The Lutheran Ladies' Circle: Plucking One String (15 page)

“This is not good timing,” she told the Deity as she left the house. Pastor Poe had given her only one task for this evening: set up the line of candles. He’d told her she should take more time to grieve and not busy herself. He was young at shepherding. When he’d lived longer, he’d know it was the busyness that got a person through. She’d show him how it was done. If he was ever to become a seasoned pastor, he needed to learn to juggle two knives, three Bibles, and four parishioners at the same time. She’d notify folks of the death after tonight’s services. It’s not like Gus would mind waiting.

The thought carried her all the way to the moment she put her hand on her front doorknob. She couldn’t sit in church, her mind tittering of a dead-man secret that only she and God knew. Vera went in and called Walt.

The second phone call went to her neighbor’s daughter, who lived ten miles away. “Gus is gone,” Vera breathed into the phone and explained what she’d found. “I haven’t called the medical examiner. I thought you’d want some quiet time with your father. I distinctly remember those moments with my Jim.” She should keep talking, comforting, helping the daughter plan the next hour of chaotic events, but there wasn’t time. She had to prep tonight’s special service. “I may not be here when you arrive, but I called a gentleman to wait with you. His name is Walt. I left a message for him. I hope he’ll get—” Vera paused. “I think my house is on fire.”

*

Smoke rolled from the oven. Fire alarms in the kitchen and hallway wailed with irritating loudness. Vera set the charcoaled bread dish on the front step then mentally flogged herself as she opened windows and doors. She was becoming one of those old people who lost their keys and forgot why they came into rooms. She’d need to change clothes. She smelled like a fireman, and folks at church didn’t need to know about this. They’d think she was even more incompetent than they already assumed.

The burnt scent filtered through her bedroom. Vera tugged open a window, grabbed another blouse, and shucked out of her old one as she walked down the hallway. A woman stood in her living room.

“Good heavens, Lorena. You scared me to death. What are you doing here?” Vera only heard part of the answer between the intermittent beeps of the alarm. She hove her arms into her sleeves and walked out the front door into the yard, motioning for the full-figured blonde to follow.

“Are you all right? What happened?” Lorena’s voice carried a note of concern, but her squint-eyed look chorused an anthem of skepticism.

“I’m just fine.” Vera snapped as though Lorena was disturbing her usual routine of dressing on the front lawn. “What do you want?”

Lorena looked back and forth between a black brick smoking in a bread dish and the open doors and windows of the house. Finally she shrugged and squared her body to Vera’s. “Where are my Lenten decorations? I’m putting them back up.”

“Oh good grief. I haven’t time for this nonsense.” The alarms shut off, leaving Vera’s last words as a misplaced shout. “I’ve got to get to church.”

“I just came from there. Most of my décor is missing, and you’re my number one suspect. I came to talk to you privately—not at church.”

“Lent is not a morgue room. I asked you to not overdo it with the black decorations, but you ignored me. It’s about respect, Lorena, and this discussion will have to wait.”

Lorena pointed to where Vera had misbuttoned her shirt, making one side longer than the other. “You think kidnapping my displays will gain you respect?”

“Thank you.” Vera mumbled and began rebuttoning. “As if you never mess with other people’s creations, adding a splish of color here and there.”

“It was Roger who gutted your Thanksgiving display.” Lorena flashed her palms outward, ridding herself of the accusations. “I was as appalled as you.”

“Is this what you wanted me for?” Walt asked as he walked through the yard. “To referee?”

“Thank heavens you’re here.” Vera patted her front, inspecting her blouse for coverage. “I didn’t see you drive up.”

“You two were busy. I parked back there under the tree. Is this the problem?” Walt pointed to the wisps of smoke drifting off the loaf pan.

“I’ll be on my way then,” Lorena said. “Just give me my decorations, and I’ll run them over to the church.”

“Lorena! A man has died here!” Vera’s fists shook by her sides.

Lorena blinked. For a moment a hole of silence gaped between them. Walt stared until he finally mustered, “Who?”

“My neighbor.” Vera flung her arm behind her. “I need you to stay until his daughter arrives. I don’t know what could be keeping her.”

Lorena’s brows furrowed. Walt put a hand on Vera’s shoulder. “Are you talking about the guy standing on his porch watching us?”

After Vera turned and blinked several times, she tromped hard and fast across the lawn, fists swinging with each step. Walt and Lorena followed in her wake. “You’re supposed to be dead,” Vera shouted.

