His Right Hand

by Mette Ivie Harrison

  I forced myself to think of Emma and her needs. “Not over the phone. I should go over to her place myself,” I said. I glanced at the body, still reluctant to leave it.

  But Kurt shook his head. “We can’t leave before the police arrive. I think you should go ahead and call her. It may be hours before either of us is free to go over and talk to her in person.”

  He was the bishop. But the fact that he was asking me to do this difficult job for him meant something. It was the only sign of his distress in all of this. He was shirking his responsibility, and Kurt never did that.

  “All right. I’ll do it.” I got out my cell phone, took a deep breath, and stared at Carl’s body. Kurt was with him, though, so I didn’t have to stay in the room. I moved to the hallway and called Emma’s number.

  “Hello? Linda, is that you? Did you find him?” asked Emma immediately, her voice eager.

  “Yes, Emma. I found him,” I said. My voice sounded strange in my own ears, tinny and uncertain.

  “Is he on his way home?” said Emma.

  “No, Emma. He’s not.”

  “Oh. When will he be on his way, then? Did he give you an estimate?”

  “Emma, he’s dead,” I said. It was so blunt, but how else could I say it?

  “What?” Her voice was stunned and confused.

  “I don’t know what happened,” I said. Somehow, though I’d been able to tell her he was dead, I couldn’t bring myself to offer any details, like the fact that he must have been murdered. “We’re at the church and we found his—him. Kurt called the police and we’re waiting on them.”

  “But—I don’t understand. How could this have happened?” said Emma, now bewildered and childlike.

  “I don’t know, Emma. I’m so sorry. I’ll be over as soon as I can. In the meantime, who are your visiting teachers? I’ll call them up right now and make sure they come over and sit with you.” I couldn’t think what else to do. I didn’t think Emma would be sleeping any time soon and it seemed cruel to tell her she should try.

  “But what about my children? What about Alice and William?” she asked. “They’re already in bed.”

  “You’ll have to talk to them in the morning,” I said.

  “Are you sure you’re not mistaken? Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it just looks like him,” said Emma. She was starting to ramble in that way people do when they have stopped being able to think rationally.

  “His car is here, Emma. And Kurt and I both know him quite well. It’s him.”

  “But—why? How could God do this to me? To us?” said Emma. “It’s not fair. We don’t deserve this.”

  As if only people who were evil had anything bad happen to them.

  “Emma, it’s not that either of you did anything wrong,” I said. “Please, you have to believe that. This is just a terrible thing that has happened.” But I didn’t know that. I had no idea what Carl had been doing here at the church on a Thursday night, alone. Maybe he had done something wrong.

  Emma started to cry. “I’ll come over as soon as I can, Emma,” I said, and hung up the phone. I felt like a monster. Maybe I should have insisted Kurt make the call, after all. Maybe, since he was a bishop, God would have given him the right words to say.

  But I focused on the other call I had to make. It wasn’t going to be any more pleasant. I dialed Sheri Tate, the Relief Society president, who had a special spiritual stewardship over all the women in the ward. She was as much of a straight arrow as Carl Ashby had been.

  The phone rang and then voice mail suggested I leave a message. I called again.

  The third time, she answered in a sleepy voice, “This is Sheri.”

  I explained to her briefly that Carl was dead and that Emma Ashby needed someone to be with her right now. “I don’t know who her visiting teachers are, but can you make sure she isn’t alone?” I asked.

  “I’ll do it,” said Sheri.

  I hung up feeling calmer. Emma was in Sheri Tate’s capable hands. We might have our disagreements, but Sheri was always there when you needed hands on deck.

  I sagged against Kurt in the hallway. We waited for the police.

  It was a long night. Uniformed police officers came and took statements. They ran crime scene tape all over the church. A police investigation van arrived on scene. Detectives would come later, presumably.

  Outside the church, Kurt and I said the same thing over and over again. The words always felt the same. And they didn’t matter. Carl was dead.

  When the coroner took the body away, Kurt spoke briefly with one of the uniforms. “They say we can go now,” he told me.

  I checked my watch and saw that it was 3:30 a.m. “We have to go see Emma, now,” I said dully. It was the last thing I wanted to do.

  We walked over to the Ashby house because it was so close. It was still warm, and the moon was up, full and bright. It seemed unfair that there could be such a beautiful sky on a night like this one.

  I knocked on the door and Sheri Tate answered with a finger to her mouth. “She’s finally gone to sleep,” she said, her eyes taking in both me and Kurt on the doorstep.

  “Then I’ll come back tomorrow,” I said, relieved. “I can answer her questions then.” But could I? I could tell her that her husband had been strangled, but not by whom or why. I had none of the important answers, and the only details I could share were gruesome and likely to cause more hurt than help.

  “Some detectives were here already. It seemed like mostly a formality, to set up a time for her to identify the body. But they didn’t say anything about what happened. How did he die? A heart attack?”

  Sheri didn’t seem to realize that a heart attack wouldn’t involve the police. That probably meant that Emma didn’t realize it, either.

