Not a Sparrow Falls (12 page)

She inspected the windows of the flower shop, the city office building, the courthouse, Gadsby’s Tavern, the old inn where everyone ate sitting at the same table. She pulled her coat around her chin, and without even being aware that she’d given the order, her feet took her toward the old church. She turned onto Fairfax Street, away from the bustling traffic, past the brick row houses with their shuttered windows.

There it was, rising up in front of her, stark and beautiful, stately and peaceful. Established 1788, said the plaque on the sidewalk in front. She didn’t know why she loved that old church, but the square angles, the solidness of it made her feel safe and protected. Since the first day it had been a refuge.

She didn’t go inside right away. Instead, she slipped around the side of the building. She followed the narrow walkway that led to the churchyard in the back, went past the hollies, under the arbor of winter-dead cherry trees, past the mounded and mulched flower beds. The bricks under her feet were so old they were stained almost black.

She stopped. Stood still for a moment, just looking. There they were. The graves. Some were crypts, others strange-looking tablelike tombstones sitting up above the ground. The grass was neatly trimmed around them.

These were people, she realized, people who had lived and breathed and loved, and now they were gone. Their lives were finished, time closing over the space they’d left, filling it in, only these stones remaining.

She stopped in front of her favorite marker, not even
needing to transpose the strange
f
’s into
s
’s, as she had at first. She almost knew it by heart, she had read it so often.

Erected to the memory of Eleanor, wife of Mr. Daniel Wren, who departed this life on the Day of April 22 in the year of our Lord 1798, aged 32 years.

“And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them.”

Revelation, XIV Verse XIII.

She loved that part. About resting from their labors and having their works follow them. How nice that would be. To have good works that would follow you into a sweet eternal rest instead of memories that tore at your heels like angry dogs.

This stone was placed over her by order of her disconsolate husband, who was left with two children to lament her loss, John and William Wren, three years old. . . .

The rest was worn away. She stood there for a moment, savored the sweetness and felt the pang of loss. The disconsolate husband, the tender children. She blinked. It was cold, and her feet were growing numb. She turned and went back to the church’s front door.

She opened it, stepped inside, and closed her eyes. She smelled the years, the faint musty aroma of old hymnbooks and Bibles. She opened her eyes. Took in the visitors’ table, the little books and pamphlets: “Save our Organ,” “About Knox Presbyterian Meeting House.” A bulletin board hung on the wall beside the table. It was decorated with a picture of a bird falling from its nest, and scraps of paper in odd shapes and sizes, written by different hands, were tacked beneath it. “Not a Sparrow Falls to the Ground Without Your Father
Seeing,” said the caption. Bridie read a few of the notes. “Pray for my mother’s biopsy,” one said. “My husband has been out of work for six months,” said another. “I would like to see my father before he dies. Pray he can forgive me.”

Bridie’s throat tightened. She sniffed and stepped inside the now familiar sanctuary. It was starkly beautiful. Its wood floors were burnished to a high gloss and covered by a threadbare crimson runner. Simple rectangular box pews with swinging doors and wooden trim had been painted white so many times the finish was glossy and thick. The windows were made of shimmery old glass, and on each sill sat a hurricane lamp. One day while she had been sitting here, the caretaker had come inside and lit them with a long wooden match. It had made her happy for a moment to see the flames glowing, their reflections twinkling in the windows, remembering how they had cheered her on that first lonely day. She exhaled a long sigh of air now, swung open the door of her pew—the one on the far side in the back of the sanctuary. She entered it and sat down. She closed her eyes and wasn’t aware of how much time had passed. In fact, she might have drifted off to sleep for a moment or two, but her eyes snapped open when she heard the door in the narthex open and close.

