Not a Sparrow Falls

by Linda Nichols

  She looked past the cars to the neighborhood itself, to the brick row houses and shops, some of which had been here since before the American Revolution, to the winter-bare trees lining the cobbled sidewalks. The streets gleamed slick with rain, and the antique streetlights glowed steadily in the gathering dusk.

  She had once thought she would step out onto these streets and follow them to adventure and excitement, but somehow she’d never managed to get very far from the gate of the parsonage. She’d taken the first two years of college at George Mason but couldn’t seem to settle on a major. When Michael had come along and offered to marry her, it had seemed the right thing to do. But even then she’d only moved a few blocks away from home. She had thought they would have children and settle in, but the Lord had never seen fit to bless. Perhaps it was just as well, considering.

  She still had trouble believing what Michael had done, though she lived with the consequences of it every day. He had taken all their savings, bled the equity from their home, taken out credit cards and run them up to their limits—all without a word to her. To buy into some real-estate investment scheme. Unfortunately, he’d made enough profits to incur a hefty tax liability before the venture had collapsed. He’d lost it all, and before she’d even taken that fact in, he’d announced he’d found someone else. The property settlement had amounted to dividing the bills—the ones that weren’t discharged in the bankruptcy.

  She felt a familiar shame at being deserted and guilt when she thought of the money she owed. If not for that, she could quit her jobs and help Alasdair with the children full-time. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d prayed for God to clear the way for her to do just that, but so far that prayer hadn’t been answered. A small thought nibbled at her awareness—that the request had more to do with her need than the children’s.

  Alasdair would welcome it, she was sure. He had offered to have her move into the guest room. She had been greatly tempted but had refused. As much as she would have liked to stay close to the children, she felt a stop, a sharp conviction. It would be so easy but not right. She had the feeling, as seductive as the temptation might be, that it would be stealing. Taking something that wasn’t hers and holding it so closely it smothered. She wondered, with a hollow sense of guilt, how much her preoccupation with her brother’s family had contributed to the ending of her marriage. Nothing excused what Michael had done. But had she cleared the path toward his sin, opened the gate for him, and waved good-bye? Would he have been able to fly so far off course if she had been connected to him? She didn’t know. She sat for a moment in the company of that bitter regret, then forcibly rearranged her thoughts. She had much to be grateful for. The small room she rented from a teacher at the school more than met her needs, considering she was rarely home. And she was thankful for her jobs.

  She brightened when she thought of her work at the school. She loved being there, even if she was just a secretary. Every day she got to see the children come in and out. She knew their names, she visited their classrooms and helped with art projects when things weren’t busy in the office. She would have done it for free. The paycheck was an added bonus. And her job at the film processing plant paid very well. The work wasn’t hard. It was even interesting, in a way. Four nights a week she looked at frozen moments of other people’s lives. Frame by frame they passed before her.

  A familiar thought accused that she had gone nowhere, accomplished nothing with her own life. Look at you, it said. Thirty-five years old and what have you done?

  Winifred heaved another great sigh and shifted restlessly in her chair, bringing Lorna back to the present situation. Fortunately Fiona blew in the door with a gust of wet wind at that very moment and wound her way through the maze of closely packed tables to join them. She took her seat and arranged herself.

  “Well?” Fiona demanded, not as rudely as Winifred, but in her usual no-nonsense manner.

  “It’s Alasdair,” Lorna said.

  “What about him?” Winifred snapped.

  “Leave her alone, Winifred. Just organize your thoughts, Lorna,” Fiona encouraged, speaking a little slower than normal.

  Lorna felt a hot surge of exasperation. “He got a letter from the president,” she said.

  “Of the United States?” Winifred was incredulous.

  “Of the General Assembly Council,” Lorna corrected, keeping her voice level. “Offering him a job.”

