Not a Sparrow Falls

by Linda Nichols

  Grandma gave her a sweet smile. She’d been by the window, watching. “So did I,” she said. “I just prayed you there and back to make sure.”

  Bridie went to her and knelt beside her again. “I’m so sorry,” she said and felt the repentance she’d pressed back for so long start to push its way out. “I know I should have come to you when they took the children, but I was angry at God. I didn’t want to hear anything about Him. I hated Him, and I didn’t want to be around anybody who felt different. But I know I was wrong. If I could go back and do it over, I would. I wish I could undo it all.”

  “I know that.” Grandma reached over and put a twisted hand on hers. “ ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ Isaiah one eighteen.”

  “I’ve done terrible things.”

  “Don’t make no difference. You can’t out-sin the cross.”

  She looked at her grandmother, and suddenly she couldn’t think of any reason not to believe her. You can’t out-sin the cross. That was the same thing Alasdair had said. “Where sin abounded, there did grace much more abound.” Her heart was struck with a tender awe.

  “It’s just like the Lord says,” Grandma continued. “The one who’s forgiven much will love much.”

  Well, she supposed she would love more than she’d ever thought possible, if that was the truth, and right then she laid her head down on Grandma’s shoulder and cried out her sorrow to God. She cried and cried, and every time she thought she might be finished, she’d cry some more. And it felt to her as if those tears were washing away time. Day after dreary day dropped off, year after tedious and tasteless year. When she’d finally cried herself out, she felt tired but cleaned out and comforted. She felt His love enclose her, like warm, strong arms. She rested her head on Grandma’s chest, just as she remembered doing as a child, and blotted her nose and eyes with the hankie Grandma’s friend pressed into her hand.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” Grandma whispered. “Thank you, dear Lord, for bringing her home.”

  “Once His child, always His child,” Martha murmured. “Nobody can snatch you out of His hand.”

  ****

  They didn’t send just one police car, but two. One from Nelson County and one from Alexandria. Bridie stepped out onto the porch. The night air was sharp but sweetly scented. She took a deep breath and wished she could be here to see the apples blossom.

  The Nelson County sheriff’s deputy opened the door of the car and climbed out.

  She stepped off the porch to meet him.

  “Ma’am, are you the one who called to turn yourself in?”

  Bridie nodded. “Should I put my hands up or something?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “You’re all right.” Then he read her her rights, just like on television.

  Martha came up behind her and put an arm around her. It was beginning to dawn on Bridie now just what she was in for. She had a sudden vision of her grandmother keeling over, holding her heart as they led her away in handcuffs.

  “This is going to kill her,” Bridie murmured to Martha.

  “She’s been through an awful lot, and it hasn’t killed her yet,” Martha observed.

  The driver stepped out of the Alexandria police car. It was Newlee. Bridie wanted to die for shame. He had a word with the Nelson County sheriff, then gave a nod back toward someone in the passenger seat of his car. Another man got out, and she recognized him at once, even in the dim light of the moon.

  “Oh no,” she said to Martha. But Martha had gone back inside.

  Alasdair walked toward her, straight-backed, holding his head up. He didn’t act as though he even saw the sheriff. He paused at the foot of the steps and looked up at her.

  “You’re supposed to be in Richmond,” she said.

  “I wasn’t in the mood.”

  “Is Samantha all right?”

  “She’s at the police station. They gave her a teddy bear. She’s furious.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “She’s fine. You did the right thing to tell her the truth.”

  She lowered her head in shame. She couldn’t bear to look him in the eye one minute longer. She saw his shoes climb the steps. He stood before her, raised the ink-stained hand, and lifted her chin with his finger. “This isn’t who you are,” he said, his voice soft but sure. “Don’t you believe that for a minute.”

  The policeman came onto the porch. Alasdair’s hand dropped back to his side.

  “We’d better go, ma’am,” the deputy said.

  “Can I just say good-bye to my grandmother?” she asked, fighting not to lose it.

  He nodded.

