Out Of The Deep I Cry

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “There’s no difference between what they do and what Mrs. Marshall did,” he continued.

  “But it feels different.”

  “Why?” He crossed his arms over his blanket-covered chest and looked steadily at her.

  She opened her mouth to respond only to realize that she hadn’t thought out the answer to that question. She sat up straighter and pulled back her hair, knotting it at the back of her skull. Russ lay there, propped up in the hospital bed, giving her all the time she needed.

  “Because,” she finally said, “if it had really been up to me, I would have given the money to the clinic and stuck a tarp over the roof.” She ducked her head. “That doesn’t make me a very good steward of my church, does it?”

  “No, you would have been a bad steward of your church if you had actually turned the money down in favor of the tarp. It just makes you someone whose duty conflicts with your own interest. It happens.”

  The tone in his voice made her raise her head, and she found him looking at her as if he were touching her face. Their eyes met, and she remembered an afternoon years ago, flying along the coast of Panama, her helo low over the impossibly blue waters, the smell of the sea everywhere and the rush of the sky and feeling as if the whole world were out there for her taking.

  Then he dropped his gaze to the doughnut box and smiled. “I bet you always vote for universal health-care coverage, don’t you?”

  She tipped her head back and laughed, and that was how Margy Van Alstyne found them.

  “Well! Looks like I’m missing the party.” She bustled in, a short, rotund fire-plug of a woman, dropping her car coat on the other bed. “Hello, Clare.” Clare scrambled off the chair and barely got out a greeting before Margy swept to the head of the bed. “Hello, sweetie.” She leaned up on tiptoe and kissed her son. “How are you feeling? Is it a bad break? Is it in the same spot where your old break happened?” She glanced at Clare. “Russ fell into a foxhole and busted his leg back when he was in Vietnam,” she explained.

  It had been both legs, and he broke them jumping to escape a helicopter that had been blown out of the sky. Russ gave Clare a warning look. She nodded.

  “Breaking a bone at eighteen is a lot different from breaking it when you’re fifty,” Margy went on. She smoothed his hair back from where it had flopped over his forehead.

  “I’m not fifty yet, Mom.”

  “Close enough as makes no difference. What did they do? What did the doctor say?”

  “He put in two pins. I have to be in the cast six weeks.”

  Margy Van Alstyne turned to Clare and they shared a moment of total communion over the ability of men to turn the most dramatic, complex subjects into two sentences. Short sentences. With one-syllable words.

  “And how did this happen?” Margy asked her.

  “Ah.” Clare recalled the script. “Russ and I were taking a walk. In the woods.”

  “Really?” Margy turned again and pinned Russ with a skeptical eye. “When I called the station, Harlene told me you had been tramping around a crime scene, looking for someone who disappeared last night.”

  “Busted,” Russ said.

  “It was in the woods,” Clare said. “We were walking.”

  “You see what can happen?” Margy said to her son. “And this was after the fact, not right there, confronting some criminal. Sweetie, you’ve been at this too long. Sooner or later the odds are going to go against you and you’re going to wind up at the wrong end of some maniac’s gun.” Her voice was tight. In all of Russ’s exasperation over his mother’s protectiveness, Clare had never thought what it was like from Margy’s point of view, to be afraid that one day your son would stop a car or enter an apartment and never walk away.

  “Mom, it was just a stupid accident. It could have happened anywhere.” Russ had a tone in his voice, half pleading, half jollying. “It’s Allan Rouse who’s gone missing,” he said. “The doctor who runs the free clinic. He was last seen up by Stewart’s Pond. We found his car, but no sign of him.”

  Margy’s expression clearly said she wasn’t fooled by this transparent attempt to change the subject. But she went along with it anyway. “What did he do, jump in?”

  “We don’t know,” Russ said. “There was a woman with him right before he disappeared. We’re going to be questioning her further.”

  Margy’s eyes rounded out. “Why, that old dog,” she said.

  “No, Mom, not like that.” He frowned at her. “I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to repeat a word. It was this woman who’s been picketing the clinic. Deborah Clow.”

