Claws and Effect by Rita Mae Brown

the Rev, as she called him. She liked that the Lutheran church—as well as the other churches in the area—hummed, a hive of activity, a honeycomb of human relationships. If someone was sickly, the word got out and people called upon him or her. If someone struggled with alcoholism, a church member who was also in Alcoholics Anonymous invariably paid a call.
    The other major denominations, all represented, cooperated throughout major crises such as when someone’s house burnt down. It wasn’t necessary that the assisted person be a member of any church. All that mattered was that they lived in Crozet or its environs.
    Reverend Jones, warm and wise, even pulled together the Baptist and Pentecostal churches, who had often felt slighted in the past by the “high” churches.
    Mrs. Hogendobber, a devout member of the Church of the Holy Light, proved instrumental in this new area of cooperation.
    Tonight the meeting concerned food deliveries and medical services for those people unable to shop for themselves and who had no families to help them. Often the recipients were quite elderly. They had literally outlived anyone who might be related to them. In other cases, the recipient was a mean old drunk who had driven away family and friends. The other group involved AIDS patients, most of whom had lost their families, self-righteous families who shrank into disapproval, leaving their own flesh and blood to die alone and lonely.
    Harry especially felt a kinship with this group since many were young. She had expected to meet many gay men but was shocked to discover how many women were dying of the insidious disease, women who had fooled around with drugs, shared needles, or just had the bad luck to sleep with the wrong man. A few had been prostitutes in Washington, D.C., and when they could no longer survive in the city they slipped into the countryside.
    Harry, well educated, was not an unsophisticated person. True, she chose country life over the flash and dash of the city, but she hardly qualified as a country bumpkin. Then again few people really did. The bumpkin was one of those stereotypes that seemed to satisfy some hunger in city people to feel superior to those not in the city. Still, she realized through this service how much she didn’t know about her own country. There was an entire separate world devoted to drugs. It had its rules, its cultures, and, ultimately, its death sentence.
    Sitting across from her in the chaste rectory was Bruce Buxton. Insufferable as he could be, he gave of his time and knowledge, visiting those that needed medical attention. How Herb had ever convinced him to participate puzzled her.
    â€œâ€”three teeth. But the jaw isn’t broken.” BoomBoom Craycroft read from her list of clients, as the group called their people.
    Herb rubbed his chin, leaned back in his seat. “Can we get her down to the dentist? I mean can she get away from him and will she go if you take her?”
    BoomBoom, becoming something of an expert on domestic violence, said, “I can try. He’s perverse enough to knock out the new teeth if she gets them.”
    Bruce spoke up. He’d been quiet up to now. “What about a restraining order?”
    â€œToo scared. Of him and of the system.” BoomBoom had learned to understand the fear and mistrust the very poor had of the institutions of government and law enforcement. She’d also learned to understand that their mistrust was not unfounded. “I’ll see if I can get her out of there or at least get her to the dentist. If I can’t, I can’t.”
    â€œYou’re very persuasive.” Herb put his hand on his knee as he leaned forward in the chair a bit. His back was hurting. “Miranda.”
    â€œThe girls and I”—she meant the choir at the Church of the Holy Light—“are going to replace the roof on Mrs. Weyman’s house.”
    â€œDo the work yourself?” Little