sixteen
jolene
Jolene gazed at her daughter, lithe and beautiful as she sat at the kitchen table with her feet propped on a chair, knees pushed toward her chest, the scent of the tangerine she was peeling brightening the air. Half-dressed for the college fair at the Colorado College campus, she wore a white blouse over a pair of panties, even though Zach was after her all the time to dress more modestly around the house. Her hair was only a couple of shades darker than the maple tabletop and it shone in the morning sun pouring through the butter-
colored sheers veiling the window. The indiscreet sunlight also illuminated the scratches on the laminate countertops, the dings in the refrigerator door, and the cracked floor tile where Zach had dropped her favorite mixing bowl last December. Sliding one bare foot into the sun path on the floor, Jolene expected to feel warmed, but it was too early. Her expression troubled, she opened and shut her mouth twice before saying, “Rachel.”
The girl looked up.
Jolene took a deep breath. “The woman who lost her wallet at the co-op came by to pick it up. She said there was fifty-five dollars missing. She was very distressed.”
Rachel dug her thumb under the tangerine’s skin with a spritz of juice and began to work it around so the peel spiraled over her hand. She bent her head as if engrossed in the task, and Jolene couldn’t read her expression. “She’s too old to remember how much she had in there, Mom. She probably bought a couple books, or new slippers, and forgot. Want some?” She separated a section from the tangerine and offered it to Jolene.
“Thanks.” Jolene popped the fruit into her mouth, grateful for an excuse not to respond right away. The tangerine was unusually tart, but she found it refreshing. “Could be.” She forced herself to continue. “But this isn’t the first incident. It was just ten days ago that that other woman said her wallet was stolen at our store.”
“Puh-leeze, Mom. They’d been to the mall before coming out here. She probably left it at Penney’s or in the food court. She’s got no way to prove that something happened to it in our store.”
The woman, though probably over ninety, had seemed sharp as a tack telling Jolene that she’d bought a bracelet at the mall, and that she distinctly remembered placing the boxed bracelet and the wallet back in her purse before boarding the bus to come to Lone Pine Traditional Crafts. She hadn’t seen anything she wanted at the Community’s store, but had missed her wallet on the return trip to the nursing home when she dug through her purse for her antihistamines. “The pine pollen always gets me,” she’d said.
“Or maybe you think I’m a klepto,” Rachel said. Affront widened her eyes.
“I don’t think you’re a kleptomaniac.”
Rachel stood and dumped the tangerine peel into the sink. “Thanks for the ringing vote of confidence. Not a klepto, just a garden variety thief.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. The fact that we’re having this conversation says it all.” Rachel faced Jolene, head tilted back so her jaw jutted forward. “If that’s what you think, maybe I shouldn’t be allowed to work in the store anymore. I’ll stay away. When another wallet goes missing, you can apologize.” She stomped out of the kitchen in a way intended to advertise how aggrieved she was.
Stuffing the tangerine bits into the grinder, Jolene turned on the water and flipped the switch, letting the harsh gargle of the grinder drown out her thoughts. It was painful and almost impossible to think of Rachel as a thief, but the evidence was mounting. Rachel was the only common denominator. Chloe had been working with her when the first wallet went missing, and Aaron had been with her last night, at least part of the time, but Rachel was the only one who was in the store both times. Was it possible Rachel had stolen the money to get out of working at the store? Would she risk being branded a thief, putting her own and the Community’s reputation on the line, to avoid contributing her time and talent to the co-op? Surely she couldn’t be so selfish. Anger simmered at the thought.
There had to be another explanation, Jolene told herself. She shut off the grinder, realizing it had been chirring emptily, tangerine peel long washed away, for thirty seconds. Maybe those women really had misplaced their wallets, or miscounted their money. Unlikely. She was going to have to discuss it with Zach.
“Are you going like that?” Rachel had reappeared, purse hanging from one hand, wearing the rest of her school uniform: mid-calf navy skirt and black loafers. She cast a pointed look at Jolene’s bare feet. “Aren’t you the one who wanted to get to the fair early, so I could talk to the recruiters before it gets too crowded?”