  “I know her!” Clare and Russ both blinked. “She came to one of our meetings once,” Margy went on. “Wanted us to get behind her crusade to stop vaccinations. Said they caused autism.” She rolled her eyes. “My first reaction was to send her packing outright. I remember when polio was around, when they closed down public pools and shipped kids off to the country to escape it. But I thought, I’ll look into it. See if there’s anything to what she says.”

  “And?” Clare said.

  “It’s all hooey. No reputable scientific study has ever shown a relationship between vaccinations and autism. I told her we couldn’t support her. There are too darn many real scary things out there for us to be wasting our time on imaginary monsters.” She crossed her arms over her low-slung bosom and burrowed her hands up under her sweatshirt sleeves. “Everybody wants something or someone to blame when bad things happen. You have to learn how to figure out if there was a fault or not, that’s what I think. Otherwise, it’ll drive you crazy. Nobody can live with thinking that right out there, just out of reach, is the person who hurt you. It’ll drive you crazy.”

  Chapter 25

  NOW

  Sunday, March 26, the Third Sunday in Lent

  And in the prayers of the people, we continue to pray for the recovery of Lauraine Johnson after her recent surgery; for Roger Andernach, who has been admitted to a nursing home; for David Reid and Beth Reid, on bed rest with twins; for Renee Rouse and for Dr. Allan Rouse, still missing; for Russ Van Alstyne, recovering from a broken leg. Please add your own prayers and petitions.” Nathan Andernach, St. Alban’s deacon, paused. There were some semiaudible mumblings from the congregation. Names. The suggestion of a petition. Someone said firmly, “For all the men and women serving in our country’s armed forces.”

  Clare smiled to herself, but her mind was on Allan Rouse. He had been missing for nine days now. There had been an initial flurry of articles in the Post-Star, short because of the lack of information, and getting shorter each succeeding day until they had disappeared. The consensus at Thursday’s Stewardship Committee meeting was that he had, as Dr. Anne baldly stated, “snuffed it.” “It just builds on you over the years,” she had told the rest of the committee members, who had left the capital campaign prospectuses unread on the table in favor of dissecting the town’s most newsworthy event. “Especially solo practitioners. There’s no one to confer with, no one to help you. Every bad decision, every shortcut you’ve taken, every patient you sent away, wondering if you’ve done any good-it can just drag you under sometimes. Some doctors get hooked on their own prescription pads. Some of ’em retire to fish in Florida. And some of ’em…” She had drawn a finger across her throat.

  “Lord, let your loving kindness be upon them,” Nathan said.

  “Who put their trust in you,” the congregation answered.

  “We pray to you also for the forgiveness of our sins,” Nathan said. He bowed his head and stepped away from the lectern.

  Clare flew back into the present moment, her hands resting on the smooth white linen of the altar cloth, the sound-rumbling, creaking, sighing-as a hundred people got to their knees. “Have mercy on us, most merciful Father,” they began. The corporate confession of sin went on, smooth and untroubled, not like the halting sentences and tearful interruptions she heard in the privacy of her office, when people wrestled one at a time with failings, with ugliness and nast
y truths inside them.

  There was an “Amen,” and the church fell silent. Heads bowed or faces covered with a splayed hand or tilted up, eyes closed. Waiting for her to forgive their sins. She reached for the cord of compassion inside her, plucked it, let it resonate until she felt herself a small reflection of the Great Compassion. “May our God who always tempers justice with mercy pour out forgiveness over you,” she said, “washing clean all your sins, strengthening you to do all good things, bringing you day by day and hour by hour into eternal life.” She held back the long, loose sleeve of her alb so that it couldn’t knock over the elements on the altar before her, and sketched a huge cross in the air. “In the name of the Creator, the Redeemer, and the Sustainer, amen.”

  “Amen,” they replied. The sound of a hundred people getting to their feet before the Peace and the announcements-parents hissing, bulletins flapping open, hymnals thumping to the floor-was louder than any other part of the service.