  Bridie went inside. Grandma was parked by the open window, listening to everything.

  “Grandma,” she said, “I can’t stay.”

  “No,” Grandma agreed, her sharp eyes fixing on Alasdair. “You need to see to a few things.”

  “No, Grandma.” Bridie felt her heart rip. “I’m going to jail.”

  “Oh, that won’t be for long.”

  “I’m going to do time, Grandma.”

  “Ain’t no such a thing.”

  Was she senile? Did she not understand?

  Grandma pulled herself as upright as her arthritis would allow and gave Bridie that look that had straightened her out many a time. “The angel came and let Peter loose, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And didn’t he send the earthquake to free Paul from the Philippian jail?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he did.”

  “Well,” she said as if she’d made her point, “you’ll go to the jail for a while, but you won’t stay there,” Grandma pronounced. “The Lord give it to me.”

  Martha shrugged from her place behind Grandma’s wheelchair. “If she says the Lord give it to her, usually she’s right. Last night she dreamed you were coming up those steps.”

  Bridie smiled in spite of herself. She leaned toward Grandma and pressed her face against the soft cheek.

  “Good-bye.”

  “You’ll be back,” Grandma promised.

  Thirty-Nine

  Gerald Whiteman’s wife let Bob in and took him to Gerry’s study. “He’s on the phone,” she said. “He’ll be right down.”

  Bob took the seat she offered and turned down tea and coffee, anxious for her to leave. As soon as she did, he took the Washington Post from his briefcase. He still wasn’t tired of looking at the article, of reading the line beneath it: by Robert Henry.

  It was a beautiful spread. MacPherson’s dysfunctional family was featured prominently in the local section instead of buried on the religion page. When they’d seen the actual story, the editors had decided it merited some ink. A quarter page with a photo, and he’d managed to hit just the right tone. Instead of being a rag sheet exposé, the piece read like an insightful analysis. A peek behind the façade of perfection into MacPherson’s troubled soul, a thoughtful look at the pressures of ministry. The editor had been impressed, and just as Bob had hoped, he’d promised more assignments. After a few months, assuming he kept on delivering, they would give him a desk, a computer, a full-time job. It would be a lateral move, but Bob hardly cared. He had a sudden vision of himself in the busy city room, phone crunched on his shoulder, making notes on a steno pad. The doorbell rang, bringing him back to the present. He heard feet in the hallway, and his stomach fluttered.

  The upcoming scene could play out in one of two ways. The Knox elders and Gerry might be grateful to him for dispatching MacPherson efficiently. There should be little or no fallout to the congregation or denomination since the article made it obvious they’d been unaware of the extent of his problems. And there was no way MacPherson could fight resignation after this kind of press. All that remained was the paperwork. However, Bob was a realist. There was also a possibility the Knox elders would become squeamish and take out their guilt on him, even though he’d only made their wishes come true. He tossed the Post back into his briefcase. No sense coming across as smug. />
  The footsteps came closer. He rose as they filed in: Gerry, trailed by Sutton, Sedgewick, and Smith. Fusty little Edgar Willis wasn’t here. Neither was MacPherson, not that Bob had really expected him to show.

  They sat down. No one was smiling. Gerry’s face was gray, and he looked as though he might cry. The visitors were grim. Even angry. Bob felt his gut tighten. All right. So be it.

  Before anyone spoke, Sutton flipped open his briefcase and slapped a copy of the Post onto the marble-topped coffee table. He turned and glared at Bob. Bob shoved his own copy of the paper all the way into his briefcase and closed the lid with his foot.

  “You are responsible for this,” Sutton declared, nostrils flaring, a tiny network of broken blood vessels standing out sharply against his pale cheeks. “Edgar Willis was so upset by this article that he’s been taken to the hospital with chest pains.”

  Gerry turned his grieved eyes toward Bob.

