Breaking Ground

by William Andrews

  “Is that really a family pew?” Julie whispered to Dalton after the three of them had settled into a pew halfway between the front and back of the rows of cream boxes. Dalton had opened the door to theirs to usher Nickie and Julie in before him.

  “Only for the past century or so,” Dalton whispered back. “Of course you wouldn’t know that if you looked—nothing as vulgar as signs or anything, but that second pew is the Townsends’, and if you ended up there by mistake no one would say anything, but you would feel out of place pretty fast.”

  “Is this one okay?” Julie asked, worried now that her ignorance of the complicated business of family pews was another aspect of Ryland’s culture that would embarrass her.

  “Well, it’s not the Scott family’s,” he replied, “but after the first few rows it’s okay at a funeral for folks like us to take it. Until someone comes along and stares at us,” he added. Julie glanced up to see if indeed someone was, but then realized Dalton was kidding.

  “Don’t worry,” Nickie whispered in her other ear. “We’re fine here.”

  Relieved by Nickie’s assurance, Julie began to take in the scene. She’d popped into the church a few times to check it out, and had attended a few events there, but felt today as if she were really seeing the church for the first time. It was so beautiful in its simple, understated, New England way, so very different from the Lutheran churches of her youth and the Catholic ones she accompanied Rich to. The walls, for example, were practically empty, whereas in the churches she had frequented the walls were often more full than the pews. Here was a plaque with numbers on it off to the left of the altar, and on the right, a small cloth banner embroidered with a cross. And the altar itself was more like the podium at a Rotary breakfast meeting, nothing ornate about it at all. The walls and ceiling were somewhere in color between cream and eggshell—bright, clean, hygienic, and terribly discreet.

  “Of course we’re white,” she amused herself by imagining the walls and ceiling as saying, “but it’s not just any ordinary white that any ordinary church might be painted; this is a white as special and as understated as everything in this church.”

  Caught up in the visual delights of the building, Julie was nearly unconscious of what was happening around her until Dalton and Nickie rose beside her. She jumped up to join them, then noticed that everyone else was already on their feet. She wondered how long she had been the lone sitter. A woman wearing a green stole had entered from somewhere and was now standing in front of the congregation, not at the podium but at floor level, in the middle of the central aisle. She bent down to speak to Steven and Elizabeth, alone in the front pew, and then stood up again to face the rest.

  “Welcome to the House of the Lord,” the woman said. “We are here to thank Him for the life and good works of our beloved Mary Ellen Swanson,” she continued as she looked to the right where the coffin sat on a low stand. “This service of thanks will be as ecumenical as a Congo preacher like me can make it,” she added, and smiled as hearty laughs arose from the congregation. Although at first surprised at the levity—both the preacher’s and those who replied with laughter—Julie quickly felt a sense of comfort she hadn’t expected. When the minister said, “We’ll begin with number thirty-seven,” gesturing to the small board off to side that contained three sets of numbers, thirty-seven being the first, Julie followed Dalton’s lead and reached for the hymnal in the wooden pocket in front of her. She surprised herself by lustily joining the singing, grateful that the words came back so readily from her childhood churchgoing days.

  The minister spoke briefly but very touchingly of Mary Ellen’s life and her many contributions to Ryland, noting that only God could understand why the woman had been taken before she had had the chance to see the fruits of her latest gift in the form of the new Swanson Center of the Ryland Historical Society. The reference made Julie uncomfortable as she recalled the location of Mary Ellen’s death, and she was grateful when Nickie reached over to give her hand a gentle squeeze. Another hymn followed, and again Julie joined the hearty singing. When it ended, there was an awkward silence as the minister stood at the podium and looked expectantly toward Steven and Elizabeth. She finally broke the silence by saying, “Steven, I believe you’d like to say a few words.”