  “The peace of the Lord be always with you,” Clare said cheerfully, but as she turned to embrace Nathan her eyes fell on Mrs. Marshall, collected and composed in her usual place, and Clare’s mind flashed to what she had found out about Jonathon Ketchem. And suddenly she didn’t feel so peaceful.

  After the service, after the coffee hour, after speaking with a hundred people, making appointments, promising phone calls, asking after ailments, sharing news from the committee meetings, commiserating about troubles and laughing at jokes, after all that, Clare liked to take a turn around the church alone.

  She didn’t have to. All that needed to be done after everyone had finally left was to lock and bolt the great outer doors. Up the main aisle, down the aisle, three minutes, tops. The rest of the locking up-the parish hall and kitchen doors, setting the alarm-all of that happened outside the sanctuary. She always flew through those steps, eager to get out of the place by then, to get back home and change out of her cassock into jeans and a sweater, ready for the rest of Sunday afternoon. She frequently had an invitation to one of her parishioners’ houses, or she would go running, or curl up with the Sunday paper and then try out a new recipe for dinner. She looked forward to her afternoon away from the church. But before she left, she visited her sanctuary. Alone.

  She locked the doors and closed the inner narthex doors behind her. The church was darkened. The sun was bright outside, but the light shafting through the stained-glass windows was filtered, softened, different from workaday light meant to illuminate. This light was meant to teach, and as she walked toward Jane Ketchem’s window, she was ready to learn.

  Mr. Hadley had been mopping down this area regularly, but the slowly warming temperatures continued to send water streaming and dribbling around the casement and splattering against the glass. The shield-bearing angels appeared to be wading through water toward her, presenting to her their message of cool comfort. For he doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men.

  She had always registered the figures climbing into the radiant light as a group of children, but now she saw they were two girls and two boys. Peter. Lucy. Jack. Mary. Mrs. Marshall had said her mother never spoke of them. Clare wondered if, as a girl, their surviving sister had ever gone to their graves. With her grandmother, perhaps. Their short lives and long deaths had cast a shadow over so many people. If they had lived, Mrs. Marshall might now have children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren filling up her life, instead of an empty, outdated house and vestry meetings. There would be no Jonathon Ketchem Clinic, because his memorial would be a stone in the town cemetery, next to his wife’s. Allan Rouse would have found some other way to pay for medical school, and settled far from Millers Kill. Clare would be looking at a far different window. She glanced up to where the roofers were disassembling the ceiling to expose the rotten beams. And she would be going from door to door with her begging bowl, looking for enough money to cover the bare minimum of the repair.

  All that because four children weren’t inoculated with the diphtheria vaccine. No wonder Dr. Rouse had taken Debba Clow out there. The thought of Debba turned her away from the window. Whatever Allan Rouse had told her that night, it hadn’t persuaded her to go ahead and have her little girl vaccinated. If, as everyone assumed, Dr. Rouse had committed suicide, Debba would be off the hook as far as police suspicions of her involvement went. But she would still be facing a custody battle with her ex and, more significantly, an ongoing struggle with her children’s father about what was best for them. Clare couldn’t do anything to budge Debba off Russ Van Alstyne’s very short list of suspects in Rouse’s disappearance, but she could give the artist the support she needed to help make decent decisions about the future. And the first step, Clare decided, would be to find out more about the past.

  Hi, Mrs. Marshall,” Clare said as the older woman opened her front door. Mrs. Marshall rearranged her look of obvious surprise into a more polite welcoming smile. “Can I come in for a sec?” Clare stepped into the foyer. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first, this idea popped into my head and I-oh! Hello, Mr. Madsen.” Norm Madsen smiled from the door to the dining room. We don’t invite ourselves over to other people’s houses, young lady, her grandmother Fergusson said. “Oh.” Clare could feel her cheeks pinking. “I’m afraid I’m intruding.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Marshall said. “We’ve just finished lunch. You can join us for coffee. Did you get your furnace repaired? You were having a problem with it earlier this week, weren’t you? You know, you should save your bill and bring it to the vestry. We would recompense you.”

