Not a Sparrow Falls

by Linda Nichols

  “Man, I was beginning to wonder if you still existed.”

  Alasdair felt irritation well up as soon as he recognized the voice, familiar again from the number of messages left in recent weeks. He forced himself to be polite. “How are you, Bob?”

  “Good,” Bob Henry answered quickly. “Better than you. Why don’t you return my calls?”

  “I appreciate your offer of help, but this is something I’m going to have to face on my own.” No tricks, he thought to himself, remembering the maneuvering and subterfuge Bob had specialized in, even in college. Behind him Bonnie let out a pitiful, wavering cry of high-pitched misery. He turned toward her. She was rubbing her nose and forehead with a tiny hand.

  The front door opened and closed. Alasdair leaned around the corner. It was Lorna with a miserable-looking Cameron on her hip. She smiled and waved. Alasdair held up a hand in greeting, then pointed back toward the playpen with a look of apology.

  Lorna nodded and headed toward the crying child. “It’s the flu and nothing to be done for it,” she whispered as she passed him.

  Of course. He shut his eyes briefly, but it had no effect on Bob Henry’s voice rasping on in his ear.

  “I don’t think you understand, Alasdair, how things are. The wheel’s squeaking pretty loud and Whiteman’s as serious as a heart attack.”

  “This situation has nothing to do with Gerald Whiteman. I serve at the pleasure of this congregation and the presbytery.”

  “Or not,” Bob pointed out. “And they’ve contacted Gerry and asked him to get involved. You’d better be glad he doesn’t bump it back down to the presbytery. If he does, there’s not much I can do. And what were you thinking, telling him you couldn’t meet with him?”

  “My schedule won’t allow it.”

  “Give me a break!” Bob erupted.

  Alasdair said nothing. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “Now listen,” Bob continued. “I know you’re an upfront kind of guy, but playing it straight isn’t going to work this time. I might be able to help you if you’d tell me what’s going on.”

  The doorbell rang again. The babies were still wailing. Alasdair replaced his glasses. “Bob, I’ve got to go. You’ve caught me at a busy time. I’ll consider what you’ve said.”

  Bob let out a frustrated sigh. “You do that, pal. You’ve got my number.”

  Yes, he certainly did.

  Alasdair hung up the phone, not even saying good-bye, and went to the door. The bulb in the hallway burned dim and yellow, as if weary of beating back the gloom. He made a note to replace it with a stronger wattage. His legs felt heavy, but he picked them up and put them down just the same. Samantha came back down the stairs, passed him without speaking, and after a moment he heard her voice mingle with Lorna’s in the kitchen. The twins had stopped crying.

  He stopped before the door and looked out the peephole. Blinked, leaned forward, and looked again. Four of the nine elders of the church were crammed between the potted Norfolk Island pine and the wrought-iron railing. Alasdair stepped back, opened the door, and quickly checked his watch. “Did I forget a meeting?”

  “No, Pastor.” The most senior member, in every sense of the word, Edgar Willis, stepped forward. His white hair flew in the wind and he looked frail enough to blow away, were it not for the triumvirate that flanked him—the Big Three, Lorna called them. They were the power brokers. They looked grim. And determined.

  “We have a matter to discuss with you. Of some urgency, but I suppose we should have called first,” Edgar admitted.

  “Please come in.” Alasdair took another step back from the door as they passed him. He ushered them into the formal living room, used only for such purposes, then excused himself for a moment and went to the kitchen.

  The babies were both in their high chairs and eating a banana, most of which was being rubbed on the sides of their faces and in their hair. Lorna was opening a can of soup. Bonnie’s nose was running again, but at least she’d stopped crying.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to Lorna, “I wasn’t expecting them.” Not entirely true, but he hadn’t been expecting them today. That much was right.

  “That’s all right, dear—what happened to Tuesday’s casserole?”

  “I forgot to thaw it out.”

  “That’s all right,” Lorna repeated and patted his arm. “It doesn’t matter. You go on to your meeting. Do you know what it’s about?” She looked worried.