  Bob attempted to reason with them. “This will all be forgotten once MacPherson is gone,” he soothed. “As soon as the next big story comes along. And I’m sure he’ll resign now that this has all come out.” He smiled encouragingly. “The denomination and the church are completely out of the loop,” he assured them. “It’s clear you were in the dark about everything criminal. You come out unscathed.”

  Sutton turned to Whiteman. “We never asked you to do anything other than talk to Reverend MacPherson. We were concerned about him, and you are his spiritual leader.”

  “I understood that perfectly,” Whiteman said vehemently. “Believe me, I knew nothing about this,” and then they all turned angry eyes back on Bob.

  His heart thumped again, with anger this time instead of fear. This is the way it always was. People wanted things done; they just didn’t want the guilt of knowing how they got done. “You wanted MacPherson out, and you knew whatever you did toward that end would hurt him. What you’re upset about now is that you’ve been embarrassed. You’re not upset about MacPherson. You’re worried about how you look.”

  “That is absolutely not true,” Sutton lashed back.

  “You wanted him out, and you wanted strings pulled; otherwise, you’d have gone through regular channels.”

  “We didn’t want a formal complaint to stain his record,” Smith contributed, his face the picture of sincerity. “We thought perhaps if Reverend Whiteman could find him a position at headquarters, he would follow the carrot. An official vote would hurt his career. His father, you know, was one of my best friends. I couldn’t do that to his son.” His face hardened again. “We might have wanted you to speak bluntly, but there was never any mention of forcing him to do anything, and certainly not some kind of under-the-table blackmail. This is the church, not the Mafia.”

  “We never would have condoned this,” Sutton said flatly, looking at the newspaper article with disgust.

  “Certainly not,” Whiteman agreed.

  “This is the way the world works,” Bob shot back. “That’s what you don’t seem to understand.”

  They all looked at him, faces grave. Only Gerry spoke. “Oh, but I think we do,” he said. “I think we understand all too well.”

  Bob recognized an exit cue when he heard one. He snapped shut his briefcase and rose, pausing at the door to the hallway for one last look back.

  Gerry was leaning forward, head in his hands. “Well,” he asked the others, “what do we do now?”

  Forty

  The first night back, after Alasdair had posted bond and brought her home, after Lorna had hugged her and kissed her cheek and patted her hand, after she’d spent a half hour talking with Samantha, who seemed to be energized rather than traumatized, after she had crept in and peeked at Cam and Bonnie, Bridie went to the kitchen to find that Alasdair had prepared dessert for her. Apple pie. Store-bought, but he’d heated it and served it with a scoop of good vanilla ice cream on top. The tea was steeped and ready, and there was a fat candle in the center of the table—a new one—vanilla. Its scent mingled with the aroma of the cinnamon and apples.

  “I didn’t see the apple trees at your home,” Alasdair said, pouring her a cup of tea and putting in a teaspoon of sugar, the way she liked it. “We’ll have to go back soon. We’ll bring the children, and you can give us a proper tour.”

  Bridie blinked.

  “Eat your pie,” he suggested, “before the ice cream melts.”

  She picked up her fork and took a bite. She forced herself to swallow it. She wasn’t very hungry. “I can’t pretend nothing happened,” she said bluntly.

  Alasdair put another spoonful of pie into his mouth, watching her intently as he swallowed and chased it with a sip of tea. “I would never suggest you should. On the contrary. I think when someone moves close to another, all the while guarding secrets and pretending to be someone they’re not, they not only owe an explanation, but an apology.” He set down his cup. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “You haven’t been the only one with a secret.”

  “It’s hardly the same.” She looked away from his eyes. She felt so ashamed, coming back like this with her disgrace laid out for all to see. So humiliated. She suddenly thought of the newspaper article and looked at Alasdair’s calm expression in a different light. She wasn’t the only one who’d been exposed, and she could almost hear her grandmother telling both of them it was a good opportunity to humble down and let God lift them up. Her eyes smarted. She picked up the paper napkin and dabbed at them.

  “Not so different. No one died from your neglect,” he said quietly.

