“There, now, honey.” Edith Wickam came in from the parlor and put her arms around Olympia, managing to give Babette a smile as she did so. Babette willingly stepped back, eager to let the pastor’s wife handle the condolences.
While Edith walked the sobbing Olympia toward a quiet corner, Babette caught a glimpse of Barbara, the Lansdowns, and Winslow in the kitchen. Winslow was on the telephone, jotting down a message, while Barbara hovered near the coffeemaker. Floyd was frowning at a flower arrangement that had just been delivered. “What in tarnation am I supposed to do with this?” he asked, his voice drifting out in the hall.
Not wanting to get in the way, Babette wandered into the formal living room, where Annie sat on the couch, an open photograph album on the cushion next to her. Caleb, the old butler, sat stiffly on a chair, a strange smile on his face.
Shock, Babette thought. The reality hasn’t hit him yet.
“Miss Babette.” Caleb rose to his feet as she entered, then gestured toward the sofa. “Would you like to sit and share a cup of tea?”
“I don’t need anything, Caleb, so please don’t trouble yourself.” Babette exchanged a smile with Annie, then took a seat on the far end of the sofa. Pointing toward the photo album, she said, “Taking a trip down memory lane?”
“Ayuh.” Annie’s tired eyes glowed with wonder. “I never knew Uncle Edmund was a pilot! But here he is, flying one of those old—what were they called, Caleb?”
“Biplanes,” the butler answered. “Oh, yes. Your uncle was quite a daredevil in his younger days.”
“Famous, too.” Annie pointed toward a black-and-white photo, then turned the album so Babette could see. “ ‘Edmund Shots and his Amazing Flying Fandango.’ Can you believe it? He and his brothers were into wing-walking and all that stuff.”
“Edmund Shots?” Babette glanced at the butler. “I thought his name was—”
“Olympia never liked the name,” Caleb explained, a blush lighting his cheekbones.
“Oh.” Babette clapped her mouth shut, knowing better than to pursue what had to be a touchy subject. She looked down at the photos for a moment, then purposefully looked away, intuiting that Annie wanted to concentrate on the pictures. Why did young people wait until death to appreciate the folks they’d known all their lives?
Babette crossed her legs and cleared her throat, her gaze flitting around the room. Frenchman’s Fairest was still a regal house, though there were definite signs of wear on the Oriental carpet. The heavy drapes in this room had to be twenty years old, and the antique sofa sorely needed reupholstering.
What had Edmund done with his money? She hadn’t known him in his stunt pilot days, but she’d known him when he was a successful investment banker. Of course, his illness had eaten away at their savings, and a place like Frenchman’s Fairest took far more than Social Security to maintain. And there was Annie, whom Olympia and Edmund had taken in after her parents died.
But Annie had gone to college on scholarship, hadn’t she? And they hadn’t spent too much on housing, for this place needed help, and quickly. She lifted her gaze and spotted the telltale signs of stained wallpaper at the junction of wall and ceiling. So—the roof of Frenchman’s Folly leaked, too. Wonder how much the repairs on this monster would cost?
She blushed when her gaze crossed Caleb’s. How long had he been watching her?
“Mr. Edmund,” the old butler said, a reproving note in his voice, “believed in laying up treasures in heaven, not on earth.”
Babette’s heart jumped in her chest. Had he read the expression on her face and guessed her thoughts? Or was this the typical kind of comment one made during sympathy calls? She hadn’t done this sort of thing enough to know how to respond.
“Treasure in heaven?” She tilted her head and tried to keep her tone light. “What did he do, buy heavenly savings bonds?”
“No, missy.” His smile deepened. “Edmund invested his life in things that count for eternity. I was with him at the end, and I can testify to the fact that he looked forward to receiving his eternal rewards.”
“Look at this!” Annie said, jabbing her finger at another picture. “I never knew Uncle Edmund worked at a church camp!”
“He not only spent the entire summer as a camp counselor, but he also paid expenses for twenty kids from inner-city Boston that same year.” Caleb kept his gaze fastened firmly on Babette. “He gave money whenever he saw a need. He gave quietly, often anonymously, and always freely. He used to say he was just a channel, that God was the real supplier.”
