s voice as well as some others. Lots of energy and attitude. My pulse ticked up a few beats. Way up in front I saw a circle of women sitting on fold-up chairs. As I headed towards them, four faces with furrowed brows and smiles turned towards me.

“There’s our boy,” said Rachel. “Everybody, this is Virgil Canfield. He lives in the neighborhood. He looks like a cowboy, but he’s a gentleman and a feminist. And he’s gonna sit right here next to me.”

Rachel scooched over enough so I could drag a folding chair in between her and a black gal named Ophelia. “Ladies,” I said as I took off my Nationals cap and sat down. Soon as my butt hit the seat, I turned to Ophelia, stuck out my right hand and said, “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“Oh, this boy is from the south,” she said as she squeezed my hand and smiled with warmth that about made me swoon. Her forehead crinkled as she said, “You okay, Virgil?”

“It’s all good. You remind me of someone from back home in North Carolina. Someone who did me a great kindness that got me back on the rails when I was fixing to fly off ’em.”

“Would you like to tell us about it?”

“Some point I would, but this is supposed to be about your stuff, not mine.”

She said, “No honey, you got that wrong. This is about all our stuff. Whether you want to be or not, Virgil, you are now one of us girls.”

“Mean I got to start reading fashion magazines, getting my nails done, and washing my hair more than once a week?”

“Yes it does.”

Besides Rachel and Ophelia, we had Martha, a wispy little gal of indeterminate age with a Maine accent that I struggled to decipher. And we had Esmeralda, maybe thirty-five, who’d grown up in Puerto Rico. I was curious about why they were convening but decided to let the reason wend its way out. Didn’t take long.

Martha opened it up: “Virgil, have you ever suffered from depression?”

“That why you ladies get together? To talk about depression?”

All four of ’em nodded. I sucked in a deep breath. “Well, not sure where to start.”

“You start where you want to start, Virgil,” said Esmeralda. “Maybe that’s one of the things we are learning with each other. With depression, there is no simple beginning, and there is no simple ending.”

“I’d be inclined to agree. Let me ponder that a bit.” So I did, without a hint of prodding from any of them.

“Well … more than a few times in my fifty odd years I’ve been down. Rachel knows I was in the joint a couple of times years back for stupid shit I’d prefer not to get into. That all was depressing. But … well, none of it compares to what someone I dearly love went through about a year ago.”

I wanted to keep going. I did. But my throat tightened. I held my hand up and stared at the floor.

“Take your time, sweetie,” said Ophelia. “We don’t rush things in here.”

Then it tumbled out, and there I was sobbing away with four ladies crowded around me stroking my hair and rubbing my cheeks and whispering in my ear. Esmeralda mighta been singing a Spanish lullaby.

After I’d settled down, they got back in their chairs. None of of ’em said a word. Just leaned forward with their elbows on their knees and gently looked at me. I could hear the sound of car horns and jack hammers wafting in from the street. But it didn’t feel like we were in a city. Felt like some big hand had scooped us up, taken a look around, and set us down way out in the woods.

“She tried to kill herself. Didn’t work.” I knew they wouldn’t ask for details.

“Her name is Wanda. Met her in the seventh grade. First day of school. Been hopelessly smitten ever since. Wanted to be her boyfriend from the get go. Wanted to marry her as soon as the state of North Carolina would allow it. Never got to be her boyfriend. And marrying? Well, that definitely wasn’t gonna happen.”

I smiled, shook my head, and stayed quiet for a bit.

“Funny. Like most country boys raised in Appalachia, I see myself as this macho badass. Stick a gun in my face, I’ll tell ya to go ahead and shoot or I’ll yank it away from ya. That’s one side of me. Other side? I’m a pussy.”

They were struggling not to laugh, but a few giggles sneaked out.

“Truth is, I was Wanda’s mistress. Never the number one man in her life. Always a husband or ‘significant other’ in front of me. Always. Now and again she’d fit me in. Most often on a Wednesday afternoon when the mister du jour was off on a business trip or out working on his short game.”

“Any rate, during one of those trysts, seemed like some air had leaked out of Wanda’s tires. Not sure what gave it a way. Less sparkle in her eyes? Less punch in that throaty laugh. Less teasing. But some sadness was creeping into her soul.”

“Then it happened when I was back in North Carolina for a few weeks, staying in a motel. It was 1:12 in the morning. I remember because I saw the red numbers on the clock when my cell went off. Her voice was garbled. Said I’d be over in ten minutes. Made it in five. Pounded on the door to her condo for thirty seconds. Yelled. Nothing. Finally called 911.”

I managed to stand up and say, “Can’t tell ya how much I appreciate what you’re doing for me. Need to take a breather here.” I’d turned and headed for the door just before the waterworks fired up again.

Ten minutes later I went back in. The four of them were standing around a dented coffee urn, talking softly, and sipping from styrofoam cups. When they looked up, I shook my head and grinned. “Appears I still got the mic.”

We sat down once more, and I started yapping away. Told about the pills Wanda had taken, and the stomach pumping, and staying with her except when the nurses threw me out. How it all stretched out over a week until they released her into my care. Then I asked, “You all know what ECT is?” Four heads nodded.

“Every one of us has had ECT, Virgil,” said Rachel. My jaw dropped.

“No shit.”

“No shit.”

“Pardon my French, but that’s fuckin’ amazing … I mean, most people never even heard of ECT. Or, if they have, they think it’s some kind of Frankenstein ….” All of a sudden the five of us were laughing so hard that two of us had to run off to the facilities before we peed ourselves.

That night I was on the horn with Wanda. After I told her about the group, I asked, “So, how you feel about coming up here for a few days?”

“I’m thinking you might want me to come in and talk to your girlfriends down at the baptist church?”

“Could be a good thing for all concerned.”

“Uhm-hum.”

“So … you gonna come up?”

“You’ll pick me up at the airport?”

“Probably be more than just me.”

“My, my.”

(May 13. Good to go.