12

The senior class of Green High has moved its prom to the Bayou Lake pavilion, and faculty sponsors are requesting more chaperones. If they don't get enough, they'll have to hire security from the parish, which will cut into the refreshment budget. Rumor has it that they are going to have a chocolate fountain this year. If you would like to help, please call the school office.

—The Green News-Item

A producer from New York called on the Thursday before Easter, in the midst of a newsroom argument about whether we'd gone overboard with tornado coverage.

"People need a dose of good news," Tammy said. "We should cover the Lakeside Association Easter egg hunt and get pictures of the azaleas blooming in front of the library."

"It's only been a month," Alex said. "We've barely scratched the surface on construction permits and the long-term impact.This place is going to dry up and blow away."

"Don't you think you're being a little dramatic, Alex? Green made it through the Great Depression, boll weevils, and tuberculosis.I doubt a tornado will be the end of it." Linda, on deadline with a story for Friday's edition, didn't look up as she shuffled through her notes and jumped into the discussion.

"I wonder what Tom would have thought?" Katy asked, and the room got quiet.

When the phone rang, no one moved to pick it up.

After five rings, I snatched the receiver off the phone on the composing room wall. "Hello," I barked, sounding like I expected a telemarketer on the other end.

"Excuse me," a man with a distinct East Coast accent said."I'm trying to reach The Green News-Item."

"This is the Item."

"Lois Barker Craig, please," the man said in a tone that sounded far more like a demand than a request.

"This is Lois."

"I need to speak to the owner of the newspaper," he said.

"You're speaking to her."

"I see," he said, and there was the clicking of computer keys in the background.

"May I help you?" I asked.

"I'm calling to help you," he said. "My network intends to feature you on our Sunday evening program."

"I beg your pardon?"

"To mark the one-month anniversary of the tornado, we're doing a story on Green, Louisiana." The name of the town sounded odd from his mouth. "We will record the footage Sunday morning and broadcast to millions that evening in a special report."

"I'm afraid there's no room in the parking lot for your equipment," I said, "but you're welcome to use our newsroom." A steady stream of journalists had passed through over the past four weeks. While the staff had adapted, readers complained loudly about the lack of customer parking.

"We don't want parking, Ms. Craig," the man said. "We want you."

"I understand," I said, although I didn't at all.

"Our researchers told us about the phenomenal coverage your newspaper has pulled off and the leadership role you've taken in the community."

"Zach put you up to this, didn't he?" I asked. "Gina said he was still ticked at me for leaving Dayton and the company. Tell him my newspaper is twice the paper his was, and—"

"Ms. Craig," the producer interrupted, "This is no prank.We want you to tell the country about how your little town has fought back."

"It's not my little town," I said. "Everyone has stepped in to help. Perhaps you might give Mayor Eva Hillburn a call."

"We'll certainly talk to the mayor," he said. "But we want to tell the story of a courageous journalist who rushed to the newspaper in her wedding gown to cover the big story."

I gasped. Every eye in the newsroom was glued to me, and I could tell they were trying to figure out who I was talking to."Are you kidding me?"

"You're a hero," he said.

"You make this sound like a soap opera. Real people's lives were affected. People died."

"We'll explain all of that in the program, of course."

"You clearly did not see my interview the morning after the tornado," I said, "or you would not ask me to appear on television.This Sunday won't be possible. It's Easter, and I intend to be at church with my husband and friends."

"Perhaps our crews could accompany you."

"To worship services?" I asked. "These people need privacy and time to heal. They don't need one more news crew in their faces."

"That attitude does not fit with the aggressive coverage your newspaper has done on the storm, including scooping the national media in virtually every angle of this story for the past four weeks."

"We're the local newspaper," I said, my voice rising. "We help people find answers to their questions and solutions to their problems."

"An excellent way to phrase that," he said, as though I had won a middle-school oration competition. "This will add national exposure to your work and draw attention to the plight of your people."

