Hey! It’s Me, Putty!

By Mary Lockey

Emily Jane Putnam, aka Putty, an orphan, lives a peaceful life in a group home in the small village of Garland’s Ford in the southern mountains of North Carolina. Though she has intellectual and emotional challenges, Putty possesses a keen eye and open heart when it comes to life and love.
Just ask Maggie Stephens, the new rector at St. Francis Episcopal Church. Maggie accepts her first call to a church after being honest with the search committee about her sexuality. While she finds a welcoming parish, she also finds love, thanks to Putty. Though Maggie is the cleric, Putty’s purity of heart and her simple understanding of God’s love teach Maggie as much as anything she studied in seminary.
Or ask Anne Calvert, Putty’s elegant neighbor and benefactor. Anne has been widowed for over twenty years. Is her heart ready to love again? Putty says yes! Putty helps revive Anne’s activist spirit with the town council of Garland’s Ford threaten to close the group home.
Ask Sophie, Anne’s spitfire of a sister, about Putty’s ability to understand life and love. In an effort to help keep the group home open for Putty Sophie lands herself in a bit of hot water when she sells ads to go in the church bulletin. It is Sophie who meets Putty after each monthly fire drill in the group home - holding Putty and comforting her through the terror and torment that the fire drill causes. But even Sophie cannot unlock the secret to Putty’s extreme reaction.
Finally, ask ER, Maggie’s Golden Retriever. Lovable ER (short for Eleanor Roosevelt) becomes Putty’s best friend and is with Putty on the day Maggie is brutally attacked. ER is also with Putty at the fire drill when Putty remembers the “fire night” and the threat to “tell no other person” what happened. So Putty tells ER.
Once you meet Putty and her friends, you will want to move to Garland’s Ford. And you will be welcome and made to feel right at home!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Lockey
• Release date: Jun 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310037184

Mary Lockey

Mary Lockey is a graduate of Duke University where she studied Religion and History. She has worked in higher education for over twenty years and currently works as an academic advisor at Southwestern Community College in Sylva, North Carolina. She lives in Waynesville, North Carolina, with her son, Ian Smith. Hey! It’s Me, Putty! is her first novel.

Book preview

Hey! It’s me, Putty! My real and whole name full is Emily Jane Putnam. But you can call me Putty which is what people who know me do. People who do not know me do not call me anything.

My house is beautiful where I live that has yellow paint. It is two stories not like stories in a book but floors. There is a ramp to the front door for people to use if in a chair with wheels. There is a picnic table in the front yard where we can sit and watch but we don’t go out of the yard and we CANNOT cross the street. There are four bedrooms up the stairs where we sleep and dream. There is a master bedroom downstairs and a private bathroom. Lisa stays there or Stacey, depending who’s on call. We are a group in a home.

We have a nice yard. I told you about the picnic table. There is a bird bath and a pond, but we don’t swim in it. We have four goldfish, maybe seven. And places to walk and smell flowers like lavender. The priest of St. Francis Epopsicle church lives beside us. Her name is Maggie. She is lovely and I watch for her to come and go.

Maggie moved to beside us a year and ten days after I moved into my home. I remember. Here’s how:

I was sitting on our steps one sunny afternoon in May when Maggie’s moving truck pulled into the driveway. I was playing with my pet butterfly. I have several pet butterflies of all different colors. It just depends on which one comes and sits on me is how it is my pet. I don’t train them for tricks or anything like that. I sit very still and let them sit very still and we become friends. Have you ever looked into the eyes of a butterfly?

A few minutes after the big moving truck came, Maggie drove up in her white car. I knew it was Maggie because Stacey said the new woman priest was coming today. I held my pet butterfly gently in my hands and walked over.

Hello, Maggie said to me through the open window of the passenger door.

Hello back, I said to her. I’m Putty and I live right there, which then I pointed to the group home. And this is my pet butter – fl…y. Oh well it flew away.

I’m Maggie, she said as she got out of her car and stretched her arms above her head. She walked around her car to where I stood.

You have a pet butterfly? Maggie asked looking at me like she believed me.

Yes many but they don’t stay long. Do you live alone?

