A Truth for a Truth (3 page)

Oh, and the wife of the man sneezing his head off in the pulpit. Surely that was enough of a job for any reasonable woman.

Emerald Springs is the largest town in a ruralish county. Officially we’re a city, but we’ve retained our small-town feel, despite an excellent liberal arts college and a historic hotel and spa that feeds its reputation on the mineral waters of Emerald Springs. Our church sits on the town oval, a pastoral green space complete with bandstand and a statue of a former mayor, Josiah Sparks, who personally led an Emerald Springs brigade in the Civil War. Our present mayor, Browning Kefauver, is more apt to lead us to rack and ruin. His statue will, in all likelihood, be larger.

The parsonage, a spacious Dutch Colonial, is just across an alley from the church, and our not-so-bustling downtown begins just a few blocks away. Having the church so close is a mixed blessing. Ed can zip home for coffee or something he’s forgotten; I can roll out of bed and attend a meeting or a service without a thought to commuting time or parking. On the other hand, some people see the parsonage as an extension of the church. Until I finally summoned the courage to change all the locks, a number of people had keys, some of whom let themselves in regularly to check on things.

Although Ed served two urban churches before accepting the call to this one, I’ve more or less made my peace with our quieter life. I grew up traveling the craft show circuit, and from Junie, my mother, I learned that home is wherever and whatever I want it to be. In Emerald Springs, with fewer distractions, we learn to know each other intimately, and we take time to breathe. And the fact that I am consumed with intimate details about people who have
stopped
breathing? Well, that seems to fit here, too. At least the locals haven’t yet gifted me with a one-way ticket out of town.

When I opened the back door of the parish house with my sandwiches in hand, the kitchen was alive with activity. Although most of the time the spouse of the departed allows our memorial service committee to take charge of the reception, today Hildy Dorchester was in the center of things, arranging a platter of cookies while she told two other women what they should do next. No one was arguing, and despite being a grieving widow, Hildy was energetically dealing cookies to the platter like the winner in a high stakes poker game. This was the center of her comfort zone.

Hildy looked up and beamed. She’s a broad woman, shaped a bit like one of the Potato Head family, with short, thin legs and large feet, which add to the resemblance. Her hair is as blonde as it is white, and she wears it parted in the middle and pulled up in a knot at the top of her head, revealing a plain, square face and ocean blue eyes. When Hildy smiles, which is often, it’s hard to decide which is more attractive, the eyes, the smile itself, wide and absolutely unforced, or the warmth both of them convey.

“Aggie, what have you brought us?” She stopped dealing cookies and came to peek at my sandwiches. “My goodness, they look so healthy.”

“The vegetarians will appreciate a little something just for them.”

“I’m so glad you thought of that. I always say it’s important to think about everybody’s needs.” She lowered her voice. “I always say that’s part of our job.”

I had no job here, but this was no time for that discussion, and I certainly wasn’t going to point out that Hildy’s role as the wife of a minister was now well and truly behind her.

Hildy reached for my plate. “I’ll just trim off the crusts and arrange them on a tray,” she said, looking genuinely delighted. “There’s a better chance they’ll be eaten if I fancy them up a bit and put them in among the other sandwiches. This was so kind of you.”

I could not find my voice. The bread was homemade, the crust shiny golden brown and sprinkled liberally with sesame seeds, which are something of a splurge on our budget. I watched Hildy carry the platter to another counter and instruct one of her “helpers” to slice and dice.

She returned, and spoke in a confidential whisper. “It’s so important that everything go exactly right today. Win deserves a perfect service.”

I didn’t remind her that Win wouldn’t really be able to appreciate it, although Hildy, against Ed’s advice,
had
insisted that Win’s coffin be present in the church. For the most part, our memorial services take place after the cremation or burial service, but Hildy had been adamant that Win’s body should be in the service, too, and that everyone go to the cemetery afterwards. Luckily she
had
agreed to a closed coffin, since the body had not been embalmed and had indeed spent the past week in refrigeration. I wondered if his death would finally seem real to her at the graveside. I had yet to see any signs of mourning, and I wondered if Hildy was just good at hiding her feelings.

