The Island of Heavenly Daze (8 page)

A heaviness centered in his chest, and Winslow knew only one way to rid himself of it. His worn Bible sat on the nightstand under a half-empty glass of milk, so he moved the glass and lifted the Bible, then reached for his glasses. After settling them on the ridge of his nose, he opened the Scripture to a random passage and began to read in 2 Kings 2:

Elisha left Jericho and went up to Bethel. As he was walking along the road, a group of boys from the town began mocking and making fun of him. “Go away, you baldhead!” they chanted. “Go away, you baldhead!” Elisha turned around and looked at them, and he cursed them in the name of the Lord. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of them. From there Elisha went to Mount Carmel and finally returned to Samaria.

Winslow stared at the passage as a host of emotions swept through him: astonishment, glee, anger, and a touch of guilt—a by-product of the glee, he supposed.

What was God trying to tell him? Were those who mocked him in store for some awful retribution? Were people mocking him to this extent? And the number forty-two—did it mean something? Half of forty-two was twenty-one, and a vote of twenty-one in favor of Winslow would certainly keep Rex Hartwell out of the pulpit. Unless God was saying that twenty-one people would vote for Hartwell.

His thoughts shifted in a more pleasant direction. Maybe the Lord wasn't saying anything about a vote. Maybe he just wanted Winslow to see that he wasn't the only one afflicted with premature hair loss. After all, Elisha had been a major prophet, one of the greats, and apparently he had also been as bald as an egg.

But Elisha had lived in a technological dark age, while Winslow lived in an age of technological wonders. And in this day and age no one had to suffer under the slings of a name like “old baldhead . . .”

After glancing at Edith to be sure she still slept, Winslow leaned over and carefully slid open the drawer on his nightstand. Beneath a stack of cards and letters he found a note he had scribbled one night last summer while he battled insomnia by watching an infomercial.

A single number filled the page: 1-800-GET-HAIR.

Moving with the quiet stealth of a church mouse, Winslow lifted the telephone receiver and dialed the number.

Chapter Five

B
atta, batta, batta, batta.

Winslow's mind burned with the memories of younger days when he had stood in the lineup of his father's softball team. The Boston Beaners were a class act, a neighborhood club that had actually sent one native son, Chad Rockaport, to the majors. And Winslow's father, Don Wickam, was the leading pitcher, a man for whom chucking a ninety-mile-an-hour fast pitch over the plate was as easy as spitting.

Batta, batta, batta, batta, swing!

Though his feet felt like buckets of sand, Winslow kept moving, jogging past the church again and heading toward Main Street. He'd already run out to the lighthouse at Puffin Cove, waved a moment at Old Man Gribbon (who didn't return the gesture), and now he was determined to make it down to the ferry landing before surrendering to the call of a hot shower and a soothing application of Bengay.

Sweat dripped from his forehead and tunneled through his brows. Winslow thrust out his jaw and blew a breath upward to warn off a circling bee, then focused his gaze on the ocean view at the end of the street. He would make it. Do or die, that had to be his motto. If he was going to become the pastor Heavenly Daze needed, he would have to stay the course.

“Batta, batta, batta, bean!”

That's what the other kids had yelled every time a sure hitter strode to the plate.

They never yelled it when Winslow picked up the bat. Whenever he edged forward to face the pitcher, a chorus of giggling and/or sympathetic whispers rose from the bench and the bleachers. Everyone knew it was a crying shame that Don Wickam, athlete
extraordinaire,
had fathered a klutz. A bookwormish klutz.

If only the sweaty mob had known the truth— Winslow took after his mother, Abigail Wickam, an outstanding and much-appreciated reference librarian at the Boston College Law Library. While Winslow endured long softball games with his father and his peers, Abigail Wickam helped lawyers pore through obscure documents that enabled Truth and Justice to prevail in the city of Boston.

Winslow could not understand why his mother urged him to follow his father's example when her own was so much more interesting. During supper each evening, after his father had finished reciting the scores of whatever major sport happened to be in season, Winslow would ask, “What did you do today, Mom?” If he pressed hard enough, and if his father had thoroughly tired of sports trivia and braggadocio, Abigail might be persuaded to tell of how she'd found a little-known clause that enabled the police to include a questionable fingerprint as evidence and allow the state prosecutor to nail a murderer.

Right about at this point, however, Don Wickam would look up, scowl, and say, “Good grief, Abigail, did you forget to put the ketchup on the table again?”

One evening, while his mother rose to fetch the ketchup for his father, Winslow decided that his life would be different. He wouldn't take a job that required men to bully one another, nor would he ever bully his wife. He would be thoughtful and kind, and he would spend his life making a difference in the thoughts of others, for if you could change a man's thought processes, you could change his actions . . .

“Pastor Wickam!”

From out of nowhere, Beatrice Coughlin's reedy voice sliced into his thoughts. Glancing around, he saw the petite widow standing near the door of the tiny brick building that served as a post office for Heavenly Daze.

Panting, he stopped, then bent and clutched his knees. Oh, my. He had rounded the corner without even realizing it, but his body was complaining now, telling him that he'd gone too far, too fast.

“Pastor,” Beatrice's insistent voice loomed closer, “don't you run away until I give you this package. It's a rush delivery, that new priority mail, and it came clear from Chicago. I knew you'd want it as soon as possible.”

Winslow winced. The package was in Bea's little hand right now. If she knew what it contained his secret would be spread all over the island by suppertime.

He blinked and studied the bundle. True to their word, the people in Chicago had packaged his order in a plain brown wrapper. The return address revealed nothing but a post office box.

“Thanks, Miss Beatrice.” Winslow reached out and pried the parcel from the woman's fingers. “I'll save you a trip over to the parsonage.”