Wanting to slap the self-righteous look off her daughter’s face, Jolene fisted her hands, and said a prayer. The thought of Rachel interviewing with college recruiters was stressful enough. It hardly seemed possible her baby would be gone in just over a year. Praying the day would get better, she stepped into a pair of low-heeled pumps, and hurried to the car where Rachel sat with a posture that said she’d been waiting for hours, pointedly staring out the passenger window.
seventeen
iris
Iris rolled over in the motel bed, reluctant to open her eyes and let in the spear of sunlight she could feel probing her eyelids. She checked the clock through one slitted lid. Ten-twelve. She needed to get moving. Her head ached even though she’d limited herself to her usual two beers, and the sheets smelled like sex and a musky cologne. The altitude might have enhanced the alcohol’s effect. Thank goodness the kid—Jared? Jermaine?—had had the decency to leave after their second go-round so she didn’t have to face evicting him this morning. He’d been cute and brash, allowing her to pick him up easily at the sports bar, Bumpers, just down the road. There’d been two teams worth of softball players in the bar, young twenty-somethings still wearing their uniforms and dirt. It’d given her a brief moment of satisfaction to walk out with him in the teeth of girls his own age, the pretty ones working their white smiles, pert breasts, and glossy hair to get the result she’d gotten with a half-lidded glance and feigned disinterest.
Actually, Iris thought, dragging herself from the bed to the bathroom, her disinterest wasn’t so feigned. She peed, and got into the shower, letting the cold water sluice over her. The game had lost its edge. She found it harder to lose herself in the sex, harder to conceal her eagerness for her partner’s departure when they were done. The thought of having a conversation over eggs or waffles with Jared-Jermaine or any of his counterparts made her teeth ache. A disturbing question wiggled its way into her brain: if she was getting too old or too weary for the one-night stands, where would she find release when that restless, itchy feeling came over her? Wrapping a towel around herself, she dripped to the dresser to retrieve her jeans and noticed the red light blinking on the bedside phone. Huh. She must have missed the message indicator when she came in with Jared—she was almost sure it was Jared.
She hit the button to retrieve the message, expecting to hear one of the Welshes checking to make sure the heater was still functioning correctly. Instead, a tinny, unrecognizable voice startled her. “Go home before you end up like Glynnis.”
Glynnis who? Iris’s first impulse was to laugh at the teen slasher flick nature of the message, but something about the metallic voice worked its way beneath her skin and made her shiver. Or maybe she was cold because she was naked and wet, she told herself, scrubbing at goose-pimpled skin with the towel as she hustled back to the bathroom. It must be a wrong number. Or stupid teens calling hotels, giggling as they left their oh-so-spooky message. That’s all it was.
Before hooking up with Jared, she’d spent an hour reading through her father’s thin file. It appeared the police hadn’t done much in the way of investigating or interviewing once her father confessed to the crime. Practically every able-bodied inhabitant of Lone Pine was a suspect, as far as Iris was concerned, since the police hadn’t checked alibis. Needing a place to start, s
he’d reluctantly decided on her mother. Marian Asher had initially told the police her husband was home with her all evening, but then changed her story when Neil confessed. Iris wanted to get the truth from her first, before talking to others in the Community. Dressed in jeans—sure to annoy her mother—and with her damp hair twisted into a messy knot, Iris nodded once at her reflection. With a flick of mascara and a slick of lip balm, she exited the room to find Mrs. Welsh standing a few feet away, a pile of clean towels in her arms.
“Good morning,” Iris said, sticking the key in the stiff lock, more focused on getting coffee than on exchanging pleasantries.
“You had company last night.”
“Excuse me?” Iris lifted her head and stared at the woman, reading condemnation in the way she flared her nostrils in and out.
“We couldn’t help but hear the car.”
