From out of the pages of The Outta Towners by Sarah Rebecca Kelly.

Chapter 3

Report)—Amid reports that Donald Trump might soon be summoned to appear before Robert Mueller, the White House doctor wrote a note on Wednesday indicating that Trump was too sick to talk to the special counsel. “Donald Trump is not well,” Dr. Ronny Jackson wrote. And the doctor’s note offered a laundry list of ailments afflicting Trump, including flu-like symptoms, upset stomach, headaches, dizziness, confusion.

Unlike the once boasting California Pacific Coast and its Artichoke Capital-- although to give credit where credit’s due-- sunny California had had much to boast about before the awful curse of a twenty year drought, the raging forest fires, the deadly mud slides and the endless miles of tent cities, without clean drinking water and portable toilet facilities, but thousands of worthless eviction notices stupidly issued to those who had no means to escape-- Not too many curious tourists were acquainted with the narrow road less traveled toward Turnip Patch, where turnips seem to grow wild, slipping through every backyard garden and springing up again, like dandelions, in cheerful front yard flower beds-- Turnip Patch simply took its nondescript vegetable for granted. (A few of their new neighbors, like Anna Theresa, did not believe turnips were eatable.)

At four o’clock, before dawn in early February, 2018, still comfortable in his flannel, turquoise stripe pajamas, Father Figaroa was not thinking proudly about an ample crop of turnips. He was frettin’ on his laptop, editing his sermon, so not to offend his congregation, about how important it was during these disturbing periods, especially since Pope Francis had clearly instructed even the barest of God’s churches, which St. Matthew’s rock structure fit that description: St. Matthew, himself, was known to have strayed from the respectable Jews, and ran around soft soapin’ undesirable sinners, claiming Jesus was the long awaited Messiah; so, the present day church should prayerfully declare itself an absolute ‘skin’ color blind, refugee sanctuary, while also feeding the local poor.
Amos said, "Surely the Master YHWH does nothing without revealing his plan to his servants the prophets" (3:7). If He told the prophets, they wrote it all down and we can then diligently search their writings to understand His plan.
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Ever’ now and then, Cindy’s darkest just before dawn moments rose up to haunt her. Shortly after her 15th birthday, during her sophomore year in high school, there had been a secret lover in her life. And if you think Cindy’s white mother got upset over her daughter’s knelt on her knees, cry for help, begging forgiveness of all her sins, while hiding inside a Saturday afternoon Confessional, you should of heard the uproar the slightly older boyfriend caused his black mother when he asked her to sign a permission paper for him to get married. Although, spiritually wounded, Cindy did gain Father Peter’s utmost objection to an abortion. Eventually, dealing from behind the frantic, wild with fear, black mother’s back, taking his righteous wisdom from the family Bible, and the fact that Obama had turned out so well, the culprit’s father made the necessary arrangements. And no one got lynched. bridal shower gowns

On their early morning walk to St. Mary’s Church, Cindy’s younger sister, Patty, and her mother stood aside, as David Ross’s jalopy convertible stopped in broad daylight to pick up, Cindy. She gasped, “Yes!” to his let’s get married proposal.

“My dad fixed it. He knows the justice of the peace and the justice of the peace knows the woman who makes out the marriage license, in—David did not say, nigger town, but he might as well have. They raced to pick up Cindy’s alcoholic grandmother, who was not quite so tightly coiled as the rest of the family.

Not long after such a premature marriage that just happened to have happened on a never to be forgotten October Sunday morning, 13 years ago, their racial difficulties proved to them both, You can’t live on love alone.

At least her baby had been given a proper last name. Nevertheless, being a teenage mother took its toll. No matter how hard she tried, working full time, her grades were not what they used to be, as she fought her way through the years to earn a teacher’s degree. (An understanding school board, raised on turnips, that had so recently hired her for this job voted in her favor, deciding, a conscientious, average graded teacher was better than none at all.)

Cindy’s worst memory had nothing to do with sleepless nights, baby tears and changing wet Pampers. Right after her sister, Patty’s elaborate wedding party, where Cindy had worked her fingers to the bone, taking her responsibilities so seriously, she was not even aware that her usual smiling expression had turned quite sober, till her mother was heard gossiping, “Oh, its nothing to worry about, Cindy’s just jealous of Patty’s beautiful wedding.” (What her mother didn’t know was how hard it was to squeeze Patty into a form fitting girdle to hide her swelling belly, before they slipped her into a snow white gown. It was harder yet to pull the darn thing off, with the bride gasping, “Hurry, I can’t breathe.”)

As time slipped away, sight unseen, and it was no surprise to her, she learned that David Ross had graduated high school, and he went on to graduate valedictorian of his college class. Occasionally, late at night Cindy would stare at her cell phone and wish David would call again. Only once did her mental telepathy train of thought work. He always asked about Melaney. What really came as a surprise was the fact that neither one had felt the need to file for a divorce.