Small Plates (20 page)

The goats were crying louder, insistently. There was nothing human about their speech, but Mary knew what they were saying. She would have to milk them or they would wake the child. Whose child? And what was it doing here in her barn? Mary touched the baby's face gently. It was soft and warm. A beautiful child, rosy cheeks—
Rosa rugosa
cheeks—and shiny dark fine hair, like cormorant feathers, escaping from the hooded snowsuit. A blue snowsuit, new, not a hand-me-down. It must be a boy. His eyelids fluttered at her touch, but he slept on.

Mary stood up shakily. She would milk the goats, then take the baby inside. That was as far ahead as she could think at the moment. In all her forty-seven years, nothing remotely like this had ever happened. Nothing unusual at all, unless you thought an old maid who kept to herself, kept goats, and made cheese was unusual—or odd—as some did.

Automatically she milked the six goats and put out fresh water, more hay, and the grain mixture of oats, corn, and molasses she fed them. They voiced their irritation at her haste. “I don't have time to coddle you tonight,” Mary told them, and something in her voice seemed to chasten them. At least, the noise level dropped. “Besides,” she added, “if anyone should be upset, it should be me. It's Christmas eve. You're supposed to be able to tell me what happened here tonight.”

She brought the baby into the house, setting the basket down by the woodstove in the kitchen, then ran back for the milk, which went into the shed in the second refrigerator. She'd had to buy it after she'd started making cheese.

When she closed the barn door and let the latch drop, Mary looked up into the night sky. It was clear and the stars seemed close enough to touch. There was a large one directly overhead. She blinked and it was gone. Turning at the back door for a last look before she went into the house, she saw the star was back.

In the kitchen, Mary took off her coat and jacket, wrapping the shawl around her shoulders. The baby was awake and making little mewing sounds like a kitten. He must be hungry, she thought, and reached in to pick him up. He settled into the crook of her arm, as if it had been carved just for him.

“You poor thing,” she said aloud. “Who are you? And how could anyone bear to give you up?”

Holding him tight, she pulled the afghan out of the basket. Underneath it were an envelope with her name on it, some baby clothes, cloth diapers, two bottles, and a package wrapped in brown paper—not the kind you buy on a roll, but cut from a paper bag. The letter wasn't sealed; the flap was tucked in, easy to open with one hand. Mary knew then that the baby's mother had tried to think of everything, even this small detail—that Mary would be holding the baby when she read the letter. It was short and typewritten:

Dear Mary,

Keep him safe and raise him to be a good man. His name is Christopher.

That was it. No signature. No further explanation. Mary picked up the package and peeled the tape from one end. A packet of bills fell out. She shook it, and more followed. Packets of hundred-dollar bills. A lot of hundred-dollar bills . . .

F
aith Fairchild was watching her family. Nine-year-old Ben was in a corner, Lego Technic pieces spread out on the floor. His sister, first grader Amy, was equally involved, but she was at the kitchen counter, perched on a stool, drawing. The elaborate art pack—“Just like a real artist's, I bet”—that her grandparents had sent was reverently placed next to her. Faith drank some of her coffee. She'd made a fresh pot for breakfast—the first pot had disappeared quickly along with the slices of her cardamom raisin Christmas bread after the kids woke them at six o'clock to see what Santa had brought. Ben had managed to keep the secret of the jolly old fellow's true identity, whether out of real regard for his sister or to save as a weapon when she did something really outrageous such as entering his room without permission, Faith didn't care—just let Amy keep believing a while longer. Last night in a whisper before sleep, her daughter had confessed her fear that Santa might not know they were in Maine. He might think they were in their house in Aleford, Massachusetts, as usual. Faith had reassured her that Saint Nick knew all and would always find them.

Faith's attention strayed to her best present, always her best present—her husband, Tom, the Reverend Thomas P. Fairchild, stretched out on the couch reading Bill Bryson's
A Short History of Nearly Everything
. Tom caught her glance and blew her a kiss. She sent one back to him and wished they could reprise the early Christmas present they had enjoyed upstairs under the eiderdown quilt last night. Children were nature's most effective prophylactics she thought, looking at her two, who were awake, alert, and very much around.

They'd put a CD of Handel's
Messiah
on, and “We like sheep” filled the air. Faith and her younger sister, Hope, had taken the passage literally as children and created their own version, adding “and goats and chickens and cats and dogs too.” She'd call Hope later, and they could sing a few bars together.