She stood and was preparing to dart out the back door, but she paused when she saw who had come in. She could see the person framed in the open doorway. A young woman. No, it was a child, a girl, thin, with long brown hair. And something about her expression was heart-achingly familiar. It was a combination of loss and forlorn despair. Bridie watched her pull a scrap of paper from the pocket of her coat and stick it on the bulletin board under the picture of the falling sparrow. She stood in front of the board for a moment. Her shoulders slumped downward, and Bridie almost called out to her, but something stopped her. Wasn’t everyone entitled to a little privacy? she asked herself. She was an interloper here, and besides, what did she have to offer the child? Whatever the girl needed was beyond her ability to provide. Still, her heart
ached, and suddenly she was remembering the girl she had been, a girl who had watched her life and home unravel in ways she would never have predicted. For just a moment that girl from the past blurred into the girl before her.

“Oh, that I had the wings of a dove! I would fly away and be at rest,” Bridie whispered to herself.

The child couldn’t have heard her—that was ridiculous—but she lifted her head just as Bridie spoke. She looked into the dark sanctuary, then quickly turned and went back out the way she’d come, the door flapping loudly behind her. Bridie crossed to the window to see where she went. There she was. She cut across the piece of lawn between the church and a tall square of red-brick next door. The door opened, and a woman came out onto the porch. Bridie frowned and narrowed her eyes. Something about her was familiar. She was medium height, plump, and when she turned, Bridie felt a shock of recognition. The woman’s kind face was filled with concern. She said something, then ushered the girl inside and closed the door. Almost stunned, Bridie turned back toward the sanctuary. It was Lorna. And that must be the place to which she’d invited Bridie for dinner this Thanksgiving. That little girl’s home.

Bridie fingered the receipt in her coat pocket, the one Lorna had written the telephone number on. She walked slowly toward the bulletin board, dreading what would come, but knowing she had to look. Afraid somehow that reading the child’s note would seal her fate. She couldn’t help herself, though. The defeated slump of the girl’s shoulders and the familiar sense of sadness she carried seemed to Bridie like a hand going up amidst churning waves. There was no way she could ignore it. She took a deep breath and stepped toward the bulletin board, located the piece of paper that hadn’t been there before. There it was. A piece of lined paper like children carried to school, the letters formed in neatly penciled cursive. “Help me, God,” it said.

Bridie felt her heart sink. If it had been nearly anything
else, some specific malaise, like God help me to pass my math test, or God please don’t let my kitten die, she could have whispered a quick prayer of agreement and walked away. But this, well, this was something too vague and troubling to ignore. Help me, God? Why, that could mean anything, could take in any possibility from illness to abuse. Bridie heaved another sigh, stepped out of the church into the cold night. The lights inside the house next door were on, but barely. It had a cold, forsaken look that made Bridie feel sorry she’d come near here today. She turned and walked back toward the town center. She stopped at the theater, bought a ticket for the romantic comedy that was playing. She went inside and sat through the feature, but the plot was thin, and the laughter seemed empty. When the show was over she walked home. When she got to their apartment on the shabby back street, she was relieved to find both Carmen and Newlee gone. With a feeling of resignation, she went to the telephone before she had even hung up her coat.

“Could I speak to Lorna?” she asked when a man answered, and she thought immediately of the stern face of Alasdair MacPherson.

“Just a moment, please,” he said. Bridie heard a scuffling and then Lorna’s voice.

“Lorna, this is Bridie Collins from the Bag and Save.”

“Oh!” She sounded pleased. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“Is the dinner invitation still open?” Bridie asked, more than halfway hoping Lorna would say no for some reason. Then she could hang up and go on about her business, conscience clear. She would have done all she could.

“Oh, we would love to have you,” Lorna almost sang out in delight.

“What can I bring?” Bridie asked, her doom decided.

“Nothing but yourself. Dinner will be at two, but we’d love to have you join us for church if you’d like.”

“That’d be fine,” Bridie said, suppressing a sigh. Lorna gave her directions she didn’t need, and finally Bridie hung
up the phone. She had the feeling she had just tipped the first in a long line of dominoes.

Seven

Bob rapped sharply on the mahogany door and examined his gleaming cordovans while he waited.

“Come in.” Whiteman’s voice was smooth and sonorous. He probably practiced. Bob ran his hand over his hair out of habit, even though he’d cut it short. He moved his neck around, adjusted his tie, and went inside.

