If she could get back to sleep, she’d forget everything.
If she could sleep.
Chapter Twelve
By daybreak, the news of Edmund’s passing had begun to spread through Heavenly Daze. Charles heard the news from Babette, who said she’d heard it from Zuriel. As Charles stepped out to get the newspaper at the ferry landing, he met Pastor Wickam, who had just come from Frenchman’s Folly. “They’re all doing fine over there,” Winslow said, buttoning his jacket against the cold. “Olympia’s upset, of course, but mainly because she fell asleep sitting up with Edmund last night. She keeps insisting she wanted to kiss him good-bye.”
“Annie’s home?” Charles asked.
Winslow nodded. “She’s a big comfort to Olympia, as is Caleb. He’s the calm in the middle of the storm right now. Dr. Marc is handling all the funeral arrangements, and I’m to do the service. I think we’ll have the service on Saturday.”
“If it’s just us Heavenly Daze folks—,” Charles began.
The pastor interrupted him. “It won’t be just islanders. Seems like everybody in the State of Maine knew and loved Edmund, and they’ll all want to come pay their respects. We’ll have standing room only at the church.”
Charles thought of the two blueberry gingerbreads on his kitchen counter—Babette said she made an extra to share with the de Cuviers. Birdie and Bea and Cleta would undoubtedly make something, too, so the folks at Frenchman’s Folly would soon have enough food to feed a crowd. A good thing, apparently.
“Anything we can do, Pastor?” Charles asked the question out of politeness, for he knew the women would gather around Olympia and Annie like mother hens gathering in stray chicks. Though Olympia was known for her prickly, independent nature, he didn’t think she’d resist comfort at this time in her life.
A resigned smile crossed Winslow’s face. “Don’t think there’s much to be done. They were expecting this, of course, but it still hurts. I imagine they’ll have to sorrow until the pain goes away. The visitors will help. Edmund was a generous and kind man, and lots of folks thought well of him.”
The welcoming blast of the ferry boat sounded over the harbor, and both men turned toward the sea. “’Bout time,” Charles said, checking his watch. “Cap’n Stroble’s running a little late this morning.”
“Aren’t we all.” Winslow glanced over his shoulder. “Good to see you, Charles. Say hello to the family for me.”
“I will.”
As Charles inadvertently let the storm door slam behind him, the sound seemed unusually loud. After crossing the foyer and entering the kitchen, he understood why: Babette and Georgie were at the table eating cereal, but an unnatural silence prevailed in the room. Though Georgie appeared to be absorbed in the back of his cereal box, Charles doubted that anything written on a Frosty Flakes package could hold his son’s attention for sixty seconds, let alone several minutes.
Dropping the newspaper on the table, he reached out and scrubbed his son’s tousled head. “Morning, kiddo.”
Georgie grunted but didn’t lift his gaze from the cereal box. Charles glanced at Babette, who merely shrugged one shoulder, then leaned forward to riffle through the paper in her search for the lifestyles section.
Sighing, Charles poured himself a bowl of milk, heated it for thirty seconds in the microwave, then filled the bowl with Nuts ’n Flakes. He had just taken his seat when Georgie hopped up, dumped his cereal bowl in the sink, and dashed upstairs.
“He’s still peeved at me,” Babette said, her gaze meeting Charles’s over the edge of her newspaper. “He thinks I’m going to make him paint puffins.”
“Are you?”
Her smile seemed sad. “Not today.”
Charles picked up the sports section and scanned the headlines.
“Charles,” Babette’s hand appeared at the top of the page and pulled it down, “do you believe God speaks to us in dreams?”
The corner of his mouth twisted. “Good grief, Babs, at breakfast?”
He was about to lift the paper again, but something in her expression stopped him. “I need to know,” she whispered, her blue eyes piercing the distance between them. “I had a dream last night, and I think it might have been more than a dream.”
Resigning himself to the fact that he would not be allowed to read his paper, Charles folded the sports section and set it aside. “What did you dream?”
Looking away, she brought her hands to her temples, rubbing them as if the memory pained her. “I was here, in the kitchen, making clay. Zuriel—at least, I think it was Z—made a little statue of Georgie on the potter’s wheel. There was more, but I can’t remember all the details.”