Tom still looked pale. Just after Thanksgiving, he'd had a series of stomachaches. He'd eat lightly, and they'd pass. Stress, they'd told each other. Early in their marriage they'd talked about how much they loved the Christmas season, starting with the lighting of the first Advent candle and continuing on to the joys of Christmas day with its messages of hope and peace. Loved it—and hated it. As a preacher's kid, albeit in a parish on Manhattan's Upper East Side, Faith knew all about the stress Christmas brought. It was not simply because of the increase in the number of church services—or the lack of private family time (a year-round dilemma for the Fairchilds particularly)—but the problems that surfaced as lonely people compared their lives to television specials, and harried parents tried to combine work and keeping their offspring calm at home under the barrage of holiday ads—the have-to-have Tickle Me Elmos.

Stress, they'd told each other. That was the trouble. They promised each other some time off in January. Tom swigged Maalox and crunched Tums. Then the pains moved to his back, and one bright winter morning complete with blue sky and a dusting of snow like confectioner's sugar, Faith got a call from Emerson Hospital. Her husband was in the emergency ward.

It was pancreatitis, and the sight of him hooked up to an IV, pale as Marley's ghost, was almost more than she could bear. He tried for a grin, but it turned into a grimace. Their doctor was reassuring in that oxymoronic way doctors employ. Lucky to have caught it—but. Sound metabolism—but. So long as he watched for symptoms, he'd be better than ever—probably. They'd have to keep him for a while, and he'd have to take it easy for a while. So, forget about work for at least a month. Just one of those things.

When he'd said that, Faith had had to stop herself from retorting, “Hey, we're not talking about a trip to the moon on gossamer wings! Is my husband going to be all right or not?”

Yes, Tom was the best present. She'd been stunned by his illness. Tom was the picture of health, one of those perennially big, hungry boys whose tall, rangy frame burned calories as fast as their woodstove consumed logs. At the thought, she got up to add a few more to the sturdy Vermont Castings Defiant model—she liked the name: “Take that, Cold!” They didn't really need it, since they'd put in a furnace when they'd remodeled the house several summers ago. But the crackling birch smelled heavenly and filled the room with the kind of warmth no furnace could duplicate. She'd been opposed to putting one in—why spend the money when they would never be on Sanpere Island in the wintertime? She'd suspected it was Tom's idea of the proverbial thin end of the wedge. He'd spend every vacation on Sanpere if he could. While Faith loved the island too, there were others called Saint Barts and Mustique that beckoned more seductively to her in cold weather.

But here they were. Thank God. It was, of course, where Tom wanted to recuperate, and it had been perfect. The days they'd been here and the days that stretched out ahead filled with nothing more taxing than the
New York Times
Saturday crossword puzzle and the Audubon Christmas Bird Count made her slightly giddy with relief. Tom would be fine, better than ever. The words had become a kind of mantra she repeated to herself whenever her husband looked tired or she thought there was a new crease on his forehead.

Outside, Christmas day was clear and cold. The tide was coming in. It would be high at noon. After stoking the fire, she walked over to the large floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched across the front of the room—living room and kitchen combined. There were Christmas trees of all sizes growing outside on either side of the shore frontage. The rocks in the cove, exposed at low tide, were glistening like tinsel as the water lapped over them. Inside the house, a small, living tree stood in a tub. Twinkling with the tiny white lights they'd brought, it was trimmed with ornaments they'd made from pinecones and clam and mussel shells. The only thing Faith had brought from home was the exquisite Gladys Boalt Treetop Angel figure Tom had given her their first Christmas together. She always put it on the top of the tree even before they put the lights on—that tedious job. The angel had become a kind of talisman, and Faith promised herself that no tree they'd ever have would be without it. The angel's deftly painted smile looked enigmatic this morning—or perhaps it was Faith's interpretation.

Last year had been a particularly hectic one both at the parish and her catering company. Gazing out at the scene in front of her, she thought what a gift it was to know you could walk away. Turn everything over to someone else—her assistant, Niki Constantine; Tom's associate minister; the divinity school intern; and the vestry. She never wanted the reason for all this to happen again—she planned that Tom and she would go gently into that good night someday far in the future, preferably at the same time; she couldn't bear to think of life without him. But now that he was on the mend, she knew she would always treasure this time, and she was glad of it.

