Not a Sparrow Falls

by Linda Nichols

  “Now.” Bridie let go of her hair. It slid back down and covered up the scar. “It’s just going to be you and me and the children for the next week, and I’ve got some ideas. If you’re finished with your hissy fit, maybe we could have a little fun around here.”

  Samantha picked at her cuticle. It bled. She stuck the finger in her mouth and chewed on the fingernail. She shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Go get dressed,” Bridie said. Her smile came back, and Samantha felt a little rush of relief. “We’ve got places to go and things to do.”

  “Fine,” she retorted.

  “Hurry,” Bridie called after her.

  Samantha took the steps two at a time. She wondered where they were going and what they were going to do. Not that she cared, though.

  Twenty

  Alasdair looked around his hotel room, restless. He had attended services, met with the conference organizers to finalize his speaking schedule. His notes were complete and so familiar they were almost committed to memory. He was thoroughly prepared and had nothing to do until tomorrow morning when the conference began. He had no desire to stand around the Welcome Room sipping stale coffee and exchanging pastoral war stories with the attendees. This would be the perfect time to make his annual call on Professor Cuthbert. But perhaps he shouldn’t go this year, he thought, knowing the probing conversation that would ensue.

  He shook his head with impatience. He was beginning to live his entire life like a man walking through a minefield. Picking up the thick Boston telephone book, he looked up his old mentor’s number before any more anxieties could waylay him.

  “I’m sorry to give you such short notice,” Alasdair apologized.

  “Nonsense,” Professor Cuthbert replied, his voice warm. “You know how I enjoy seeing you.” He refreshed Alasdair’s memory as to which train to take and where to transfer, and a half hour later Alasdair had arrived at the professor’s brown-brick row house.

  ****

  Bridie looked at the fruits of yesterday’s shopping trip now spread over the kitchen counters.

  “Well, how do you like this place?” she had asked Samantha when they’d stepped inside the store. Its aisles were festooned with red and green garlands and garish decorations, the air heavy with the sweet fragrance of caramel corn. You could probably go to a Wal-Mart in Kowloon and still smell caramel corn. Not exactly an upscale sort of place, and Bridie wondered what was going on behind Samantha’s guarded eyes.

  Samantha raised a shoulder in a half shrug. “I’ve never been to a Wal-Mart. Aunt Winifred takes me to Lord and Taylor twice a year. I get to pick out stuff from the bargain rack.”

  Yes, Bridie considered, that fit with her view of this family. The view she was coming to have. They might not have much, but it would be from the right store, on the off chance somebody might look inside their collar at the tag. Keep everything looking good on the outside; that was their motto.

  Not that she didn’t have a few faults of her own, she thought, looking at the stuff she’d bought. All right. Maybe she’d gotten a little carried away, but really, she couldn’t see what she could do without. She had to have the supplies for her decorating projects. That was all there was to it. And she needed a few strands of Christmas lights to even out what she’d finally found in the corner of the garage—not the attic after all. The red and green pillar candles had been on sale, two for a dollar fifty, so they hardly counted. The big velvet bow would dress up the greens the man had given her for free when she’d bought the Christmas tree. She was going to make a door swag from the pieces of the balsam fir, and just think how much one of those would cost ready made! She had actually saved money there. The decorations for the tree were hardly anything, though she supposed she could have lived without the CD of Christmas music or the Christmas video for the children. But they absolutely needed the boots so they could play in the snow, and the toy airport and doll had been on sale, and the big-boy and big-girl underpants were a big part of her plans for the week, too. That left a few miscellaneous things: cookie decorations, including the little silver balls she liked, the makings for spice tea mix, the welcome mat, and red and green dish towels. She probably should take those back.

  No, something argued back, and the passion she felt surprised her. I’m tired of living without. It’s Christmas, and I’m going to celebrate.

