by Lynne Hugo
It hadn’t been comfortable to be in his office, though, not since Rosalina, and he’d been doing his work in odd places most of the time. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried. He’d sit at the desk and get started, but then his eyes would wander from his laptop screen to the old upholstered armchair, donated by Sister Rebecca and Brother Thomas, which now had an accusatory stain on the seat, which might have been there all along but he hadn’t noticed before. He’d see that storm-colored chair, how it looked for all the world like a lap, like his lap, which he’d eased Rosalina onto, and then he had to leave the office every time, before he started looking at the rug—a remnant from the Walmart over in Elmont—and remember that it was five by eight, as if he’d planned to choose something big enough to cushion two bodies, which he swore to God he never had.
Now, though, the merciful message of forgiveness, it was time to realize that when God cleaned your soul, He expected you to move on. He wouldn’t have provided the church, Gary reasoned to himself, if He didn’t want you working in the building. And so, Gary woke that blindingly bright Wednesday morning after a day of rest following the trip from Atlanta, unloading his aunt CarolSue’s stuff, carting away his mother’s cast-offs, which of course the church could use, not that he mentioned that to her, a trip to Elmont to turn in the U-Haul, and a twelve-hour sleep in what passed for a parsonage—a room and bath, with kitchen privileges, in Sister Martha’s farmhouse—and went to the church. He let himself into his office, took a breath, exhaled, breathed in again and sat at his desk. Cautious, he looked around. Praise God, he said. Thank you Jesus. It’s over, it’s done. I’m free.
CarolSue
“Does anyone around here play bridge?” I asked Louisa the next day. I was sweating in the steamy kitchen while I was drying the canning pot and two dozen more mason jars, bands, and lids for the next day’s use. After the hot afternoon’s work. Yes, the house would cool down a lot with twilight, and, of course, now that we were finished—until tomorrow—with Louisa’s manic canning. I was dying to buy her a giant freezer and be done with this ridiculous daily sauna, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
“Huh? The bridge will be out again in September. Drives us insane. The detour is way out of the way. Every damn fall some part of it needs repair.”
“What are you talking about? I asked if anyone plays bridge?”
“Yeah, it’s a game the idiot Great State of Indiana plays with the rural population that can’t muster enough votes to get rid of the administration.”
“Louisa. Look at me. Bridge. It’s a card game.” I enunciated as if she were slow-witted or had been drinking her special tea, which I think she had anyway. “I played it with other women. In Atlanta. You remember. I used to tell you. I was in a couple of bridge clubs. We had a fancy lunch. We played bridge.”
“Oh. That. No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why would they do that?”
I had another exceedingly strong homicidal impulse right then. What could I do? The puffy sheriff would be along, doubtless, before I could deal with my sister’s body, although the notion of digging up all the remaining produce and burying her in the damn vegetable garden was attractive. I temporarily shelved the notion for later consideration and resorted to my nonlethal weapon of choice for the moment.
“Oh, I don’t know. Why would anyone want to relax and enjoy themselves in air-conditioned comfort, laughing with friends and doing something intellectually challenging, when they could spend all day every day in a sweat shop slaving to produce what she could easily and cheaply buy in a grocery store? I have no idea.”
As you can imagine, I’d gone too far.
“I’m sorry,” I said. She’d turned away, facing the sink now, refusing to look at me, staring at the old wallpaper with the little peach and yellow watering cans and flowers she and Harold had chosen many years ago that she said she was ready to take down. But hadn’t. I’d moved here, but was clinging to my old life, the one Charlie had brought me to, that I’d shared with him each time I’d come home from those afternoon games. And Louisa: “napping” with Gus, but oh, no mistaking that she was still and ever Harold’s wife. How could she not understand?
“I’m sorry, too,” she finally said. “We’ve lived such different lives.”
“Until now,” I said. “But I need to find . . . I don’t know. What do you do?”
“You know what I do.”
“I can’t tutor,” I said. “You’re a teacher. You had a career. You have the animals and helping at the school, and now Gus and helping Brandon, and . . . I don’t know how to fit.”
