All heads turned toward the far end of the vestry table. In addition to Bob, Lillie Miller, and Mother Hibbard, another half-dozen vestry members fidgeted while clearing their throats and shuffling papers.
Nia Butler rose from her seat. A husky woman of color, thirty-something with a short-cropped Afro, she wore an olive twill uniform with an Eisenhower jacket that gave her the look of a motorcycle cop. White shirt, skinny black leather necktie. And incongruously, granny glasses. She strutted out from behind the table to face the assembly head on, feet spread, both thumbs hooked in her pockets.
Glee leaned to my ear. “In case you’re wondering, sweets: yes, I do believe she’s of the lesbian persuasion.”
Someone behind us whispered through a hiss, “Will you shut up?”
We had caught the attention of Nia Butler, too, who glared at us from the front of the room. When at last she spoke, she did not mince words:
“You folks have one unholy mess on your hands here.”
The upshot?
The abandoned school was a safety hazard that should probably be bulldozed, but because that building was not currently in use, the more immediate problem, which had to be addressed at once, was the church itself. Its state of structural disrepair had deteriorated greatly in recent years, and patchwork repairs would no longer cut it. Inspections revealed that the historic building was seriously out of compliance for public use. If remedial action was not undertaken quickly, the city would take steps to revoke the church’s occupancy permit and perhaps even condemn it.
The assembled parishioners were thunderstruck. They’d known the old church needed work—it was halfway into its second century as home to their faith community—but they had not understood that St. Alban’s was teetering on the verge of being condemned. It was beyond astonishing. It was unthinkable. So the meeting turned a bit raucous, at least for Episcopalians, who pride themselves more for their reserve than their zeal.
Amid the hubbub, a woman in the front row raised her hand. From the vestry table, Bob Olson said, “Yes, Angela?”
She stood. “I was wondering…”
Marson explained to me, “Angela is Bob’s wife. Their daughter’s name is Hailey.”
Angela was pretty and blond, as was their daughter, who was maybe twelve or thirteen—not still a little girl, not yet a woman.
Angela was saying calmly, “…maybe if we could define our options, we’d be in a better position to decide how to move forward.”
Perfectly reasonable, I thought.
“And I noticed,” said Angela, “that Marson Miles is here tonight. I don’t think he’s a member of the parish, but he’s an architect. Perhaps he could share some advice.”
A murmur of interest rippled through the room as Bob looked about, asking, “Marson, are you here?”
My husband stood. “Here, Bob.” Everyone looked in our direction.
With a weary smile, Bob said, “We’ve got a problem, Marson. If you were us, what would you do? What can we do?”
“First,” said Marson, “I’d take Officer Butler at her word that the city inspections are correct in requiring drastic remedy—they know what they’re doing. As for your options, there are only two. Both are costly, and both are disruptive. Option one: you can structurally restore and completely renovate the existing church. Or option two: you can raze—with a z, meaning demolish—raze the existing church and build something new, from a clean sheet. You’ll need to study those options, compare the costs, and search your hearts for the right decision.”
Joyce Hibbard asked Marson, “Do you think we should plan to move regular services out of the church?”
“Absolutely. As to when, that depends on how much leeway the city will allow. Meanwhile, tonight, I think you should organize into committees who will explore each option: Restore-and-renovate. Or raze-and-build.” Marson sat.
A woman, the mother of the feisty toddler, shot to her feet and addressed the vestry without being recognized. “You can’t be serious! How can you even consider the possibility of destroying that magnificent building?”
Bob Olson asked her, “Could you identify yourself, ma’am?”
Grudgingly, she told everyone, “I’m Kayla Weber Schmidt. No, I’m not a member of St. Alban’s. But I am a member of both the Dumont Historical Society and the Wisconsin Preservationist League…”
Glee didn’t bother whispering when she turned to tell me, “Look out for Kayla. She’s a ballbuster.”
Dark-haired and wiry, wearing a black jumpsuit, Kayla looked about thirty years old and spitting mad. She ignored her son, who wandered the center aisle, bumbled, and fell, whining. She ranted, “…and if you think for one second that we’ll allow you to butcher a building of such historic significance, a designated landmark, a protected property—”
“Hold on,” Bob said calmly. He asked anyone, “Does the church in fact have protected-landmark status?”