  He felt another surge of affection for her and a throb of anger at the scoundrel who had abandoned her after fifteen years of marriage. He shook his head. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” He felt the pressure under his eyes, took off his glasses again and massaged them. He left her looking worried and headed back to the living room.

  “Feed my sheep.” The words materialized from nowhere and landed in his ear. He took a deep breath, replaced his glasses, and entered the room. The air felt stiff, and he imagined he could feel it crackling as he passed through it. He pulled one of his great-grandmother’s Chippendale chairs from the corner and sat down facing the half circle they’d formed. It held his back straight. He rested both palms on his thighs and waited for them to speak.

  “Reverend MacPherson,” Edgar began, “we should have come to you sooner.”

  Alasdair said nothing. He took note of who had been invited to the meeting and who had not. His four staunchest supporters—MacPherson devotees who would endorse the family cat if put forth for nomination—were noticeably absent, as was the newest member of the elder team, still an unknown quantity.

  Edgar cleared his throat. The Big Three shifted uncomfortably in their chairs beside him. “We had hoped to avoid this kind of confrontation,” he said.

  Alasdair remained silent. Edgar opened his briefcase and pulled out a piece of paper. His agenda, Alasdair realized. He felt a churning mixture of anger and fear. He kept his face impassive.

  “We’ve received letters from several church members. Telephone calls from more. Some have come in person. The congregation is not happy,” Edgar said bluntly.

  “And your solution to that state of affairs was to prevail on the president of the General Assembly to offer me a job in Richmond.”

  Edgar’s face flushed, and the others shifted in their seats. A direct hit. “Perhaps we should have come to you first,” Edgar murmured.

  Alasdair kept his voice steady with an effort. “Yes, I think you should have.”

  Edgar sat up a little straighter. “Well, regardless, we’re coming to you now. As I said, there have been complaints. Many of them.”

  “Is there a problem with my sermons?”

  “Not when you’re here to deliver them.”

  He ignored the barb. “What, then?”

  “The shepherding. Or the lack thereof.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sorry, Pastor,” Edgar said. “But it’s true. Since Pastor Wright left there’s been no shepherding at all.”

  “Then hire his replacement instead of dragging your feet as you have been.” The words came out harsher than he’d meant.

  “There’s no money for a replacement.”

  Alasdair stared at Edgar, incredulous. Perhaps he hadn’t been following finances as closely as he should have in recent months, but no money to replace a previously funded position? “How can that be?” he demanded when he found his voice.

  “Giving is down. Significantly.” Edgar nodded toward one of his compatriots, who flipped the latch on his briefcase as if on cue and handed Edgar a sheaf of papers.

  “Here are last week’s figures.” Edgar passed the papers to him. “The General Fund offering is down twenty-five percent from the budgeted amount, as is Faith Missions and Benevolence. We’ve had to shuffle budget categories to cover existing expenses.”

  “That’s perfectly ridiculous,” Alasdair sputtered. “The sanctuary is full every Sunday.”

  “Full of visitors who have heard you on the radio and drop a f
ive-dollar bill into the plate when the offering comes around.”

  “They support the radio broadcasts.”

  “Well and good.” Edgar’s tone became hard. “But it’s not the radio audience you’ve been given charge over, which brings us to the next point.”

  Alasdair felt the scene take on an appearance of unreality. Frail Edgar Willis was giving him a dressing down. Edgar’s face was dangerously red, little dabs of spittle on the corners of his mouth. He’d had a heart attack last year. This kind of agitation couldn’t be good for him.

  “A significant number of the congregation feel that your best efforts are expended elsewhere,” Edgar continued with energy, heart and voice apparently in tip-top condition. “Their needs are not being met, and they resent paying your salary so that you might further your career. Perhaps being the greatest apologist since C. S. Lewis is a fine personal ambition, but it hardly qualifies you to lead a local church.”