Torn between wanting to say “You’re spying on me?” or “What the hell business is it of yours?” Iris bit down hard on her lower lip. She wasn’t going to give the woman the satisfaction of reacting to her near-accusation. She bent to wrestle with the key again.
“Don’t bother with that,” Mrs. Welsh said. “I’m on my way in to clean.” She jangled a key at her belt, indicating she’d lock up when she finished.
Iris nodded her thanks. Reversing the car, she watched Mrs. Welsh push her way into the motel room. Suddenly glad she had her father’s file locked in the trunk, she punched the gas, wishing she didn’t have to see her mother and determined to get the “reunion” over with.
Minutes later, Iris pulled up beside the ancient Volvo parked in front of the church of God’s Community of Believers and Disciples, hoping she’d find her mother working there and wouldn’t have to look for her at Outback Cottage. She’d called Cade on the way and asked him to meet her there. A little moral support wouldn’t hurt, and he’d be able to tell them what they needed to do to get her father a new trial, or a commutation, or whatever. She got out of the rental, leaving the door open. Like I’m planning a quick getaway, she thought, making herself slam it closed. She faced the church. She wanted to be able to think that the building was nothing special, a rectangle of wood painted white, one story with a steeple, reminiscent of the churches she’d seen on postcards from New England where Matthew Brozek was raised, but the building had a certain grace she couldn’t deny. Aspen and cottonwood trees dappled the roof and sides with leaf shadows, and the hum of bees from the nearby field could have been a hymn drifting from the building’s barely open door. Iris found herself relaxing slightly.
Taking a deep breath, she headed into the church.
eighteen
mercy
Twenty-Three Years Ago
Mercy Asher sat with her family near the rear of the church, eyes fixed on the wooden beams of the ceiling. A flutter of movement betrayed a sparrow perched on a shallow ledge, breathing hard. Mercy watched it, sorry for its distress. It hopped the length of the ledge fronting one of the narrow rectangular windows inset high above the pews, and then flapped to the next window back, closer to the door. Mercy turned her head to follow the bird’s progress, but her mother elbowed her and she faced forward. Her mother preferred to sit in the front pew, but in recent months Mercy had become adept at dawdling as she readied herself for church, changing her dress or rearranging her hair until her family was among the last of the Community to arrive for the Sunday morning worship service. She wanted as much distance between her and Pastor Matt as possible; her stomach hurt at the thought of sitting where his gaze could rest on her as he stood in the pulpit, at having to take his soft, damp hand during the passing of the peace. Even the thought made her swallow hard and look at Noah for distraction.
Her brother, nineteen months older, was drawing Spiderman figures on the small pad he’d smuggled into the service. The stubby pencil slashed across the page, Noah’s deft fingers bringing the superhero to life with only a few lines. He was good—better than she was. Her envy of his talent was wrong and she asked forgiveness in a silent prayer, eyes open and glued to the pencil as it defined the muscles in Spiderman’s thigh.
Her gaze went from Noah’s page to her banners behind the altar. They’d been installed three weeks ago, during the twentieth anniversary celebration, and every time she set eyes on them she felt a confusing mix of pride and shame. Five of the Community’s older women and Gabrielle Ulm, a quiet seventh grader who always sat by herself on the school bus, had spent weeks working Mercy’s design onto the banners with various fabrics and embroidery. The colors set the small church alight, and the cloth-of-gold they’d used for the wheat in the Ruth and Boaz scene glowed, backlit by the sunlight pouring through the windows set high on the walls behind the altar.
Finally, Pastor Matt wrapped up his sermon and Esther moved forward to sing while the offertory plate was passed around. She had a light, sweet soprano and Mercy caught Noah craning his neck to get a better view of her. Oh, no! Surely he didn’t have a crush on Esther? She was pretty—slim and dark-haired, with truly startling blue eyes—but she was so, so … Mercy couldn’t come up with a word to describe Pastor Matt’s daughter. Holy. No, not holy. Wanting people to think she was holy, which was a whole different thing.