  “That I know of.”

  He lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. “So how long do we punish ourselves? I suppose that’s the question. No torture can ever pay the price, can recapture what we’ve lost or undo what we’ve done.”

  He watched her face. “What is it?”

  She gave her head a shake and traced a pattern on the tablecloth with the tine of the fork. “I was just remembering one of those hundred verses.”

  “Which one?”

  “ ‘If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’ ”

  Alasdair looked past her for a moment, then back. He smiled the barest beginning of a smile. “Well, then,” he said. “I think our answer is perfectly clear.”

  “There you go again, thinking you know everything.” She took another little bite of the pie. It wasn’t so bad.

  He smiled, full face.

  “I never intended things to turn out this way,” she said.

  “How did it happen?” His face was open, kind. His eyes were full of compassion.

  She hesitated just a moment, then set down her fork, and beginning this time where she’d always trailed off before, she told him.

  ****

  Samantha didn’t listen too long, just until she was sure they were on the right track. Bridie would be okay now, she thought, finally flipping shut the heat vent. Now that she was talking about it and all. She climbed into her bed and pulled the covers up. The quilt was heavy and soft against her face, and it felt like someone’s arm around her shoulders. She rolled over and closed her eyes. Maybe they would all be okay.

  Forty-One

  Sondra was finally getting near the bottom of the stack of cases she had to dispose of. She opened Mary Bridget Washburn’s file and tapped it with a nicely manicured finger. “How about this? She agrees to testify against Porter, pleads to simple possession, suspended sentence.”

  Tom Dinwiddie gave her a skeptical glance. “You think I’m going soft?”

  Sondra smiled. “I think you don’t want to put this girl in jail any more than I do. She’s changed her ways. Besides, we both know who the real players were.”

  Dinwiddie gave her a wry smile in return. “Call me a sentimental fool,” he said and signed his name to Mary Bridget Washburn’s plea agreement in an undecipherable flourish. “Tell her I said to go and sin n
o more.”

  “I’ll pass that message along. She’s back in Alexandria. The minister posted bail the day she was arrested.”

  Dinwiddie nodded and pressed on to their next item of business. “Now. About Mr. Porter.”

  Sondra reached for his file and scanned it. He wouldn’t be so lucky. Somehow he’d ended up waving his gun at a Nelson County sheriff’s deputy who’d been trying to arrest him. When Jonah Porter got out of the hospital, he’d be looking at years, not months, in prison.

  “He’s going down for this,” Dinwiddie said flatly.

  Oh well, Sondra wanted to say. She didn’t though, just gave her shoulders a slight lift, which she hoped rode the fence nicely. “All right, then,” she said, “I guess that about wraps it up.”

  Dinwiddie nodded and followed her to his office door. “Come by Wednesday, and we’ll have those employment papers ready for you to sign.”

  “I can’t wait,” she said and held up Mary Bridget Washburn’s file. “Filing this will be my last official act as a public defender. Glory!”

  Dinwiddie rewarded her with a smile. “It’ll be good to have you on board.”

  ****

  Bridie put her arm around Samantha, who pressed close. “Look,” Bridie said, “the Lord decorated the churchyard just for your mama’s funeral.” They walked through the budding crab apples and cherry blossoms toward the small crowd of parishioners who waited at the grave.

  “I’m glad you decided to do this, Alasdair,” Lorna said, giving her brother a squeeze on the arm.

  “Anna deserves it,” he said. “I should have done it long ago.”

  Winifred was silent for once. Fiona dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  The new headstone was beautiful, carved with the face of an angel, who even looked a little like Anna, surrounded by three small cherubs.

  Anna Ruth Williams MacPherson

  Free from every bond

  She rests with all the saints in the joy of her eternal home

  The service was short but sweet. There were tears. Samantha sobbed quietly on Bridie’s shoulder. Lorna wept, wiping away her tears against Cameron’s shirt. Bridie cried, too, for everything lost. For mothers and childhoods, for time that would never be regained.