Good and Dead

by Jane Langton

  Eleanor had come to church of her own free will, but Bo Harris, sitting across the aisle, was there only because his mother had put her foot down. “Once in a while, that’s all I ask,” Mrs. Harris had said, standing over his bed. “Once in a blue moon your royal highness can condescend.”

  Yet now, sitting next to him, Mrs. Harris felt unconnected to her son. Bo was so large, he was such a huge and complex piece of protoplasm, such a great chunk of flesh! His destiny would work itself out long after she was dead. Ethel Harris was astonished to think she had once brought him into the world, a helpless, bawling newborn babe.

  Lorraine Bell, too, was thinking sorrowfully about her offspring. She was uncomfortably aware that Eleanor at this instant had reached some kind of dizzy pinnacle. The sunlight was suffusing her shoulders, touching her slightly parted lips. Every separate strand of her bright hair glistened along its length. Sitting there so quietly in the path of the sunlight, Eleanor was soaking up its warmth and sending it out again in waves of longing. Lorraine could feel the assault from her daughter’s flushed cheeks. It was thrusting against her, rolling past her to fill the church; it was pressing against the doors and billowing outside to batter the windows of cars passing on Farrar Road. Eleanor was in full bloom; she was a flower with the last petal opening. Lorraine wanted to stand up and shake her fist at nature’s plot to continue the race. It was too soon. Eleanor wasn’t ready. She was too young. Why couldn’t the savage process be delayed until the poor child could handle it? Gently, Lorraine patted Eleanor’s knee. It felt warm to her touch. No, Eleanor wasn’t a flower, she was something more insistent, more intense. She was a bonfire, she was burning like a torch. Oh, it was too soon, it was much too soon.

  Lorraine glanced at Ed, sitting so serenely on the other side of Eleanor. Did he know what was happening to his daughter? Probably not, and that was odd, because most of the time Ed was so clever about people. Lorraine shifted uneasily on the pew cushion, praying that Bo Harris would not notice the miracle that was happening on his account across the aisle, that he would stay stupid—the idiot!—at least for a while.

  It was time for the first hymn. Ethel Harris poked her elbow into Bo, reminding him to stand up. Obediently he stood and fumbled in the hymnbook, looking for the right page as the organ sounded loud and everyone around him began to sing:

  Turn back, 0 man, forswear thy foolish ways.

  Old now is earth, and none may count her days;

  Yet thou, her child, whose head is crowned with flame,

  Still wilt not hear thine inner God proclaim:

  “Turn back, O man, forswear thy foolish ways!”

  Bo mouthed the words, aware that something was pressing at his attention across the aisle, something hot and pink in a flare of sunshine. But instead of glancing at Eleanor, Bo turned his mind to the Chevy. His rebuilt engine wasn’t turning over. Maybe he had the generator hooked up wrong. Either the wiring was defective or the timing was out of sync. Maybe he had the wires from the regulator mixed up. Maybe Mr. Bell could help him out. So far Mr. Bell had been a really good sport. He really understood what Bo was trying to do. “This is a mighty project you’ve undertaken here, Bo,” he had said yesterday. “Like Lewis and Clark going up the Missouri, or the Curies isolating radium from pitchblende. We’ve got to see you through.” And Mr. Bell was really great about coming up with ideas whenever Bo got stuck. Maybe he’d know what to do about the wiring. Oh, God, the wiring! The wiring was really giving Boa lot of grief. Unseeing, he stared at the hymnbook, while around him the congregation went on singing:

  Earth might be fair and all men glad and wise.

  Age after age their tragic empires rise,

  Built while they dream, and in that dreaming weep;

  Would man but wake from out his haunted sleep.…

  Haunted sleep, thought Lorraine Bell; that was putting it mildly. The trouble with people wasn’t their vague dreams, it was their obsessions. Oh, it wasn’t just Eleanor and Bo, it was everybody in the congregation. They were all being dragged in one direction or another by some fierce sense of destiny. Here they sat so quietly, yet life was going on passionately inside them, love and dread, cruelty and kindness, envy and ambition. They were juggernauts, all of them, barreling down the road. The church was full of juggernauts, grinding forward headlong on collision courses. Sooner or later their paths would intersect and there would be terrible splinterings and shiverings asunder.