  Both sisters frowned, sensing trouble. Their puzzlement turned to comprehension as she continued. “There was another letter from an acquaintance of Alasdair’s—Bob Henry. He works for Gerald Whiteman now. He said there’d been complaints. That the job offer is an end run around a pulpit war.”

  “I knew this was coming,” Fiona announced, sounding triumphant.

  Winifred’s face hardened. “I’d like to know who started it.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Fiona rebutted quickly, but looking grim as well. All three of them knew how these things worked. Their father had ridden out several coup attempts. No one emerged unscathed.

  “That’s not all,” Lorna continued. “Last night Edgar Willis and the Big Three showed up. Complete with balance sheets. They said the congregation was unhappy that they weren’t being shepherded since Bill left, that Alasdair was unapproachable and intimidating. They asked for his resignation.”

  “No!” Fiona’s face was shocked.

  “Yes.” Lorna nodded.

  “What did Alasdair do?” Winifred demanded.

  “He refused. Quite decisively.” She saw again his eyes, suddenly as hard and lifeless as granite. “I don’t think they’ll go to the congregation just yet. They were concerned about a split.”

  “They’ll probably go back to President Whiteman and press harder from that end,” Winifred predicted.

  “Alasdair won’t take the job at headquarters,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “He says a pastor’s job is to preach, not shuffle paper and count beans.”

  “He may live to eat those words,” Winifred pointed out flatly.

  “I can’t think a move to Richmond would be in anyone’s best interest,” Lorna said. “The children have had enough upsets. What they need now is stability.”

  “Samantha is struggling as it is,” Winifred agreed.

  “And how would Alasdair get on without his family?” Lorna asked. “By himself, without anyone at all to love the children.” Her eyes were beginning to tear up just at the thought.

  “Alasdair’s leaving is out of the question,” Winifred pronounced. “There’s always been a MacPherson behind the pulpit of Knox Presbyterian. Great-great-grandfather Hamish, and then Great-grandfather Dougal, Grandfather Seamus. Father, of course—”

  “And now Alasdair stands to be the last in a long line,” Fiona finished.

  Winifred gave Lorna a hard look. “I wish you’d said something sooner.”

  Lorna thought about defending herself, but Winifred spoke again before she had a chance to formulate her thoughts.

  “Perhaps we could tell him to quit his other involvements.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Winifred,” Fiona objected. “Alasdair is a grown man. He’s not our baby brother any longer. Besides, you know how headstrong he is.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t mend his ways, he’s going to lose his job,” Winifred pointed out. “Perhaps he’ll just have to do what we tell him.”

  “I’ll give the matter some thought,” Fiona said. “Then we shall talk to him.” Winifred nodded in agreement, the matter settled as far as they were concerned.

  Lorna felt relief to have the problem out of her hands, but then just as quickly she remembered her strange commission the day she had prayed. The feeling that she had been chosen to help her brother, not her competent sisters. Ah, well. That notion had probably been just been one of her flights of fancy. She was perfectly content to support any solution to Alasdair’s problems, from whatever direction it came.

  The food arrived, and Winifred and Fiona began talking a
bout other things—Winifred about the Christmas bazaar the Women’s Fellowship would be sponsoring, Fiona about her upcoming bid for the chair of the History Department at George Mason. When they were finished, the two of them rose with one accord. Lorna followed suit.

  “By the way,” Winifred said, “the sitter made it official.”

  “They quit nearly as quickly as we can hire them,” Fiona said grimly. “The children are just going to have to go to a day care. I can’t keep on taking time to interview and check references.”

  “I’ll do it,” Lorna offered quickly. “I’ll call the paper and have them put the ad back in. Perhaps this time will be different,” she said, but not really believing it. It was hard to find competent help willing to work for any wage, much less what her brother could pay.

  “We might as well go to the Bag and Save since we’re all here,” Winifred said. “We can shop for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Fiona nodded agreeably. “I need cat food.”

  “There is a solution to this,” Winifred assured Fiona.

