Chapter Three
The church of christ returning was a cavernous room and, even festooned with white banners adorned with gold crosses, it still looked like the warehouse it used to be. Two, perhaps three hundred, shiny-faced, well-groomed worshippers filled row upon row of white folding chairs set up on the concrete floor. Outside, the day was raw and sleety, grey as dirty wool. The air inside was slightly too warm, and heavily scented with a mixture of flowery-sweet perfume, hairspray and coffee-breath. A large podium accommodated Reverend Ken Hickland and his wife, Stella, as well as the visiting pastor Bobby Dash, Reverend Dash’s wife, Carolyn, and an enthusiastic, if not entirely tuneful, choir. Dorothy Carlisle looked around at the people holding hands, swaying, their eyes closed. She wondered if there was a required uniform women were supposed to wear at The Church of Christ Returning these days. Certainly, she seemed to be the only woman not wearing a pastel pantsuit over a frilly blouse. Well, to be fair there were several frilly blouse-skirt combinations and a couple of frilly dresses. Still, it seemed an inordinate amount of frill, and a quite unnecessary quantity of pastel, particularly for this time of year. Dorothy herself was dressed in black pants, a copper blouse and a taupe wrap, which she felt was the appropriate attire not only for March, but for a woman of sixty-two. Certainly far more appropriate than the garden-party attire of Mabel McQuaid, to her left, who was in fact slightly older than Dorothy, although she wouldn’t admit it. Mabel squeezed her hand, as if aware of Dorothy’s unchristian thoughts.
Reverend Hickland’s voice boomed over the PA system. “When I see these terrorists, I know Satan is at work. He has made himself manifest in the false prophets of the world. But I tell you, Satan is in a mess. He’s frightened, frightened because so many Muslims are turning to Jesus.” Reverend Hickland wore his trademark white suit and shoes and belt. He stomped his foot and looked heavenward. “Yes, praise the Lord!”
“Praise the Lord,” came the congregation’s respondent cry.
“Oh, yes! Satan is stirring up the Muslims, but we are winning. How do I know we’re winning? I know because that’s what the back of the Book says!”
“Praise the Lord!”
The band and the choir kicked up a notch, the drum beat steady and penetrating, and the voices rhythmic. Dorothy gently released her hand from Mabel’s fleshy, overly-firm grip. “Arthritis,” she said, rubbing her fingers, when Mabel looked questioningly at her. Although mortifying to admit, possibly simple curiosity had made Dorothy agree to attend this morning’s service at the all new and improved Church of Christ Returning. What did people see in all this emotion and hysteria?
Dorothy Carlisle had a deep faith that an ineffable God existed, but believed there was no need for so much, well, thrashing about. All this praising, weeping and squeezing of hands was not only a little embarrassing, but felt inauthentic. As though these people, swaying now, some of them rocking back and forth, tears on their cheeks, hands reaching heavenward, were looking not for the solace of Christ, but for some sort of slightly questionable ecstatic experience. The expression on some of her neighbours’ faces was vaguely sexual.
The Church of Christ Returning, whether in this new building, or in the old clapboard in town, had always been at the centre of Gideon, the heart of its beliefs and behaviour. Members of other faiths would surely be locked out of heaven due to their lack of a true, intimate, personal relationship with Jesus—a Jesus who apparently had gone before them to build a house of very limited capacity, since there was much talk of the chosen few. A Jesus who, although he had been known to spend much quality time with prostitutes and lepers, would now, at the dawn of the millennium, damn all but the most rigidly perfect to the flames of eternal hell. A Jesus who, according to Reverend Hickland, manifested his love through the bestowing of material goods.
Dorothy supposed Mabel had wanted to show off this big new church building, all modern and vast enough for what Mabel was convinced was an oncoming tidal wave of conversions. Mabel had a bumper sticker on her car that read, When the Rapture comes, this car will be empty. It had taken some willpower on Dorothy’s part not to stick a note on Mabel’s windshield saying, If you’re not using it, do you mind if I have it?