Charles looked toward the ceiling, pretending to be deep in thought, then lowered his gaze and smiled. “It probably doesn’t mean anything, honey. We dream every night, but we forget most of them.”
“This one felt different”—she propped her arms on the table—“really different.”
Charles shrugged again. “Ask Zuriel,” he said, picking up his spoon. “If he was in your dream, maybe he’ll have an answer for you.”
He sipped the warm milk in his cereal bowl and found the temperature just right.
When Birdie walked into the bakery on Wednesday morning, Elezar and Micah were sitting together, their elbows propped on the table, a spread of hot doughnuts and coffee between them. The two men immediately rose to their feet when Birdie walked by.
“Mornin’, Birdie,” they said in unison.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Carry on; don’t let me bother you.” Frowning, she stepped to the window and peered out on Main Street. “Is that Buddy Franklin? What’s he doing up so early?”
Clearing his throat, Abner began to wipe the counter. “The captain got Buddy up when he made the seven o’clock run this morning. Seems there was an awful lot of mail, and he needed someone to help haul it up from the dock.”
Birdie’s hand flew to her mouth. More mail? Merciful heavens! Before noon? Her worst fears were coming true.
“Now, Birdie, don’t fret.” Abner stepped to the window and patted her shoulder. Their eyes followed Buddy’s progress up Main Street, his labored breathing creating frosty breath from his nostrils.
“Abner,” she whispered, “this is turning into a nightmare. Some body’s got to answer all that mail.”
She turned as Buddy burst into the bakery, then unceremoniously dropped a bulging canvas sack onto the floor. Clucking in disapproval, Abner bent to pick up the drawstring, then dragged the bag past the counter and through the doorway that led to Birdie’s sitting room.
She swallowed hard and stared at her once-clean floor. The bag, damp with sea-spray, left a sluglike slick on the linoleum.
Birdie glanced at Buddy, who merely stared at her, his eyes like vacant windows above a crimson nose.
“Thanks, Buddy,” she said wearily. “Bea will be dressed in a few minutes and we’ll decide what to do with it.”
Buddy shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Let me get you something warm to drink.” Birdie crossed to the counter, then poured a cup of hot coffee into a foam cup. As she handed it to the younger man, she said, “I hope there isn’t more—”
“There’re nine more,” Buddy confided in a rare burst of chattiness. “More’n I’ve ever seen on a day, let alone a morning. Captain Stroble’s fit to be tied.”
“Nine,” Birdie mouthed, stunned.
“The others are sittin’ in the ferry shack.” Buddy took a swig of hot coffee. “And the cap’n says there’ll be more at noontime.”
Birdie’s knees threatened to buckle.
Elezar patted her shoulder as they prepared to leave, but Micah caught Abner’s eye and said, “You know where to find us if you need us.”
Nodding, Abner escorted his friends to the door. They shook hands, and the two men disappeared into the gray mist that seemed to hover over the island this morning.
Zuriel was still in his robe when Babette knocked on the cottage d
oor, and by the look on his face she surmised that she’d surprised him. He didn’t complain, though, but let her in and placed a mug of coffee in her hands before pouring himself another.
“I have a quick question for you—two, actually,” she said, wrapping her hands around the warmth of the stoneware mug. “First—do you believe God speaks to us in dreams?”
The line of his mouth curved in his beard. “I do,” he said simply, spooning a heaping mound of sugar into his coffee. “Scripture is filled with stories of men who heard the voice of God in their dreams: Joseph, the adoptive father of Jesus; Daniel; Joseph of Egypt; the apostle Peter—”
“What about ordinary people,” Babette interrupted. “Like me?”
Zuriel regarded her with an intense but guarded expression as he lowered himself into a wooden kitchen chair. “Yes, I believe God speaks to ordinary people in dreams. Sometimes he must because they will not hear in other ways.”