  Where did that come from? she wondered. She hadn’t heard from that part of herself in a long time. She didn’t know exactly what it was, but she thought it might be responsible, as well, for the last item she’d stashed in her cart. She picked up the box now and held it in her hand, looked at the corn-silk blond hair dye and wondered why she was doing this. She was only setting herself up. This could only end badly. That fierce part of her that was rising up and demanding things should go back to sleep, she warned herself severely. She put the hair dye back in the sack and shoved it in the corner behind the toaster.

  “I need some help here,” Samantha complained. Bridie glanced toward the table where Samantha was pinning and basting. The idea of having her make a dress had seemed inspired. Samantha had unbent a little as they picked out the material, and it had given them something to talk about.

  “Oh, I see your problem,” Bridie said, walking toward her. “You’ve got the sleeve in backward.”

  “It won’t go the other way. It’s too weird.”

  “I know it seems like it won’t,” Bridie said, adjusting the sleeve and repinning it. “But that’s the way it works. Baste it, and when we turn it right side out you’ll see.”

  Samantha frowned and leaned over the pieces of the dress.

  “Setting sleeves is the hardest part of this dress,” Bridie encouraged. “After this you’ll be able to make almost anything.”

  Samantha didn’t answer, just continued to work in silent absorption. Bridie sat down and watched in case more help was needed. Samantha glanced up, then quickly shifted her eyes back to the fabric. “How’d you learn to do all this?” she asked.

  “My grandmother and mother taught me how to sew. My grandma had an old treadle sewing machine, and she used to let me make doll quilts. My mother had an electric Singer. She helped me make quite a few of my clothes.”

  “My mother never taught me anything.” Samantha’s voice was cold, flat. She didn’t look up from her pinning. Bridie remembered Anna’s longing and guilt when she wrote about her daughter.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t because she didn’t love you,” she said.

  Samantha looked up sharply, eyes wide, then ducked her head down again. She didn’t speak.

  “When shall we decorate the tree?” Bridie asked after a minute or two.

  Samantha raised the shoulder up again. “I don’t even remember the last time we had a Christmas tree. We always decorate the one at the church.”

  Bridie gave her head a tiny shake. What had happened to these people?

  “Well, you’re going to have one this year,” she promised. If she’d been hoping for much, she was disappointed. Samantha kept on pinning, head down, her brown hair in her face so that Bridie couldn’t see her expression.

  “Let’s do it tonight,” she suggested.

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “So?”

  “Church.” Samantha said slowly, sarcastically, just in case she didn’t understand.

  “I’m not preaching,” Bridie shot back. “Are you? I think Cam and Bonnie have the night off, too.”

  That got her attention. Samantha raised her head and gave her an incredulous look. “Are you saying we don’t have to go?”

  Bridie edged her way out. “I’m saying everybody’s entitled to a little family time. And I paid fifty dollars for a tree that’s drying out on the porch.”

  “Whatever,” Samantha said, but her eyes looked bright, and when she went back to her work she was humming.

  ****

  Alasdair looked around him at the cotton-batting sky as he climbed the steps. The air felt thick. Even the sound of his feet was muf
fled. It would snow before long. He rang the bell.

  After a few minutes the professor came to the door, and Alasdair experienced his usual moment of surprise. Somehow Professor Cuthbert was perpetually middle-aged in Alasdair’s mind, frozen at the point in time at which they’d met. Every year he was unprepared for the reality of the marching years. Since last year’s visit his friend had lost his rounded look, though he was still far from frail. The hair that encircled his shining pate had lost the last bit of its ginger color, and it could have been Alasdair’s imagination, but his once snapping blue eyes seemed a little faded. Cuthbert drew Alasdair into a strong embrace, though, and clapped him on the back, his pleasure evident on his face. “Come in,” he urged and opened the door wide.

  Alasdair smiled, followed him into the narrow hallway to the room he indicated, and a flood of memories washed over him. How many hours had he spent in this house, in this very study, reading and arguing, praying and discussing? He looked around the warm little niche, at the collection of bulging bookcases, the huge desk covered with sliding piles of paper and tippling stacks of books. Light spilled from two antique Tiffany lamps, forming golden puddles on the faded red carpet. The drapes were heavy old brocade and pulled shut, enclosing them in a cozy cocoon. A low, steady flame burned in the small fireplace over a bed of glowing red coals.

