Inside, downstairs, a fat blue spruce festooned with colored balls, garland, and twinkling lights announced it was Christmas, as if all the other decorations did not. Arden Higham, in charge of the color scheme, had outdone herself. She and her team found and copied Victorian pictures of sleighs in the snow, beautiful ladies with their hands in muffs, reindeer, Scottish terriers. The entire spectrum of what was popular during those times formed the table centerpieces. Small baubles hung from sconces and a sleigh filled a corner, overflowing with gifts for the boys. Silver Linings worked with young men, twelve through eighteen, most of them from poor homes headed by single mothers.
St. Cyril’s, the Catholic church in Crozet, allowed the organization to use its rec room. Tonight Father O’Connor—young if not a bit portly—beamed at the turnout. Although Silver Linings operated independently of St. Cyril’s, the association was close.
Brian Hexham; Pete Vavilov; Lou Higham; Coach Toth; Nelson Yarbrough, former UVA quarterback; and many others mentored the young men, coached them in various sports leagues, and brought their own sons to the activities. The original idea was to pair a privileged boy with an underprivileged boy, a buddy system, but the boys found their own compatriots. Over time the natural buddy system faltered and a more accurate buddy system took its place.
The sponsors had given the young men money for tuxedos. For most of them this was the first time they were in black tie. Most of them loved it. Then again, most people are not averse to being the center of attention.
Young ladies from the church attended, as well as the daughters of participants and sponsors.
“I had no idea Arden was so artistic,” Darlene de Jarnette said to Harry as they both waited on the sidelines of the downstairs ballroom. Like most ballrooms, it was rectangular, neutral in palette and with a raised dais for the band. Arden’s décor added color and excitement to the bland setting. Their husbands lined up at the bar to get them drinks. “I think of her as the detail type, bookkeeping. I guess I don’t associate those skills with décor.” Darlene laughed. “I’ll revise my opinion.”
“Girls, how about if a thorn stands between two roses?” Reverend Herbert Jones, a Lutheran minister, put his arms around the ladies as a photographer snapped a photo.
“Your red cummerbund is appropriately seasonal.” Darlene smiled.
“At these events, you ladies get all the colors, beautiful gowns and jewels. We’re stuck looking like penguins.” He smiled as he waved at Father O’Connor. “Harry, looks like Susan whipped the food operation in order.”
“She has. St. Luke’s can be proud. Jessica Hexham has everything organized for St. Cyril’s.”
Harry, Susan, and the others were parishioners at St. Luke’s. Reverend Jones had been the pastor for decades.
“Good. Good.” He released them, walked through the crowd, shaking hands, giving ladies kisses.
Each Christmas, churches distributed food and clothing. Some of the boys in the room would be receiving those items with their mothers, grandmothers, siblings. But tonight the excitement was high, thanks to the truck raffle, the band, the food, the music.
Susan Tucker joined Harry and Darlene just as Fair and Max de Jarnette delivered the drinks.
“Susan, let me get you whatever you need,” said Fair. “Your husband is over there talking about a bill on the floor that I think has something to do with cameras at stoplights. I tuned out, but if you wait for him, you’ll be parched.”
Glancing over at Ned, Susan said, “Fair, I would kill for a scotch and soda.”
Seeing the crowd at the bar, Harry quipped, “You may have to.” She handed her best friend her own drink.
“Thank you.” Susan gulped down the entire restorative cocktail, to the amazement of Harry, Fair, and Darlene.
Jessica Hexham joined them as Harry said to Susan, “I’ve never seen you do that.”
Jessica laughed. “And it looks as though it will be a long night. She may do it again.”
As the small group complimented Jessica on the festive event, Fair trudged back to the bar to replace his wife’s drink and buy a scotch and soda for Susan. Given his six feet five inches, he could usually command the bartender’s attention with ease. He wedged in next to Pete.
“The truck’s a beauty.”