"The plight of my people? I'm not a dictator in a Third World country. I must get back to work."

"What they say is true then," he said.

"What who say?"

"The national media are buzzing about the feisty owner of a twice-weekly paper in a Podunk town in Louisiana. They say you get phenomenal work out of a staff that is smaller than our secretarial pool."

I faltered. The national media were buzzing about me?

"My tiny staff is preparing a forty-eight-page special edition for tomorrow, with Pulitzer-Prize worthy photos and narratives that will make you cry," I said. "I must go."

"Our program can bring these stories alive in ways that a newspaper can't," he said. "At least take my name and number."

I jotted the information and hung up.

"Podunk," I said. "A hotshot big shot in New York says Green is a Podunk town."

"Didn't you say that, too, when you moved here?" Tammy asked.

"I never once used the word Podunk," I said. "Except maybe to my friend Marti."

"So what was that all about?" Linda asked.

"A superstar network reporter wants to come down and shadow me on Sunday, let me do a dog and pony show about Green."

"That's awesome," Katy said, jumping up. "Can I be on camera?"

"I wouldn't do that in a million years," I said. "We're friends and neighbors to these people. I'm not going to make a spectacle out of them."

"Would it rally support?" Linda asked. "Could this program raise money and bring in extra volunteers? Local people are fading fast."

"Lois, the national coverage has been hit-and-run," Alex said, an excited expression on his face. "This might bring the story back to the forefront."

"I'll be there in time for the sermon," I told Chris Sunday morning. "It'll be crowded, so save me a seat."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked. "With folding chairs in the parking lot, everything's going to be out of whack. It's going to be hard enough on everyone as it is."

"Pastor Jean said it might help gain attention for aid dollars," I said, "and mission volunteers from around the country.The poor are homeless. They can't afford a hotel room like we've got, and you've seen firsthand how much help we need with meals."

"I'm certainly not going to argue with both you and Jean," Chris said. "I'll see you at church."

I made my way downtown, continually shocked at the destruction. Tom's car had finally been towed, and my breath caught in my throat when I passed the site. "I hope I'm doing the right thing, friend," I whispered.

The television crew, complete with megastar reporter Drew Durrett, had set up on the steps of the Item by the time I pulled up. Unlike what I had always heard about TV announcers, he was as tall and striking in person as on the screen, although I suspected he colored his hair. He wore tailored slacks and a pink linen shirt without a wrinkle in it, an outfit most men in Green wouldn't be caught dead in.

"We'll interview you, get a few shots around town, and wrap up at your church service," he said. "We'll catch you live right before it airs this evening, the most watched news program on television."

My staff had prepped me for the appearance, throwing hard questions at me about economic impact and emergency preparedness.Drew's first questions were how it felt to spend my wedding night at the newspaper and was it true that my husband had given his home away only days before mine blew away.

Then he wanted to know if I found it ironic that an odd weather system from the Midwest had caused the unusual storm.

"A bizarre coincidence," I said after a couple of seconds of opening my mouth with no sound coming out. "My story is one of hundreds in our community. The town of Green and Bouef Parish ask for the compassion and prayers of the country."

Katy, who had insisted on being on hand, gave me a thumbs-up sign.

"While this story may be old news for viewers," I said, "it continues to unfold in very real ways for individuals here. The statistics are not merely numbers but heartache and financial ruin. As the local newspaper, The Green News-Item will follow this story as long as needed."

"Nice job in taking back the interview," Katy whispered as we rode out to Grace Chapel. "You were awesome."

"It's clear you care about this town," Drew said, obviously having heard Katy's every word. "Your passion is impressive."

As we drove up to the edge of the church site, I wanted to crawl under the seat of the car. Every person in the church turned, and some waved. What had I been thinking?

"We're later than I anticipated," I said in a low voice to the reporter. "Perhaps we could wait over here until after the service."

"The Easter celebration is a major part of the story," Drew said. "We want to show the resilience of people in the midst of a storm. You've told me that faith is a key component of their lives."