  “Please sit down,” Cuthbert invited. “I’ve made us a snack.”

  Alasdair took the chair indicated and settled back into its worn leather arms. He rubbed them and could feel the tiny cracks of age. The coffee table before him held the refreshments. A ceramic teapot was draped with a terrycloth towel doing duty as a cozy. Two chipped china plates held thick sandwiches. A bowl of store-bought chocolate sandwich cookies sat beside two heavy pottery mugs. The food looked good to him.

  “I see you’re staying busy,” Alasdair observed, gesturing toward the overflowing desk.

  Cuthbert nodded. “As always.”

  “Are you working on a journal article? A text?”

  The professor shook his head. “No. A devotional.”

  “Really?”

  “Surprised?”

  “A little. Only because you seemed to favor theology rather than—”

  “Faith?”

  Alasdair gave him a sharp look. Cuthbert was smiling. “Certainly not,” he protested. “Your faith has always been evident in everything you write. In all your life.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Cuthbert pulled the cloth from the teapot and picked it up. It jiggled slightly, and a little tea sloshed onto one of the sandwiches. He seemed not to notice. “But I’ll be the first to acknowledge that my faith has been somewhat top-heavy. North of the neck, shall we say?”

  Alasdair wasn’t sure how to respond. The professor filled the mugs and managed to set the teapot down, then replaced the makeshift cozy.

  “How are your sisters?” he asked, handing Alasdair a mug. Alasdair took it and added sugar and milk.

  “Well as always, sir.”

  “Fine. And your children?” The professor leaned over and began doctoring his own tea, giving Alasdair a moment to think. Had he come for help? And if so, could his old mentor give it to him? Or would he simply be burdening his friend with problems he could do nothing about?

  “Your silence answers for you.” Cuthbert sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. Alasdair took another long swallow of his own. It was hot and burned his tongue. He set down the mug on the floor beside his chair.

  He met Cuthbert’s gaze, which was unflinching. “There have been a few problems,” he evaded. “I hope we’re coming out of our rough patch.”

  “No one is ill, I hope.”

  “No.”

  Cuthbert nodded, prompting more. “So? Tell me.”

  Alasdair took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” he said, putting them back on.

  “Anywhere. We can always circle back.”

  Alasdair smiled, but still he didn’t answer.

  “I’ve heard of your troubles at the church.”

  Alasdair sighed but didn’t even lift a brow. The denomination was like a small town. There were no secrets.

  “I had my own pulpit at one time, you know.”

  Alasdair nodded politely.

  “Yes, I captained the ship, so to speak.” Cuthbert gave a dry chuckle, and the mug he was resting on his chest jiggled dangerously.

  “No one tells you about the pirates,” Alasdair murmured darkly.

  The professor’s eyes lit with amusement and he gave a nod. “That’s an apt analogy.” He set down his mug and readjusted himself in the chair, leaning forward. “Did I ever tell you about my battle with Clive Newby over who would take over the pulpit back in 1967?”

  Alasdair shook his head, feeling a little surge of relief that they wouldn’t be discussing his problems.

  Cuthbert didn’t seem to notice. He licked his lips with relish at recounting his tale. “I was pastor, Clive the associate. Congregation up to two thousand. Three services every Sunday. Offerings up. Sanctuary paid for and the building campaign for a new one well begun. I’d built that place from the ground up. When I’d first come, we met in the music room of the high school. Thirty-five of us. Now we were one of the biggest and most vital churches in the city. When Clive decided to make a play for the pulpit, I got wind, of course. Maudie was a great one for keeping her ear to the ground.”

  Alasdair nodded. The professor’s wife, rest her soul, had put him in mind of Winifred on a bad day.