After the service, Mercy burned to escape, to meet Cade who would be parked in his car near the bus stop on the main road, but her father blocked the exit from the pew, exchanging greetings with the couple in front of him. Noah escaped from the pew on the far end, wriggling rudely around Mrs. Lees who was trying to maneuver her walker into the aisle, and wove his way to where Esther stood accepting congratulations on her singing. Mercy caught her mother staring after him, anger and dismay stiffening her face, and figured she must have seen him almost deck Mrs. Lees. Noah was in for it when he got home, if their mother’s face was anything to go by.
Joining the trickle of parishioners headed out the back of the church, she glimpsed the sparrow, eying the open doors as if waiting his turn to exit. “I know the feeling,” she whispered. As she watched, he swooped toward the door, but veered away at the last minute, frightened by a tall man who turned abruptly, and flew away from the crowd toward the altar.
Circling the worship space twice, the bird then flew toward the brightness of the floor to ceiling picture window beside the pulpit. He gathered speed, and Mercy knew he thought he was headed for freedom, the sky, and the pine trees framed by the window. She could do nothing but watch as he sped toward the pane, lovingly polished with ammonia and newspaper by her mother and a handful of other women who kept the church spotless, so not a streak or smudge marred its clear surface. Mercy thought she heard a small thud as the sparrow hit the window, although, surely, his lightweight, feathery body hadn’t made much sound. She winced. He fell straight down, leaving a bird-shaped blur on the glass, wings upraised and fanned out, like illustrations of the Holy Spirit descending as a dove.
Mercy walked up the center aisle, hoping to find the bird merely stunned. Before she was halfway to the window, her mother swept in from the left, bent, and picked up the bird by one wing, holding it between a thumb and forefinger. He dangled from her hand, clearly dead.
“Mercy, find a plastic bag, a trash bag,” she said unemotionally. “There’s a stash of old grocery bags in the kitchen, under the sink.” Studying the window, she shook her head. “It’ll take some elbow grease to get this mark off the window.”
Near tears and not sure why—it was only a sparrow—Mercy did as directed, descending to the church basement which held the Sunday school rooms, the kitchen, and a large gathering area. She came off the last stair and turned the corner. A flutter of blue skirt and flip of dark hair disappeared into the first-grade Sunday school room with its Noah’s ark poster on the door. More sad about the bird than curious about why someone was in the deserted classroom area, Mercy made her way to the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the lights. Finding a flimsy grocery bag, she stuffed it with a handful of paper tow
els to make a nest, and returned to the hall.
A heavy tread on the stairs warned of someone’s approach, but she still gasped when Pastor Matt stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Her heart beat like the panicked bird’s and she backed up a step. She hadn’t been alone with him for months, not since she told him she wouldn’t anymore, that she’d tell if he tried to touch her. Now, his scent, a mix of deodorant and warm wool, activated by the heat he generated preaching, wafted over her. Swallowing back a mouthful of bile, she froze, hoping he wouldn’t notice her.
She must have made some sound, though, crinkled the grocery bag, because Pastor Matt turned toward her, surprise and a hint of consternation on his broad face. “Mercy! What are you doing down here?”
She stuttered something about the dead bird and held up the plastic bag. “My mom sent me for this. I’m just taking it to her. She’s waiting for me.” She’ll miss me. She’ll come looking for me.
“Then you should go,” he said calmly, stepping away from the stairs. Grateful that she didn’t have to brush past him, touch him, she crumpled the bag in her fist and fled up the stairs.
nineteen
iris
Determined not to let memories from the past derail her, Iris shoved the door wide and stepped into the church. She meant to walk straight on through the worship area and find her mother, but she paused. The sanctuary looked the same, exactly the same. Same airy, sunlit space with high windows. Same wooden pews. Probably not the same deep blue runner on the aisles, but identical to the old carpet. Same—her banners were gone. Iris had barely noted their absence, when a movement made her slew to the right. Her mother, just as slim and upright, hair gone gray, stood at the window by the pulpit, running a squeegee down its length as if still trying to remove all traces of the dead sparrow from years ago.
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