  If they ever want to raise money, I can take it off their hands and get a sweet price for it! “It didn’t cost enough to make it worthwhile getting the vestry involved,” Clare lied. “Hi, Mr. Madsen.”

  “Great sermon this morning,” Mr. Madsen said, walking her to the round-edged table. “Lacey and I were just talking about it. We agreed you hit it spot on when you said that thing about abundance and scarcity.”

  “How difficult it is to make a meaningful sacrifice when you have everything in abundance,” Mrs. Marshall clarified. The luncheon plates had been cleared away, and a tray holding a coffee service was stationed next to Mrs. Marshall’s seat. It was silver, the pieces buffed and curved like the fenders on a ’50 Cadillac. Wedding present, Clare thought. Mrs. Marshall gestured to a chair across the table from her. “Please, sit down. Coffee?”

  For a moment, Clare was tempted to ask if she had any leftovers. The smell of pot roast emanating from the kitchen was making her mouth water. “Yes, please,” she said, thereby proving that there were still meaningful sacrifices to be made.

  “It was a different world when we were growing up,” Mr. Madsen said, holding out his cup to be filled. “I remember when Christmas meant three toys-one from my parents and one from each set of grandparents. Plus socks or mittens and some candy.”

  “And you were one of the rich kids in town,” Mrs. Marshall said. “Milk?” She passed him the pitcher.

  “I guess I was, at that.” He poured a generous amount into his coffee. “The point is, when I had to give something up, it hurt. And when I got something, I really appreciated it. Every one of my toys fit into a box the size of a small suitcase when I was a boy. You should see my great-grandchildren’s rooms. They look like FAO Schwarz.”

  “Milk?” Mrs. Marshall asked Clare.

  “No thanks,” she said, reaching for the sugar bowl. She looked across the table to Mrs. Marshall, who was pouring her own cup. “It’s funny you should have been talking about your childhoods, because I have a question for you. If you don’t mind.”

  “What is it?”

  It felt wrong to start by firing a salvo into a sensitive subject, so Clare said, “I’m doing some counseling work with a woman who has doubts about vaccinating her youngest child. I wanted a better feel for what might go into that decision, and I was hoping, I wondered…”

  “Whether I could tell you more about my parents’ decision?” Mrs. Marshall said.

 
; “I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I just don’t know if I have any useful information. My grandma Ketchem told me back then, they didn’t get children immunized ahead of time. If you fell sick, you’d get the serum. You have to remember, it was brand-new. Antidiphtheria serum wasn’t even available in this country when my brother Peter and sister Lucy were born.”

  “People were slower to run to the doctor then, I think,” Mr. Madsen said. “Nowadays, we’re at the doctor’s office every time we feel a twinge. Back in those days, you had to be some hurting for your parents to get the doctor out to the house.”

  “That’s true,” Mrs. Marshall said. “I hadn’t really thought about that. There was no telephone out at the old farm. No electricity. My parents didn’t own a car until 1929.” My father would have had to drive his buggy into town and find Still-man any time they needed any medical treatment.”

  Clare lowered her coffee cup. “I just met a Dr. Stillman at the Washington County Hospital. He said he was the third generation of his family to practice medicine here in Millers Kill. He’s an orthopedic surgeon.”

  Mr. Madsen snorted. “Well, the old Dr. Stillman was a country doctor. Which meant he did everything from setting bones to delivering babies to performing surgery-”

  “-on kitchen tables. With the patients’ butter knives.” Mrs. Marshall arched an almost invisible eyebrow at her old friend. “You think everything was better back then.”

  “Maybe the old Dr. Stillman didn’t push the vaccine back then,” Clare said. “Since it was so new.”

  Mrs. Marshall tilted her head for a moment. “No, I don’t think that was the case. As I remember him, Dr. Stillman was always after you with a needle.”

  “You were immunized?”

  Mrs. Marshall smiled a humorless smile. “Against everything.”