  On the other side of the church, two of the juggernauts sat next to each other, Parker Upshaw and Jerry Gibby. Once again the usher had seated them side by side, although Jerry had wanted to catch Barbara Fenster’s arm and whisper, “Not there.” But Imogene had already slipped into the pew and settled her purse with flutterings and beamings and exchanges of whispers with Betsy Bucky in the pew behind her. Upshaw had turned a frigid glance upon Jerry, a severe look that said, “Well?” from under his dark brows. Now Jerry sat staring at the pulpit, his face red, his collar choking him, telling himself that in this building he was supposed to love his enemy. Well, he didn’t; he hated him. Upshaw was screwing him. Yesterday the bastard had walked into the store and repeated his ultimatum in a loud voice right there among the cantaloupes, humiliating Jerry in front of the bag boys and checkout girls. Jesus, where was Jerry going to come up with forty-seven thousand dollars before October? And the landscaping company was demanding payment for all those rocks and rhododendrons. Jesus, the rocks! A thousand dollars for a bunch of rocks! Jerry sat glowering beside Imogene as she peeked gaily around the church. He hadn’t yet told all this to his wife, She had no idea they were in hopeless trouble. Poor Imogene, she was upset enough already about the car. Christ, that bastard Upshaw. Holy Jesus.

  It was time for the sermon. Joseph Bold stood up and shuffled the papers on the reading desk. This morning he had pulled an old set of notes out of his file at the last minute. It was a sermon he had delivered to his Pittsburgh congregation last year. How easily it had come to him that morning! Now, reading the same words aloud, it was as though he had never seen them before. Joe stumbled over sentences, puzzled by his own logic. When he came to a stop at last, the congregation heaved small sighs of relief. They stood up and adjusted the frames of their glasses and felt the tension go out of their bunched shoulders.

  Homer Kelly couldn’t find the right hymn. The pages of his hymnbook stuck together. It fell to the floor with a slam, and he cursed under his breath.

  “Here, dear,” said Mary, holding her own book open in front of him.

  At the organ, Augusta Gill was seized with regret. Why hadn’t someone told her Claire Bold would be back in church today? Oh, God, the hymn was a ghastly mistake. Augusta plowed through it courageously, wincing as the verses were sung, inexorably succeeding one another.

  In heav’nly love abiding,

  No change my heart shall fear,

  And safe is such confiding,

  For nothing changes here.…

  Green pastures are before me,

  Which yet I have not seen;

  Bright skies will soon be o’er me,

  Where darkest clouds have been.…

  At this point Joe Bold nearly broke down. Stubbornly the congregation struggled through to the end, careful not to look at their minister or at the shining wheelchair where his wife sat gazing down at the hymnbook in her lap. But George Tarkington was so affected he began to cough violently, and his wife had to hurry him out of the church.

  The trouble with hymns, thought Mary Kelly, wasn’t just the verses, it was the tunes. Singing the old successions of notes for years and years gave the words an emotional authority that had nothing to do with the understanding. Notes and words welled up together from some place more profound than the mind. The musical phrases carried a burden of feeling in which the words had become embedded. No matter how silly the text might be, it caught you by the throat. The rhyming lines might have been written by superstitious parsons or sentimental dowagers with primitive beliefs, yet, set
to music, they shook the foundations.

  The service was over. Mary and Homer were the first to escape outside. There they found Hilary Tarkington looking anxiously at her husband, George, who was leaning against his old station wagon, wheezing and coughing.

  “Good heavens, George,” said Homer. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” gasped George, grinning, his face purple with the effort to breathe. Pulling himself together, he opened the door of his old car for Hilary.

  “Nice old Chrysler,” said Homer, looking at the car fondly. “Reminds me of one I used to own. My God, George, how do you pass inspection?”

  “Oh, I go to this special place, other side of Waltham,” wheezed George amiably, getting in behind the wheel. “No problem. They’re not so damn fussy as the guys around here. They’ve got some respect for an old car. I get away with murder.”

  “Honestly, George, dear,” objected Hilary, and then she waved at Mary and Homer as the Chrysler moved away from the curb, its rusted skirts trembling.

