I Shall Not Want

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “So you got your superiors to send you.” She cut a slice off her chicken breast. “But they must have had to get the diocese’s support.”

  “I have my superiors’ blessing. I have the Diocese of Albany’s permission. They weren’t too wild about giving it, either.” Lucia gave Clare a dry smile. “Caring for illegal aliens is Christian, but it’s not very convenient. Especially when you have a large conservative element in your diocese that believes everybody without papers ought to be rounded up and sent back to Mexico.”

  “So what is it you do?” Clare wiped her mouth. “I mean, it sounds as if you’re shooting for more than getting these people to a Spanish-language Mass.”

  “We start with basic services, like transportation away from the farms and translators to help them deal with government bureaucracies. Then we act as advocates. Guest workers don’t have the right to disability or unemployment insurance, to overtime, or even to a day of rest. The men who are here without papers won’t seek health care, won’t report safety violations, won’t complain if they get stiffed on their pay, because they’re scared of the authorities. They keep their pay in cash because they don’t have the ID to open bank accounts, and if one of them is the victim of a crime, he won’t go to the police. Some of them live in appalling conditions, in ancient trailers that wouldn’t have passed safety inspections in 1958, eight or nine men sharing a space.”

  “Wow.” Clare pushed her plate away so she could prop her elbow on the table, a bad habit she had never gotten rid of. “That sounds amazingly challenging. And worthwhile.”

  Sister Lucia nodded. “I’m glad you see that. Now I just have to find some congregations to partner with me.”

  “Doesn’t your order support your mission financially?”

  “I get a modest amount. And by modest, I mean it’s swathed in a burka, unseen by human eye.”

  Clare laughed.

  “No, the problem is, we’re stretched thin up here in the North Country. Small parishes, every priest responsible for two or three of them, donations down . . . Without the bishop behind me, my tiny little mission’s needs get squashed on the bottom of the pile every time.”

  “Let me help you.”

  The nun sat back in her seat. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have some friends at the Episcopal Development Fund. This sounds like just their sort of thing: small, grassroots, helping individuals in a tangible way.”

  Sister Lucia’s face was a mixture of interest and doubt. “There is a spiritual component to the work, you know. It’s definitely Catholic. Spanish-language Masses and all.”

  Clare grinned. “Not to worry. In the Episcopal Church, we are all over the ecumenical like white on rice. In fact, we are kinda the white on rice.”

  The waitress replaced their empty plates with fat slices of cheesecake. “Coffee?” She held up a pot.

  “Absolutely,” Clare said. Sister Lucia demurred, then watched with amusement as Clare emptied packet after packet of sugar into her cup. “I may be able to round up a few bodies for you as well.” Clare reached for her spoon. “We’ve had an uptick in our membership over the past year, younger people—” they could hardly be older, since the average age when she arrived at St. Alban’s had been fifty-seven—“who haven’t found a spot in our current volunteer programs. I think your mission might be just the thing.” Her spoon ting-ting-tinged in the cup as she stirred clockwise, then counterclockwise. “When I started my ministry, I was worried I wasn’t going to be able to get anyone to reach out to the marginalized among us. But I’ve come to believe it’s not that people are unwilling, it’s that they just don’t see them. Look at me. I’ve lived here over two years without knowing about any of these workers.” She looked at the nun confidingly. “I didn’t really want to come to this luncheon. Now I’m so glad I did.”

  Sister Lucia smiled. “Do you always leap into things so . . . ah . . . decisively?”

  “You bet,” Clare said. “I’m not sure if it’s a virtue or a flaw, but after thirty-six years, I’ve come to accept it’s who I am.” She took a sip of her coffee and sighed as the heat and sugar and caffeine hit her. “And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For calling it decisiveness instead of ‘jumping in without thinking things through.’ ”

  “Oh, I see it as fearlessness.” The nun glanced at Clare’s left hand, bare of rings. “You’re not married.”

  Clare shook her head.

  “Partnered?”

  “No! I mean, no. . . . I’m not.”