  “Clive was stirring things up, moving toward a vote to have me ousted. But I mounted a preemptive strike. Called together the ruling elders I knew were behind me, and we went house to house mustering support. Numbering the troops, so to speak. We thought we had him beaten, but we’d underestimated his persuasiveness. At the congregational meeting we were nearly equally split. Stalemated. Neither of us had the majority necessary to win. Neither side was willing to concede. Well, the fight raged, as you might imagine.” The professor paused to take a sip of tea, and Alasdair realized he was tense, waiting to hear how the story ended. But instead of finishing, Cuthbert rose stiffly, rearranged the logs with a poker, sending up a shower of sparks. He apparently decided another log was called for. By the time he’d extricated it from the box, added it to the fire, closed the screen, and replaced the poker, Alasdair was ready to scream.

  “Well?” he prompted. “What happened?”

  Cuthbert sat down and took another sip of tea before he answered. When he did his eyes were filled with what looked like fresh pain. “I won,” he said. “I kept the pulpit. But it was a hollow victory, I can tell you.”

  “In what way?” Alasdair asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “Ichabod.”

  Alasdair’s eyes widened. Ichabod. Hebrew for “the glory of the Lord has departed.” After a moment Cuthbert carried on but with sadness rather than animation.

  “The building was mine. The congregation was mine. Newby left. Took some members with him, but we were basically unscathed. The only problem was, the hand of the Lord seemed to have stopped moving among us. He’d set us aside. And I knew why. I’d forgotten what I was about, why I was left here on earth. I’d gotten my calling confused with my job.” He gazed at Alasdair’s face, but Alasdair knew he was seeing the past. “I kept on preaching, but it was no good. After a year or so I took the job at the seminary. The church carried on with someone else. You see,” he finished, a bittersweet smile on his lips, “I’d forgotten who really was captain of the ship. The church wasn’t mine, but His.”

  “So what then?” Alasdair responded, his surge of anger coming out through his voice. “I’m supposed to just let someone come in and wrest it away from me?” The pirate analogy was a stupid comparison, and he wished he’d never made it.

  “No, but have you asked God whether or not He wants you to have it?”

  “What would He do?” Alasdair shot back. “Tape a note to the refrigerato
r?” His voice was sharp.

  Neither one of them said anything for a long while. Alasdair broke the silence first. “I’m sorry.”

  Cuthbert smiled. “You’re forgiven.”

  They sat together, the only sound the hiss and crack of the log on the fire. The glory of the Lord had departed. Alasdair tried to remember the last time he’d sensed God’s presence or heard His voice. He couldn’t recall just now.

  He began speaking without making a conscious decision to do so. “A darkness seems to have settled over my home,” he said. “Samantha is troubled. I don’t care for her friends, but I don’t forbid them because she has so few. She hates me. I can feel it. It almost radiates from her when I enter the room. I don’t give Cameron and Bonnie the attention they need. I feel a heaviness I can’t seem to shake. Sometimes the darkness seems literal. I keep turning on lights, but nothing helps.”

  “I’m sorry.” Cuthbert’s eyes shone with kindness and concern. “I thought you might be struggling, but I didn’t know absolutely.”

  “The worst of it is that I feel like what you just described. The glory of the Lord has departed. I preach, and there’s no movement of the Spirit. I pray and sense no answers. I read the Scriptures, but they are only words. They don’t seem to touch me. Not like they used to.” He didn’t quite know what he expected Professor Cuthbert to say, but he was surprised at his response.

  “You know, Alasdair, the older I get, the more I realize only one thing matters.”

  “What is that?”

  “To know Him. To walk with Him. Just as Adam did in the garden in the cool of the day. There’s nothing else.”

  Alasdair felt a hollow ache, a coldness in his chest. “Well, He doesn’t seem to be returning my calls these days.”

  “He seems to have left you to your own devices,” Cuthbert said after a pause.

  “I suppose He has.”

  “I wonder why,” the professor mused, his head tipped slightly, as if he were pondering a particularly intriguing puzzle.

  Alasdair would have smiled if he hadn’t felt such empty misery. “I don’t know,” he said. Quickly. Flatly.