  When Parker Upshaw burst out-of-doors, he was in a passion of sanctimonious anger, eager for conspiratorial wheeling and dealing. He was in his element. In church he had gloated over Joe’s faltering sermon with a pouncing consciousness of outrage, and hugged his fury to himself. Now, here on the lawn in the open air, darkly joyful, he took Ed Bell aside.

  “Somebody’s got to do something. We can’t go on this way, Sunday after Sunday. The man’s got to do better. I must say, it’s a sad chapter in the life of the church.”

  Ed didn’t seem to understand. He smiled at Parker and shook his head. “But you’ve got it all wrong. It isn’t a sad chapter at all. It’s a rare time for us, a real opportunity, a time for us to be a church. Here’s a need, a real need, and we can all throw ourselves into it and help out.”

  Parker stared at Ed blankly, astonished. It was obvious he had come to the wrong man. He turned away and tested his pique on Homer and Mary Kelly. They too seemed surprised, just like Ed. They muttered and demurred. It wasn’t until Parker waylaid a couple of the younger parishioners that he awakened any sympathy for his complaint against Joe Bold. Donald Meadow and Jonathan Sinclair responded immediately with melancholy dignity, and the three of them were soon deep in grim resolve and hypocritical betrayal.

  But before long Parker had to tear himself away. His perfection principle was still dominating his life, driving him to new peaks of performance, urging him to find new ways to succeed at General Grocery, demanding that he run five miles a day instead of four, insisting that he learn French in his spare time (French!) and read a little Plato (Plato!). This morning Parker had a tennis date with Fred Harris. He was determined to polish up his serve. He drove home in a hurry and changed into his tennis whites and whizzed in the direction of the town courts.

  He found Fred an easy victim. The poor guy didn’t seem to take the game seriously. All he wanted to do was lob the ball lazily back and forth across the net. But Parker W. Upshaw was in the game to win. Slashing and smashing, he raced up and down the court, slamming the ball into the corner farthest from Fred, racking up a top-heavy score. Afterward he shook hands and went home in a roaring mood of self-satisfaction.

  But there he found things in a less exalted state. Libby was grumpy, the children were whining. Sunday dinner was cold chicken legs.

  “I’m sorry, Parker,” Libby said, slapping down the platter on the kitchen table. “I just don’t have time. ”

  “Well, why don’t you hire somebody?” said Parker, trying to keep his temper. “Get a woman in by the day, or something.”

  “Oh, you think I’m not managing well enough by myself, is that it?” said Libby, tearing off her apron. And then they were at it, hammer and tongs, and Parker’s enjoyment of his own consummate excellence was blighted by the failings of his less than perfect wife.

  Arlene Pott had been in church, too, that morning, and as usual her absence had given her husband a chance to alert his neighbor Josie Coil.

  But today, for the first time, Josie failed to answer the call. The truth was, Josie was trying to get her life figured out, and she was no longer sure Wally Pott should be part of it. One thing was sure: Josie was sick and tired of caring for old Mrs. Hawk. She wanted to quit. And it was beginning to appear that Wally was a dead-end street.

  So when Mrs. Hawk’s daughter swooped her car into the driveway to take over for Josie on her day off, Josie was ready. She had taken a bath. She had put on a sleeveless dress with a low neckline that showed a lot of plump shoulder and bosom and back, and now she hurried out to her car and unlocked the door.

  Instantly, Wally jumped at her out of the shrubbery.

  Josie shrieked. “Oh, Wally, don’t do that. You really gave me a turn.”

  “Listen,” said Wally roughly, “where have you been? I put the damned cactus in the window and you never showed up.”

  “Oh, you know, Wally, sometimes I just can’t get away.”

  “Well, how about now? You’re off duty, right? And Arlene’s in church.”

  “Oh, honestly, Wally, I can’t—not right now.” Josie swung open the door of her car, then turned on him with a look of chubby determination. “You want to know why? I’ve got a date with Victor, that’s why.”

  “A date with Victor?” Clammy fingers gripped Wally’s heart. “So that’s why you’re all gussied up. I should’ve known.”

  “Listen, Wally, it’s no good, you and me. Where’s it going to get me? You’re not going to divorce Arlene, and I want to settle down. I mean, I need somebody to lean on. All this hiding in the bushes, I’m sick of it.” Josie looked at her little gold wristwatch. “Listen, I’ll be late. Victor doesn’t like me to be late.”