I looked across the parking lot to where the damaged church sat. Someone had hung beautiful sprays of lilies on the front doors. Familiar blue tarps covered the missing roof, and the piano, only slightly damaged, had been moved outside for the service.

Every seat was filled with friends and neighbors, many dressed in their Easter best, and a few people stood at the ends of aisles. The sun shone bright but the air was cool, a typical Easter morning in North Louisiana.

"I'll meet you here after the service," I said to Drew and the camera crew. While Katy slipped in next to her mother and stepfather, I walked quickly to the empty plastic folding seat next to Chris. I met Pastor Jean's eyes, and she gave the tiniest of nods but never missed a word.

" 'Do not be afraid,' the angels told the shepherds on the night Christ was born," Jean said. " 'Do not be afraid,' they said when the women found an empty tomb. 'Do not be afraid,' they tell us here today on this day that reminds us we can always go on."

"Amen," an older church member said.

"Amen," Iris Jo said.

"And amen again," said a voice it took me a minute to place.It was Hugh, my father-in-law.

Pianist Mary Frances pounded out a medley of traditional Easter hymns, making the small instrument with water spots sound as beautiful as a baby grand. The crowd listened prayerfully, many with heads bowed, others with tears flowing.

"Go in peace," Jean said as we rose for the benediction, "but don't go too far because we'll eat dinner on the grounds in about twenty minutes."

Tables of food were pulled out of Jean's parsonage, and the worship chairs became dining chairs. I was patted and praised and encouraged by everyone, from Estelle, who reported that Holly Beth missed me, to Iris, who suggested we might get new advertisers from the broadcast.

Drew interviewed Jean inside the sodden church, standing cautiously in front of the altar where Chris and I had been married.I trailed along. The beautiful quilted banner was stained and probably ruined. A piece of ceiling tile hung by a corner.

"It was miraculous," Jean said, pulling Drew by the arm through the safe parts of the church. "Because so many people were here for the wedding, they were not harmed. Trees fell on their houses, and if they'd been on the roads, they might have been killed."

When we stepped outside, Maria walked up with her three boys and looked at the popular newsman. "I must tell this reporter my story," she said in careful English, her voice shaking."I would have no story were it not for Chris and Lois Craig.They gave me that home there."

She pointed across the road.

"My sons and I lived in a rented shack, and it blew away.We would be dead if not for these two." As she spoke, her voice became clear and strong, her Spanish accent making her words sound like a song. "Lois and Chris gave us a true home in Green, not merely a place to live but a chance to be part of their family."

"Thank you for those heartfelt words," Drew said to Maria, shaking her hand. "You have beautiful sons."

"They saved an unconscious man covered in fire ants," Katy said, moving close to the reporter. "He was nearly dead." As the camera zoomed in, she chatted with the reporter as though she were on national television every day. While I felt stiff and clammy, she was a natural.

I could see Drew's eyes brighten as he turned back to me."What a delightful young woman," he said, "with a flair for human interest. Lois, you never mentioned these stories."

"They're exaggerating," I said, frowning at Katy. "Could I interest you in lunch? You won't get food like this in New York City." I sounded the city's name as though I were on a game show.

By the middle of the afternoon, I felt tireder than I had the morning after the tornado and more anxious than when a series of fires had been set at the paper by the now dead Chuck McCuller, big-time jerk.

"If you would gather your staff and friends at our van at five o'clock your time, we'll introduce you live and move into the recorded segment," Drew said, after eating what I was fairly certain were two large plates of ham and potato salad and three desserts. Nearly every person at Grace Chapel had moseyed by, to be hospitable or smoothed their hair and walked right in front of the cameras.

As we gathered for the broadcast that afternoon, Drew's motor home was parked on the street by the paper, and the crowd was larger than attendance at my wedding, gradually building until it looked like Green's summer ice cream festival.A giant monitor sat to the side, and people waved at the cameras as though outside a Manhattan studio for a morning show.