“I think you need to stop worrying about the reception,” I said, putting my hand on her arm. “Where are your daughters?”

She glanced at the clock above the sink. “I’m supposed to meet them in Win’s—Ed’s office. I guess I better go now.”

Hildy’s grieving daughters were waiting for her, and she was arranging cookies. I didn’t want to think what that said about their family togetherness. On the other hand, maybe the church office was where they’d seen Win most often.

Hildy removed her apron, patted shoulders and said chirpy thank-yous and good-byes to everybody in the room, then she left.

I was immediately flanked by Dolly Purcell and Yvonne McAllister. Yvonne is not quite fifty, and Dolly’s in her eighties, but both women had been part of the congregation when Win Dorchester was the minister.

“What did you say to get her out of here?” Yvonne asked. “What magical incantation?”

I took in Yvonne’s expression, a mixture of annoyance and gratitude. I didn’t think the annoyance was aimed at me. “I pointed out that her daughters were probably waiting.”

“We have a routine,” Dolly said. “We do these receptions regularly, and do them well. Hildy has, perhaps, forgotten.”

Relief seeped in. I had expected to be chastised for my sesame seeds. I summoned some charity. “We all cope with grief in our own way.”

“Let’s get everything in the refrigerator or under cover and get over to the service,” Yvonne said. “I think we can do that much without guidance.”

We cleared the kitchen in record time, nonperishables under plastic wrap, everything else in the refrigerators. From the window over the sink, I saw Ed and Teddy heading for the church, and plenty of other people, too. The service would be well attended.

The last to leave, I got stuck behind the other two women who had been in the kitchen with us. Fern Booth and Ida Bere are not my compatriots, not even my admirers or my husband’s. Neither Ed nor I are as devoted to every passing cause as Ida thinks we should be, and Fern is simply ornery. I am fairly certain no minister and family in the parsonage have ever pleased her. But Fern cured me of that delusion as I turned off the kitchen light.

“It was a sad day when the world lost Win Dorchester,” she said to Ida. “He and Hildy were models for the next generation . . . although from what I can tell, few are following in their footsteps.”

She’d had the grace to lower her voice for the last part, but I caught her words anyway. I wondered if Fern really approved wholeheartedly of the Dorchesters, or if this was nostalgia. She had been fifteen years younger and fifteen years less disappointed when Win was minister here. But she had always been Fern.

I followed everyone through the social hall, which was decorated with flowers and photos of Win and his family, as well as Win in our pulpit and others. In the reception area I passed our secretary’s desk. I was three steps past when I turned and went back. I was right. I’d done too many “what’s wrong with this picture” activity books with my daughters. The object on the left corner really did
not
belong there.

I picked up the iPhone and turned it over in my hand. A label with Ed’s name and our address peered back at me from the case.

“Yikes!” I slipped the phone in my purse. The iPhone was Ed’s most prized possession. The girls and I had saved for six months to buy it for his fortieth birthday last month. It did everything except preach his sermons. If I ever climb into a lifeboat with Ed’s iPhone in my hand, he’ll grab the phone first, maybe even check to see if it’s working, before he helps me inside.

The fact that the phone had been lying forlornly on Norma Beet’s desk was a bad sign. Ed was feeling terrible, but that terrible? I shuddered and hoped he remembered where the pulpit was and the name of the man he was about to eulogize.

As I made my way toward the church, people stopped to talk, and by the time I got inside, there were only a few seats left, all at the front. Hildy and her daughters, as well as almost a dozen out-of-town relatives, were standing by the entrance to one aisle, with Ed and two ministers from our area behind them in robes. I recognized the introduction to a hymn often used at the ordinations and installations of our clergy, and knew the procession was about to begin.

