Not a Sparrow Falls

by Linda Nichols

  Bridie looked over. Samantha was smiling. She’d stopped her beadwork and was listening intently. Pages and pages followed of baby matters. A summary of her doctor visit. Different lists of names. More paint chips for a corner of the bedroom she intended to make over into a nursery. More names. Descriptions of sewing projects she had planned: blankets and little outfits. Bridie couldn’t help but contrast that to the box of unopened baby gifts in the attic. There was probably a perfectly good explanation for that. She flipped the page, and it was Christmas then, as well as now.

  It’s a bit of a letdown spending the holiday here. We arrived this afternoon, Christmas Eve. There is no tree. Few decorations. The parsonage is big and cold. They don’t seem to understand the principles of central heating. And they say Europeans are bad.

  The main event of the day seems to be the Christmas Eve service, which was nice, though too long for my taste. I was fighting to stay awake. The family decided not to exchange gifts this year, my father-in-law informed me. “Each member of the family will donate to the mission fund on Christmas Eve in honor of the others,” he explained. I just nodded, and Alasdair produced our envelope. Already prepared and not a word to me about it. I brought gifts in my valise, but I think I’ll keep quiet. Except I will give Lorna hers. She is a dear person. I hope she likes the antique combs. They’ll look quite pretty in her hair, I think.

  The next entry was dated December 25.

  It wasn’t as bad as I feared.

  It was worse.

  The dinner was all right except for their constant carping about who would sit where and nagging poor Lorna because she made sweet potato soufflé instead of some carrot dish that Winifred had to throw together at the last minute without the right type of currants. It seems that the menu has been carved in stone since before the Battle of Hastings. Roast lamb, scrubbed new potatoes, the above mentioned carrot casserole that was really quite inedible, and for dessert plum trifle, which Mother MacPherson says is a recipe that has been passed down in their family for seven generations. It tasted dry enough to have been baked seven generations ago.

  Shame on me.

  Samantha giggled. “Some things never change.”

  “Is that really what you eat at Christmas?” Bridie asked.

  Samantha nodded. “Every year.”

  Bridie felt her stubborn streak emerge. “It sounds like it’s time for a change.”

  Samantha’s eyes lit. “Cool. What’ll we have?”

  “We could do a turkey.”

  “Steak,” Samantha countered.

  “Steak’s too expensive.”

  “How about fried chicken?”

  Bridie nodded. “Sure. Chicken’s cheap. Everybody likes it. Even Cam and Bonnie. All right. Fried chicken it is. What else?”

  “Mashed potatoes and gravy.”

  “I’ll make homemade rolls.”

  “Jell-O. Red and green.”

  Bridie smiled. There would be some knickers in a twist, that was certain. Red and green Jell-O instead of carrot currant casserole.

  Samantha seemed to read her mind. “Aunt Winifred’s going to go ballistic.”

  “Oh, well,” Bridie said, then they both burst into laughter.

  “What shall we have for dessert?” Samantha asked. “That’s the most important part.”

  “What do you like?”

  “Anything but that gross plum stuff.”

  “Pumpkin pie?”

  Samantha shook her head. “Something chocolate.”

  “My grandma has a recipe for chocolate fudge layer cake that’s so good it’ll make you cry.”

  “Can you call her and get the recipe?”

  Bridie’s heart thumped. “I know it by heart,” she said, and quickly, before Samantha could say anything else, she began to read again.

  I am horrified. Alasdair, without consulting me at all, has consented to take his father’s church. “How could you?” I asked, feeling as if I might faint or explode by turns. He said I was overreacting, that his father must retire for health reasons, and it has been decided. “For how long?” I demanded. “Why wasn’t I informed it had been decided? Why did you never say anything when I spoke of taking a teaching post in some small town?”

  He appeared uncomfortable. “Well, perhaps I thought I might do it,” he said. “But really, Anna. Do you realize what an opportunity this is? It’s a prestigious church. This could be a wonderful career move for me. Besides, we’ll have a child to support.”

  “How could you, without even asking me? Or at least telling me?”