Pastor Dash was speaking now. “When I started going to Africa over thirty years ago, I saw people living in desperation, in mud huts in abject poverty, and I told them they were not the Third World. No sir. They were the seeds of Abraham! Seeds of the Lord! Jesus is exploding all over the world! Praise the Lord!”
“Praise the Lord!”
“And now these people are driving cars, living in good houses, going to school. That’s what Jesus promises—it’s there in Ephesians, verse 3 . . . hath blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places . . . ‘hath’ people, that’s the way of saying he already has. It’s a done deal. We are empowered with all there is in heaven, already. It’s waiting for us.”
“Praise Him! Praise the Lord.”
“And look now at Genesis 1.” The Reverend had the book open in his hand and stalked from one end of the stage to the other. “God tells us man is made in His image, and He says ‘let them rule over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the sky.’ He says man has dominion over all the earth, and he tells man to subdue it, rule over it, over all the things on the earth, over every seed. It’s all there for us, my brothers, my sisters. Praise the Lord.”
“Praise the Lord!”
“We are the blessed. It wasn’t given to the sinners! It was given to those who are in His image! A great fire will come to wipe out the sinners. It says so, my friends. It says so. Where does it say so? Tell me where!”
“In the back of the Book!” the room answered as one.
“Shout out for the Lord. Shout it out!” Reverend Hickland jumped up and down, yelling at the top of his lungs now. “Shout it out! I tell you! Shout it out!”
And much to Dorothy’s alarm, the congregation did.
The next day was again miserable as a cold wet stray. Dorothy Carlisle knew there wouldn’t be a single customer popping into Farmhouse Antiques and, in that regard, it was a day similar to many others. The lack of commerce did not bother Dorothy in the least. Commerce was not the point. Having a shop gave her a purpose, a place to go, and a framework for her days. She owned the old farmhouse at the corner of Quaker and Main outright, and had done so for years. Oh, there were a few sales—bridal gifts, or tokens for aunts, or the odd chair or tea table; and sometimes antiquing tourists wandered through. She even had a couple of contacts from the city who visited her once every six months or so to see if she had anything interesting they might pick up for themselves and sell at engorged prices to the urban rich. Once a year she took a drive for a few days, poking around attics and barns for interesting bits and bobs, but other than that, and regular dusting, very little upkeep was required.
It was just gone noon and although she would have to think about lunch soon, Dorothy poured herself a cup of coffee. It was decaffeinated coffee with a hint of cinnamon, which she thickened with half-and-half and sweetened with two teaspoons of sugar. On the side of the mug was a line drawing of Virginia Woolf and a quote: You cannot gain peace by avoiding life. Dorothy stood for a moment, holding the mug with both hands, inhaling the fragrance, which was at once both comforting and stimulating. She made a point of paying attention to such small details of life. Noticing, being grateful for, acknowledging beauty, these things gave meaning to life, did they not? She agreed with Virginia’s quote. An elegant life was lived by immersion in the quotidian, by honouring creation with awareness.
As she crossed the creaky wooden floor to her desk, she flipped the door sign. Farmhouse Antiques was officially open. One of the great benefits of being your own boss was that you got to keep your own hours. Dorothy adjusted the position of a cobalt blue glass bottle, placing it closer to the sweet little milk-glass vase on the Shaker ministry table. They set each other
off so nicely, they were a pleasure just to look at. She particularly loved the lines of Shaker furniture. So simple. So uncluttered by unnecessary ornamentation—a thing reduced to its essence.
Dorothy settled into her old Boston rocker, dialled the radio to the public classical station, and opened Silas Marner to chapter sixteen, in which Aaron will offer to dig a garden for Eppie. She sipped her coffee and turned in happy anticipation to the page. However, the door rattled and she looked up, frowning. It was Mabel. Mabel owned Mabel’s Gifts, around the corner on Main Street and sold what Dorothy judged were trinkets of dubious value: bean soup gift sets, blank-page books with embossed leather covers—so fancy one would be terrified to scar them with a single unworthy musing—chemically scented candles of sneeze-inducing intensity, papier-mâché parrot earrings, T-shirts with sayings on them such as, Give me the chocolate and nobody gets hurt.