Yes.

You should get a pet, I said, for safety.

Oh, I have Eleanor Roosevelt, Maggie said.

What’s that? I asked. And I noticed that this woman was pretty. Her brown hair was pulled back in one ponytail braid. She had glassy brown eyes, though that might have been from driving, the glassiness not the color. Her skin looked soft and she had high cheekbones. She is about five feet and seven inches but we could still make eye contact even though I am shorter like four feet plus almost one other foot tall. You don’t have to be the same height as somebody to have eye contact; you just have to want to. Maggie was wearing jeans and a Red Sox shirt which is a team of baseball. She looked friendly and was acting like it too.

Eleanor Roosevelt is my Golden Retriever, a dog. I call her ER for short.

Where is she?

In the car, and I’m sure she’s ready to get out.

We walked to Maggie’s car and opened the door. ER was big and beautiful and hairy and the color of yellow maple leaves. She ran fast as can be to the other side of the yard to pee.

I reckon she had to go! I giggled to Maggie.

I’m not surprised. We’ve been in the car for about three hours.

When ER finished her business, she trotted over to us and sat down. Maggie introduced us proper. Hey ER, I am Putty. I am ten years old almost eleven. One hand of fingers, I said and held up my left hand of fingers and wiggled them. Two hands of fingers. Then I held up my right hand of fingers and wiggled them too. Two hands of fingers plus almost one more finger. I put my left hand of fingers behind my back and held up my right pointer finger and wiggled it in a circle. Eleven fingers and years almost.

I sat on the ground beside ER and put my arm around her. I think she took to me like butterflies do. I liked the way she leaned her big weight into me as we sat together, made me feel all safe. She panted and drooled on me and didn’t seem to think that I minded which I didn’t. We must have sat like that for eleven minutes while Maggie told the moving truck men what to do.

That is how that part happened, Maggie’s first arrival.

**

Miss Anne lives across the street. She is a proper lady except she doesn’t mind getting her hands dirty with her flowers which she has many. When she saw the moving truck come on the street, Miss Anne walked over to greet Maggie. To which I observed:

Hello, Miss Anne said. Welcome to Garland’s Ford. I’m Anne. I live right over there. Anne pointed to the green house across the street.

Hello, Maggie said as she extended her hand to greet Miss Anne. I’m Maggie.

Then Miss Anne turned to me. Hello Putty, dear, how are you today? she said, looking over at me with love in her eyes.

I smiled to Miss Anne and said, Fine thank you this is Miss Maggie and ER. Miss Anne smiled at me in thanks for the introducing. She stepped out of the way of two men carrying a couch furniture.

Oh, you can call me Maggie, is what Maggie said I can do.

Okay, I will call you Maggie, I told her. ER, do you want to see a butterfly? Come with me girl to the flowers where the butterflies sit. I patted my leg and said to ER to come with me girl and we walked to the flower patch. Maggie and Miss Anne kept talking. I know because I could see their lips moving. Sometimes Miss Anne would point to a house on our pretty street. I couldn’t hear them talking but I knew they were there because I could see them.

I know you have lots of unpacking to do, Anne said, So I won’t keep you. But I would love for you to come to dinner tonight. Won’t be anything fancy, so whenever you take a break from moving chores, come on over and we’ll sit a spell. I know you don’t have time to worry about preparing a meal, but you need to eat.

Thank you, Anne. That would be great. I want to get this truck emptied and get the movers on their way. I’ll clean up a bit, and then I’ll be over. This is such a lovely neighborhood. Maggie looked down the tree-lined street.

I’m over there with ER looking for a butterfly, I ran back over and tugged at Miss Anne’s shirt. I saw Maggie looking at the trees. We have lots of trees here, and their blossoms are red buds. They look like fire and when I saw how the sun was shining bright on them my body had a memory and I shivered. Miss Anne must have seen me because she walked over and put her arm around me and leaned into me a little - like ER but without the drool.

Spring is a lovely time on this street. Miss Anne kept her arm around me. Actually, each season has its own special glory. Wait until you see the trees in the fall!