  A flare of anger swept through Alasdair like a tongue of flame. Fear seemed to evaporate in its heat. He stood up, almost knocking over the chair. “Those were not my words. If you’re going to pick a fight with me, at least fight fair.” The comparison the Washington Post had made in their feature article on him a few years ago had mortified him then, as well as now.

  Edgar sniffed, folded his hands, and pressed his thin lips together. “At any rate, the situation is untenable.” The room fell silent.

  Alasdair breathed deeply for a moment, crossed to the mantel, rested his hand on it, and gathered in his anger. “Would you like me to take a cut in pay?” he raised his head to ask.

  “I’m afraid that won’t do,” Edgar said, too quickly to have even considered the offer.

  They’d already made up their minds, Alasdair realized. They hadn’t come to discuss. They’d come to inform. “It sounds as if you’re asking me to resign,” he said. “Is that what you’re doing? Without any discussion at all? In this underhanded way? Where are the rest of the elders? Why isn’t this being discussed at the regular session meeting with everyone present and able to voice their opinions?”

  “You know exactly what will happen if this matter is brought up officially. Sides will form, and the congregation will split down the middle. All ministries will halt while war is waged. Besides, would you have responded any differently if we’d gone through proper channels?” Edgar demanded. “Gerald Whiteman called me this morning and said you’d refused to even meet with him. Why should we think you would have listened to our appeal? You can be stubborn, Pastor. And intimidating.”

  “You should have come to me,” Alasdair repeated. “This is all wrong.”

  “We’re coming to you now. Will you change? Will you drop your radio programs and speaking engagements, cut back your writing schedule, and lead the congregation?”

  “That’s an outrageous demand.”

  “It’s the one we’re making, nonetheless.” Edgar closed his lips tightly, primly.

  Alasdair felt a rush of heat to his face, and suddenly this had nothing whatever to do with the work of the Lord. Heart thumping, blood singing, lungs sweeping air in and out, he felt as if some warring tribe had just tossed over the head of one of his generals. As if he’d topped the ridge to see his village burning and enemy hordes making off with plunder.

  “I. Will. Not. Resign.” His breath came in pants, as if he delivered blows instead of merely words.

  Edgar Willis blinked. “Will you give up your outside ministries?”

  “I will not.”

  Sutton tightened his jaw. “Do you want to split the church? Is that what you want?”

  “If the church splits, it will be your doing, not mine.”

  Sutton frowned. “People have left, Pastor. More have announced their intention to do so. It’s up to you. We can do this the way that would be most edifying to the Lord, or we can tear the church to pieces by drawing battle lines.”

  He could not lose his church. That was simply not an option. “I will not resign,” he repeated.

  Smith sighed. Sedgewick shut his briefcase.

  The telephone rang. Stopped. Samantha appeared, her face defiant, her voice sounding afraid.

  “Telephone for you,” she said. “It’s supposedly urgent.”

  His visitors stood and silently made their way to the door.

  “It won’t end here,” Edgar said, and Alasdair wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a threat. “It’s the Lord’s church, not yours.”

  He shut the door on the callers and went into the kitchen to answer the telephone.

  “Yes.”

  “Hello, Reverend MacPherson. This is Lois Tronsett.”

  “Yes,” he repeated.

  “I’m Samantha’s principal.”

  He didn’t respond at all this time. All the available space in his mind was occupied by what had just taken place. There was no room just now for his daughter’s academic problems.

  Lois Tronsett paused, then steamed ahead.

  “I’m concerned about Samantha,” she said bluntly.

  “What’s your concern?”

  “There was trouble at school today.”

  The babies began banging their spoons. He put a finger in his ear. Lorna must have heard. She came in and removed the children from their chairs and took them away.

  “What kind of trouble?” he managed to respond.

  “A boy was involved, but my concerns are deeper than this one event. I’d like to talk to you in person.”

  “What about a boy?” Alasdair’s pulse skidded and thudded in his ear.

  “Some kissing behind a tree during lunch break, but it’s the big picture I’m worried about. Samantha’s withdrawn from the other girls. Isolated. I think she might benefit from some counseling.”