  “We need to get home to bed, too,” said Kurt. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “Of course,” said Sheri, and closed the door.

  It was only a ten-minute walk back to our house, but it felt very long. Kurt’s truck was still at the church. He said he would walk over and get it in the morning.

  “I keep thinking about all the things he might have done to cause this,” I whispered to Kurt as we lay in bed together, neither of us with enough energy to change into bedclothes. We had taken off our shoes and that was all. “I’m blaming him for being a murder victim and I know I shouldn’t.” I wasn’t used to thinking of men as victims.

  “Carl was a good man,” said Kurt stiffly. “I know that he was sometimes dogmatic and inflexible, but I felt privileged to work with him. I don’t know how I will ever replace him.”

  Of course he couldn’t. And of course he would have to anyway. A bishopric couldn’t function with only two counselors. While Kurt was mourning, he would have to be quietly interviewing new people for Carl’s job. How horrible for him. But the longer he put it off, the more work he would create for himself. And he was already being crushed by the bishop’s responsibilities. He and I both.

  “How will his family be financially?” I asked. It seemed a crude thing to wonder about it, but it was practical, too. “What was his business, anyway?” I realized I’d never heard him talk about it, which was a little strange.

  “He did stock trading, I think,” said Kurt.

  “You think?” It was one thing for me not to know, but how could Kurt not either?

  “He seemed uncomfortable talking about it. I think he was quite wealthy. Work he’d done before ever moving to the ward.”

  “Do you think that might’ve had something to do with his death?” I asked, my mind swirling with darker possibilities. If Carl had been murdered because of some secret from his past, it seemed somehow better to me than if the murder had to do with our ward. Or his family.

  “No. I think it was an invention of some kind,” said Kurt tiredly.

  “What did he invent?” I asked.
/>   Kurt shrugged. “He never would tell me. He seemed embarrassed about the money.”

  But not embarrassed enough to stop himself from buying that silver Lexus. I thought about Emma and Alice and William. At least they would have a nice nest egg to take care of them while they were dealing with grief. I couldn’t imagine quiet, petite Emma trying to go out and get a job as some mothers were forced to do in difficult circumstances.

  “I hope she can forgive him, whatever rancor there was between them.” I tried to imagine losing someone with whom I was intimate and still angry. I had plenty of things I would have liked to resolve with Carl, but I was not his wife. I was not bound to him eternally through temple covenants. Emma and his children were.

  I waited for an answer, but Kurt was already snoring softly.

  Chapter 5

  I went over to the Ashbys’ house to relieve Sheri Tate Friday morning at about 7 a.m. “Is Emma awake?”

  “Not yet,” whispered Sheri as she let me in the front door. It was clear from the blanket spread across the couch that she had tried to get some sleep herself. I didn’t blame her. “But Alice and William are up. They’re getting ready for school.”

  It seemed ridiculous for the children to go to school just hours after their father had died. “What have they been told?” I asked, wondering if Sheri had left the bad news to me.

  “They know that their father died last night. I told them when they woke up.”

  I shouldn’t have underestimated her, I thought. And if she hadn’t said it was murder, that was only because she didn’t know. “Thank you. You’ve done so much,” I said.

  “In a situation like this, it never feels like enough. But I’ll keep checking in to see what the family needs. And I’ll be sending over her visiting teachers as soon as they can manage. But if you or the bishop think we need a whole schedule of people to stay with Emma, let me know and I can make sure the compassionate service leader has people signed up for every time slot, even through the night.”

  “I’ll ask him,” I said, thinking how strange it was that she referred to Kurt with his title only.

  “I assume you talked to the police already?” Sheri asked.

  “Of course. Last night Kurt and I talked to them for hours.”

  “Ah. Well, I guess it’s my turn.” She held up her phone and waved it at me. “They want me to come in this afternoon.”

  I was surprised at this and tried to remember how well Sheri and Carl had known each other. In Mormon wards, men and women who aren’t married to each other are cautioned not to spend time alone together, no matter what their callings are. I sometimes thought it was silly, but Kurt always followed the rules, and so had Carl.

  “They probably just want to ask you background information about Carl’s relationships to other people in the ward.” I hoped they weren’t compiling a list of suspects from the ward.

  “That must be it,” said Sheri. “I’m nervous about going in, but I know I shouldn’t be.”

  “No reason for that,” I said. I wondered who else in the ward the police were going to talk to about Carl. Had I seen or heard something that would indicate animosity toward Carl? I had thought I was getting better at noticing deeper problems in people’s lives, but it seemed I still wasn’t doing a good enough job at being the bishop’s wife.

  On the other hand, Kurt could still be right. It might have had nothing to do with our ward. It could have been a random burglary, or something related to Carl’s business dealings. Some part of me hoped that was true.

  After a quick, sisterly hug, Sheri left, and I went into the kitchen, where Alice and William were eating breakfast. Cold cereal seemed a terrible start to the day. I should have gotten up early enough to make them something hot and fresh like pancakes or waffles. They were very quiet, though William seemed to be eating heartily.