“You could help supervise at the playground at school? They always need volunteer adults. How about maybe helping the librarian there? Marian loves a volunteer.”
“School is your thing. I can’t just slide into your life. I should have thought of all this before I came.”
Indeed. I should have thought of all that before I came.
Louisa
Louisa knew, she knew all too well that CarolSue was hurting. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t talking about Charlie; he was all she thought about, all she really wanted when she brought up something like ladies’ card games. Because those were part of her Atlanta life and her Atlanta life was her Charlie life, and that was gone. Louisa knew.
Did CarolSue think Louisa didn’t understand? Sure, it was different when Louisa lost Harold, but so much the same, too. Louisa knew that given an empty house at night, CarolSue would wander around the rooms like a silent ghost, touching this and that, guessing what Charlie had last touched with his warm hand. Or what was maybe worse: the nights she would keen, a mortally wounded animal. Louisa had been in her own husband-empty house after CarolSue had gone back home, and Marvelle’s effort to provide comfort hadn’t kept her in her bed. Back in Atlanta, CarolSue hadn’t even had a cat, and certainly not her sister, plus Marvelle, Jessie, and the hens to help her go on.
Louisa figured that CarolSue outside working in the garden was the best thing for her. The bounty and the beauty of growing things, the vibrant vegetables and flowers, fresh air and the physical fatigue from the good labor: All this would distract her, and she’d fall into an exhausted sleep at night. Louisa always did. Except the nights that Gus stayed over, not that he’d been able to do that since CarolSue had moved in. Louisa knew CarolSue was up and about and neither she nor Gus felt right about it. “It would be like rubbing her face in sleeping alone all night,” Gus said, and Louisa had to admit that was exactly right.
If she could just get CarolSue over worrying about keeping her manicure, and her sister would just give the farm—and the woods and the animals—a chance, they’d help her heal. The animals and the land had saved Louisa’s life. They were the lifeblood she had to give the sister she loved. Louisa was sure of her Plan, especially since it was the only one she had.
Chapter 7
Gary
It had been Sister Martha, in a twist about Sister Amanda misplacing the prayer list, who mentioned that a stranger had been looking for Reverend Gary. It was shortly before the meeting he’d called about it, that she’d told him, her voice quivering with the importance of her report. “I saw her twice while you were away. Scared little rabbit, I’m telling you. Looking for the preacher, she said. She’s not American, no sir. Ran off. I made sure she wasn’t stealing nothing, but she weren’t.”
Gary’s heart dropped, but then he thought no, it’s not possible. That was way too long ago, and I’ve been forgiven. There are all kinds of immigrants around here, all of them in need.
“Not a member in need, though?”
“Not one of ours.” Martha’s voice, thin and high-pitched, had a whiff of disdain, like she might smell something slightly bad in the air. But her long nose had pinched nostrils and Gary reminded himself that she often sounded that way. Jesus would know her heart and judge her soon enough at the Second Coming, so he refrained from chastising her. Since she was a member, he hoped she wouldn’t be among the Left Beh
ind.
“Still, we minister, Sister Martha.” Gary tried a mild reminder, just in case Jesus was listening in.
“Didn’t ask for nothing. Tried to give her the daily prayer, but she didn’t want it. Told her you’d be back today.” Sister Martha crossed her arms over her chest.
“That’s fine, then. I’m glad you checked the church when you were able. That’s doing God’s work, Sister.”
“Asked her for a donation, but she ran off, like I said.”
“Hmm. Well, good try. So we’ll get through this prayer-list meeting and then start working on the revival, all right? Do we have a committee going?”
“Got a start on that . . .”
And the woman hadn’t come up again. He put it out of his mind.
Sunlight poured as if from a pitcher from the small high window onto Gary’s desk now as the morning advanced. It was going to be a good day. He had the praise service to get ready for that night, the Saturday healing service, Sunday’s three services, no matter how small the attendance at each, and recruitment plans to work on. The revival. He wondered if his aunt CarolSue would maybe help him talk his mother into letting him use her field for the tent. She’d been pretty mad about it that one time and said never again, but he’d never had Aunt CarolSue maybe in his corner before. Something to think about.