  Sister Lucia patted her hand. “Not meaning to be nosy. It’s just that I’ve found one of the great benefits of the celibate life is fearlessness. Especially for women. You can see what needs to be done and do it, without fear of how it’s going to affect your family or your reputation.” Where she had been patting, she squeezed, hard. “Don’t let anybody convince you it’s a flaw. We need more fearless women following Christ, not less.”

  IV

  On the way back to Millers Kill, she and Deacon Aberforth had to stop at a Citgo station to gas up. When she went inside to pay—leaving the deacon muttering about the wasteful extravagance of the tricked-out Hummer taking up almost two spaces at the next pump over—there were five young Hispanic men getting sodas in the back. Five. Bumping into each other, joking around in Spanish, underdressed for the weather in sneakers and the ripstop jackets she saw kids in her congregation wearing. She shook her head.

  The people we don’t see.

  Feeling well justified in her decision to aid Sister Lucia, she returned to the deacon’s Scout. “Father Aberforth.” She willed her eyes away from the speedometer as he more or less accelerated up Route 9. “Would you describe me as impetuous or fearless?”

  He glanced at her. “I would describe you, Ms. Fergusson, as the vehicle through which God shows me He still has a great deal of work for me to do.”

  LENT

  March

  I

  “Father? I’m finished up. Them floral guild folks are still puttin’ up palms for the service tomorrow, so I’m not locking the sanctuary.” Mr. Hadley hovered in the doorway to the church office. Unless he was cleaning, repairing, or tending, Clare never saw him go into the offices. Fair enough. He had his own kingdom in the boiler room and the furnace room and the mysterious Sexton’s Closet.

  Lois, their church secretary, glanced at the clock. “School bus time?”

  “Honey’s out on another interview.” Mr. Hadley sounded out of breath. He clapped one meaty hand against his chest. “Sorry,” he said, panting. “Guess I come up those stairs too fast. Anyways, I don’t want them grandbabies of mine comin’ home to an empty house.”

  “Absolutely not. When my children were small, I was always there when they got home. Give them a good snack, make sure they’ve started their homework, and then you can have Happy Hour in peace.”

  The Reverend Elizabeth de Groot looked scandalized. She had been assigned as St. Alban’s deacon in January, and two months sharing an office had not accustomed her to Lois’s sense of humor. Clare was beginning to suspect it wasn’t going to happen.

  “How’s Hadley’s job search going?” she asked, before Elizabeth could say anything.

  “I don’t mind tellin’ you, it’s been disappointin’. Used t’be plenty of good jobs for a body not afraid a hard work. Now what the Mexicans don’t come up and take, they ship overseas.” He made a gesture that said what ya gonna do? “Eh-nh. She’ll find sumpin’ sooner or later. She’s at the police station today.”

  Lois and Elizabeth did not look at Clare.

  “Hard to picture her in uniform,” Mr. Hadley went on, unaware of the charged atmosphere. “Allus wanted to be an actress when she was little. Pretty enough for it, too. But I guess it’s hard to make a livin’ at it.”

  “I’m praying for her,” Clare said. “Let me know if there’s anything more concrete I can do.”

  “Eh.” He fished a less-than-clean handkerchief from his pock
et and mopped his face with it. “If you know anybody in the police department, you can put in a good word.”

  Lois choked, coughed, and grabbed for her water bottle. “You okay?” the oblivious sexton asked.

  Red-faced, Lois waved him off. “Fine,” she gasped.

  “You’d better get going if you want to make that school bus.” Clare glared at the secretary, who was thumping herself on the chest. “We’ll make sure Lois doesn’t swallow any more words the wrong way.”

  “ ’Kay. See ya tomorrow. ’Bye, Father.” Mr. Hadley thumped off up the hall.

  Lois blinked several times, then ran her fingers through her strawberry-blond bob, restoring it to its usual razor-cut perfection. “Let’s see. Where were we?”

  Clare decided discretion was the better part of valor. “Holy Week. We need three more readers, and somebody has to let the AA group know their meeting is going to conflict with the Stations of the Cross.”