The ninety-year-old touched his body with his fingertips, verifying his pumping heart and still-inhabited flesh. “Sorry.” He smiled. Vera gave him a detailed account of how she’d found him unresponsive and expired. “Nope.” He shook his head. “I didn’t sleep worth a darn last night. I was just taking a nap.” He let out a
cockadoodle-do
. “Guess.” He pointed at Walt.

Vera closed her eyes, shaking her head, her white hair shimmying around her face, as her breath huffed out like a released valve. “I am going to church.”

“Me, too,” Lorena said. “As soon as I get my decorations.”

“Rhode Island Red.” Gus Vogler shouted into the conversation. “Now what’s this?” He puffed his cheeks and loosened a series of twits and tweets. Walt lowered his head. A frown crossed his face as he studied the man.

“I have never missed a Good Friday,” Vera stared at Lorena, “and I won’t this year either.”

“I’m parked behind you. You can’t get out.” Lorena crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “I’ll move as soon as you give me the decorations.”

“I’ll walk.” Vera turned and trudged across the yard, taking quick steps down the street.

Walt called after her, “It’ll be over by—” A high-pitched screech cut through his words.

“Red tailed hawk, hunting,” Gus Vogler explained. “She’ll get it.”

Lorena pattered down the steps. “And where are
you
going?” Walt rushed his words into the gap before Gus let loose with more birdsong.

Exasperation flattened and stretched Lorena’s words. “To pick her up. You’ll take care of this?” She flourished her hand at Vera’s open doors and then Mr. Vogler.

“Sure. Sure. I enjoy telling people I haven’t met about the resurrection of their father in a situation I know nothing about.” Walt looked at the old man. “You happen to have a beer, buddy?”

The
haaa-haaa-haaa
of a kookaburra echoed down the street as they went inside.

*

“Kevin said tonight is scary-church,” Johnny whined from the back seat of the car.

“Who’s Kevin?” His father eyed the five-year-old in the rear-view mirror.

“One of Kay’s boys, Fred.” Allie pulled a loose thread from her sleeve. “No, honey, church isn’t scary.”

“Kevin said there’d be dark things that make you jump.” Johnny showed claw-hands to his little sister in the car seat beside him.

“Scare-ey,” repeated cherub-faced Bette.

“Which one is Kay?” asked Fred.

“The one who’s always looking for coffee.” Allie scratched at a spot on her jacket. “No, honey, things at church aren’t supposed to scare you.”

“What about Saint Scary? If you don’t sing, they make you sit in a dark room with him.” Johnny bared his teeth.

“Scare-ey,” Bette said.

“Who’s Saint Scary?” Fred returned his son’s monster face in the mirror.

“Arrgh! Why am I always wearing the kids’ food?” Allie wrapped a napkin around her finger, licked the end of it and rubbed a spot on her shirt. “What are you talking about, Johnny?”

“We were here last night.” The boy crossed his arms. “I don’t wanna go again.”

“It’s Holy Week. We’ll be here a lot,” Allie said. “Tonight is Tenebrae, the service of shadows.”

“See! It’ll be all shawdowy and scary.” Johnny put his hands over his face. Bette put her hands over one eye, leaving the other uncovered, watching her brother.

“Tenebrae isn’t scary.” She shot her husband a look. “It’s a play that tells what happened on Good Friday.”

“What happened?” Johnny peeked through his fingers.

“Well, Jesus was hurt when his friend tattled on him. He was lonely when everybody left him. And he was in terrible pain when they drove nails through…. Well, you can’t go to the service. You’ll be in child care.”

“Sounds scary.” Fred made big-eyes in the mirror at his son.

“I wanna go,” Johnny said.

*

The church was dimly lit and eerily quiet as the family entered. The lone usher spoke in whispered tones. Allie led the children to child care while Fred waited, studying the bulletin. “I thought they were going to recreate the Crucifixion,” he said when she returned. “There’s no screen or props in there for a video or play.” He peered through the sanctuary doors. “Folks are just sitting in the dark.”

“It’s a Service of Darkness. People all over the world are at Tenebrae tonight, not just Lutherans. The service has been done on Good Friday for centuries.” Allie gave Fred’s arm a tug.

“Feels like a funeral. A funeral without music,” he mumbled entering the sanctuary.