Huddled over the album, Annie laughed softly. “I remember this,” she said, her fingertip caressing another photo. “Uncle Edmund decided to sponsor a dozen kids from the Angel Tree project. He sent Christmas presents to all of them, and instead of decorations that year, we had the kids’ pictures hanging on our tree.”
Babette leaned sideways and twisted her head to see. The snapshot had been taken years ago, for Annie looked to be fifteen or so, but there was no mistaking Olympia’s slender form and Edmund’s wide smile. In the photo, he had one hand on Olympia’s narrow shoulder and the other tucked inside his coat pocket—the same pocket that had always held peppermint candies for Georgie.
Edmund de Cuvier had spent his lifetime … giving. In the light of his gifts, what did aging drapes and worn upholstery matter?
Babette looked up and caught Caleb’s eye as the light of understanding dawned in her heart.
Zuriel half heard the thwacking sound before he actually noticed it. It must have begun while he was throwing the pot, for it blended into the rhythms of the spinning wheel and the rise and fall of his fingers. But when he switched the wheel off and sat observing his work, the thwacking sound continued … and came from outside the cottage.
He rose from his stool and crossed to the window, then stared out across the side lawn. Surrounded by the stiff, brown stalks of last summer’s flowers, Georgie sat in the garden swing, mindlessly smacking a stick against the angled frame of two-by-fours.
Zuriel didn’t wait to be told the boy needed him. Clearly, if an active child like Georgie had been sitting still for more than two minutes, something was wrong.
He pulled his coat from the peg near the door, then stepped out into the overcast day. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he hurried forward until he reached the swing, then stood for a moment. Georgie didn’t speak—another sign of trouble.
Zuriel jerked his chin toward the empty space on the long swing. “Mind if I sit down?”
Georgie shrugged in response.
Taking that as permission granted, Zuriel sat on the swing and pushed off, using his long legs to advantage. Georgie stopped smacking the stick against the support posts and let it fall to the mulch beneath the swing.
Zuriel waited, rocking the swing in a silent rhythm. Finally, the boy spoke: “I saw a dead man.”
A tremor of alarm touched Zuriel’s spine, then he realized what must have happened. The ferry would have come this morning for Edmund’s body.
Zuriel made a soft sound of compassion. “Mr. Edmund is in heaven now. Did no one tell you?”
Georgie shook his head. “I saw the black wreath and everyone crying, but no one would say anything. And then the men came out with the rolling bed, and the sheet flew up.” He lifted his head then, and Zuriel saw shadows behind the boy’s brown eyes. “The body looked awful. It didn’t look like Mr. Edmund at all.”
“What you saw wasn’t Mr. Edmund.” Zuriel paused to let the truth sink in. “What you saw was only the shell that housed Mr. Edmund’s spirit while he lived.”
Georgie screwed up his face. “People don’t have shells.”
Zuriel laughed softly, realizing that the boy had to be thinking about shellfish like crabs and lobsters, common fare on the island. “We don’t have shells like sea creatures, true. Our shells are flesh and bone. This”—he held up his arm and pinched the skin on the back of his hand—“is temporary. My body is a vessel I can wear on earth, but the moment I go t
o heaven, I have to leave this shell behind.”
Georgie lowered his gaze, long lashes hiding his eyes. “If we don’t have a body in heaven … are we all indivisible?”
Chuckling, Zuriel turned and rested his arm on the back of the swing. “Spirit things are invisible to humans,” he said, crossing his legs, “but that doesn’t mean they’re not real. After all, you can hear and feel and smell the wind, but you can’t see it. And it’s very real.”
Georgie looked up, his gaze clouded in thought. “So Mr. Edmund is a spirit now? Like a ghost?”
“Not a ghost, Georgie. But yes, he’s spirit, and he’s in heaven with Jesus. If you were in heaven, you’d see him plain as day. You’d recognize him in a minute. Because you’d be spirit, too.”
