Vandora

By Robert Meyers

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     Not Pandora. That's the girl who had all those evil things in a box and whose curiosity let them out to pester and plague mankind. But Vandora, another girl altogether. Here is her story.

     There were these two ladies from the Riverside Church of Christ, see, making one of their compassion calls. First they stopped by the church building and gathered up the food folks had brought, including one little jar of homemade something.

     Then one of them, who never remembers to bring anything at the appointed time, ran to her house and raided the shelves of peaches, fruit cocktail, waffle syrups, beans, corn and tomatoes. Her husband's eyes would widen in surprise when he heard about her carefree give-away program, but she knew he would be ashamed to say very much when he was living so well.

     They bought two or three dozen eggs at the Peter Pan store, because they are cheaper there, and some half-gallon cartons of milk. They went to the wholesale bread store and bought bread. It seemed right for them to stretch the money put in the benevolent box the Sunday before as far as possible.

     Then they took it to the family. The house had had no running water for some time, but pressure exerted on a landlord remedied this. The toilet, which had stopped working weeks before and which the landlord had refused to fix, was also now working, because of gentle but persistent pressures from the church ladies on the welfare department and the county health department. The two ladies talked awhile and then started to go. "By the way, Vandora," said one, "why aren't you in school?" Vandora dropped her head. "I didn't have the materials for my sewing class." They understood. It would be no fun to be in school when other kids had pins and needles, threads and materials, and she had none. So Vandora had just stopped going completely. And besides, the teacher had said, "You get your materials or don't come in here."

     Well, that made sense, see, because you just can't carry all these poor people on your back. A teacher just has to get tough. One little Negro girl without her materials would put a cloud on the project. Nobody could have any fun!

     The two ladies asked for the list from school and found it could all be bought for a few dollars. They put their own money into this project, although their own children would be asking for something new by nightfall. (Although they had never stayed home from school a day in their lives for lack of materials).

     So out they went again, these ladies, and bought pins and hooks and eyes, pincushions and tape measures and thimble and thread, and some material for ninety-seven cents a yard. And one of them got out of the car when they came back to Vandora's house and took it up to the front door. She accepted their gift speechlessly, but her eyes shone with excitement.

     Vandora will be in school tomorrow, they thought as they drove home, and for several days afterwards because she is so proud of that sackful of goods. She will not have to tell anyone that someone brought it; she can pretend that her own daddy did it for her. After a while, probably, she will again lose incentive and

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drop from her classes. Perhaps the ladies will encourage her again, or perhaps not, but she will carry with her forever a memory of people who cared when there was no logical reason why they should. Perhaps it will make some difference in the thing that finally becomes Vandora's adult personality.

     And the ladies? Well, it may be that someday, years from now, when a dark hour comes round and the old question comes shambling toward them again: Is life really meaningful? Is it worth anything at all? they'll reach back to draw upon the reservoir of good deeds done in the name of Jesus, and they will know that of all the things they have ever done, these things remain in the mind as proof that it is not completely a dog-eat-dog world where nobody, but nobody, cares.

     In the dark hour, with the old question, that may be enough! And the dark hour always comes.