I scooted up the aisle. The available seats were one behind the other, smack dab in the middle section on the first and second rows. I reached the second row and inched my way in front of people, apologizing in whispers as I stepped on feet and knocked an old man’s cane to the ground. Finally I reached the empty space. Someone harrumphed and told me to move over so she could see the coffin, which had already been placed at the front. I had landed right in front of Fern and her husband, Samuel, a rotund little man who functions as the enforcer of Fern’s edicts.

We stood for the processional. The coffin had been placed in front of the pulpit, rimmed by at least a dozen pots of lilies wrapped in gold foil. There were lilies everywhere, along with fragrant hyacinths and narcissus, but none on top of the coffin, as if the florist had wanted to make sure Win could pop out on cue and preach his own eulogy. The image made me shiver. Or maybe that was Fern staring at my neck. No matter, the mood was set. Good Aggie hoped the service went well. Bad Aggie wished it were over.

Things started well enough. The processional was stirring, and best of all, Win did not rise and join the other ministers. The Dorchester family took up one long pew at the front, and whatever they were feeling, they looked stoic and resigned. The choir’s first selection was blessedly short. Then the readings began, and Ed announced that Teddy would be first.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, what was Ed thinking?” I heard from behind me. The remark had been addressed to her husband, but Fern’s whispers eat through silence like battery acid.

I wanted to turn and assure Fern that this had not been our idea, but that, of course, was pointless. I watched my daughter, dressed in a dark skirt and pale gold blouse, climb to the pulpit. Ed turned the microphone to accommodate her, then he sneezed into the arm of his dark robe, cleared his throat, and sneezed again.

So much for extra-strength antihistamine times two.

Teddy looked adorable, at least what we could see of her. She’s small for her age, although athletic and wiry. Deena had fixed her shoulder-length hair, pulling it back from her face with two barrettes that matched her glasses. From what I could tell, Teddy felt right at home where her father so often stood. She read a wonderful poem—and wonderfully short, too—that equated the soul of the departed with birds in flight, winds that blow, stars that shine. I had practiced it with her for two days, but even I was surprised at the sweet resonance of her voice.

I wanted to turn and smile slyly at Fern, but I’m just one hair too evolved. Teddy came down to sit in the row with the other participants. Ed announced the next one, but his voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat before he tried again. He ended with a sneeze.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and fingers like steel.

“If Ed is sick, should he be spreading his germs?”

I have some training in martial arts. I pictured grabbing the hand digging into my flesh, and flipping Fern over the pew. Maybe the lilies were getting to
me
, as well.

Instead I turned my head. “Allergies,” I said firmly. “They’re not contagious.”

“Perhaps he should have taken some medication.” She sat back.

Fern is not my favorite person in the congregation. Okay, Fern’s tied for last place with the divorced mother of two who tries to maneuver Ed into corners and tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder at least three times in every conversation. But this was a new low. I wondered if she was fighting grief. Perhaps Win had been a particular comfort to her at a difficult time in her life, or his sermons had inspired her to be a better person.

Okay, that last possibility was a stretch, unless she had started life as Godzilla.

I turned back to the service in progress. By now the third reading was under way. My Fern musings had taken me to this point, at least. Trying to be kind, trying to pay attention and listen to the rest of the inspirational readings, the prayers, the anthems, took me a little further. Worrying about Ed, who was sneezing ever more violently, carried me even closer to the moment when we would follow the coffin to the cemetery. Poor Ed sounded worse each time he spoke, croaking now and fumbling, which is completely out of character. I winced so frequently anyone watching probably thought I’d developed a tic.

Finally the minister of another church, who was representing the local clergy association, got up to give his remarks. We were on the homestretch. Only the open mic, the eulogy, and the final anthem and prayer were left. The minister finished and left the pulpit, and Ed sneezed twice. Then Ed simply sat there, his eyes half closed, and not, I was afraid, in prayer.

Agonizing seconds went by. At last my husband seemed to realize the room was silent, and he was supposed to say or do something. He got to his feet. I think he swayed. I wanted to run to the front and catch him if he fell, but I was completely blocked in by knees and feet, as well as a cane. I could only hold my breath.