  Steven rose slowly and walked awkwardly toward the step that led up to where the minister had moved to stand away from the podium. He paused, and then turned back and planted himself squarely in the middle of the aisle and looked down it toward the back door. Julie smiled at him, and she guessed that the others whom she couldn’t see did the same, because gradually he made eye contact with people instead of the door. He cleared his throat and said, “I think I’ll just stand down here. It won’t take long.” Julie saw the minister nod her approval. I can’t imagine doing that, Julie said to herself as she thought of Steven’s task in talking about his mother a few feet from her coffin.

  “Many of you knew my mother as well as I did,” he began, “especially in the last few years when I wasn’t exactly a regular visitor to Ryland.” He laughed uncomfortably, but the response encouraged him to laugh again. “Well, Mom put it differently. She said I was practically a stranger here.” More laughter seemed to help him along. “But of course I grew up in Ryland, with Mom and Dad, and so I don’t consider myself a stranger. Anyway, I want to thank all of you for coming today to honor Mom, and for being her friends for all those years. She was proud of Ryland and everything that’s going on here, and happy to be a part of it. She was really excited about the new building to honor Dad, like Reverend Richardson said, and in a way I guess it will be a memorial to her now, to all that she did for the town and the historical society and all.”

  Julie wondered if Steven was making a suggestion. Maybe they should change the name to the Daniel and Mary Ellen Swanson Center. Maybe she should have thought of that earlier. Steven resumed his speech.

  “Growing up here was great, and that was really because of Mom. And Dad, too, but it was really Mom who made my life here so much fun. So I want to say thanks to her for that, and say how very sad I am that she won’t be a part of my life now.” Steven’s voice caught, and he reached into his back pocket for a handkerchief that he used to dab at his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “That’s really the best I can do, the most I can say: Thanks, Mom. For everything.” He glanced at the coffin and then practically collapsed into the pew beside Elizabeth.

  “Thank you, Steven,” the minister said quickly as she walked backed toward the podium. “Thank you for those very loving words, words that only a son can offer at a moment like this. Please know that our thoughts and prayers are with you and Elizabeth now, as well as with Mary Ellen. After the singing of our last hymn, will the pallbearers please come to the front, and will the rest of the congregation stand as we carry the remains of our beloved friend down the aisle? Commitment at the cemetery will be private, but Steven and Elizabeth have very kindly invited you all to his mother’s house for a reception, beginning at noon—is that right?”

  “I knew I was supposed to say something else!” Steven said to the whole church, his composure now back. He rose and added, “Mom would very much want you all to come. Grander Hill Road, I’m sure most of you know it.”

  The minister gestured toward Steven, who walked up to the coffin. Several other men rose from other parts of the church, including Howard, Henry, several Julie knew only as faces around Ryland, and—to her surprise—Dalton. Nickie leaned over and whispered to Julie, “Dalton was honored to be asked. Figured he was called on because he was one of the few trustees who could actually heft a coffin, but I see Henry is there, too.” The group assembled and gathered around the coffin as the funeral director, who had suddenly materialized, as members of his profession do, entered from the side and gave low-voiced instructions. As the coffin passed up the aisle beside her, Julie realized that tears were streaming down her face. But she felt better seeing she was not alone in having that response to saying good-bye to Mary Ellen Swans
on.

  CHAPTER 21

  “I’m meeting Dalton there,” Nickie said to Julie when they reached the steps outside the church. The hearse was gone, but Julie could see the blue lights of Mike’s cruiser at the end of the street and knew the hearse and the few cars of the procession were behind it. “I can give you a ride,” Nickie added.

  “Great, thanks.”

  “I’d enjoy the company. Did they say noon? It’s ten of now. The family won’t be back by then, but I guess we’re supposed to go anyway. My car’s up the street.”

  It was a comfort to Julie to ride and chat with the cheerful Nickie. And the day was simply gorgeous—bright blue skies, warm but pleasant temperatures, a gentle breeze blowing in off the mountains, which were dramatically visible to the west through the crystal-clear air. As if reacting to the same stimuli, Nickie said, “Seems like a cliché, but she sure had a great day for it, didn’t she?”

  Julie agreed, and went on to say what a lovely service it was. “There’s another cliché for you,” she added.