The Christmas season on Sanpere Island was similar only in the barest outlines to Christmas in Aleford, one of Boston's western suburbs, or New York City—the standard by which Faith gauged most things. Holiday decorations, the guy in the red suit, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, and presents were accounted for in all three places. In Aleford, people put up wreaths, maybe strung a few lights on their bushes; but in Sanpere yards were filled with snowmen, reindeer, elves, and Santa, of course. Colored lights outlined every house, glowing “icicles” dripped from the roofs, and even more wattage lit up the trees. Faith knew there was a contest each year for “Best Holiday Display,” but she'd never suspected the contestants would rival Rockefeller Center.

In Granville center, the merchants had given over their windows to the season. The photo studio, a fixture for at least two generations, always featured a gingerbread village made by the island's kindergarten class. A local artist had created a nativity scene in another store, and a life-size Santa stood on the roof of the bank. But the biggest difference was that Down East in Penobscot Bay, Santa arrived via lobster boat. Faith had taken the kids to the town pier in Granville to greet him along with most of the island—population 3,134 in the winter. They'd cheered Santa ashore and joined the crowd for cocoa and cookies in the Grange Hall. With no school the next day for the children and all the boats out of the water for the fishermen, the evening took on a leisurely character. It was only the women, Faith had noted, who had that “to-do list” look.

She turned away from the window and thought happily about hers—nonexistent.

“Something smells wonderful, darling,” Tom said.

“It will be a while. I'm steaming a wild mushroom flan to go with the game hens. Why don't I heat up some of that potato leek soup from yesterday to tide you over?” Tom's meals had progressed from clear liquids to pureed solids to almost normal fare, but they weren't sitting down to a goose or any of the other Yuletide treats Faith usually made. Much too heavy for now.

“A cup of the soup sounds great,” he said.

“Coming up. I'll have some too. Kids, Dad and I are having soup. Do you want some—or a sandwich?”

Ben's head came slowly up from the intricate directions. When he was younger, Faith had tried to help him with the more advanced Legos he'd received as gifts and quickly realized she'd have more luck trying to assemble a cyclotron from her kitchen implements.

“Sure, PB and J is fine. Thanks, Mom.”

“I'll make my own.” Amy slid off the stool and went toward the fridge. She had a more adventuresome palate than her brother—she'd eat oysters for instance—and Faith watched in amusement as the small, towheaded figure pulled out some sharp cheddar cheese and Major Grey's chutney.

Faith had just finished delivering lunch and was about to eat her own when the phone rang.

“It must be Granny and Grandpa!” Ben was up like a flash. Tom's parents would be the first to call. Hers would still be involved with church obligations.

“Just a minute,” she heard him say. It must not be her in-laws. “I'll get her. Oh, Merry Christmas.” Ben set the phone down and said, “It's for you, Mom.” He hunched his shoulders and raised his arms. Not somebody whose voice he recognized.

“I'm so sorry to bother you. You must be in the midst of dinner, or getting it ready. It's Mary Bethany, Faith.”

“We're not doing a thing, Mary.” She wondered why Mary was calling. They weren't close friends. In fact, it was her impression that Mary didn't have many—or any—close friends. The older woman lived by herself on her family farm, raising goats and some vegetables and making superlative goat cheese. The cheese had been their point of contact. Tasting some at a friend's house, Faith had tracked Mary down. Over the last few summers, she'd helped Mary with some new recipes—herbed chèvre, in particular—and encouraged her to market her cheeses more widely. When they'd arrived last week, Faith had stopped by to get some of the plain chèvre for Tom, and Mary had been very sympathetic about his illness—and comforting. “One of the Sanfords had the very same thing and was back hauling traps before the season ended.” She'd also pressed various rose hip concoctions on Faith, swearing that they could cure everything from “a sprained ankle to a broken heart.” This was the way Mary spoke—slightly quirky and always direct. Mary was a reader. Books were stacked all over the parts of the house Faith had seen, and she was sure the rest looked the same. The two women often exchanged titles and sometimes the books themselves. Faith had become fond of Mary and wondered what her story was. Didn't she need something, or rather someone, besides her books and her goats? Had she had it and lost it? Faith realized that the woman was probably alone today and promptly invited her to join them.