Let’s go find more butterflies ER! is what I said to ER. I hope ER wants to be my friend. I don’t have a dog friend. Come with me girl! Let’s go! We ran back to the flower patch fast as the wind.

The houses are beautiful, Maggie looked at the three story red brick house across the street. The green metal roof glistened in the bright sunlight. The yard was dotted with pink and white azaleas and clumps of daffodils that were at the end of their bloom. The group home was two stories with clapboard siding painted a light chestnut brown. Black shudders flanked each window. Maggie noticed a metal staircase leading from a door on the top floor to the driveway that separated their houses.

There are delightful people in this neighborhood, Anne said. I think you will feel most welcome. Barbara who lives in the house there, Anne gestured at the house across the street, will probably bring you a coffee cake for your breakfast tomorrow.

How nice, Maggie said.

Mr. Thomas lives in the house adjacent to Putty’s, Anne said.

That’s me! I yelled from the flowers. Miss Anne looked at me and smiled.

He’s retired and likes to be called on to do odd jobs, Anne chuckled. So don’t let him down.

Wow, Maggie gazed at the single story cottage. I feel like I have instant family.

I don’t have a family, I said half out loud and the other half in my head. ER walked back to Maggie so I did too. Miss Anne heard the half I said out loud and said, You have me and Miss Sophie.

And Jared and Drew! I remembered.

That’s right, Miss Anne agreed with me. Then she looked at Maggie. Well…take your time. When you’re ready for a bite to eat, just come on over. Come to the back door because I’ll be on the patio.

Thanks, Anne. I’ll see you later.

Maggie watched Miss Anne walk across the street. Miss Anne was wearing black pants and a white button down shirt over a t-shirt. She has white hair which I know some ladies don’t want or if they do they have to get it from a bottle at the beauty parlor for a lot of money. Miss Anne’s hair is natural and she is movie star pretty. I heard a sigh emanate from Maggie’s bosom as Miss Anne walked away home. I read that line in a drugstore novel, sigh emanate from her bosom. When Lisa or Stacey or whoever is on call takes me to the drugstore to get my medicine, I look at the romance books in the bookstand for lines. I’m not a copycat because you would not believe the lines I read in one book which I also see in another, especial lines about bosoms. Those kinds of lines must be for all writers to use.

Miss Anne is old like maybe fifty-eight. She has white hair and beautiful skin and hazel eyes. Wait I said all that but except the eye color. She moves like chiffon curtains on an open window in a summer breeze (more drugstore novel but I didn’t quite have time to memorize the whole line.) Her body is beautiful but what makes her special is her heart. She is all love. And she cares about us in the group home. She is all the time bringing food, inviting us to her garden, paying for our trip to the zoo or movie or someplace with merry-go-rounds. Everyone loves Miss Anne. She always looks for the good in people. I know you can say that about many folks that they look for good in others. But Miss Anne, she actually finds it.

This is the end of my writing for now. Goodbye from me, Putty.

**

Anne Calvert crossed the street and walked the short distance to her house. She paused to pull a weed from the hosta bed beneath the weeping cherry tree. She continued to her back yard and retrieved the clippers from the garden shed. The early roses were in bloom and the rest of her garden would follow shortly resulting in flowers that colored the yard like a painter’s palette. There, she said to herself as she snipped a long stem pink rose. Simple, but elegant.

She brought the rose to the house and slipped off her sandals as she slid open the patio door. She and her husband had bought this quaint bungalow when they were first married. They added the patio and, except for minor interior renovations, the house retained the integrity of its 1920s Craftsman creation. She paused momentarily when she heard voices in the kitchen. Who in the world is in my house? she thought. Then she remembered that she had left her Frank Sinatra CD playing. Oh my, she laughed. I’ve been alone too long. Frank, I’m home!

**

Maggie showed the moving men where to put the furniture. The sofa and chairs were arranged in the living room near the stone fireplace. She put her desk in the third bedroom, along with the bookcase and several boxes of books she had collected over the years. Most of them were textbooks obtained in seminary, but there were several novels that she had taken with her from place to place during all her moves. These books felt more like old friends that Maggie just couldn’t part with.

