by Terrie Todd
Maggie and Charlotte sat side by side in a pew, Darcy asleep in his mother’s arms. The little church was already warm on this early September Sunday, and ladies in hats fanned themselves with their programs. Not one of them had bothered to introduce herself or ask Maggie her name, though they looked at her with curiosity and something else Maggie couldn’t name. Judgment? Pity? She was glad when the singing was over and Reuben stepped into the pulpit. She felt herself relax, eager to hear what he might have to say.
It was a good sermon. Reuben spoke with deep compassion to those who had lost family members in the war. He talked about his own losses in life and honestly shared what it was like to wrestle with God, to doubt God’s love and power in the midst of one’s pain. He was easy to listen to, and Maggie found the time flying by.
Although she herself had suffered two significant losses in recent days, it was the loss of her home and restaurant, not the loss of her husband, to which she applied Reuben’s words. She felt great comfort when he pointed the congregation to Romans, chapter eight. Not just the pat-answer verse people liked to throw out about God working all things for good, but the entire chapter. In Reuben’s telling of it, God assures his people that, though life will be hard, there is a coming glory that outweighs all our suffering. He pointed out that these verses compare our trials to the pain of a woman in childbirth, and the congregation chuckled when Reuben admitted he had no personal point of reference. But when he talked about the glory of a newborn infant diminishing the pain, there was a catch in his voice, and Maggie felt certain he was remembering the events of the previous week. She glanced over at Charlotte, who had tears on her cheeks.
Before she knew it, the service was over, the doxology had been sung, and they were walking home with Mrs. O’Toole while Reuben stayed behind to greet his flock.
Though his heart longed to follow Maggie down the street, Reuben knew he must shake hands and greet his parishioners after a week away. He ruffled the curly hair on top of Donny Robinson’s head as the ten-year-old flew past, racing outside to enjoy the warm sunshine. As he shook hands with Donny’s parents, he caught a glimpse of Elder Mitchell approaching behind them, extra furrow lines surrounding his permanent scowl.
“Reverend,” Elder Mitchell said. “We, the board, need to see you immediately. Please meet us in your office as soon as you’ve greeted the last person.”
“Yes, sir.” Reuben reached out, but the man did not shake hands with him. A sense of dread began niggling at him.
After he had wished the last straggler a good week, he closed the front doors and made his way to his office with heavy shoulders. It was not the board who awaited him, but only Elder Mitchell. He stood with his hands in his pockets, perusing the books on Reuben’s shelf.
“Have a seat, young man,” he said, but did not take one himself. Reuben sat in the chair behind his desk.
“I won’t beat around the bush,” the elder began. “When we couldn’t find you last week, we contacted your landlady, who didn’t know where you were either. She said only that you’d taken your car and had been gone two or three days already. When you finally telephoned Deacon Ellis and explained yourself, we called an emergency meeting of the elders board. By then, a few more details had come to light.” Elder Mitchell leaned across the desk, his face so close Reuben could smell stale coffee on his breath.
“Is it true that you traveled halfway across the country with a single woman—a recently widowed woman, I might add—without a chaperone, without informing anyone of your purpose or your whereabouts, and without giving notice as to your pending absence last Sunday?”
Reuben shifted in his seat. “Well sir, we went as far as Fort William, which isn’t nearly halfway across—”
“I don’t need the details. Is it true or not?”
Though Reuben knew Mrs. O’Toole would never willingly betray him, the combination of her naïveté and chattiness had apparently done so as surely as any Judas. Denying these accusations would only make things worse. “Yes, sir.”
The man stood upright again and began pacing the room like a courtroom lawyer. “And is it true that neither the woman you were accompanying nor the young pregnant girl you were chasing after are part of your own congregation?”
“Not yet, sir.” He looked up at Elder Mitchell and nodded optimistically. “They were in church this morning, however.”
“That hardly makes them church members.”
“No, sir.” Reuben slumped back into his seat.
Elder Mitchell stopped pacing and pivoted toward Reuben. “And is it true that you covered this little jaunt by using a special gas-ration card given to you in good faith by one of our deacons, for the purpose of emergencies arising within the congregation?”
Reuben merely nodded. Someone must have checked his desk drawer and put two and two together. I’m doomed, he thought.
“What do you have to say for yourself, young man?” Elder Mitchell had still not sat down and appeared to enjoy the power of his elevated position.
Reuben sighed. “You’re right. I should have let someone know what I was doing, and I’m sorry. It was an errand of mercy, sir. Mrs. Marshall takes in unwed mothers. The girl she currently lodges had run off and Mrs. Marshall needed my assistance. I felt it constituted an emergency. There was no time to take it before the board.”
“So you used your own judgment.”
“Yes, sir. I did, but—”
“Well, your judgment was in very poor taste.” The man placed his hands on his ample hips. “And, as you know, this is not the first time we have had to speak to you about using your time helping people outside your area of responsibility.”
Tempted to challenge his broad use of the word we, Reuben swallowed hard instead. He knew the other board members had a habit of kowtowing to Elder Mitchell.
“And do you agree that the appearance of evil should be avoided by all Christians, but especially by those who set themselves up as leaders? That such behavior hurts the church?”
Reuben rose to his feet. “Sir, I’m certain our congregation would understand if I had the chance to explain—”
“Explain? And draw even more attention to your errancy? Absolutely not.” Elder Mitchell crossed his arms over his bulging belly. “For these reasons, it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that the Elders Board of Smith Street Community Church has decided to let you go. We simply cannot afford this kind of scandalous behavior in a pastor. I’m certain that if you think about it long enough, you will agree you’ve left us no choice.”