  He flashed back to his father, eyes steady, voice sure. “The Word of God, properly interpreted and applied, is sufficient for every circumstance of faith and life.”

  “I’d like to sit down and talk to you in more detail.” She came at him again, sounding determined.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow from my office,” he said, still trying to take in what she’d said. “I’ll have a better idea of my schedule with my calendar before me.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. Alasdair hung up the telephone and stood there for a moment. His anger was morphing into a different sensation. A strange sensation. It was as if his feet were fixed to the floor, but a great hand had a grip on his head and was pulling. He could feel himself grow thinner and thinner as it pulled, and he wondered when he would be stretched so thin he would simply pull apart.

  He walked back into the living room and slumped down onto the sofa. He stared at the wall, past his mother’s gilt-framed botanical prints and the china plates, past the faded wallpaper. He sat there for some time, doing nothing, thinking nothing. Simply staring at the wall as if some writing might appear on it with a divine message for him. He gave a short laugh.

  “What is it?” It was Lorna, leaning over him. Her face was worried. He hadn’t noticed her come in.

  “Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Alasdair, you’re frightening me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He turned away from the blank wall and focused on his sister’s face, rubbing away at his headache. “It’s from the book of Daniel,” he explained. “It was the writing on the wall.”

  She didn’t ask what it meant. He wondered if she knew what the divine message to the king had been: You have been weighed in the balance and found wanting. For the first time he identified with the pagan king in the story instead of with the prophet of the Lord.

  “Alasdair,” she began, and he waited for his sister to soothe him. To dispense one of her usual remedies, and he wondered which one she would reach for this time. “You’re tired, that’s all. You’ll feel better when you’ve had a good night’s sleep.” Or perhaps, “When we find the right sitter things will calm down.” Or maybe, “Things will be better after Easter or Advent or Lent,” or whatever event
was closest on the calendar. What she actually said surprised him, though. He, who had lost the ability to be surprised.

  “I’ve prayed,” she stated simply. Her face was calm, though heavy with love and pain.

  He didn’t have the heart to point out what he had learned through bitter trial. Prayers weren’t always answered. “Something will work out,” he said instead, even though he didn’t believe it.

  “I think it already has,” she answered, “we just don’t know it yet.”

  Six

  “For heaven’s sake, Lorna, what was so important you had to call us out on a weekday?” Winifred unbuttoned her coat and hung it neatly over the back of the restaurant chair. “I’m missing a planning meeting for the Christmas bazaar, and heaven knows what they’ll decide with no one to herd them.” The waitress materialized at her elbow, and Winifred gave her an irritated look, as if the woman had violated some etiquette by offering her a menu. “I’ll have the chef’s salad and coffee,” she said without taking the menu from her hand. “Decaf with cream.”

  “Thank you,” Lorna supplied as the waitress turned to leave, but she must not have heard.

  “Well?” Winifred persisted. “What’s this about?”

  “Wait until Fiona gets here,” Lorna said, bracing herself for more of Winifred’s displeasure. “I’ll tell both of you at once.”

  Winifred frowned and checked her watch, heaved a huge sigh, then gave the restaurant a sweeping glance. “Whatever made you choose this place?”

  “I’m sorry,” Lorna answered automatically. Actually, she’d spent quite a while selecting the little café, but she knew Winifred had been in mourning for fifteen years, since her favorite lunch spot, Honora’s Tea Room, had become a sushi bar.

  Winifred gave her head a small shake and reached a hand up to smooth her hair.

  Lorna pulled her coat back up around her shoulders. It was colder than usual for this time of year. She turned away from her sister’s irritated face and looked out the tinted-glass window. The sun had tried valiantly to make an appearance all day but had never quite overcome the low-hanging clouds. The streets were throbbing with the evening traffic as people surged from the King Street metrorail station to homes in the suburbs. Tomorrow morning the process would reverse itself as everyone headed back into D.C. to work.