Pete beamed. “The city gas mileage is eighteen mpg, out on the highway about twenty-six mpg. Now, I give or take a mile or two. I like to get about twenty-thousand miles on an engine. I know, I know, I’m supposed to spout the company line, but I always give a little wiggle room on the estimated mileage.”
“All three truck brands have made such improvements.”
“They have, Fair, but you drive a Ford and you praise the Lord.” Pete slapped him on the back. “Your wife drives a 1978 Ford F-150. You know how good they are.”
“Tyler,” Pete called over Lou and Arden’s son, a weedy, pale fourteen-year-old. “Did your dad get in on the raffle?”
“Yeah.”
“You tell him to let you see if you can start the truck, hear?”
“Yes, sir.” Tyler scooted off.
“One of those brainy ones,” Pete remarked. “I sure hope the kid puts on a few pounds these next few years. No way he can play football skinny as he is.”
Al Toth rolled up to the bar. “If you boys had done this in high school I would have benched you.” The coach and two of his former outstanding players liked to joke about old times.
Harry, still waiting for her drink, waved to BoomBoom and Alicia. They would eventually reach her, but first she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“That is so becoming on you. Harry, your body is the same as when you took Algebra Two.” Esther Mercier Toth circled round to face Harry.
“That’s the truth,” said Susan. “I fight to lose every extra pound. She never puts them on.” Susan kissed her former teacher on the cheek, as did Harry.
“You look just the same,” Harry said to Mrs. Toth, and it was mostly true.
Esther smiled. “It’s thrilling what modern medicine can do. A nip here, a tuck there. Sooner or later, though, girls, the edifice comes tumbling down.”
They all laughed.
Pete took the floor as the band put down their instruments for a much-needed break. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your support of Silver Linings. Young men, come here.” The boys, varying heights, from barely five feet at twelve years to over six feet at seventeen, joined him. “Here is where your money goes. Our high school graduates will have funds for college thanks to you. Fellows, raise your hands.”
Five young men did just that, and one kid—not the best-looking fellow, but with a killer smile—called out, “Thank you.” He was then joined by the others.
Pete listed the event’s donors—an insurance company paid for the food, et cetera—thanked Father O’Connor, the Hexhams, Arden and her decorating crews. “I won’t bore you with a long-winded speech. I know you want to know who wins the truck, so come on, let’s find out.”
Up the stairs they trooped, ladies grabbing coats, for the snow fell harder now. Those with keys, one by one, tried the truck. No ignition. Tyler, key in hand, father by his side, tried. No.
Alicia Palmer, sliding into the bucket seat, swooping in her long gown, rolled down the window, put the key in the ignition. Rumble.
“I can’t believe it,” said the woman, who should have won an Oscar. “I never win anything.”
Arden whispered to Jessica, “She has more money than God. Ain’t it always the way?”
The group inside the front door cheered as Alicia came back in, key firmly in her grip. BoomBoom kissed her.
Alicia held up her hands. “Thank you, Pete. This is a wonderful occasion and I’m glad to be the lucky winner. I have been fortunate in so many ways and I have noticed that Father O’Connor’s old Mercury is fading away. I would like to donate this wonderful new F-150 to St. Cyril’s and Father O’Connor.” She looked at Reverend Jones, for BoomBoom was a staunch Lutheran, then kissed Father
O’Connor as he came at her, beckoning for the keys.
“This is a small recompense for 1517,” he said.
Most of the gathered knew that was when Martin Luther nailed the ninety-five theses on the doors of the cathedral at Wittenberg. Those who didn’t were informed by their neighbors.
People laughed and cheered. Reverend Jones, never without his sense of decorum, strode up to Father O’Connor and shook his hand. Then the two men, priest and pastor, laughed.
Everyone who attended that evening’s Christmas fund-raiser remembered it both for the party and for what happened later.
Her windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the snowfall. Deputy Cooper struggled in a police department SUV to reach a wreck on Garth Road. Her siren blared. If she was having troubles, she wondered how long it would take the ambulance to reach the scene of the accident.