Putty and ER followed Maggie into the house and both found the sofa. ER climbed her sixty pound body onto it, placing first one paw, then another, until she collapsed in one huge furry ball. Putty walked over and petted her on the head.

I have to go back home now, Putty said.

Well, okay Putty, it’s nice to meet you. I’ll probably see you tomorrow? Maggie set down the box of books and walked over to Putty.

Yes you will. I will be home and I will say hello when I see you. Good night.

Good night, Putty.

Maggie walked Putty into the yard and watched her walk up the ramp to the group home. Putty wished in her heart that she was going to have dinner with Maggie and Miss Anne. But the thought of the two of them on Miss Anne’s patio having dinner and watching fireflies warmed her and calmed her, and she knew she would sleep until the alarm.

After the movers left, Maggie unpacked the essential box of toiletries and placed them in the master bathroom. She found her suitcase that contained pajamas and a change of clothes for dinner and tomorrow, and set it on the unmade bed. She found the box that contained her prayer book and rosary, and giggled when she realized she had packed them with the coffee maker, coffee, and her favorite mug. Ah, the important things, she said to herself.

Maggie set the coffee maker on the counter and plugged in the cord. The numbers on the clock face flashed immediately, asking to be set right. What time indeed? Maggie thought. She had not owned a watch in years for no particular reason. She had worn her father’s silver Timex, which she had taken from his wrist the night he died. The last of her immediate family members to die, Maggie’s father had been her tether to the world for nearly fifteen years. The one who kept her grounded. When he died in the hospital that cold February night, time had stopped for Maggie. The only way for it to continue, she was sure, was to mark its passage with her father’s timepiece. When that watch finally stopped three years later, she put it in the jewelry box on her dresser and never wore another one. I can always find out what time it is, she had reasoned.

She picked up her cell phone from the counter and tapped the screen. 2:47. She pressed the buttons on the coffee maker until it read 2:49. Close enough.

She walked back to the table and lifted her prayer book from the box and set it on the kitchen table. Her practice was to say Morning Prayer while the coffee brewed. Lord open our lips always solicited the response of a gurgling coffee machine dripping black, hot liquid into a waiting carafe.

Maggie worked for two more hours unpacking boxes with the goal of organizing two rooms: her bedroom and the bathroom – the two rooms essential to her being able to function. Well, those rooms and the coffee maker in the kitchen. Other rooms would come together in due time. And who knew how long it would take to unpack her books. St. Francis provided a spacious office at the church. But Maggie preferred to keep the majority of her books in her home, close by. They provided company like old, dear friends who were not afraid of silence and content simply to be with her.

After the last box of toiletries was unpacked, Maggie collapsed the cardboard box and set it on the porch with the others, destined to be recycled. She found the larger box labeled towels written in red magic marker, and plucked a purple towel from the top of the stack.

The water from the shower felt warm against her tired body. She turned her back to the faucet and let the water flow on the back of her head, through her shoulder length hair, and down her back and legs. If she were not careful, she thought, she might fall asleep standing up. As the water washed away the fatigue of the road trip and the labor of unpacking the truck, Maggie thought, This is a new start for me, a new life and as far as I can tell there are no egg shells upon which to tread lightly. A new start is a gift and it deserves my full presence and honesty.

Once she emerged from the shower, Maggie opened the overnight bag into which she had packed several casual outfits to wear over the next few days while she unpacked and brought her new home into order. She selected her favorite pair of jeans and a black cotton v-neck sweater. Surely Anne won’t expect me to dress up for dinner.

As Maggie slipped her feet into her shoes, her cell phone buzzed lightly on the dresser.

Hmm, she said, not recognizing the number displayed on the small face of the phone. Hello?

Reverend Stephens?

Yes, this is she.

Hello my name is Dot Ramsey from St. Francis altar guild.

Yes, Mrs. Ramsey, Maggie replied, struggling to recall who exactly this woman was.

I know it’s Monday and you just arrived and all and well, I have a wee little issue to discuss with you before services on Sunday.

What can I do for you? Maggie asked, not knowing what to expect.

Well, you see, I am new to the altar guild, having joined last week, and I take my duties very seriously, Dot said, obviously pleased with her role.