Georgie hugged himself. “I don’t want to die like Mr. Edmund. And I don’t want my mom or dad to die or Mr. Caleb or Miss Annie or Miss Birdie or Miss Bea—”
“Georgie.” Zuriel dropped his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You don’t have to fear death, and you certainly shouldn’t worry about it. All things die.” He hesitated when Georgie flinched. “It’s like this,” he said, leaning closer. “Look at your body—your hands, your fingernails, your hair. Every little part of you is alive as long as it’s attached to the living part of you, your soul. But if you trim your fingernails or get a haircut, pieces of you fall off and get thrown away. Are you sad about losing those pieces?”
Georgie shook his head. “No, ’cause the barber gives me a candy bar if I sit still for the haircut.”
“Well”—Zuriel spread his hands and lifted a brow— “it’s the same thing. The things that die aren’t important because the part that’s alive keeps going on. When Christians die, their spirits go straight to heaven, and their worn-out bodies get … put away.” He paused, lifting his gaze to the steeple on the church across the street. “I’m always a little amazed when people cry at funerals. There’s really no reason for them to be sad. Their loved ones aren’t gone; they’ve only relocated. And the reunion will come soon enough.”
“I know why they cry.” Georgie spoke softly, and when Zuriel looked down, the boy was staring at his mother’s frozen flower bed, still dusted with this morning’s snow. “They cry because they miss the person. And heaven is very far away.”
Zuriel sat silently, absorbing the human perspective revealed in the boy’s words. Truth to tell, he had forgotten how limited human understanding could be. They didn’t have the luxury of zipping to heaven in the twinkling of an eye, and they didn’t have the ability to see beyond the physical dimensions of earth. Though the Lord had given them clear insights, instructions, and assurances in the written Word, not all of them believed it … or even bothered to read it.
“I suppose you’re right, Georgie,” he whispered, feeling the chill for the first time since stepping outside. “But man was not created for this world. God created humans for heaven, for eternity, and all their longings will be fulfilled when they finally reach their home. Heaven is all you could ever imagine … and more.”
Georgie didn’t speak but leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees, his chin on his fists. His mouth hung partly open, and Zuriel could see the tip of the boy’s tongue worrying the loose tooth in the center of his mouth.
“You ever seen heaven?” Georgie asked, not moving.
Zuriel glanced upward for inspiration. Though the angels would never lie to their human charges, sometimes it was wise not to share everything …
But didn’t Jesus himself thank the Father for hiding the truth from those who thought themselves wise and clever, while revealing it to the childlike?
“Ayuh,” he said, after a moment’s reflection, “I’ve seen it.”
“What’s it like?” Georgie tilted his head and looked at Zuriel with something very fragile in his eyes. “Is it cold?”
“Cold?” Zuriel smiled. “Why would you think it’s cold?”
“Well”—Georgie shrugged—“the other place is hot, right? And if heaven’s in outer space, it must be black and cold and dark.”
“It’s none of those things.” Zuriel glanced toward the leaden sky and wished he had the authority to part the clouds with a breath. “To be absent from this body is to be present with the Lord, in his holy Temple. And that is a place of warmth and brightness and music. Your human eyes cannot see all of it, nor can your ears hear, nor can your nostrils”—he leaned forward and gently tweaked Georgie’s snub nose—“breathe in all the sweet scents of heaven. But when you enter it in spirit, you will know you have finally come home.”
The slamming of the storm door broke into their conversation, and both Zuriel and Georgie waited silently to see who would come out of the house. A moment later Babette’s head appeared over the porch railing, and her face brightened when she saw them on the swing. “There you are,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest. “Stay there, Georgie. I need to speak with you.”
Zuriel rocked silently, wondering if he should go, as Babette disappeared, then reappeared a moment later, rounding the hedge that bordered the porch. A moment later she stood before the swing, her face splotched and her eyes swollen. But she wore a smile and she gave it to Georgie.
“Honey,” she said, running her hands over her sweatered arms, “I’m glad I found you. I have to tell you something.”