Joyce Hibbard shrugged. The other board members shrugged. Officer Nia Butler informed them, “No.”
Kayla balled her fists. “You have got to be shitting me.”
Bob said, “We’ve talked about it. Never got around to it. It sorta ties your hands.”
“That’s the point!” yelled Kayla.
Joyce stood, tugging the lapels of her jacket. “May I ask you to control yourself?”
A man rose from the far side of the hall and told the vestry members, “I’ve done plenty of repairs on that church, and it’s a lost cause. Why, it’s a miracle it’s still standing. We need to start over—a ‘clean sheet,’ as Marson calls it.”
Marson and I glanced at each other. It was Clem Carter of Carter Construction, the builder of our “perfect house.” We hadn’t seen him earlier and were not aware he was a St. Alban’s parishioner.
Turning to Kayla, Clem said, “Trust me, young lady—I know what I’m talking about.”
Kayla seethed at him. “Don’t you dare ‘young lady’ me, Clem Carter. It’s more than obvious what you’re up to. You see a nice, fat construction project. You’ve got your greedy eye set on some easy profits.”
Clem shouted something as the crowd burst into conversation, drowning him out. Kayla’s little monster rolled on the floor, kicking and shrieking in the throes of a full-bore tantrum. She shrilled at him, “Jee-suss Christ, Aiden, give it a rest!” Marson buried his face in his hands. Glee Savage snapped pictures with her phone. Bob Olson pounded his gavel.
When an uneasy semblance of order had at last been restored, Bob turned to the code-enforcement officer. “How long have we got?” he asked her. “How long will the city give us to decide on remedial action before you pull the church’s occupancy permit?”
Nia Butler flipped through some papers in a manila folder. She scrolled through something on her phone. Then she crossed her arms. “End of the month,” she said. “Tuesday, May thirty-first, just shy of three weeks.”
Bob gulped. “All right, then. Let’s form our committees and set some targets.”
A sense of earnestness overtook the assembly as they got down to business and moved forward with the work that needed to be done. Volunteers eagerly signed up for various committees. Meetings were set, reports assigned, deadlines agreed to.
Mother Hibbard raised her arms and blessed the crowd with words of benediction.
And then, in formally adjourning the meeting, Bob Olson reminded everyone, “We need to reach a difficult decision, and our options are limited. There are only two: Restore-and-renovate. Or raze-and-build. I pledge my support for whichever direction the vestry and its committees select.”
“A point of order, Mr. Olson?” said one of the vestry members, an older gentleman who had not previously spoken.
Bob turned to him. “Yes, Howard?”
“For the record, I think the minutes should reflect that, technically—realistically—we also have a third option.”
No one, it seemed, wanted to ask about the third option.
But Howard said it anyway. “We c
ould do nothing. Throw in the towel. Bring down the curtain and call it quits.”
A dead silence came over the room.
Chapter 3
St. Alban’s had a church to redeem from its Gehenna of decay.
On a brighter note, Marson and I had a dinner party to plan.
Being gay, we were good at this. Piece of cake. Marson was the consummate host, with an innate sense of timing and an eye for detail. We enjoyed entertaining at home, and our loft provided a setting of casual elegance with a touch of urban flair—no small feat in Dumont.
On Thursday evening, when Marson had first proposed the Tuesday dinner to Mother Hibbard, it was intended for five of us: Joyce and Curtis Hibbard, Marson and me, and Mary Questman. With such an intimate group, it would be a snap for Marson to do the cooking, for me to serve, and for both of us to clean up afterward. Only a few minutes later, however, we had added David Lovell, choirmaster, to the guest list.
Then, on Friday afternoon, Joyce phoned Marson to report an unexpected development: her husband, Curtis, had invited an old friend, Yevgeny, a ballet dancer (yes, the Yevgeny Krymov), to accompany Curtis on his visit to Wisconsin. Could we possibly include Yevgeny for dinner on Tuesday? Certainly, no problem at all, we’d be delighted.