* * *
It was two days later, Friday, when he was in his office, revising the Sunday message about the Biblical requirement of tithing, on his laptop. Apparently, some members didn’t yet understand the point. He had the door to his office closed as the Clean for Jesus Committee had been in earlier, sweeping and dusting, and those ladies had a pesky tendency to gossip while they worked. Occasionally Gary picked up some useful information by eavesdropping, but today he had too much work to do and couldn’t afford the time. They’d been gone for at least a half hour since Sister Amanda had knocked and stuck her head in to wish him good day and tell him they were finished and leaving.
He’d just been thinking that maybe he’d take a break and go get himself some lunch when he thought he heard someone come into the church. He stayed where he was, hoping not to be waylaid by idle chatter, wished the van weren’t parked right outside advertising his presence. Unless, of course, he reminded himself, a member was in need of ministry.
Gary was in luck. Or Jesus was smiling on him, he preferred to think, approving of the Sunday message about tithing he’d been polishing as his own shiny offering. He waited in his office but no knock came on his door and a few minutes later he heard the church door close again. Blessed silence. Shortly after, off in the distance, he thought he heard a very old-sounding car—or one in need of a new muffler, perhaps—but it could have been some farm equipment. It didn’t matter. His stomach rumbled, not that he’d forgotten the length of time since breakfast. Sure of an easy getaway to a hefty sandwich, he pushed his chair back and left the office.
He made it four steps beyond the office door.
A baby carrier blocked his path. And, oh Jesus, that’s a real baby in it?
Panic washed over Gary like the Red Sea. “Hey,” he shouted. “Hey, who’s here?” He ran around the building, looked behind the wooden altar, prayer rail, and tub for immersion baptisms that members had helped either create or rescue from various secondhand sources. It was quite pointless, he knew, but what alternative did he have? Other than in the tub itself, and how would that work since the top was open, there wasn’t anywhere to hide in the barn. It wasn’t like folding chairs would keep a secret, yet still he got down on hands and knees to look, desperate. Kept shouting, too.
He hadn’t even looked, not really, in the baby carrier. Now, from across the barn, he saw movement. A hand waving up was all, then more movement. It was definitely alive. He hadn’t been mistaken.
Oh Jesus, oh God.
He walked toward it slowly, as if it were a snake. What was he supposed to do? He figured he’d get back into his office and call one of the Sisters who had a young child. He remembered nothing from when Cody was a baby. Nicole had taken care of him, with help from Gary’s mother. Now, though, this was a church problem, obviously. Maybe a member in distress needed babysitting. Gary tried to puzzle it out as he walked, slow and now quiet as cotton through the barn, calming himself.
He approached the back of the carrier, which faced the office, heart pounding as if it might detonate. A small sound, something between a coo and a whimper, came out of it and he startled, less because of that than because a small object hit the floor with a soft ping right after that. He took a step backward, and then when nothing more happened, he leaned over to see what it was. A pacifier, shaped like a nipple. Oh. He wondered if he should give it back to the baby, but then thought it might be dirty. Did it have to be sterilized or something? He couldn’t remember.
The baby started to fuss. Not really cry hard, just fuss. Gary walked around to look at it. Oh. There was a bottle tucked next to it—her, he guessed, since the thing she had on was pink, and that meant a girl, didn’t it? And two—no three—disposable diapers on the other side. He was afraid to move anything, but he was going to have to, he guessed. She was strapped in at least, so if he didn’t drop the carrier, it would be okay. He picked up the carrier, which was gray and looked worn, maybe a little dirty, and then he saw the papers beneath it. Gently, he set the carrier back down and retrieved a folded piece of paper with his name, misspelled in neat childish handwriting: Rev Garry. With it, another folded paper, which he opened first.