Finally, just beyond the sign for Barracks Road Stables, she saw a new Explorer pulled off the road on the shoulder. She parked behind it, quickly got out. The young man who had pulled over and had made the 911 call got out of his old Corolla. He turned up his coat collar.
Cooper nodded to him, and he stayed behind her as she opened the door to the vehicle in front of his ancient Corolla.
“He was dead when I pulled over, ma’am.”
Cooper noted that Pete Vavilov—dead in the driver’s seat—wore his seatbelt. No blood. She closed the door, checked the skid marks that were rapidly fading. He just slid off the road. She also noticed another fading pair of tracks behind the Explorer.
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No, ma’am—I mean, no, Officer.”
She looked around. No electric lights anywhere. The power died again.
“Let me take your information so you can go home. It’s an evil night. If I have more questions, I’ll find you. I know I will have some questions.”
He handed her his driver’s license. She wrote down his stats.
“You’ve got about nine miles of bad road.” She used the old expression. “Think that car can make it?”
“I hope so.”
“Here.” She handed him her card. “That’s my cell. If you get stuck, call me. I’ll get you home in my SUV. Might take a while because we’ll need to take care of this, but if I can’t leave, I’ll send another officer.”
“Thank you.” He opened his squeaky car door, grateful to be inside, and slowly drove away.
The temperature kept dropping, but Cooper wanted to investigate as much as she could. Already, the tracks of the young man’s Corolla and whoever pulled up behind the Explorer were indistinguishable now.
She opened the door again. Felt Pete’s neck. She knew he was dead, but if she felt his temperature, she’d have an idea of how long he’d been there. Not very long. Then she noticed that his right arm and hand hung down over the center console. The interior of the Explorer was black, otherwise she might have noticed this bizarre fact right away.
Pete Vavilov was missing his index and middle fingers.
Sunday, December 8, celebrated the Feast of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The Very Reverend Herbert Jones preached one of his famously rousing sermons. St. Luke’s somewhat strayed from the Lutheran dogma that avoided saint’s days. Reverend Jones felt those who had come before—leading exemplary lives, often lives of great sacrifice—should be remembered, whether Lutheran or Episcopalian, Baptist or Hindu. Anyway, so many saints suffered so exquisitely before the Catholic Church cracked open, it seemed churlish to Reverend Jones not to remember their holy devotion.
Harry, next to Fair, sat in a front pew in front of the lectern. She loved her pastor as a man, and she loved him as a servant of the Church.
His words on this day about the struggle of religion to honor and respect women struck a chord with her. Wisely, Reverend Jones did not dwell on the Immaculate Conception itself, for December 8 was the celebration of the conception of Mary, not the baby Jesus. How many Immaculate Conceptions can one have?
This thought occurred to Harry, followed by another in which she wondered how powerful men in the past wrote off outside children by a twist of logic—maybe not going so far as to claim an Immaculate Conception but some other twist of logic to wiggle out of an embarrassing situation.
As far as organized religion, Harry was devout in her own way, though she could never quite buy the whole bag of beans. For that matter, neither did many of her generation, among them her dear friends. They drew comfort and strength from their churches but shied away from dogma.
After the service, Reverend Jones stood at the rear of one wide church aisle to shake hands with the departing congregation. Waiting in the last pew and observing the passersby in all their Sunday finery were his Lutheran cats, Elocution, Cazenovia, and Lucy Fur.
“Good sermon. Poppy’s voice just fills the church.” Cazenovia had nestled next to Reverend Jones as he’d struggled to write the sermon. She felt a big compliment was deserved.
“Poppy always tries to find a good balance. He was one of the first in the county to welcome female reverends. ’Course, the Episcopalians sent an ordained woman here as soon as they were accepted and Poppy personally greeted her. He thinks we all stand before God, even animals,” said Lucy Fur.