Babette felt her cheeks burn. He had to be obliquely referring to his so-called “message from God.” Well, her dream was as convoluted and odd as his message, so perhaps they did spring from the same source. Pure and simple guilt had probably produced that crazy dream …
“Imagine, if you will,” Zuriel said, his dark eyes twinkling in the morning shadows, “a powerful king who unites many far-flung kingdoms. He yearns to communicate with his new subjects, but they don’t speak his language. He could require them to rise to his level, but he loves his subjects enough that he is willing to learn the language of each tribe and clan—even the language of the individual.” He sipped from his coffee cup, swallowed, and looked at her over the rim. “God is like that, Babette. He loves each person enough to learn his or her heart language. And however he can best speak to you, that’s the way he will speak. If one communication doesn’t get through, he’ll try something else until his message is understood and received.”
Babette struggled to swallow over the lump in her throat. “I thought God spoke through the Bible and preachers.”
Zuriel smiled. “Often he does. Often he speaks through circumstances. Sometimes he demonstrates his will in opportunities given and removed. But sometimes he speaks through the intimate language of a dream.”
He leaned forward, setting his coffee on the scarred wooden table. “You had another question?”
Babette shook her head as if the motion could clear out the cluttered ideas and thoughts crowded there. “Um—yes.” She caught his eye and softened her voice. “How did you know about Edmund? I called Frenchman’s Folly after you left, and Annie didn’t know.”
Zuriel’s eyes shone with gentleness and understanding. “I saw Caleb last night.”
“Ah.” Babette lifted her hand in relief. Of course, Caleb hadn’t been in his room when she called. He must have been with Edmund when he died, and he’d met Z when he went to fetch Dr. Marc or something …
She managed a soft laugh. “I’m glad that’s straightened out. I was beginning to wonder—” She shook her head. “Never mind.” She pushed herself out of the chair, then placed her coffee cup in the small sink by the window. “I won’t keep you, Z; I only wanted your opinion.” She grinned at him. “I don’t suppose you do dream interpretations on the side.”
A wry half-smile crossed his face. “Sorry. I haven’t been given any interpretations for you.”
“Too bad.” She moved toward the door and placed her hand on the knob, bracing herself for the cold dash back to the house.
“Thinking of Edmund reminded me of something,” Zuriel said, stopping her. She glanced back in time to see a slow smile light his face. “Just remember—this life, every moment of it, will one day be the dream. Eternity is what matters, Babette. All of this”—he lifted his hands, gesturing toward the pottery, the cottage, the world in which they stood—“all this is fleeting and temporary. The best is yet to come.”
Drawing her collar around her throat, Babette nodded wordlessly, then carried her swirling thoughts out into the falling snow.
Walking backward from the Kid Kare Center, Georgie watched the way his footprints melted the snow that had begun to stick to the sidewalk. Miss Dana’s eyes had been red and puffy when he arrived, and after only a few minutes she told Georgie that school would be canceled today.
“Are you sick?” Georgie asked, alarmed at her appearance.
“No, honey.” She paused to blow her nose, then wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “It’s not a good day for school. Besides, tomorrow is Thanksgiving. So let’s call today a holiday, okay?”
She sent him out the door with a pat on his back. “Tell your mom we’ll have school again on Monday … after the memorial service and the holiday weekend.”
Georgie was about to ask what a memorial service was, but Miss Dana had firmly closed the door.
Now he frowned as he studied his backward footsteps. Something was wrong and all the grownups felt it, but no one would explain what had happened. His mom had been unusually quiet at breakfast. Then Dad forgot to put the chocolate pudding in his snack sack (he knew this because he always ate it on the way to school), and now Miss Dana was sending him home before ten o’clock.
Something was definitely not right. The entire world seemed backward today.
At the corner of Main Street and Ferry Road, Georgie stood next to the wooden street sign and looked up at the sky. The clouds sagged toward the town, nearly touching the top of the church steeple. The heavy air felt like a woolen scarf, only cold, muffling sounds and sights alike.
A man’s voice suddenly cut through the silence. Feeling out of place, Georgie ducked behind the huge oak on the lawn of the B&B, then peered toward the source of the sound. Dr. Marc stood on the front porch of Miss Olympia’s house, and even from this distance Georgie could see that he was wiping his nose, too. Then the doctor turned and stuffed his hanky into his pocket as two other men, both in dark brown overcoats, carried a small bed out of the house.