The woman's hungry eyes followed the wrapper as he tucked it under his arm. “A sweet little box, that. What'd you do, order something for Edith?”

Winslow forced a smile. “Well—not really. But thanks for stopping me.”

“Something for you, then?”

Winslow pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his sweatpants and mopped his brow. He ought to just wave his thanks and sprint away . . . and he would, if only he had the energy. Right now his legs felt numb, and the package under his arm seemed to weigh two tons.

“Miss Bea,” he said, hoping to change the subject, “I couldn't help but notice that you were wearing a new hat Sunday. It was quite becoming—did you pick it up in Ogunquit?”

“Why, Pastor.” Beatrice pressed her hand to the lace at her throat and beamed. “That was just an old felt hat Birdie had lying about the house. I just put it on because— well, you know, there's a bit of a nip in the air.”

“I see.” Winslow jammed his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Well, I'd better run along. Thanks for thinking of me.”

And before Miss Beatrice could recover from the compliment, Winslow turned and kick-started his internal engine, moving just fast enough to turn the corner and clear Bea Coughlin's line of sight.

He limped the rest of the way home.

Edith Wickam checked her purse for her shopping list, then, satisfied that she hadn't left home without it, lifted her head and quickened her pace. The glorious day was perfect for walking, the sky a spotless blue curve over the island. She set out at a brisk pace, passing the church and the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast, then turned right on Main Street and walked toward the Mooseleuk Mercantile.

Her heart bounded upward when she saw Winslow shuffling toward her, but he limped along with his eyes downcast, his thoughts apparently a million miles away. Amused, Edith stopped on the sidewalk immediately across the street, but he crossed without looking up and continued down Ferry Road toward the parsonage. As he passed, Edith noticed that he carried a small brown package— Bea had undoubtedly caught him as he ran by the post office. The woman had an eagle eye and rarely let a potential delivery slip by.

Chuckling at her preoccupied husband, Edith continued on her way. Out in the harbor, the ferry tooted a welcome, and she waved. Soon the boat would dock, and the last-of-the-season visitors would pour onto Main Street. The tourist season officially began in April, but the real crowds began to arrive in late May and swarmed over the island until the first week of October. Though the visitors stole much of the peace and quiet from their little town, Edith, like everyone else, had learned to be grateful for them. Without summer tourist dollars, Heavenly Daze would not survive the winter.

The Mooseleuk Mercantile, named for a stream in Maine, sold basic staples to year-round residents and a host of geegaws to tourists in search of something different. Vernie Bidderman, the store proprietor, offered a wonderful selection of delicacies like honey maple butter, jars of New England clam chowder, and kettle-stirred blueberry jam made from blueberries grown on the north side of the island. At the mercantile you could find flannel nightgowns, shearling slippers, and fleece ear warmers for folks who didn't like hats. Vernie's beauty counter offered Carmichael's Cuticle Cream, white cotton sleeping gloves for protecting wind-chafed hands, and Dermal-K Cream, guaranteed to cover spider veins.

Everybody could find something at the mercantile— from waffle makers to thermal underwear, Vernie boasted that she either had it or she could order it—and that thought made Edith wonder what Winslow had been carrying when he passed her. A package, but from where? If he needed something, he usually asked her to pick it up at the mercantile, but he hadn't mentioned anything.

She shrugged—it had to be a book. Winslow was always ordering books off the Internet. Some of the books he used for his sermon studies were hard to find, and not the sort of thing Vernie would enjoy tracking down.

Standing in the shade of an oak, Edith watched the ferry pull into the dock. At least thirty people crowded the railing, eager to disembark, accompanied by Tallulah, Olympia de Cuvier's freewheeling terrier mix. As soon as the deck hands tied the ropes and lowered the gang plank, they stormed off, most of them headed for the mercantile or the Graham Gallery. In time, a few would wander down to Birdie's Bakery for a sandwich or an ice cream cone. The kids would congregate in the candy aisle, eyes wide and mouths watering at the contemplation of so much sweetness.

Edith leaned back against the tree and smiled as Tallulah sauntered past. “Hello, Tallulah,” she called, “Good pickin's in Ogunquit today?”

The mischievous mutt threw a toothy doggie smile over her shoulder and went on, her tail waving like a plume over her back.

Two couples, both of them young, had linked hands and strolled toward the bed-and-breakfast, dragging their wheeled suitcases behind them. In time, they might walk over to the Graham Gallery and buy a painting or a pot to commemorate their romantic getaway.

Edith turned her face into the wind and sighed as she remembered her first night on Heavenly Daze. She and Winslow had come alone on a Saturday, leaving Francis behind with friends in Boston, and together they shyly toured the island and met the townspeople. That night Winslow polished his sermon notes for the twentieth time, went into the bathroom and practiced his delivery, then came out and drew her into his arms. In the de Cuvier room at the B&B, they had quietly loved each other, setting a thousand worries to rest as they united to face whatever the coming day would bring.

The next morning, Winslow had awoken early and slipped into the bathroom. Edith crept out of bed and tiptoed to the cracked door, then peeked through to see Winslow reciting his sermon before the mirror. Using a hairbrush as a microphone, he had pointed toward the mirror and softly proclaimed, “The story of Jonah is a grand picture of Christ's resurrection and the church's mission to minister to all nations.”

Edith tapped her fingertips over her lips, as prone to giggling now as she had been ten years ago. To a casual observer, her husband seemed calm and phlegmatic, but she knew how he fidgeted the night before a sermon and how hard he worked to prepare his lessons. And even if he had not chosen to preach, he would still be a good man. He wasn't perfect, but who among God's children was?