  “I should have consulted you,” he apologized. “I’ll call and tell Father I need more time.”

  I said nothing. We didn’t speak again that night. I don’t know if he called his father or not. I was asleep when he came to bed, and he was gone before I awoke this morning. I will go, I suppose, without making a fuss. But somehow it feels like a death of my dreams of the life we could have together. Going there, amidst his family, shall be the end of those.

  I told Elizabeth when I arrived at work. She said I should make the best of it. That you don’t just marry a man, you marry his family, too. I don’t know if I would have married this particular man had I met Winifred and Mother MacPherson first. I feel ashamed just writing that. I do love him, and I know I am overreacting as he says. Perhaps it’s my pregnancy that’s making me feel so upset.

  Alasdair brought me flowers today when he returned home from his night class. I told him I would go to Alexandria, and that I wouldn’t make a fuss. He stared at me quietly for a long time without saying anything. I don’t know what he is thinking. He did not volunteer to refuse the position, though, which tells me I was hoping he would. I feel deeply hurt. As if he has failed some test I never told him he was taking. I’m going to bed now.

  Bridie flipped ahead. That was the end.

  “Bummer,” Samantha said, but not really looking too troubled. Apparently the ins and outs of marital intimacy weren’t high on her list of concerns.

  “I’m sure she got used to the idea.”

  Samantha nodded. She held up Lorna’s necklace. “It’s done.”

  “Lovely, my dear.” Bridie stood up and replaced the journal in the box. Any further reading would have to wait until after Christmas.

  “You need to leave now,” Samantha said, giving mysterious looks toward the sack from the bead shop.

  “Ah,” Bridie said, “Santa stuff.”

  Samantha nodded. Bridie left, trying her hardest not to think about the fact that she’d lied to Samantha.

  Twenty-Six

  “I think it will be fun, both of us staying the night on Christmas Eve,” Lorna said.

  Bridie gave her a smile. There was something about Lorna that was impossible not to love. A sweetness and innocence. She felt a pang of sorrow. That’s what people used to say about her. “I’m looking forward to it, too,” she said, slicing apart a chicken breast.

  The telephone rang. Lorna picked it up, and immediately the air filled with tension.

  “Yes.” Lorna nodded, telephone clasped under her chin. “Uh-huh. Yes.” Long pause. “All right.” She hung up.

  Bridie was guessing Winifred. Usually Fiona at least let Lorna have a few words of her own. But the absence of anything but agreement and Lorna’s heightened tension was a tip-off that it was the older, unhappier sister she was talking to.

  Lorna gave her an apologetic smile, as if she’d done something to feel sorry for. “Winifred’s upset because Audrey Murchison insists on having the coffee hour after services tonight in spite of the fact that it’s Christmas Eve. Winifred, however, insists that no one will come. She’s coming over to speak to Alasdair about it.”

  Bridie crooked an eyebrow. Going to the pastor about a little thing like that seemed like overkill, but what did she know? Maybe it was an insurmountable temptation when the pastor was your little brother. “Why does Winifred care? If she doesn’t want to go, why doesn’t she just stay home?”

  “You obv
iously don’t know Winifred,” Lorna said, giving her a weary smile. “Just knowing they were there would be enough to make her come unstrung.” She put away the last of the groceries and turned to face Bridie. “I wanted to tell her to drop the whole thing.”

  “Why didn’t you, then?”

  Lorna gave her an amazed look that said wasn’t it obvious?

  Bridie just stared back. “What’s she going to do? Put you in jail?” She hadn’t meant to say that. It had just popped out.

  Lorna looked as if she’d been given a new piece of information. Bridie finished her work, put the chicken away, washed her hands, and scrubbed the sink and countertop.

  The doorbell rang, and Lorna nearly jumped out of her skin. “That’s her,” she said, and there was no doubt in either of their minds who she meant.

  Bridie dried her hands and followed her out. If Winifred was coming over here in a snit, she would leave in an even bigger one. And Winifred’s impending fury was her fault. She wouldn’t leave Lorna to twist in the wind.