  “I know what you mean, but a lovely day and a lovely service just have to be better than a gloomy old sermon on a rainy day.”

  “The minister was great,” Julie said.

  “Annie Richardson? She sure is—funny and with-it, but serious in her way.”

  “I’m still not used to that abbreviation, by the way,” Julie said. “Congo for Congregational—but no one seemed bothered by it.”

  “Standard, I guess,” Nickie said.

  “Like knowing which pews you can sit in. Sometimes I think I’ll never figure out how things work here.”

  “Don’t be silly, Julie! You’ve figured out everything that matters.”

  “Not quite.” Julie said. “I mean, who would murder Mary Ellen?” She was silent for the rest of the short drive.

  Mary Ellen’s house always seemed incongruous to Julie. The Swansons were one of Ryland’s oldest families, and their homestead on Main Street was a huge Victorian four doors above the large but by contrast modest Harding House. Worth had pointed it out to her when he gave her a walking tour of Ryland, so the first time Mary Ellen had invited her to dinner just a few weeks after she arrived, she was prepared to make the short walk up the street. But the morning of their dinner date, Mary Ellen had dropped into her office to remind Julie of the time and that her house was at the very top of the hill. To Julie’s puzzlement, Mary Ellen had explained that they had sold the family homestead to a couple from Boston and built a new house on Grander Hill Road several years before Dan Swanson’s death. “We just love the views,” Mary Ellen had said then.

  It was easy to see why. As Nickie pulled into the driveway below the house, the views out toward the Presidentials made Julie gasp, despite her having been here several times before. “I always forget how great this is,” she said to Nickie.

  “It is pretty grand, isn’t it? Dalton says that if he’d come to Ryland earlier and gotten the commission to design a house for the Swansons on this site, he probably wouldn’t have given up architecture to run an inn. Of course he would have done a better design,” Nickie added as they walked up the drive and around to the front entrance. “Though this isn’t too shabby.”

  Indeed, Julie thought as she looked up at the high shingled wall that formed a screen against the traffic of Grander Hill Road. Four irregularly placed sash windows, small like gun slots in a castle, provided the only break in the facade. The entrance was nearly hidden under a gable. The door was opened by a young woman Julie didn’t recognize—a college-student waitress from the Ryland Inn, hired for the event, she guessed. As Nickie and Julie walked through the narrow entrance hall they heard subdued voices, and then they entered the great room. The house was all about views. The entire wall of the great room consisted of glass panels, running close to twenty feet from just above the floor to the ceiling. A couple of dozen guests had positioned themselves at intervals along the glass, staring out and exchanging quiet words. Loretta Cummings, Julie was happy to see, was one of them.

  “What a gorgeous view,” Julie said when she walked over to join Loretta.

  “Mary Ellen always had the best, didn’t she? Wasn’t it a lovely service?”

  “Very nice.”

  “Mary Ellen would have been pleased,” Loretta continued. “So simple and dignified, but light enough. And Steven’s eulogy …”

  “Must have been awfully hard for him.”

  “I’m sure, but I thought he did a good job of catching Mary Ellen’s spirit—like that comment about how his mother got after him for not coming home much. Couldn’t you just hear her saying that? She didn’t mince words, as you know. But I’m sure she really missed her son.”

  More people were arriving behind them, and Julie turned back and saw the family and party from the cemetery weren’t among them. “He seems very nice,” she said. “What’s his wife like?”

  “I’ve only met her a couple of times,” Loretta said, “but from what I gathered she and Mary Ellen didn’t get along. I suppose that’s easy to understand: Elizabeth took Mary Ellen’s golden boy from her, and both of them are strong women. Bound to clash.”

  “I wonder how Steven felt about that.”

  “Caught in the middle of his strong mama and his strong wife, like a lot of guys. Not an unusual story, I guess. Now I was lucky—my husband’s one of six kids, and his mother was happy to see him get out of her kitchen and into mine!”

