Shortly after the family finished supper, Dr. Wyman arrived to examine and dress Charley’s wounds. It was nearly midnight by the time Charley was finally put to bed, exhausted and in some pain, but well fed, warm, and content.
The road ahead of Charley would be long and difficult, Henry knew. His convalescence would be painful and slow and surely frustrating. But at that late hour, all of Henry’s children were safe and happy and together, and that was enough.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Nun’s Tale
For as long as Winifred could remember, she had wanted to become a nun. As a girl she had daydreamed about entering the convent the way her friends had wistfully imagined heading out to Hollywood to become movie stars. Her parents were devout, and since she was the fifth eldest of eight and her father’s earnings as a vacuum cleaner salesman could stretch only so far, when she was sixteen and asked her parents’ blessing to enter the convent, they cried a little but agreed.
Winifred had never regretted or even doubted her decision, but that did not mean she did not, from time to time, wonder and question. Fortunately, the mother superior of her order, Sister Mary Joan, kindly encouraged Winifred to come to her whenever she was puzzled or unsure. They would drink tea in her office and chat, or walk around the gardens in fair weather, and afterward Winifred always understood things at least a little better than before.
One winter afternoon, shortly after taking her vows as a novice, Winifred sought out Sister Mary Joan and asked how to know when she truly heard God speaking to her. “I’ve been reading about the subconscious,” she said. “When I pray, how do I know that what I hear is the Lord’s voice and not merely an echo of my own thoughts?”
Sister Mary Joan rested her chin on her hand and regarded her fondly. “How do you know that the Lord isn’t speaking to you through your subconscious?”
Winifred stared at her, startled. “Well, I don’t know. Can He do that?” When the mother superior smiled, Winifred quickly added, “Of course He can. I just . . . didn’t realize that He did.”
“Our heavenly father doesn’t always speak to us through a burning bush,” said Sister Mary Joan. “How much easier it would be for us if He did—but if we wanted the easy path, we wouldn’t have chosen this life.”
Winifred nodded agreement.
“When you think you’re hearing God speak to you in a moment of quiet contemplation, ask yourself if what you hear reflects the truth of God’s word,” said Sister Mary Joan. “Is it something Jesus would affirm? Does it draw you closer to Him?”
“What if I’m not sure?”
“You should always feel free to talk with me, or with another trusted spiritual advisor.” Sister Mary Joan smiled. “Remember that sometimes God speaks to us through other people.”
“Really?” Winifred brightened at a sudden thought. “Does that mean that God might sometimes use us to speak to other people? Maybe when we don’t even realize it?”
“Logically that would follow—and so we should be ever mindful of what we say and do, and try always to be instruments of God’s peace and love.”
The mother superior’s reflection so impressed Winifred that for a time thereafter she said very little, worried that she might mistranslate something God wanted her to say. After praying earnestly about it and talking it over with Sister Mary Joan, she realized that if God wanted to speak through her, she should trust that He would manage to get His message across properly. The best thing she could do would be to get out of the way and let it happen.
As the years went by and God’s plan led her from the beloved convent to St. Margaret’s Church, Winifred remembered Sister Mary Joan fondly and longed to discuss questions of theology and faith with her over a cup of tea. Often when she wrestled with the day’s challenges or contemplated an ethical matter, she would imagine herself back in Sister Mary Joan’s office at the convent, and without fail her thoughts would become clearer, solutions came to mind, worry fell away.
As she grew older, she developed the habit of unwittingly talking aloud instead of keeping the conversations all to herself. Maybe speaking helped her to think. Maybe—although she hoped not—she had become vain in her old age and simply liked to hear the sound of her own voice. She hadn’t considered the habit a matter of much concern until she began to notice worried glances from parishioners who came upon her unexpectedly in the church or parish house and found her apparently engrossed in conversation with an imaginary friend. Once a darling little girl from the choir, Charlotte, had asked her soberly if she spoke to angels. Winifred had laughed, delighted, and reminded Charlotte that perhaps they all sometimes entertained angels unawares. Still, she tried to remember to practice the mental exercise in solitude rather than upset anyone, and she supposed she succeeded more often than not.
Yet it was far too easy to forget when she was distracted, as she was at that moment by the lovely music of the choir, and by the sight of the blond woman in the red beret sitting in a pew near the front, staring at the choir and looking utterly bereft. She was Alex and Charlotte’s mother, Winifred recalled, and her husband had gone missing in Afghanistan. How frightened she must be, the poor dear, having no idea where her husband was, if he had been captured or injured or killed. She probably thought God had abandoned them.
As Winifred watched, Laurie twisted and knotted up her scarf as if she meant to strangle it or fashion it into a garrote to strangle someone else. “Oh, my,” Winifred exclaimed. “Are you preparing to do battle?”
Startled, Laurie glanced away from the choir. “I’m sorry, Sister. Preparing to do what?”
“To do battle—with the forces of darkness, perhaps.” Winifred’s arms were filled with hymnals, so she indicated the poor, battered scarf with a nod.
Glancing down at her lap, Laurie gasped, released the scarf, and quickly tried to smooth out the wrinkles.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Winifred inquired.