  Winifred hobbled in, one foot still bandaged from her surgery. It took her a moment to negotiate the entry, for she was using a cane. Her face was paler than usual and a little drawn. Bridie felt a moment of sympathy. You didn’t appreciate the humble parts of your body until something went wrong with them. She, for one, would be in vast amounts of trouble without fast-moving feet, she realized with a twist of irony.

  Lorna closed the door behind her sister and wiped her palms on her apron. Winifred lifted her head and looked around with a slight frown. Bridie saw awareness come over her in stages, the full impact not hitting just yet. Then, as she took inventory, her usually tightened mouth went slack and drooped down slightly at the edges. Her cheeks pinked up next, the mouth flattened into a thin line and disappeared. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, almost conversational. “What have you done?”

  Bridie had her mouth open to answer, but Winifred had addressed the question to Lorna and was looking at her, waiting for her to respond.

  “We’ve done a little redecorating.” Lorna’s voice was bright.

  Winifred didn’t respond. She pushed past and limped slowly down the hallway. Bridie saw her scan the walls, finding no MacPherson portraits. She looked into the dining room and must have noticed that the walls were no longer crowded with shelves of china and crystal that threatened to topple. She came to the living room and paused in the doorway. Bridie took in the scene, imagining how it must look like through her eyes: the gaudy beanbags, the old worn couch, the silly tree. Uh-oh. Cam and Bonnie were busy eating cookies off the bottom limbs, and the floor around their feet was covered with crumbs. Cameron had apparently used the bathroom and unfortunately had forgotten to put his underwear back on. His little bottom was buck naked. He didn’t seem concerned.

  “Hi,” he said, shoving another piece of cookie into his mouth.

  “Hi back at you,” Bridie answered.

  Winifred wasn’t amused. “Where is Mother’s furniture? Where are all her things?” Her face was white. “Where are the sofa, loveseat, and parlor chairs?”

  “In the attic,” Lorna answered, her voice a little less chipper.

  Winifred launched a cold silence their way, turned, and made her painful way to the stairs. Bridie took the opportunity to find Cam’s pants and help him put them on.

  “I have that?” he asked, holding up the cookie he’d already begun eating.

  “Sure, you can have that.” Bridie gave him a quick smooch on the cheek and brushed the crumbs into the carpet with her foot. Winifred reappeared after a few minutes. This time she turned her attention to Bridie.

  “You’ve done all this,” she said, her voice flat.

  Bridie opened her mouth to take responsibility.

  “Why would you assume that?” Lorna interjected sharply. Her cheeks were red with anger.

  “I assumed it because you would know better.”

  “Know better than to cross you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Am I being ridiculous? Or is that the way it really is? Is this your house, Winifred? Is your name on the deed?”

  “This house belongs to all of us, as you well know.”

  “But it’s Alasdair and the children who live here. And if these changes make life more comfortable for them, why would you object? Perhaps simply because the idea didn’t originate with you?”

  “This is the parsonage, Lorna.” Winifred’s eyes were cold with fury. “And it’s not only Alasdair’s residence, it’s the repository of our family history. All of Mother’s things are upstairs packed away. How do you think that feels?” Her voice trembled, and Bridie felt a little sorry for her. It must be hard to let things change when you had such a heavy history. But that kind of past could be a crushing burden, keeping you stuck in place, burying you by inches.

  “Mother’s glass figurines have been displayed since I was a girl,” Winifred went on. “I remember looking at them for hours.”

  Bridie looked at Lorna, and she had a strange expression on her face. It was as if she were seeing her sister for the first time. As something other than a force. Her eyes lit with a combination of pity and understanding. “Why don’t you take them home with you, Winifred?”

  The sympathy in Lorna’s voice seemed to snap Winifred out of her nostalgia. Her back straightened and that chin jutted out again. “That’s not the point, and you know it. I turn my back for a moment, and you have the entire parsonage in an uproar.”

  “I hardly call it an uproar.”

  “Well, what do you call it, then? She’s painted the entryway that mewling white. In the dining room she’s replaced Mama’s lovely wallpaper with a gaudy print.”