Georgie bit his lip and leaned forward, his mittens sticking to the rough bark of the oak. Through the falling snow he could see that the bed was covered in a white sheet, but he couldn’t tell who—or what—slept under the covers. He didn’t recognize the two men, but as soon as they reached the sidewalk, they pulled out legs on the bed, then rolled it down the concrete toward the street.
Who would want to ride on a rolling bed? Georgie crept out from behind the tree and edged forward, feeling somehow naughty. The two strangers wore stern faces, and something in their manner told Georgie that they were dealing with Serious Business, and that always meant No Kids.
A woman’s voice reached him then, and he cringed, half-fearing to hear a rebuke from his mother. But the voice belonged to Miss Annie, who joined Dr. Marc on the porch. She held a handkerchief, too, and her pretty eyes looked like slits in a blotchy face.
Georgie twisted his mouth. He knew what that face meant. Like Miss Dana, Miss Annie had been crying.
He opened his hand and counted people on his fingers. Annie lived in Frenchman’s Folly on weekends, and she looked okay. Dr. Marc lived in the garage, and he looked okay, too. That left Miss Olympia and Caleb and Mr. Edmund …
He tilted his head as the light of understanding dawned. Mr. Edmund had been sick for a long time. His mother never said his name in anything but a sad whisper, and Georgie could hardly remember the last time Mr. Edmund had been able to attend church. He used to carry red-and-white peppermints in his pockets, but he hadn’t given Georgie a candy in a long time. Mr. Edmund must be the one in the bed—and he must be very, very sick.
Caleb came out of the house then, followed by Miss Olympia, and Georgie saw Olympia hug Annie. Then Olympia lifted a big Christmas wreath, except this one was completely black, and Annie helped her hang it on the door. Then Dr. Marc hugged Miss Olympia, then he hugged Annie, then the three of them watched Caleb follow the two men who were rolling the bed on wheels toward the dock.
Unable to see down the hill, Georgie slipped his hands into his pockets and wal
ked toward the ferry landing. He formed his lips into a pucker and tried to whistle the way his dad did when he set out for the newspaper, but his lips were too frozen to whistle … and he’d never been very good at it.
His steps slowed as he neared the ferry. The boat rocked gently in the swells, but it shouldn’t be at the docks now. In the winter it wasn’t supposed to come until noon.
The grownups on the porch of Frenchman’s Folly didn’t seem to notice him, so Georgie crossed the street and hid behind one of the tall, bare trees across from the mercantile. From his position he could see the strangers and the bed—and Captain Stroble talking to Caleb as the men carried the bed aboard the ferry. The wind whistled across the dock, flattening the men’s coats against their legs, then a corner of the sheet lifted and flew upward, stopped only by a belt over the bed—
Georgie felt his stomach drop. A body lay on the bed, a body that looked like Mr. Edmund, but wasn’t. The man’s skin was blue gray, and the face seemed hollow and shrunken like a scary cartoon. That couldn’t be Mr. Edmund, it was a frightful thing, and suddenly Georgie realized that he was seeing his first honest-to-goodness dead person.
He felt a cold hand pass down his spine. A voice inside his head whispered that he ought to look away, but his eyes wouldn’t close, wouldn’t even blink. Torn between fascination and fear, he stared until one of the men caught the fluttering sheet and pulled it back down, covering the dead man’s head and shoulders again.
Overcome by a bad feeling he couldn’t name, Georgie turned and ran for the safety of home.
Babette cleared her throat softly and hugged Annie, then Olympia. Strange, how frail Olympia felt. Babette had always imagined that Olympia de Cuvier had steel in her spine, but the slender woman in her arms felt almost birdlike, a fragile creature of cartilage and feathers.
Babette blinked the preposterous image away and whispered in Olympia’s ear. “I’m so sorry, my dear. We’ve been praying for you all morning.”
Olympia pulled out of her embrace, nodded briefly, and dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief. For a moment she stood straight and tall, then the facade crumbled. “My Edmund,” Olympia whispered, the tears beginning to flow again as her shoulders slumped, “I wanted to tell him good-bye, but he slipped away before I could!”
Grace in Autumn Page 20