“Hello, Mabel.” Dorothy did not rise. Oh, Lord, she prayed, please don’t start her talking about church. Dorothy was still not quite over the unsettling image of Mabel McQuaid calling out to the Lord and babbling in a rhythmic jibber-jabber she referred to as speaking-in-tongues. Mabel, in fact, had not been at all pleased yesterday when, after the service, Dorothy asked her why angels didn’t just speak in a language one could understand?
“Hideous weather,” said Mabel, by way of greeting. She was a large woman who walked with a swaying side-to-side gait that bespoke bad knees and hips.
“How are you?” Dorothy regretted the question as soon as it was out of her mouth.
“Are you kidding?” Mabel rubbed her right hand. “With this weather? I couldn’t even get the jar of coffee open this morning the rheumatism in my hands was so bad. And since I don’t sleep anymore, I need my coffee in the morning.” Mabel flapped her umbrella, scattering water droplets all around her.
Dorothy considered offering her a cup, but then didn’t.
“So, did you hear?” said Mabel. “There’s been a break-in at Wilton’s.”
“Really? How dreadful. A robbery?”
“Not during store hours. It was last night after closing sometime. I told Bob he should put in an alarm system. They got a few thousand I heard and took a bunch of liquor and cigarettes and junk food, which means only one thing as far as I’m concerned and you know what that is.”
“Do I?”
“It means North Mountain people. Come on, Dot, those hill goats will be drunk for a week and then they’ll come in to buy more and that’s all I need to know. Erskines, most likely. They’re nothing but white trash. I don’t know why Carl just doesn’t go up there and arrest the bunch of them.”
“I’m sure Carl’s doing his job. You can’t arrest people on speculation.” On prejudice she wanted to say. “If he finds proof he’ll do what needs to be done.”
“I guess you’re right. What can you do? That’s the mountain. Can’t do anything with that bunch. But you lock your doors. You’re a woman in here alone and you need to be careful.” Mabel folded her arms over her substantial bosom. “I don’t know why you even keep this place. You sure don’t need the money.”
“I appreciate your concern, Mabel. I’ll be sure to be vigilant.” She sighed. “Remember when we used to leave all our doors unlocked?”
“Times change. You just can’t be too careful. It’s dangerous times before the end.”
“I refuse to live my life in a prison of fear,” said Dorothy.
“Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Just lock your doors, will you?” She flapped her umbrella again and as she left, said over her shoulder, “It’s going to get worse before it gets better. You heard what Reverend Hickland said at church, Dot. You can’t ignore the signs.”
“You and I will just have to differ on this point, I’m afraid.”
“I was so happy when you came to church.” Her voice was petulant now, disappointed as a child. “I’m very fond of you. I don’t want to see you left behind.”
“It was lovely of you to ask me. Really it was. And I do appreciate it. You’ve all done wonders with the new church.”
“I hope you’ll come back this Sunday.”
“Hope springs eternal, but I fear I must insist on being left behind.” Dorothy couldn’t entirely repress a grin.
“I don’t know why I bother. I really don’t.”
“Neither do I, dear.”
“I’ll pray for you,” said Mabel as she left.
“We can all use more prayers,” said Dorothy to the closed door.
Dorothy’s coffee was cold now. She might as well make herself a grilled cheese sandwich, she thought, and headed back to the little kitchen, grumbling under her breath. Mabel McQuaid. Surely people should be made to understand that most everything was none of their business.