Zuriel stopped the swing, ready to rise. “I should go.”
“No, Z. Please stay.” Babette returned her gaze to her son. “You can hear what I need to tell Georgie.”
“I know about Mr. Edmund,” the boy said, lowering his gaze. “I know he’s in heaven.”
“Ayuh—but that’s not what I came to tell you.” Babette threw Zuriel a quick glance, then reached out and caught her son’s hands.
“Sweetheart,” Babette said, kneeling on the dark mulch beneath their feet, “I want to apologize to you. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I realize now that I’ve been asking you to fulfill my dreams. You painted me a puffin, a beautiful gift, but I was wrong to ask you to paint more. I was wrong to promise puffins without asking you first, and I’m going to call Mr. Bedell and tell him the deal’s off. I won’t make you paint puffins. And if you do paint other puffins, I’m keeping them here, to display in our gallery. I don’t want to make money so we can be comfortable— I want to be a good wife and mom and take care of my family. That’s the most important thing in the world to me.”
Zuriel felt his heart warm at her words, but Georgie said nothing. He kept his gaze lowered, his feet hanging motionless over the swing.
Babette rubbed the boy’s hands, warming them with her own. “You are my precious son,” she said, her eyes damp. “You are God’s gift to me, and I’ve been wrong to depend upon your talent instead of God, who gives us all good things. I’ve told the Lord I’m sorry, Georgie, and now I’m telling you. Will you forgive me?”
Georgie looked up then, and beneath the soft fullness of his face Zuriel saw a suggestion of motion and flowing, as though a hidden spring were trying to break through. For a moment the boy said nothing, though his lower lip trembled, then he threw his arms around Babette’s neck.
Holding her son, Babette made soft soothing sounds and rubbed his back. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and slowly spilled from the ends of her dark lashes.
Watching the tender scene, Zuriel felt a trembling from the depths of his own soul. He had never quite understood forgiveness, having never needed it, but the power in that profound act never failed to move him.
Swallowing the lump that had risen in his throat, he reached up for the chain of the swing and tactfully shifted his gaze to the wide sky above. And then, in a breathless moment of epiphany, he understood. Today, for the first time in his short life, Georgie had learned how to forgive. And how could he understand God’s forgiveness unless he had experienced giving it himself? Very soon, today or tomorrow or the next day, the boy would realize his own need for forgiveness, not from his mom or dad, but from God himself. And in that m
oment, Georgie would experience the same sweet release that now rained tears over Babette’s lovely cheeks.
As a stream of sunlight broke through the cloud cover above, Zuriel breathed a deep sigh of contentment.
Leaving her son with Zuriel, Babette climbed the front porch steps and ran her hands over her arms. While sitting in the faded parlor of Frenchman’s Folly, she’d realized how big a mess she’d made, but she could set things right again. Life was too short to spend even an hour in anger or regret.
She entered the house and paused at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly missing the noisy click-clack of Charles’s old typewriter. The new computer made nothing but soft tapping sounds, ghostly in the nearly-silent house. She didn’t even have the plink-plink of the leaky roof to keep her company any more.
She placed her weight on the first tread and smiled as it creaked. Maybe their house wasn’t meant to be quiet and sedate. Maybe it was meant to be filled with clacks and creaks and plinks, overspread with the giggles of an active little boy.
One thing was certain—the silence that had fallen between her and Charles was not a companionable quiet. Though he had not said a cross word to her of late, he hadn’t said much in the way of regular conversation, either. She had another overdue apology on her “to do” list.
Charles was sitting in his new computer chair when she entered the office, but his hands were not on the keyboard. They were holding a heavy stack of white pages surrounded by torn brown paper. Someone had stuck a yellow Sticky Note to the first page, scrawled with a short message.
Charles’s manuscript had returned … again.
She sank into the spare dining room chair against the wall, then pressed her hands together. “Charles?”
Staring mournfully at the manuscript, he shook his head. “Dull, trite, and plodding,” he said, his voice heavy with defeat. “Utterly unpublishable.”
Grace in Autumn Page 21