On Saturday, Marson’s predilection for symmetry and balance had kicked in, and he began perplexing over the challenge of setting a rectangular table for seven, with five men and two women. Although it would never be possible to achieve an even-numbered guest list with absolute boy-girl parity (not with two gay hosts), Marson wanted to smooth things out some by placing an additional rose among the thorns. So we invited our reporter pal, Glee Savage, who accepted with pleasure—not only had she become acquainted with Joyce Hibbard through the recent newspaper interview, but she had also been a close friend of Mary Questman for many years.
Which meant we would now be serving dinner for eight—no longer the easy-peasy evening that was first intended. We needed help. And we hadn’t even discussed the menu yet.
Sunday morning, we popped over to First Avenue Bistro to beg the proprietor, Nancy Sanderson, to cater our dinner at home on Tuesday, and although it was short notice, she agreed. (Thank God. She was the town’s only restaurateur who qualified as a true foodie.) She recommended a mixed grill for the main course as a sure way to please everyone, and we knew we were in good hands.
Later Sunday, Marson phoned Mary to let her know about the additions to the guest list. “Splendid,” she said, “that’ll make it all the easier for me to avoid that woman priest.” Since the whole premise of the dinner party had been for Mary’s benefit (meeting Mother Hibbard on neutral ground), Mary volunteered the services of her own housekeeper, Berta, to help with serving and cleanup. Marson had never much cared for Berta, whom he considered mouthy and impertinent, but some extra help wouldn’t hurt, so he accepted the offer. “Oh!” said Mary as they were about to hang up. “I meant to ask: Would you mind terribly if I brought Mister Puss to the party? He’d so like to see you boys. And I made him promise he won’t get underfoot.”
Our homey little gathering had now grown from five, requiring no help, to ten, including a staff of two. Plus the cat.
Monday was nuts at the office, with constant calls to and from Nancy Sanderson regarding menu particulars and general logistics.
By Tuesday we were so stressed that neither of us bothered going into work. There were flowers to buy and arrange, wardrobe to press, silver and crystal to polish, toilets to scrub, music to select, a bar to be stocked, a table to set. And on and on.
That evening, we primped upstairs while Nancy and Berta fussed in the kitchen.
Gazing out over the edge of the mezzanine, I marveled that we had somehow managed to pull together a flawless setting for a lovely dinner at home among friends. The sun was setting in an amber sky beyond the front windows to the street. Between the two center windows, a three-foot section of brick wall rose from the floor to the twenty-foot ceiling, resembling a chimney; during our initial renovation of the space, Marson had designed a minimalist mantel and surround of feathered slate, resembling a fireplace—baldly artificial, yet wonderfully evocative. It contained several tiered rows of fluttering pillar candles, also fakes, but forgivably theatrical. Above the mantel hung a tall antique mirror. From the ceiling, a huge Mexican chandelier of punched tin hung squarely over the conversation area, casting playful starlight about the room. And directly beneath the railing where I stood, I peered down at the long black Parsons dining table, meticulously set for eight among a riotous arrangement of white flowers—tulips, roses, iris, anemones, lilac, alstroemerias, and several full-blown peonies the size of volleyballs.
“How do I look?”
I turned as Marson stepped out from the dressing room, looking especially handsome in a black mohair blazer and gray worsted slacks with a silvery silk shirt, open collar. He explained, “I decided to nix the tie.”
“Good call.” I was wearing a similar outfit, neutral colors, but with my sandy hair, I generally stuck to a warmer palette. I stepped over to kiss him and sniffed the touch of cologne on his neck. With a little groan, I said into his ear, “If we didn’t have guests coming…”
“…and help in the kitchen,” he reminded me. “Down, boy.”
With an exaggerated whimper, I asked, “Maybe later?”
“Definitely later.”
And I followed him down the spiral stairs.
Grrring.
The sputtering old twist bell at the loft’s street door announced the arrival of the first of our guests. After two years of talking about replacing the bell with a modern, less grating update, I recognized that we never would.
Marson huddled in the kitchen with Berta and Nancy for some last-minute coaching while I answered the door.