She wished William was still with her. He had always listened so well. But William was gone, wasn’t he? When he died, she’d felt the grief and loss of her companion, her confidant—indeed her very heart—fiercely and fully, and for the first six months she couldn’t bear being in the store, and so she kept it closed. Then she began to go in three days a week, and sometime around month eight she found herself humming along to a song on the radio, which made her cry a little, but she knew she would be all right. She also knew she would live the rest of her life alone, and the thought, rather than being disturbing, was deeply comforting. She still felt William was with her, in some way, as though he were simply in the next room. A stack of good books, good coffee and her little store were all she needed. Dorothy would be snug and content in her shop, surrounded by bits of people’s history, the discarded things she had rescued and restored. Burnished wood, sparkling glass, gleaming porcelain, the smell of polish and beeswax candles.
And so this afternoon passed—grilled cheese and coffee and Silas Marner. Around four, the wind rattled the door and she looked up again, frowning, but it was no one. Just the little Evans girl, Ivy, walking in the determined way she had, head down into the wind, gait longer than seemed possible, given the length of her legs. She looked over her shoulder once, quickly, and Dorothy was struck by her unhappy expression. The voices of other children skittered on the wind, but Dorothy couldn’t make out the words. Ah well, none of her business.
Chapter Four
Do you then expect that your mother would be glad to see you—that she would spread her mantle over you and take you up to heaven? Oh, if she were told that you were at the gate, she would hasten down to say, “O my sinning child, you cannot enter heaven. Into this holy place, nothing can by any means enter that “worketh abomination or maketh a lie.”
You cannot—no, you cannot come!” If it were left to your own mother to decide the question of your admission, you could not come in. She would not open heaven’s gate for your admission. She knows you would disturb the bliss of heaven. She knows you would mar its purity and be an element of discord in its sympathies and in its songs. The justice of God will not allow you to participate in the joys of the saints. His relations to the universe make it indispensable that He should protect his saints from such society as you. They have had their discipline of trial in such society long enough: the scenes of their eternal reward will bring everlasting relief from this torture of their holy sympathies. His sense of propriety forbids that He should give you a place among His pure and trustful children. It would be so unfitting—so unsuitable! It would throw such discord into the sweet songs and sympathies of the holy.
—Reverend Charles G. Finney, President, Oberlin College,
visiting preacher, Church of Christ Returning, September 29, 1852
Albert woke with his heart already pounding. He didn’t remember his dream, exactly. But it had been one of the bad ones. Some people tried to grab their dreams as they slipped under the surface of consciousness, but Albert pushed the spectres as far from his day-mind as he could. A smell remained, like gunpowder residue—acrid, but swea
ty-dirty, like the breath of a man who has consumed sardines and creamed corn and beer—a familiar smell. He shook his head, blew out his lips so his breath sucked nothing of the terror back into him. The instant of waking was the only moment when one might consider Albert superstitious, when some remnant of his child-self lingered, before he stuffed it back down into The Hole, the solitary confinement of his unconscious.
Awareness of his queasy stomach and sawdust mouth slid in on the sunlight nudging through the hole in the sheet pegged over the window, even as the flickering horrors of his dream dissipated. The pillow smelled of mildew. Something crusty had dried on the blanket. He blindly reached around on the floor next to the foldout bed and found a bottle, empty.
Albert had been drunk last night. But not drunk enough. Yesterday was a shitty day. It had started off all right. Just another day with not much on his schedule except for chopping wood for the stove. He’d been using the ancient splitter near the main house when Dr. Hawthorne arrived around noon, his shiny target-red Volvo moving through the trees up the winding road to the compound. The kids appeared like tame squirrels from their various nooks and crannies, and flocked around his car. They looked like Third World beggars with their dirty hands out. Dr. Hawthorne, small and trim in his grey wool coat, stepped out of the car, his trousers tucked into rubber boots to protect them from the mud.
“Hey, now, you kids,” the doctor said, smiling a white smile under his thin, carefully trimmed moustache. “You’re not looking for candy, are you? You don’t want to rot your teeth, do you?”
“I’m loosing a tooth,” said Frank. “See?” He waggled his tongue against the wobbling incisor.
Brenda sucked on her fingers and looked up at the doctor with wide eyes. He bent down and lifted her chin with his long-fingered, girlish hands. “What’s this? What’s that around your mouth? Are you a dirty girl?”
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