  The low murmuring came to an abrupt end just as Loretta was finishing, and everyone pivoted as if on command to see Steven and Elizabeth come down the entrance hall into the great room. Behind them were Reverend Richardson and the pallbearers. Steven stopped at the long table serving as the bar and poured a glass of something Julie couldn’t identify but was sure wasn’t the white wine she and Loretta were sipping. He took a long gulp and then looked around at his now-silent guests.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “The circumstances of Mom’s death are tragic, but today, let’s put aside our questions and concerns and celebrate her life. Mom would be happy to have all her friends in the house today. Elizabeth and I are happy you’re here, too.” He turned his head to the right to confirm this, but Elizabeth was already moving away, toward the windows. In fact, she was headed toward Julie, who stepped back, hoping the other woman’s path would change. When it didn’t, she found herself face-to-face with Elizabeth.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Swanson,” she said.

  “Myerson,” the woman corrected her. “I didn’t take Steven’s name, but please call me Elizabeth. You’re Dr. Williamson from the Ryland Historical Society, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Julie. We met briefly a couple of months ago.”

  “One of those interminable get-togethers about the building! She certainly enjoyed all the fuss. Too bad she can’t enjoy the building.”

  Julie didn’t know how to gauge the sincerity of Elizabeth’s regret. “It certainly is” was all she said, hoping that would prompt further commentary. When it didn’t, Julie continued: “I think your husband’s point about the new building being a monument to both his parents was really good. I’m sure the board of trustees will want to pursue that.”

  “You’ll be getting the rest of the money, Stevie said, so your board ought to do something.”

  Stevie! Julie thought. Mary Ellen was so insistent on calling her son Steven; Mary Ellen’s daughter-in-law obviously didn’t agree.

  “Yes, I understand from Henry LaBelle that Steven is going to ask the probate court to release the rest of the gift right away. That’s very generous of you.”

  “Oh, I have nothing to do with it. It’s Stevie’s money, and he’s welcome to use it however he likes.”

  Julie didn’t think it would be worth pointing out that the $500,000 was Mary Ellen’s pledge, not her son’s gift. “He’ll get plenty,” Elizabeth continued. “Of course you would have gotten more if his mother had changed things, but then.”

  Julie’s mouth, quite liter
ally, dropped open. She wasn’t sure what words should come out of it. Was she supposed to know that Mary Ellen considered changing her will to give more to the Ryland Historical Society if Steven and Elizabeth didn’t produce an heir? She wasn’t going to fall into that trap, but she couldn’t resist an indirect try. “I’m not sure what you mean, but then, it’s really none of my business.”

  “No, I suppose not, though I assumed Stevie’s mother had told you. Well, it doesn’t matter. Excuse me, please, I guess I should circulate.”

  Julie watched her walk away—not, as she had indicated, toward other guests but toward the left side of the house where, Julie knew, the bedrooms and baths were. Probably needs to use the bathroom, Julie told herself as she studied the woman’s retreating form. Elizabeth’s was a lot like Mary Ellen’s, Julie realized: slim, taut, elegant. Of course she was a lot younger—probably early thirties—and her hair was a dazzling blonde (too dazzling, Julie thought, to be entirely natural, but very striking). She didn’t seem too interested in Steven’s apparently large inheritance. Or had Elizabeth deliberately brushed that off because she didn’t want to be seen as a gold-digger?

  “I thought Elizabeth was here,” Steven said in a lost-boy way.

  “Oh, she was,” Julie replied. “She went that way.” Julie pointed toward the door that led to the private part of the house. “I thought your speech at the service was just right,” she added. “It must have been so hard for you, but what you said about your mother really evoked her spirit. It was good.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, it wasn’t easy, and like always I said too much and too little. Shouldn’t have said that about Mom saying I was a stranger here. And I should have mentioned the reception.”

  “It was just right, really,” Julie assured him.

  “Mom never really understood her,” Steven continued as if Julie’s presence was a fortuitous opportunity for him to work out something that was bothering him. “Mom never worked—outside the home, I mean,” he continued, “and she just couldn’t get it into her head that Elizabeth does. And she works very hard, with long hours. It was hard for her to get away to come here, even if she had really wanted to.”