There stood Glee Savage, dressed to the nines in a palette of jewel tones—emerald, sapphire, ruby—which coordinated nicely with her ancient fuchsia hatchback, parked at the curb. She whisked through the doorway bearing a wicker picnic hamper big enough to hold a baby.
“You shouldn’t have,” I said, leaning in for a big smooch, careful to avoid her glistening red lips.
“I did some baking this afternoon and got carried away with the cookies, so I decided to share the bounty. You can serve some with dessert—or tuck them all away for later.”
Good idea, I thought. While Glee didn’t fit anyone’s notion of a Midwestern hausfrau—she was a professional woman, never married, with more interest in fashion than in domestic skills—she nonetheless could cook with the best of them. And she’d been mentored in the culinary arts only recently by none other than Mary Questman’s housekeeper, Berta, who claimed that Glee “just took to it.”
Berta had once confided to me that she and Mary Questman sometimes enjoyed a little buzz from Berta’s baked “treats,” but I was reasonably confident our dinner guests would not be drugged that evening. Nancy Sanderson was in charge of the menu, which would include a fruit trifle for which she was renowned.
To the best of my knowledge, Glee Savage baked straight. I peeked inside the basket and saw what I hoped for—a generous supply of her signature cookies, peanut butter with chocolate chips and enormous whole cashews. These would not be shared tonight.
As I handed the basket off to Berta, Glee said, “Bert! I wasn’t expecting you. They put you to work, huh?”
Berta gave Glee a wry look and trundled away with the cookies. She wore a crisp but homely gray maid’s uniform and black service shoes.
Glee strolled to the middle of the main room, leaving a wake of her patchouli. “Fabulous,” she proclaimed, flinging her arms and twirling to take it all in. “And you boys make it look so easy.”
“You have no idea,” I told her.
Marson had started some music—lively cocktail tunes, solo piano—and came over to greet Glee, who asked, “Well? Is the bar open?”
“Certainly, madam. This way, please.” And he looped arms with her, walked her to the kitchen i
sland, and popped a champagne cork.
“Nancy!” said Glee. “What’s cookin?”
Grrring.
Again, I played doorman. Swinging it wide, I found David Lovell at our stoop, standing tall and toothy, bearing an oblong box with the logo of a local florist. I shook his free hand and brought him in.
“My gawd,” he said, “this place is gorgeous. I’ve been lusting to see it.”
I said, “We should have done this sooner—but glad you could join us tonight.” I took the box and looked inside. Long-stemmed red roses, well over a dozen. “This is far too generous, but thank you, David.”
“Least I could do,” he said, smiling, looking hunky in a smart silk suit of tight, modern cut—some youthful designer label, I wasn’t sure which. He wore a heavy gold watch, maybe a Rolex, and drop-dead calfskin loafers that he had not found at the Target out by the highway. I’d had no idea that choirmastering was such a lucrative gig. And by all appearances, David was younger than thirty.
Marson came over to greet him, shaking hands. As they gabbed—David did a lot of talking with his hands, whipping the air—I noticed that he was again highly perfumed, as he had been at the parish meeting. Excusing myself, I said, “I think I’ll put these in water.”
In the kitchen, I dug out a cylindrical vase of clear glass and asked Glee to help me arrange David’s flowers. As she worked on it between sips of champagne at the bar, I had a flash of inspiration and pulled a few of the red roses from the vase. I cut them short, then took them to the dining table, where I tucked them in among the profusion of white flowers, thinking they made a nice “hero element” in the composition—like drops of blood on a trail of snow.
Grrring.
This time, Marson answered the door, blurting, “My God, Curt—it’s been at least thirty years. Welcome back to Wisconsin!”
“Ho-ho,” said Curtis Hibbard, faking a laugh as he stepped inside. “Wis-cahn-sin. Your roots are showing, Marson.”
Marson shrugged. “When in Rome …”
With a dubious chortle, Curtis straightened his tie, primped the knot. He wore a three-piece suit, deep blue, almost black. Spit-polished oxfords, black. Starched white shirt. Shaking Marson’s hand, he said, “Good to see you again, old chum.” He glanced about the loft, as if unsure what to make of it. And then he spotted me.
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