  “Why do you let that man call you Father?” Elizabeth smoothed her Chanel-style jacket over her woolen shift. She was the only woman Clare had ever seen who managed to turn a Little Black Dress into clergy wear. “Don’t you worry he’s being satiric? Denigrating your authority?” Elizabeth was big on clerical authority.

  “People can call me what they want. At least it’s grammatical, which is more than you can say about Reverend.”

  “How about Mother?” Lois suggested.

  “Only if followed by Superior.” Clare shook her head. “The only gender-neutral title that’s both proper and traditionally Anglican is bishop, so that’s what I’m going to shoot for. How do you think I’d look in a purple shirt, Elizabeth?”

  A shout down the hall saved the older woman from coming up with a tactful lie.

  “Clare! Reverend Clare!” Laurie Mairs appeared in the doorway. “It’s Mr. Hadley! Come quick!”

  Clare pelted down the hall, the flower guild member close behind her. The door to the sanctuary had been left open, and as she burst through into the church, she could see Mr. Hadley collapsed near the center aisle, his face half in a puddle of vomit.

  “Oh, my God,” Clare said.

  Delia Hall, the other volunteer, was dancing back and forth, unable either to go to the fallen man’s aid or to back away. “Oh, Clare, thank heavens! He sat down on the pew, like he was tired, and then he simply toppled over! Do you think he’s—could it be—” She tipped an invisible bottle to her mouth. The Sexton’s Closet was rumored to have its own stock.

  “No.” Clare knelt by the sexton. His face was pale, damp with sweat where it wasn’t smeared with vomit. She touched his cheek. “Mr. Hadley?” He was clammy beneath her hand.

  He pawed at his chest. “Heavy.” His gravelly voice was so low she could barely hear him. “Can’t . . .” He worked like a baby with croup, struggling for each breath.

  “Clare?” Elizabeth’s voice was calm. Clare hadn’t seen her come in. “What can I do?”

  “Call nine-one-one. I think he’s having a heart attack.” She glanced up at the flower guild ladies. “Delia, get a wet soapy towel. Laurie, something to dry him with. We can at least clean him up.”

  The fifteen minutes before the Millers Kill Emergency Squad arrived was one of the longest in Clare’s life. She thought every heave of Mr. Hadley’s chest was going to be his last. The whoop and clatter of the ambulance was like the sound of an angelic host, and she could have kissed the paramedics when they hurried through St. Alban’s great double doors.

  “Heya, Reverend Clare, whatcha got?” Duane Adams, who cobbled together a living as a part-time cop, part-time firefighter, and part-time EMT, didn’t spare her a glance in greeting her. He and his partner knelt by Mr. Hadley.

  Clare backed out of their way, bumping into Elizabeth, who had returned to keep watch with her. “His name’s Glenn Hadley. He’s—um, seventy-four.”

  Duane’s partner was strapping an oxygen mask over Mr. Hadley’s face, sliding a blood pressure cuff on his arm.

  “Any history you know of?” Duane asked.

  “He smokes. He’s got diabetes, but he doesn’t take insulin shots for it.” She rubbed her arm. “I didn’t know what to do for him, other than try to make him comfortable.”

  “You called us,” Duane said. “That’s what you do.” His partner unslung a radio and was rattling off a string of jargon and numbers. The only thing Clare recognized was “MI.”

  “They’re calling it in at Glens Falls,” the EMT said.

  “Okay.” Duane stood. “Let’s get him on the stretcher.”

  “Glens Falls Hospital? Why not Washington County?” As soon as she said it, she knew. It was serious. Too serious for their small local hospital to handle. The bad stuff always went to Glens Falls.

  “They’ll want him straight to the cardiac cath lab. Any next of kin?” Duane asked.

  “Oh, my Lord, his grandkids.” Clare looked at Elizabeth. “I don’t even know how to reach Hadley.”

  “You go get the children,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll follow the ambulance to the hospital.”

  “Good.” Clare didn’t wait to see the paramedics remove Mr. Hadley. She dashed back to her office and grabbed her coat and keys. “Lois,” she yelled, “call the police station and see if they can pass on a message to Hadley Knox.” She stopped in the door of the main office, shrugging into her coat. “Mr. Hadley’s had a heart attack. He’s headed for Glens Falls. I’m picking up her kids and bringing them back here.”