“Yes, Sister, I just . . . have a lot on my mind. It’s a crazy time of year.”
“It’s a season of miracles,” Winifred agreed, nodding.
“Yes, that too.”
Winifred smiled in reply, but Laurie looked so upset that Winifred observed her from the corner of her eye as she continued tidying up the pews. When the choir sang the carol’s most profound lyric, she echoed, “God is not dead, nor does He sleep.”
“What?” Laurie said, startled from her reverie. “What did you say?”
“From the carol.” Sister Winifred indicated the choir with a nod. “It’s not scripture, of course, but poetry, and nonetheless true. God is listening, my dear. He knows your troubles and he hears your prayers.”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“I suppose we all do, sometimes.” Winifred smiled, her heart overflowing with compassion and concern. “Everything’s going to be all right, my dear. Have faith.”
Laurie pressed her lips together, and for a long moment, she seemed to be fighting back sobs of anguish. “Thank you,” she managed to say. “You’re very kind.”
“Oh, that’s not mere kindness.” Winifred paused and tilted her head, thinking. Should she leave it at that? But what about darling little Charlotte? A few weeks ago, Winifred had been straightening the pews when she happened to glance into the girl’s open backpack. She had seen the Christmas story—which she had already read, in both draft and finished form—and it was delightful. She could not imagine what sort of teacher would write such thoughtlessly cruel comments on the work of a student as conscientious as Charlotte.
Winifred decided to speak up.
“And I know for a fact that Charlotte wrote every word of her Christmas story,” she declared. “I don’t think you ever would have doubted that, but it’s nice to know for certain, isn’t it?”
Laurie nodded, looking utterly bewildered. “Yes,” she murmured, fighting back tears. “It’s best to know.”
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Winifred put away a few of the hymnals, enough to free one of her hands so she could pat Laurie reassuringly on the shoulder. Laurie returned her gaze to the choir, her expression suddenly both wistful and resolved. Winifred decided to leave her to her prayers and private thoughts, and moved quietly down the pew.
As she put away the last of the hymnals, she heard the side door close softly, and she glanced up to see that Father Ryan had entered, having finished clearing away the snow, greeting the children as they arrived for rehearsal, and going out in search for their tardy choir director. Winifred hoped he would mend fences with his brother soon, whatever the cause of their most recent disagreement. Father Ryan had not mentioned it, but his mother often phoned to chat with Winifred, to check in on her son without seeming to do so. “I don’t know what gets into those boys,” she had told Winifred tearfully just that morning. “They’ve always suffered through a bit of sibling rivalry, but their argument over Thanksgiving dinner was over the top.”
“They’ll reconcile before Christmas,” Winifred had reassured her confidently. “What sort of example would Father Ryan set for the children of our congregation if he didn’t?”
Father Ryan’s mother had seemed to take comfort in that, and she declared that she was determined to persuade the brothers to talk over their differences before the holidays—because she absolutely insisted that they celebrate together as a family, as always.
Winifred couldn’t appeal to Father Ryan’s brother, but she could try to nudge Father Ryan in the right direction. He was so intent on the choir rehearsal that he did not notice her approach until she was at his side. When she followed his line of sight, it seemed that he was watching Sophia and Lucas. The pianist was gazing at the choir director with such obvious love and longing it seemed impossible that she could be unaware of it.
“It’s painful to be the one not chosen,” she murmured to Father Ryan, watching the younger pair. “Even when you acknowledge, deep down, that the choice was the right one, it hurts to think that the one you love prefers someone else.”
Father Ryan was watching her, an inscrutable expression on his face. He had probably guessed that she had not really approached him to discuss the two young people, who from the look of things really ought to fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after.
She smiled, patted Father Ryan’s arm, and got to the point. “Call your mother tomorrow,” she urged. “Tell her everything will be all right. And then call your brother and see that you make it so.”
“I will,” Father Ryan replied slowly. “I will.”
Winifred knew she could count on him to follow through. Smiling, she left him to contemplate how he would broker peace. She was glad to have promising news to share with his mother the next time she called.
Winifred continued her work at a leisurely pace, entertained by the choir. When they were nearly finished, she observed Mrs. Barrett, who had been quietly listening from a back pew, glance at her watch, sigh, and rise. Winifred hurried over as she was putting on her coat and caught up with her just as she exited to the vestibule. “Will you be joining us for the Christmas Eve concert, Mrs. Barrett?” she inquired.
“I think I might.” The elegant widow smiled, but her eyes were sad. “The children are splendid singers, and you know how much I enjoy hearing Paul’s piano making such beautiful music.”
“I do know,” Winifred replied kindly. “Our two young volunteers do such a wonderful job with the children.”
“Oh, I agree. The boy who sang the solo in the first carol has such a beautiful voice.”
“Yes, he does.” Without thinking, Winifred added, “The poor dear. What a Christmas he and his sister will have this year.”
“What do you mean?”