That’s good to hear, Maggie said, understanding the importance of a knowledgeable and reliable altar guild.

And, you see, Dot continued, I am in a bit of a standoff with the other members, and I would very much like your input on this important matter.

I’ll do what I can, Maggie replied. What is the standoff about?

I think, Dot began, that we should not run the risk of staining our beautiful altar linens with the port we serve at Eucharist. It would be a shame to drape the altar each Sunday with beautiful cloths only to have the blight of a deep red stain, or, Heaven forbid, more than one, staring up at you, or for that matter, all the world to see.

Hmmm, Maggie said. She heard Dot take a breath. And continue.

So, Rev. Stephens, I propose that we no longer use the red wine at our Eucharist. Perhaps we should use white. You know, a nice dry white wine would go so well with the bread. And it wouldn’t stain the linens. Gallo makes a lovely white wine and if we get it from Buy-Smart this week, we can get five boxes for the price of three and save money. It should last us a good long time if we don’t let people sip too much from the chalice. What do you think, Reverend?

By this time, Maggie had sat on the edge of her bed, her brow furrowed in disbelief at what she was hearing. She couldn’t decide if she was stunned or amused or perhaps both.

Well, she said. Dot, I appreciate your concern. I really do. And I’m glad that you are so enthusiastic about your role on the altar guild.

Thank you, Reverend. Maggie heard the pride in Dot’s voice.

Maggie was careful not to crush Dot’s spirit of service to the church. Dot, red wine is fundamental to the Eucharistic practice. We use red wine for a purpose: to symbolize the blood of Christ.

Hmm… Dot pondered aloud. After what seemed like twenty seconds of silence she asked, What about plasma?

I’m sorry? Maggie asked, wondering if she’d heard correctly.

That’s in blood, right? It might be white or clear, Dot said, excited at her new insight. I read in a magazine that wine selection no longer follows old conventions as it once did, you know: serve red wine with red meat and white wine with fish and chicken, like that and all. We could apply that to the color of blood. Communion wine could symbolize Jesus' plasma! So we could use white wine and not be in violation of church custom. Oh, it’s a win-win!

Right… I see where you’re coming from, Maggie said slowly, trying to be diplomatic in the face of this sincere yet comedic gesture of Dot’s. But I’m afraid we need to stick with the guidelines of the Episcopal Church and serve the traditional wine. Tell you what. I’ll be very careful with the chalice and not stain those beautiful linens St. Francis is so blessed to have.

Well, all right, Reverend, if you’re sure, Dot emphasized the word sure, though Maggie noticed it was not in an insincere or disrespectful way.

I’m sure, Dot. I look forward to seeing you on Sunday, Maggie said, standing and running her hand through her hair as she looked in the mirror.

Thank you, and I look forward to seeing you, too. Bye-bye now, Dot said.

Goodbye, Dot. Thank you for calling. Maggie pressed the end’ button on her phone and checked the time: 6:10. She walked out the front door to go to Anne’s house for dinner. Though she would never mock her parishioners, she giggled at the thought, On that same night, Jesus took the cup of Chardonnay and when he had given thanks, he blessed it…"

**

Maggie walked across the street to Anne’s house, up the driveway to the patio. She found Anne sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs, sipping a glass of wine.

Maggie, dear, here you are! I do hope you left things at a reasonable stopping point. I know you are eager to get settled in, but you mustn’t overdo. It will get done in due time.

I actually made a little more progress than I expected, Maggie said, so I feel like I can have a relaxing evening with little or no guilt.

Wonderful. Let me pour you a glass of wine, Anne poured a glass of golden chardonnay from the carafe. I’m sorry; would you rather have iced tea or water?

Wine would be lovely, thank you.

Anne motioned for Maggie to sit in the swing while she returned to the chair. Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll prepare our plates in just a minute. I want to enjoy the hummingbirds for a while. They are delightful to watch, very territorial with the feeders, though, Anne pointed at the red feeder hanging in a nearby maple tree. Oh look! There’s a ruby throat.

"I haven’t seen a hummingbird in so long. They are