Someone had written "Welcome to Green: Home of the Green High Rabbits" on a poster, complete with the school mascot drawn with green paint. The youth minister from the Baptist church down the street held a sign that said, "He is Risen."

My stomach felt like I had eaten too much of Estelle's banana pudding and one too many of Pastor Jean's legendary deviled eggs.

"How's it going?" Kevin whispered in my ear, and I almost squealed with happiness.

"I've never been so happy to see anyone in my life. Help! What do you recommend for an upset stomach?"

"That rough?" As usual, she looked gorgeous, her dark hair swept up, the slight smell of Dove soap on her skin. She wore a pair of yellow jeans that would have made me feel like a float in a parade, but looked like an advertisement in a spring catalog on her.

"Where's Asa Corinthian?" I scanned the crowd.

"Over there with Mama and Daddy," she said. "They wouldn't have missed this for the world." Marcus and Pearl sat on the edge of the crowd in lawn chairs. Asa, dressed in his Easter suit, was playing peekaboo with Molly, who wore a giant smile.

"Are you having déjà vu?" Kevin asked. "Doesn't this remind you of the crowd at the first newspaper fire on New Year's Day last year?"

"Isn't it something?"

"It's wonderful. It's the first time I've seen most of these people smile in a month."

"I've hardly seen you," I said. "The doctoring clearly isn't slowing down."

"Not much." She shook her head. "We're getting more of the stress-related ailments now. As the shock wears off, people's emotions are coming out in headaches and high blood pressure.By the time I make rounds after clinic, I barely see my son."

"Are you OK?" I put my hand on her arm. As I looked closer I could see the strain of fatigue on her face.

"It feels unreal that Papa Levi's dead. Every day I think he'll be sitting with A.C. when I get home. I miss him so much, more than I expected."

"I feel the same way about Tom," I said, digging in my pocked for a Kleenex. "I relied on his opinion much more than I realized."

A loud giggle from Asa caught our attention, and I turned to see him on Chris's shoulders headed our way.

"Isn't he adorable?" Kevin asked.

"Your son or my husband?"

"Both. You're a great friend, Lois. Happy Easter."

"Lois, that reporter guy's looking for you," Chris said. "It's about time to start."

"Say a prayer," I said, giving Asa and Chris a quick peck on the cheek.

I squirmed throughout the broadcast, groaning out loud when I saw—and heard—myself on camera.

"Do I really sound like that?" I whispered to Chris.

"My southern bride. I believe you've picked up an accent."

I moaned when the reporter described me as a kind of paragon of community journalism and glowed when he talked about my "fine" staff. I beamed at how friendly and smart Katy sounded. The crowd hooted and pointed when their neighbors were interviewed, and overall the story had an affectionate tone.

"This is Drew Durrett, signing off from Green, Louisiana, where the people are hard-working and God-fearing . . . and will never give up hope." The crowd milled around, slow to leave.

Pastor Jean pulled Maria's sons in their big red wagon to where I stood. "I love to watch how God uses you," she said.

"What in the world are you talking about now, Pastor?" I smiled at the three boys as we spoke.

"The ancient words of the resurrection and a live television broadcast. Only Lois Barker Craig could bring those two together with such ease."

"Ease?" I said with a snort. "My deodorant quit working hours ago."

Jean laughed. "Easy or not, you stepped up to use your unique gifts right when they were most needed."

Nearly everyone I'd ever met in Green came by to say thanks, ranging from Rose, whose antique mall had been squarely behind the live shots, and Anna Grace, leaning against her walker, Bud next to her. I didn't tell them I had tried to weasel out of the interview.

The crowd shifted slightly, and a path opened to show Mayor Eva making her way toward me, looking like royalty in a silk suit and matching heels. She took both my hands and pulled me to her.

"We turned a corner today, thanks to you," she said. "You showed the glory of Green."