“This is Jesus’ funeral,” Allie whispered as they sat.

Two women were hurriedly setting up candelabras. Soon fourteen candles glowed atop the altar. A weak light filtered from the ceiling fixtures as though the bulbs were giving out. Fred could barely make out the words of the Tenebrae liturgy. Micki passed a box of tissues along her row. The teens in the back pew sat, staring at the floor.

A reader dressed in black apologized for the late start, explaining there had been a problem setting up. From the pulpit she announced, “The sun sets on Good Friday. God’s Friday. Darkness enters our world, just as darkness covered the earth at the crucifixion of the Son of God.”

Black-clad readers told of the last week of Jesus’ life. After each reading, a candle was extinguished. The church grew darker as worshippers lived the betrayal and desertion. The gray light erased details, smudging people into shadowy forms.

Someone shouted, “Crucify him!” Others took up the refrain, calling for blood. It was too dark to see who had yelled. Who had called for Jesus’ death? People stole sidelong glances at their neighbors.

Three, slow hammer blows resounded, stilling the cries.

Only one candle remained lit when wild, loud, discordant organ notes jarred every surface. The steady thud of a heart beat warred with chaos-chords of the earth groaning and convulsing at the crucifixion.

The heartbeat became louder and stronger.
BOOM-Boom
. It dominated the dissonant notes, forcing them to fade away.
BOOM-Boom
. The beat was steady, rhythmic, comforting. Then life hesitated. Silence stretched between each pulse. The rhythm slowed to near death, the last light, the Christ Candle, was carried from the sanctuary.

Worshippers sat in darkness. A long pause stretched between the heart beats. Allie found herself holding her breath. Then there was nothing. The soundlessness of death settled over her.

Someone slammed a large tome shut. She jumped, feeling the finality of the stone rolling in front of a burial chamber. She could hear sniffles around her. She, too, regretted she’d ever contributed to the death she’d just witnessed.

There was no benediction. No blessing. People left in silence, as they had at every Tenebrae service for the past thousand years, ploddingly making their way from a dark church into a dark world.

*

“Was it scary?” Johnny asked as his dad carried him to the car.

“No,” Fred said. “It was sad.”

“Are you sad?” Johnny put both hands on his father’s face, studying his eyes for a moment, but the sound of arguing voices made him look away. Two ladies walked toward the church as others got in their cars. “…and I want respect,” the white-haired woman quietly growled.

“Well, I’d like my plans to work out, too…” the blond was saying.

Johnny watched them pass then squirmed, trying to look at his mother carrying his little sister. “Are they fighting?”

“They sound like you and Bette, don’t they?” Allie said.

“Tonight is mad talk and sad church.” Johnny laid his head on his father’s shoulder. “Don’t grown-ups know about Easter?”

“East-ter!” his little sister yelled. She added a laughing trill which Gus Volger would’ve identified as a nightingale—singing into the darkness.

“GIVE ME THE light, you’re bouncing it all over.” Kay held out her hand.

“Heads up, Mom.” Marcus tossed the flashlight and ran into the darkness after his brother.

“Marcus! Kevin!” she hissed, not wanting to disturb the eternal silence of this place. The boys’ footsteps faded into the damp air. Above, Aries and Pegasus had slipped to the other side of the world, but Lyra and Hercules shone on a handful of people standing in a huddle, not far away. Dewdrops dripped from the trees and glistened in the rays of their flashlights.

Kay walked the serpentine path toward them, feeling an unseen presence on either side. She paused, arcing her beam off the path. Slab markers rose in lines, stretching beyond the scope of her tiny ray. An errant light cut across the cemetery, zig-zagging between stones and heading toward the group. Kay hurried to join the others. Moments later, the owner of the stray light stepped next to her. The face was hidden by a hooded jacket, and it took several seconds for Kay to recognize Vera’s hushed greeting.

She studied the woman’s long coat and sturdy boots, dripping with dew. She’d probably come early to visit her husband’s grave. Perhaps give him an update on how things were since he’d gone. Kay clicked off her light wondering what would happen when Vera died. Who’d do the updates? Her children had moved away. Besides…the newest generation rarely did graveside inspections unless they were bored on Memorial Day. Eventually, an occasional lawnmower would be the only thing visiting their plots. The details of how Pastor Jim loved a good prank and how Vera ran the Universe would be gone. Their headstones would become no-vacancy messages for that section of the cemetery.