“Good morning, Mr. President.” Bob said, careful with his tone. Too obsequious and Whiteman would suspect his motives. Too casual and he’d be branded an upstart. But then again, in this hierarchy anybody whose bones didn’t creak when he changed chairs was an upstart. A little new blood was what this group needed, he thought, and not for the first time. A few well-placed funerals.

“Sit down, Bob.”

Bob settled himself on the chair, set his leather portfolio on his knees, and waited. He aimed his face forward, composed it into a solemn expression.

Whiteman leaned over and opened the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk—the trouble drawer. He took out a manila file folder and set it on his desk, then started drumming his fingers across it. Bob read the tab—he’d gotten really good at reading upside down.
John Knox—Elder Correspondence.

“I received another letter this morning from the elders of the Alexandria church,” Whiteman said. “Their pastor was a classmate of yours.”

“Alasdair MacPherson,” Bob supplied. “The latest in a long line of MacPhersons to pastor that particular church,” he put in, just to show he was paying attention. “I called him again, as you requested, and this time I was able to speak to him.”

“And?”

Bob shook his head. “He still didn’t seem to be amenable to meeting with you, sir.”

Whiteman’s jaw flexed. He nodded and picked up the piece of stationery. Bob was careful not to reach for it until Whiteman extended it. Bob scanned its contents. Same old song.

Dear President Whiteman,

It is with great regret that we feel the need to contact you again.

Sure it is,
Bob thought. These types weren’t happy unless they were stirring things up. He remembered his own miserable childhood as a pastor’s son. His father was always too busy for his family, but no matter how hard he worked, the church people were never happy.

  The situation about which we sought your counsel has not improved. Indeed, when we met with our pastor as you suggested, he absolutely refused to comply with our requests, which we felt were quite reasonable. The situation leaves us with few appealing options.

We could, of course, proceed with the dissolution of the ministerial relationship by calling a congregational meeting to ask for Reverend MacPherson’s resignation, and then petition the presbytery to enforce it. However, as we stated in our previous letter, we fear such an approach might cause disruption to vital ministries as well as possible harm to his reputation.

Bob made the translation. If they put it to a vote, the church would divide up and giving would go even further down the toilet. A situation to be avoided at all costs.

However, should you see fit to encourage Reverend MacPherson to take an administrative assignment, we feel the Lord’s work could be carried on without hindrance.

The Lord’s work. Yeah. Everybody’s top priority. Bob set down the letter.

“Well, what do you think?” Whiteman’s silver hair was smoothed back, and his thick gray brows were drawn together. Bob wondered if Whiteman combed and sprayed them. He wouldn’t put it past him.

“Interesting,” Bob said, not committing himself until he saw which way the wind was blowing. There was a right answer here, and he was determined to find it. “As I said, Reverend MacPherson didn’t seem eager to talk.”
At least to me,
he added to himself, knowing that Alasdair had never particularly cared for him. And he knew why.

MacPherson was one of those unbendable types. He had a straightjacket morality that was painful even to witness. In fact, Bob remembered with just a small remnant of emotion, he held MacPherson responsible for his own less than stellar grade in Hermeneutics.

“I’m not asking you to give me the answers,”
he’d pleaded after Alasdair had gotten an A from the course.
“Just tell me the questions that were on the final. That’s not cheating,”
he’d pointed out.
“You’re just . . . uh . . . directing my studies.”

But Alasdair had shaken his head and said something Bob thought of as vintage MacPherson.
“It wouldn’t be fitting,”
or something like that. So Bob had plodded along and barely passed, grieving his father once again. Not that it had mattered in the long run. He’d dropped out of seminary and transferred to the state school. Took journalism for a while and seemed to have a talent for nosing out a story, then switched to public relations when his dad had scratched up this job for him. Of course, being the denomination’s PR hack didn’t exactly put him on the Pulitzer track. The most
exciting thing he wrote was the monthly newsletter, but one of these days he’d break out. His novel was halfway finished.