  “I’m on it.” Lois reached for the phone.

  As Clare slopped across the tiny parking lot, wet from the melt of the last stubborn snow piles, she heard the ambulance siren rise like a screaming bird into the air. Lord, be with them, she prayed. Be with us all.

  II

  Hadley picked a fuzz ball off her wool skirt. It was an old A-line, left behind in the closet of her grandfather’s house from a Christmas visit. She had needed something to go to Midnight Mass in, and back then she had enough money to buy something she was only going to use once. Well, she’d gotten her dollar’s worth from it now. She had worn it on every job interview in the past two months. Too bad the only thing it had gotten her were a few long looks at her legs.

  The man scrutinizing her paperwork had certainly checked her out, coming up the hallway to the squad room and going toward his desk at the far end of the room. She hoped it was because he was a cop and not because he was going to be trouble. She eyeballed his desk. A mug with a bunch of pens. A brass nameplate: LYLE MACAULEY, DEPUTY CHIEF. No pictures of the wife. Not that that always meant anything.

  Being a good-looking woman in a male-dominated field was tricky. She had always been able to handle her co-workers okay, but catching the eye of a superior meant trouble for everybody. There wasn’t going to be any privacy here; it looked like everyone on the force worked out of this room. Five desks, a bunch of chairs, and a big old wooden table. File cabinets, whiteboard, and maps squeezed in between tall, elegant windows from another age. We’re not in California anymore, Toto.

  “You’ve got great scores here.” Lyle MacAuley held up the results from her NYS Police Test.

  “Thanks.” She shifted in her sturdy metal seat.

  “And your scores from the California Department of Corrections are good, too. You worked for them two years?”

  “Three.” She knew what was coming next. “I got laid off in a budget cutback. If you look on my résumé, you’ll see my supervisor is one of my references.”

  “Mm.” He glanced at the paper on his desk. He had bristly gray hair and bushy eyebrows that looked like they came out of a Halloween disguise kit. “You have a gap of almost two years between the end of your DOC job and now.”

  “I was a stay-at-home mom for a while.” She had been a frantic paddling-to-keep-their-heads-above-water mom. The crap jobs she had been forced to take—scooping ice cream, handing out brochures, walking around in high heels and a bathing suit at a car dealership—weren’t worth putting down on paper.

 
“How come you’re applying for a position as a patrolman? I mean, patrol officer. I’d’ve thought you’d be looking for a job with the New York DOC. The pay’s better.”

  She shook her head. “The nearest correctional facility they’re hiring women guards for is Dannemora. I need to stay in this area.”

  “Because of the kids?”

  She shrugged.

  “Look, I’m not supposed to ask this, so if you get pissed off you can report me to the EEOC, but have you thought about what you, a single woman, are going to do about your kids? We can’t guarantee mommy hours, you know.”

  He was right. He wasn’t supposed to ask her this, and it did piss her off. She tried to keep it from showing in her voice. “We’re living with my grandfather, Glenn Hadley. He has a part-time job with flexible hours.”

  The deputy chief slitted his eyes. Hadley could almost see a list of names clicking through his mind. He might look like an over-the-hill hayseed, but she suspected it wouldn’t do to underestimate MacAuley’s smarts. She wondered if the illegal question was just another kind of test.

  “Glenn Hadley.” His eyes popped open. “Works at St. Alban’s?”

  “Yeah. He’s the sexton. That’s what they call the custodian there.”

  “Don’t mention that when you talk to the chief.”

  The surge of hope—she was going to talk to the chief! She was a serious candidate!—almost made her ignore MacAuley’s weird advice. Almost.

  “What, that granddad’s a janitor?”

  “Just don’t mention St. Alban’s or anything to do with it.”

  She frowned. “He doesn’t have something against Christians or something, does he? Because I’m not super devoted or anything, but I do go to church.”

  “No, no, no, nothing like that.” MacAuley compressed his lips. Thought for a moment. “The chief lost his wife this past January.”

  “I’d heard that.”