“Yes,” Elocution agreed, and while she loved Reverend Jones, Elo harbored feline suspicion about organized religions. She kept them to herself.
“Should, but he’s talking to humans. They only want to hear about themselves, not the cat who kept mice away from the cradle or about any of us, really,” Cazenovia shrewdly commented.
“He slips something in about animals now and then.” Lucy Fur loved the Reverend.
Unaware of the kitty commentary, Harry and Fair shook Reverend Jones’s hand, thanked him for his thoughts, and then walked into the foyer. Light from the huge floor-to-ceiling handblown windows flooded the room.
Slipping her arms into her coat held by her husband, Harry glanced out one of the windows. “They’re early.” There was still unloading to be done. “ ’Tis the season of charitable projects.”
Fair, seeing the few cars that he recognized, said, “You go to the meeting room, honey. I’ll round up some of the boys and we’ll knock this out in no time.”
Harry stepped outside, the cold air bracing. She hurried down the beautiful stone arcade built right after the Revolutionary War to a two-story stone building at the end of this arcade. St. Luke’s was built around a quad, with the back part open. Three sides had arcades, the church smack in the middle of the longest arcade. Two-story buildings anchored each end. The rear of all buildings looked into the quad. Front windows viewed the slightly rolling lawn at the front. The windows looking directly out the rear had an unbroken view down to the lovely old graveyard bound by a stone wall, which was the same stone as the buildings.
The trees, bushes, and plantings made over the centuries added to this spot’s tranquility. Even with everything covered in snow, St. Luke’s beckoned in the pale winter light.
Harry reached Jessica Hexham’s car. Following Harry on foot were Susan, BoomBoom, and Alicia. A bit farther back came Fair, with Ned and two other younger male parishioners.
The driveway to the rear of the meeting room building had been plowed. As Harry was in charge of the buildings and grounds, she always made sure everything was properly plowed in the winter. In spring she planted, she mowed in summer, and she raked in the fall. She knew the grounds and the condition of the buildings almost as intimately as the men who’d built St. Luke’s more than two hundred years ago.
Brian Hexham drove their SUV. As everyone wore their church clothes, they stepped gingerly on the plowed macadam. Ice could be invisible.
Fair motioned for the two other cars and one truck to park next to the Hexhams, then he and the men began unloading box after box. Harry, Susan, BoomBoom, and Alicia carried the lighter ones, not because they couldn’t handle the heavy ones—three of the four women did farm chores—but because all were in heels.
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Once inside the church’s meeting room, the tables were labeled: clothes, shoes, outerwear, scarves and mittens, china and glassware, canned food, toys and video games, pet treats, and miscellaneous.
Harry directed indoor traffic. Reverend Jones was still in his robe and vestments when he walked in, accompanied as usual by his cats.
“Look at all this.” He thanked Jessica, who was head of the fund-raising drive for St. Cyril’s. “Jessica, this is wonderful.”
“Everyone pitched in,” Jessica replied.
“Anything that brings our various congregations closer is a blessing.” Reverend Jones smiled.
Each Christmas, the churches in Crozet gathered necessities and gifts for those less fortunate. The various churches took turns storing the goods, sorting them, and wrapping them. On December 20, the boxes were delivered.
Over the last four years the drives had become so successful that the churches had to divvy up storage. The Episcopal and Methodist churches linked together, as did the Lutheran church and the Catholic church. Presbyterian, various Baptist churches, and the evangelical ones, too, all pitched in.
Apart from actual deliveries, the hardest task was determining to whom to give the gifts. The secretaries from each church’s guild went to the county offices, sat with the people there to identify those in need. Also a big help was the sheriff’s department. They saw what many other citizens did not. This year it was Deputy Cynthia Cooper who headed that effort.
Each year, more and more people slid onto the list for help. Rich as Albemarle County was and always will be, it, too, has people struggling.
“Look at that,” Harry exclaimed when Brian tottered into the meeting room struggling under the weight of a huge carton.
Nine Lives to Die Page 3