  It was Waverly and had cost her a bundle. “They’re Victorian cabbage roses,” Bridie put in.

  “And I think they’re beautiful,” Lorna defended staunchly.

  “I see she has papered the kitchen with coffee cups and teapots.”

  “It’s whimsical,” Lorna said.

  “The children’s toys have taken over the house.”

  “It’s their house, too. Besides, the pediatrician said they needed more interaction,” Lorna recited.

  “Pediatrician! What’s wrong with Calvin?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with Calvin,” Lorna said, and Bridie could have been mistaken, but she thought she saw the beginnings of a smile on Lorna’s face.

  “I just happened to peek into Samantha’s room,” Winifred raged on. “It looks positively diabolical. Full of images of sorcery.”

  “I hardly call a blue bedspread with sprays of stars images of sorcery. The Lord made the heavens to reflect His glory. Besides, if that offends you, you must not have seen The Misfits.”

  “Just wait until Fiona hears about this.” Winifred slapped down her trump card.

  “Actually, she already knows.” Lorna took the trick and had the grace not even to smile. “She stopped by last night to ask what to bring tomorrow and said it was quite an improvement. She said she should have suggested some of the changes herself.”

  “Oh, of all the ridiculous things to say. What do you mean she asked what she should bring? It’s her year to make the trifle.”

  “We’re not having trifle,” Lorna put in almost nonchalantly. “We’re having fried chicken, mashed potatoes, chocolate cake.” She savored the last words, dropping them out slowly like morsels. “And … red … and … green … Jell-O.”

  Winifred said nothing. She stood perfectly still. The front door opened. Alasdair walked in and looked from one face to another, his expression wary.

  Winifred turned toward him, then pointed at Bridie. “She has completely ruined this home,” Winifred said, her voice shaking as well as her hand. “She has taken away all Mother’s lovely things and replaced them with this garbage.”

  Alasdair did nothing for a moment. He looked at Winifred, then at Lorna, and finally at Bridie, who was having a crisis of her own. She’d overstepped. Her cheeks were hot with shame. Who d
id she think she was, coming in here and changing everything around? She couldn’t help but remember Alasdair’s response when Anna had stood up in the family boat. He’d pulled her back down. And she certainly didn’t have the status of Anna. She was the hired help.

  He stood motionless, staring at the wall beyond her head, perhaps seeing Anna and the pudding cake, Anna and the Christmas dinner, Anna and virtually any encounter with his family. His face was unreadable. After a moment his eyes focused back on the present, on her own face actually. She darted her eyes toward the floor and kept them there. After a minute she saw the black wing tips turn and walk away. So. History would repeat itself. Her heart plummeted down toward her tennis shoes.

  “Winifred, I have to admit, I never really cared for Mother’s furniture.”

  Bridie’s head rose up just in time to see Alasdair plump one of the beanbag chairs with his foot and sink down onto it. “I much prefer this,” he said, and Bridie felt something break open in her chest. Alasdair was way too long for the chair, and he looked ridiculous with his head hanging off one end and his legs off the other. He crossed his arms under his head and assumed a posture of total relaxation. She had to stifle the urge to break into laughter, so great was her relief.

  She glanced at Winifred. Alasdair’s siding with the enemy had sent her into full fury.

  “No!” she shouted. She pounded her cane on the floor. “You cannot do it. It is wrong. It is ridiculous. It’s vulgar and inappropriate. Mother would hate it. Father would hate it. I hate it. You cannot do this. No! No! No!” She blew out little drops of spittle along with the words, and her whole body trembled.

  Bridie stared. Lorna was shaking her head. Now Alasdair looked as if he were seeing his sister for the first time. There was silence for at least a minute, and when Alasdair spoke his tone was flat and unequivocal.

  “Not only can we do it, we have. It’s done, and this is the way it will stay. Your only choice is whether you will accept it or not. I would hope our relationship wouldn’t be damaged by a fuss over furniture, but I can’t allow you to come into my home and treat Bridie and Lorna like this. It’s inexcusable, and I won’t tolerate it.”