  “I’ll be thinking,” Fiona agreed. “We’ll compare notes in a day or two.” And Lorna, following behind them, thought she might as well not have been there at all.

  ****

  Bridie shoved the ten-pound sack of potatoes toward Jeremy, the bag boy, and turned her attention toward the three sisters. She usually enjoyed their weekly trip to the Bag and Save. They were so prim and proper, and they squeezed a nickel until the buffalo hollered, as her grandmother used to say. She felt a sharp pain at the thought of her grandmother but put it quickly aside. She had managed to survive by dividing her life into strict categories. The past existed only in some distant world, and she tried to give it a certain unreality, to think of it like a book she’d read or a movie she’d seen and loved long ago. Keep your mind where your behind is; that was her motto. And right now her behind was here, in check-out stand number three at the Bag and Save in Alexandria, Virginia.

  She counted her blessings again. She had a little money put away. She had a home. She had a friend in Carmen. Sort of. And Jonah hadn’t come looking for her. Yet. She felt the little chill that thought always brought with it, though she could reassure herself as often as she wanted. She had sat at Carmen’s computer every day at first and now at least twice a week, visiting the Virginia Department of Corrections Web site. She clicked on the button for On-Line Inmate Locator, searched for Porter, Jonah. Each time she would check the columns. Status: Active. Custody: Security Level 2. And the one that would calm her the most: Release date, which was still far enough away that she didn’t need to worry. She would have to face that someday, she told herself. There was no telling what he had become in prison, and he’d been scary enough to begin with. Eventually she would need to put a lot more miles between herself and Jonah. But not today.

  She took a deep breath and blinked her eyes to make the thought of him dissipate, then focused back on the sisters. The one in front of her, the oldest one, now she was a corker. Winifred Graham. Red hair salted with gray and a mouth puckered up as tight as her purse strings. Married to an accountant. Three grown daughters, two married and living out of state, the youngest one gone to college just last month. In Montreal. Bridie wondered if there was a pattern there. She chided herself for her cattiness and greeted her, as usual, speaking first.

  “How are you today, Mrs. Graham?” she asked.

  “Very well, thank you, Bridie,” she answered back, as always. Mrs. Graham unfailingly called her by her first name, but never suggested that Bridie should call her Winifred. Bridie smiled at her and weighed the sweet potatoes, scanned the bag of mini-marshmallows, the green beans, the can of fried onion rings, the cream of mushroom soup, the two packages of brown-and-serve rolls, and the turkey—a twenty pounder.

  “You planning a big Thanksgiving dinner?” Bridie asked, violating the company policy not to ask customers about their purchases.

  “It ain’t none of your business, Bridie,” Winslow had told her more than once. “And don’t you go frowning and sniffing when folks buy liquor. If they got ID, that’s all that’s your concern.”

  Bridie hadn’t said anything then, and she didn’t say anything when she scanned a six-pack, either. She supposed, considering her history, she was straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel. Still, she had her reasons. She’d seen firsthand the damage alcohol could do, and for a second her ribs felt sore just from remembering.

  “Yes, these groceries are for Thanksgiving dinner.” Winifred—Mrs. Graham—nodded with a slight air of offense, as if Bridie had indeed broken some rule of polite society.

  Bridie flushed, scanned the celery and carrots, and vowed to keep her mouth shut from now on. She looked past the first two sisters back to her favorite. Lorna was obviously younger than the other two, a little shy, with a sweetness that was genuine, not the phony kind that set your teeth on edge. She was pretty and plump with a heart-shaped face and soft brown hair framing it. And it was funny. Even though their whole relationship had taken place across a check-out stand at the Bag and Save, Bridie had the feeling Lorna could have been a friend if their lives had been different. “How are you doing today, Lorna?” she asked.

  “I’m just fine, Bridie.” Lorna was unloading her purse onto the check-out stand. A wadded-up tissue joined a set of keys and a checkbook.

  “What are you looking for, Lorna?” the other sister, Fiona, asked, with an overly patient tone that said volumes.