Certificate of Live Birth. Female. Mother’s name. Rosalina Gonzales. Wait, not the same person, it was a common name probably, she said her name was Lopez.
Father’s name. Garry Hawkins. What?
What?
No. No. No.
Gary stood stunned. He studied the birth certificate, willing it to be false, fingered the raised state seal on it. If Jesus had appeared before him in the flesh with a deck of playing cards and challenged him to a game of strip poker with six women, he would not have been more shocked or immobilized. The baby stirred and fussed mildly, squirming. A moment later, she passed gas or worse.
Gary opened the note with his name on it, already limp from the sweat of his hands. Rev Garry. Gracia is yours, also a U.S. citizen, like you. I give you her proof. I can’t take care of her. She must stay with you, a safe American, and get a good education. Please teach her what’s right. Tell her that her mama loved her so much. Thank you.
Then the crying began. By both of them. Gary remembered the pacifier, which he’d put in his shirt pocket, wiped it on his shirt front, praying the Clean for Jesus Committee hadn’t used anything poisonous on the floor, and gingerly stuck it in the vicinity of the baby’s lips. She rooted for it and then grabbed it hungrily, her pink bud of a mouth closing around it. He stood, staring down, as the infant quieted, sucking fiercely. Closed his wet eyes for a long moment. “Help me, Jesus. Take this cup from me.” Opened his eyes. The baby was still there.
He had absolutely no idea what to do.
Chapter 8
CarolSue
I heard tires out on the gravel and looked out the front window. Uh-oh. Louisa wasn’t going to be happy. The church van was moving down the driveway. Gary, and it was barely lunchtime. My sister did not appreciate her son’s drop-in visits, which usually involved some attempt to draw her into his church—which she wanted no part of. Before you judge Louisa’s attitude, you ought to know that Gary’s whole sudden foray into religion started with a money-scamming traveling tent-revivalist who plain took advantage of Gary’s guilt by promising holy redemption after Gary’s son Cody was killed by a drunk driver. Gary had forced the boy to walk the distance home at twilight along a state highway after football practice for some obscure crime, a decision that wouldn’t pass anyone’s Sensible and Safe Parenting Checklist, so Cody’s mother, Louisa, and Harold had hard feelings in the mixed drink of their grief, and I imagine Gary didn’t get either an acquittal or mercy from them. Louisa tried to swallow back blame,
I know she tried. It’s not like she doesn’t love him. Perhaps it’s easier for his only aunt, just that bit removed, to understand how desperate he’d been for a whisper of forgiveness. He found it, not whispered but shouted, lit by fiery Bible verses, and dangling a hefty price tag, of course. All Gary had to do was empty his bank account for assurance of heaven. That was before he got himself internet-ordained, of course. Louisa and Harold went bonkers.
Anyway, Louisa was out back in the vegetable garden when he drove in. Honestly, I was worried that she was going to get Brandon to bring over a pickup truck and use that to bring her damn vegetables up to the house instead of the garden cart she’d been using trip after trip after endless trip. I kept asking her how many towns we had to feed and for how many years following the nuclear attack for which we were obviously preparing. I seriously wished I knew something about gardening, something useful I mean, like what would kill off healthy vegetable plants that were producing way too much. How many string beans does a body need? How much zucchini and canned tomatoes? I’d come in to use the bathroom and was being as slow about getting back out to help as I possibly could, which is why I happened to be lingering in the living room. I might have been sort of looking at a magazine, in fact.
There was Gary getting out of the car, and pretty soon he’d be at the front door. I wouldn’t mind visiting with my nephew, but I knew it wouldn’t go over well if Louisa thought that was my idea, so I ducked out of sight and locked the front door so Gary would go around back and find us both diligently working. Then Louisa would avoid him by handing him off to me, I’d be doing her a favor and get out of picking beans, amen.
I sidled back from the door, ducked down again, and scurried—stepping over Marvelle, past Harold’s recliner, still there, and through the kitchen to the back door, Jessie at my heels. I moved off the back steps to the garden, dodging roaming chickens with what might have been considered uncharacteristic speed.