  Enraged, Wally lunged at josie, but she plumped herself into the car, and slammed the door, then revved the engine and zoomed backward out of the driveway.

  “Oh, God almighty,” sobbed Wally. Running out onto Lowell Road, he watched Josie speed away in the direction of Watertown. Victor loomed in the dusty pavement, in the distant mailboxes, in the far trees. Victor was stealing Josie away from him, and Josie was all Wally cared about in the whole world.

  22

  This day is the beginning of sorrow.

  James Lorin Chapin

  Private Journal, Lincoln, 1848

  Carl Bucky died on a warm Saturday night in September, while the fan droned in the bedroom window and the faded stars above the Buckys’ house withdrew behind’ damp blankets of heat. Snuggled against her husband, Betsy woke next morning to find his body cold.

  Instantly she shrank away with a little cry. Then she sat up and stared at the man she had been married to for forty-seven years. Carl’s eyes were open. So was his mouth. His chest was not rising and falling. Betsy put her hand on his soft belly. It was flabby and chill. The blood heat was gone. Putting her head down on Carl’s chest, she could detect no heartbeat.

  Exultant, hardly able to believe it, Betsy bounced out of bed and put on her robe and slippers, congratulating herself. It was the pie! The lemon-chiffon pie! The pie had done the trick! Last night she had mounded Carl’s plate three times with spaghetti, and then she had forced on him second and third helpings of lemon-chiffon pie for dessert. Carl had begged her to stop. “Gosh, Betsy, I’m really stuffed. I can’t eat another bite.” But he had finished it all, somehow or other, and then he had downed two mugs of Betsy’s special coffee. No wonder he had passed away, the greedy pig! It was his own fault!

  Betsy had looked forward to this moment a thousand times, and planned what to do. But it had never occurred to her it might be a Sunday morning. Too bad! Betsy hated to miss church. She loved singing the hymns in her piercing soprano; she loved leaning over one way to hear what Mollie Pine and Mabel Smock were up to, and the other way to get the latest news from Priscilla Worthy. Was it true the minister’s wife was back in the hospital? Had Arlene Pott really walked out on Wally? Betsy stared at her dead husband and regretted the necessity of missing church. Wha
t a shame! Her fresh-baked pan of cinnamon swirls would go to waste. She had made them last night while Carl was watching TV, so she could pass them around during the after-church coffee hour while everybody oohed and aahed. And there was her new idea for the Christmas Fair, crocheted ruffles you could tie around candlesticks. They’d sell like hotcakes, Betsy was sure of it, and she wanted to tell Mollie and Priscilla. But here was Carl, passed away in bed! It was just like him, even now, to be in the way.

  Then it occurred to Betsy that she could just leave Carl right here on the bed and go off to church anyway. Why couldn’t she call Dr. Spinney when she got home? She could say Carl had wanted to sleep late because he wasn’t feeling well, so she had gone to church without him, and then when she got back she had found him like this. Why not?

  So Betsy Bucky went to church on the morning after her husband’s death, and enjoyed every minute of it. She soared with the Virgin Mary and gossiped with Mabel Smock and learned that Wally Pott was indeed living in that big fancy house all by himself and didn’t know where Arlene. had gone, and then after the service she passed around her cinnamon swirls in the common room downstairs, and everybody said, “Scrumptious!” and “Delicious!” and Agatha Palmer said, “Betsy Bucky, is there anything you can’t do?” and Betsy tittered in joyous high spirits, “No, not a single thing!”

  Ed and Lorraine Bell were helping out in the common room too, making small talk with other members of the congregation in the company of Joseph Bold. This necessary parish duty of Sunday-morning sociability had become almost intolerable to Joe. But when Ed Bell said, “Say, Joe, did you hear Bob Ott hit that high note? Bob, you ought to be in grand opera, right, Joe?” the task was easier.

  So the Bells were late getting home after the service on the day Carl Bucky died. In fact they were still changing into their old clothes when they heard a car speeding past the house, whanging into a pothole with a suspension-busting jolt. “Good heavens, who’s that?” said Lorraine, running to the window.