Winifred hesitated, reluctant to trespass on the family’s privacy. “Well, you see, his father is serving in Afghanistan. About two months ago, a convoy was in a terrible accident—a truck struck some sort of bomb on the roadside. Lieutenant Moran is a genius with machinery, and he volunteered to go out and help get the convoy moving again.”
“They were attacked while he was making the repairs?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say that they were. Some soldiers were killed, others injured, and somehow in the midst of it, Lieutenant Moran went missing.”
“How does a soldier just go missing?” It sounded to Winifred like a rhetorical question. “Surely with all their resources and contacts, the military ought to be able to find him, or—” Mrs. Barrett hesitated. “Or his remains.”
“I don’t know,” said Winifred, spreading her hands. “I can’t pretend to understand the military.”
“I happen to know a few people who specialize in it.” Briskly, Mrs. Barrett took a small steno notebook and slender black pen from her purse. “Would you spell his name for me, and tell me anything else you know about his disappearance? I can make a few calls. They might turn up nothing new, but it doesn’t hurt to try.”
Gratified, Winifred told the senator’s widow all she knew, and as Mrs. Barrett put away her notebook and pen, they agreed not to mention it to Laurie until they knew more. When Winifred thanked her, Mrs. Barrett waved it off. “It’s no trouble at all, really. It’s the least I can do, considering how much pleasure his children and their friends have given me and Paul with their singing.”
“Oh, yes, the choir has come such a long way since Sophia took on the role of choir director.” Winifred turned her gaze back to the choir and sighed. “It’s such a shame about her job.”
“What do you mean? Is Sophia leaving St. Margaret’s?”
“Oh, no, certainly not. It’s her other job—her paying job. She teaches music at Peleg Wadsworth Elementary in Watertown.”
“That’s where Paul attended school.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Winifred, thinking of the boy she had known so many years before, the bright lad with an ear for music and no piano at home to play upon. His school music classes had made a great difference in his life. He had told her so. “Our Sophia found out earlier this afternoon that her position is being eliminated. It’s terribly unfortunate, not only for her but for her students. The state budget for education was slashed, as I’m sure you know, and a local tax levy measure failed in last month’s election. Since the federal funding almost certainly won’t come through—”
“Why is that?” Mrs. Barrett interrupted. “Why almost certainly?”
“Well, with your late husband’s passing,” said Winifred delicately, “the vote in the Senate is guaranteed to go the other way, isn’t it?”
“I most definitely disagree. Let’s not concede defeat until the Senate reconvenes and we see where the votes lie.”
“Of course you know much more about politics than I do, but isn’t the fellow who’s expected to replace your husband entirely set against it?”
“You must mean the governor’s brother-in-law.” Mrs. Barrett frowned. “The governor hasn’t appointed an interim senator yet, but you’re right, rumor has it that his brother-in-law is the front-runner.”
Winifred refrained from admitting that she had a more reliable source than mere rumor. A certain member of the governor’s staff served on St. Margaret’s Altar Committee, and she liked to chat. “Perhaps the governor will have a change of heart,” she said, although her source suggested otherwise.
Mrs. Barrett folded her arms and shrugged, her black purse dangling from the crook of her arm. “The governor should want to avoid charges of nepotism. What he really ought to do is choose someone as qualified as his brother-in-law but more appealing to voters. Someone likable, perhaps someone other than a career politician.”
“Someone who cares about education and the poor.” Winifred smiled brightly. “Perhaps I should volunteer.”
Mrs. Barrett smiled. “Why not? I could put in a good word for you if you like. I expect to see the governor tonight.”
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nbsp; “No, no, dear me, no,” Winifred exclaimed, until she realized Mrs. Barrett was teasing her. “Very well, then, if you insist. It’s not a position I would seek out, but if I’m asked to serve, I couldn’t possibly refuse.”
After promising to be in touch with any news, Mrs. Barrett explained that she was expected at a benefit dinner and hurried off to her car. By then rehearsal had concluded, so Winifred went to the front of the church to bid the children farewell. When she found Alex putting on his coat, it was difficult not to confess that Mrs. Barrett was making inquiries on his father’s behalf. “I hope you have a very Merry Christmas, Alex,” she said instead.
“Thanks,” he said, suddenly glum. “It won’t be the same without my dad around.”
“I’m sure that’s true, dear.”
“There’s stuff he does to make it special, you know? It won’t feel like Christmas without him, especially if the stupid Internet is still broken and we can’t even talk to him.”
“Well—” Winifred paused to think. “Is there anything you can do to fill in for your father?”
“Like what?”
“The stuff he does to make Christmas special, as you say. Can you do any of it in his place?” Quickly Winifred added, “Only safe things, of course. Nothing involving fire or rockets.”
Alex grinned. “Christmas fire rockets. Cool.”
“Only safe things,” she repeated emphatically. At that moment, Charlotte approached to collect her brother. “Oh, Charlotte, dear, I have a favor to ask.”
“Sure, Sister. Anything.”
“Miss Sophia put me in charge of making the programs for the choir concert, and I thought it would be lovely to include the poem from your Christmas story.”
A smile briefly lit up the girl’s face before worry replaced it. “I’d like that, but . . .”
Christmas Bells Page 27