  “I had a coupon for that onion soup. I just know it.”

  Winifred rolled her eyes and exchanged a glance with Fiona.

  Bridie felt a little surge of anger on Lorna’s behalf, reached into her drawer, and found an extra. “I’ve got it here.” She scanned it quickly and watched the computer take off the discount.

  “What are your holiday plans, Bridie?” the middle sister asked. She was pretty, with hair a darker shade of red than Winifred’s and fine, delicate features. She’d told Bridie she was a professor at George Mason—ancient history or something. Her husband was a doctor. No kids. But she was nice and had a slightly shorter poker up her back than Winifred. When Bridie had called her Mrs. Larkin, she’d insisted on Fiona instead.

  “Oh, I’ll probably spend it here,” she answered.

  “Surely they’ll give you time off to go to services?” Winifred asked.

  Bridie murmured, noncommittal. Winslow would really get hot under the collar if he found out she was discussing religion with a customer, even if they’d been the one to bring it up. “Is that all for you today?” she asked the sisters, her finger poised over the Total key. Fiona nodded. Winifred nodded. Lorna looked disturbed, as though she was trying to get something out, but it seemed as if her mouth automatically closed when either of her sisters’ opened.

  “That will be all, thank you,” Winifred said.

  Bridie pushed Total with a flourish and read the sum. “That’s one hundred twenty-two dollars and nineteen cents.”

  “How shall we divide this?” Winifred asked her sisters.

  “Pay out of household, and we’ll make it right later,” Fiona suggested.

  “That sounds fine,” Winifred agreed, then both sisters looked at Lorna expectantly. She nodded and went fishing in her purse again. Fiona and Winifred exchanged another glance.

  Bridie helped Jeremy finish the bagging, and seeing the makings for the holiday dinner gave her another feeling of emptiness. When she looked up, Lorna had apparently found her checkbook and was gazing square at her, an expression of compassion and concern on her kind face. Bridie flushed. She’d been wearing her heart on her sleeve again and had gotten caught. She flashed Lorna a bright smile, then repeated the total. Lorna nodded and filled in the amount.

  The sisters always paid for the groceries with a presigned check from the account of Alasdair MacPherson. It was a constant entertainment to Bridie to concoct stories about who this Alasdair MacPherson was. Perhaps an old, crippled father. Maybe a young man, their cousin or brother,
struck down in his prime. In a wheelchair. A veteran. She never asked, though. It was more fun to wonder. Another of her silly little games.

  Lorna handed over the check; then with her hand poised over her wallet, she asked Bridie the same question she always did. “Do you want to see Alasdair’s identification?”

  Bridie didn’t know what possessed her, but this time, instead of waving her away and shaking her head as always, she had a sudden yen to see what this Alasdair MacPherson looked like. “Let me take a glance at it. If you don’t mind,” she added to placate their surprised expressions.

  “Certainly.” Lorna recovered and produced the identification, an expired Virginia driver’s license. The picture was sort of dark, but Bridie brought it up to the light on her check stand and took a good look. He was a young man. That was the first surprise. And handsome, but fierce and stern looking, as though he’d just heard somebody whispering in church. He had brown hair that was combed back from a high forehead, dark blue eyes, a hawklike nose, a square chin, and a nice mouth, but serious and lying in a flat line, as if it never had curved up at the corners. Bridie made the little crossed lines on the top of the check and scribbled some numbers and letters on them, but it was just for show. She’d just had a curious spell, but now it was over.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Manager’s having a hissy fit this week. He’ll be over it by next time.” She handed the card back and loaded the last sack into the cart, embarrassed at her nosiness. “There you go,” she said. “I’ll see you next week.” The two older sisters said good-bye and steered the cart toward the exit, but Lorna stood as if planted. She leaned forward, took a breath, then closed her mouth. Bridie could see the next customer in line fidgeting from the corner of her eye. Lorna didn’t budge.