  I tried to recall what I knew of them from my days in the Primary Presidency a few years ago. Alice was the older of the two, a junior in high school, seventeen. If I remembered correctly, William was a freshman and on the younger end, with a late birthday that put him in a church class with junior high kids. He still looked like a kid, with a buzz cut that only made him look smaller and a little naked. This morning, he wore a gray hoodie.

  Like many Mormon girls who were bombarded by messages about the virtues of modesty in an evil world, Alice was dressed in white capris (not shorts) and a long-sleeved floral tunic over a white shirt. Her eyes looked huge, like wounds throbbing in the center of her face.

  “How are you two holding up?” I asked. The kitchen was a little messy. There were a lot of appliances on the countertops, and the counters themselves were splattered with food, especially around the stove.

  “We’re fine,” said Alice, poking at her cereal.

  William said nothing, pouring a big second bowl as if he were trying to make the football team. Or force himself not to think about anything but eating.

  “Are you sure you’re up to going to school today? I’m worried that your mother may want you here when she wakes up, as moral support.” I wasn’t trying to make them feel guilty about Emma, but I did want to give them an excuse.

  “Dad would have wanted us to go to school,” said Alice. She sounded congested. From crying, or trying not to cry? “He would have wanted us to keep following the rules. Rules are there to protect us, and to keep us happy.”

  “Of course they are,” I said gently. “But there are times for the rules to be suspended, too.”

  “He would have said that school is our job and there is no excuse not to do our job every day,” said William. “Some days it’s harder than others, but you always do it anyway.” He looked like he was going to disappear into that sweatshirt of his. He was trying so hard to be grown-up.

  Kurt had told me since becoming bishop that he was surprised at how often he gave very basic advice to people: don’t be unfaithful to your spouse, don’t spend more than you earn, go to work even if you don’t feel like it, do your church job even if you have doubts. But this wasn’t one of those cases where people just needed to suck it up and do what had to be done. These were kids who were hurting and needed time to process what had just happened.

  Still, now was not the time to tell these children their father was wrong. “Do you want to talk to someone? After school, if you don’t want to miss school? The bishop has names of professional therapists who are also church members. The ward would pay for it.”

  William shrugged. “Dad always said people didn’t need that kind of stuff. Saying a prayer and reading scriptures can fix anything.” His voice, which was still changing, squeaked.

  I avoided rolling my eyes, and tried to think of a scripture verse that would have some meaning in this situation, but I was blank. I wanted answers to questions from God, and I realized I felt more than a little angry. I felt especially so for William, because I had always known that my sons needed their father more than they needed me.

  “Can I do anything?” I asked hoarsely.

  William scooped a last spoonful out of the bowl, then stood to put his dish in the dishwasher.

  So well trained, I thought. But he was trying so hard to avoid me and my searching eyes.

  “I think Mom is the one who needs the most help,” said Alice, licking the milk off her spoon and standing up to mimic her brother. I realized she was right, and that it might be useful for Emma to have the kids out of the house, at least for today. “Don’t worry about us. We’re tough.” Alice closed the dishwasher with more force than was necessary, and then put her hand to it, as if trying to erase that motion.

  I wanted to give them a hug, but they were so clearly making an effort to keep themselves away from me. Alice had one arm crossed over her chest and William was standing behind her, as if for protection. I felt so useless.

  “Well, anything you need, call me.” I rattled off my cell phone number
, and Alice at least pretended to put it in her phone. William didn’t even bother with that.

  Did they feel close to their youth leaders in the ward? Did they have friends they’d call and talk to? Teachers at school? Grief could be so lonely. No one understood and no one wanted to be close to that conflagration of anger and fear and pain. “I’ll be here for your mom, and if you change your mind about school—if things get to be too much for you—I’ll come down and pick you up, anytime. It’s no trouble. All right?”

  “Sure,” said Alice.

  William mumbled something and went to get his backpack and school books.

  Despite the temptation to procrastinate by cleaning the kitchen, I went upstairs to check on Emma. She was lying curled into a corner of a king-size bed. I wondered who in the world had chosen that. Neither Carl nor Emma were tall enough to require a king, and it looked to me like they would get lost in it.

  “Emma?” I said softly. She didn’t stir.

  A part of me wanted to let her sleep, but I was afraid that if the kids were gone when she woke up, she would be even more upset.

  I moved closer and shook her shoulder gently. “Emma? Your kids are getting ready to head off to school. Do you want to say goodbye to them?”

  Emma opened her eyes and then started awake, launching herself out of the bed and into a standing position. “Carl,” she said.

  I grabbed one of her hands to anchor her. “I know this is hard. I just thought you’d want to help Alice and William get out the door. They’re very insistent that they’re going to school today. They think it’s what Carl would want them to do.”

  She looked down self-consciously, brushed at her nightgown, and went to the closet to put on a robe. She tied the robe tightly, and I saw her face change from sleepy and confused to wrecked and gray.