Reuben stared at the man, dumbfounded. He’d been expecting a reprimand, but would they really fire him?
“Just like that?” he asked. The shock made his knees weak, and he sank slowly to his chair once more.
“Please collect your personal items and vacate this office by noon tomorrow.”
“But—” Reuben stammered. “Where are the rest of the board members?” But even as he asked the question, Reuben realized the other board members hadn’t made eye contact with him that morning, which he’d noticed but dismissed. They were passive men who seemed all too willing to let Elder Mitchell do the dirty work, and it would do little good to appeal to any of them.
“It was a unanimous decision. If it makes you feel better, however, you are not without some friends on the board. If it had been up to me alone, you would not have been in the pulpit this morning. Some seemed to think it was only fair to allow you one more Sunday, though I don’t know why. And surely even you can understand why we didn’t inform you of our decision before this morning’s service. You could have said anything.”
Reuben couldn’t help but wonder if it had simply been more convenient to let him preach one last time than to scramble for a last-minute substitute, but kept his question to himself.
“Will I have a chance to say good-bye?”
“Under the circumstances, that would be unwise. Any other questions?”
Reuben was too stunned to speak.
“I
f not, I’ll be on my way. Mrs. Mitchell has a lovely roast in the oven. I would wish you luck in the future, but that is between you and the Lord. In spite of everything, I trust you to remove your items in a peaceful manner and not do anything spiteful or damaging to the Lord’s property. Good day to you.” He turned and walked out of the office without a backward glance.
Reuben sat motionless, staring at the surface of his desk for a solid ten minutes. His study Bible, the one he used for sermon preparations, still lay open to Romans, chapter eight. Instinctively, he knew the lesson he’d worked so hard to prepare was as much or more for him as it had been for his congregation. As his eyes began to well up, he read the following words, though they blurred before him:
“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.”
CHAPTER 28
On Monday morning, Maggie set out for her second visit to the insurance company’s office, but her mind was on Reuben. As if all her other problems weren’t enough, now she was worried about him. Something was wrong, and he wasn’t saying what.
Over the past couple of weeks, Reuben had been the epitome of steadfastness, reason, and kindness, and she thought she’d gotten to know him quite well. But when he’d returned to Mrs. O’Toole’s Sunday afternoon, it was as if a stranger had walked in the door. She had helped with lunch preparations, and everything was laid out on Mrs. O’Toole’s long dining room table when he arrived. Fall flowers graced the center, the landlady’s finest china laid out for Sunday’s chicken and mashed potatoes. Mrs. O’Toole’s insistence on waiting for “the reverend” had been met with mixed reviews by the other boarders.
When Reuben finally walked in, he crossed the entryway without a glance toward the dining room.
“I won’t be eating today,” he called over his shoulder as he headed up the stairs.
“But Reverend, we waited especially for you, lad,” Mrs. O’Toole began. “’Twas a wonderful sermon! You must be famished.”
That’s when Maggie saw a side of the man she had not previously seen. He stopped on the stairs, turned, and faced his landlady. His face had a red hue to it, like he’d been in the sun too long, and his voice had an edge to it, making him sound like a parent whose last fragile thread of patience has snapped.
“Mrs. O’Toole, I have never asked you to wait for me, nor am I asking now, nor will I at any time in the future.”
Poor Mrs. O’Toole looked like a lost kitten as Reuben turned and continued up the stairs. At the top, the door to his room shut with an extra-loud thud, and Maggie didn’t see him the rest of the day. As far as she knew, no one else did either. The group ate their meal in silence. Mrs. O’Toole merely picked at her plate, sniffing occasionally and glancing toward the top of the stairs every five minutes.
Monday morning, Reuben had come downstairs while Maggie was helping Mrs. O’Toole prepare breakfast. He poured himself a cup of coffee, drank half of it, then left the cup on the counter and headed toward the front door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned around briefly. “Mrs. O’Toole, I owe you and the others an apology for my behavior yesterday. I’m sorry.” Without waiting for her reply, he left.
Clearly, something had happened after church on Sunday, and he wasn’t ready to talk about it. Maggie’s pride was wounded. She had already dumped so much on him. Surely he knew he could share his problems with her. Hadn’t their friendship meant more to him than that?
That afternoon her bus stopped half a block from the insurance office, and she walked the rest of the way. It turned out that, just as she had thought, no funds could be released until the fire department declared that there was no suspicion of foul play—at least not by anyone who stood to gain anything as a result of the fire. At least there was no appearance of Earl’s name anywhere on the paperwork. When the money finally came through, it would be hers alone.
Her next stop was the post office. They had been collecting her mail since the fire and now encouraged her to rent a mailbox to which they could forward any future mail until she was settled somewhere. She did so, sighing over the extra cost, and carried home the small bundle that had accumulated. On the bus ride home, she flipped through it. Besides bills, there was a letter for Charlotte from her parents and a note for Maggie from one of her former girls, Cornelia Simpson. Apparently, her last name was Baker now. Maggie read the note as the bus bumped along.
Dear Mrs. Marshall,
I thought you might like to know how I’ve been doing since finishing normal school. I got a teaching position at my childhood school here in Roseburg and will be starting my second year next week. It’s challenging with eight grades all in the same class, but I love it! Better than that, I got married in July to Stuart Baker. Stuart is a teacher at the town school, so we have a lot in common. Life is going well—as well as can be expected with the war and everything. Of course, we all hope it is over soon. Stuart has been helping out with pulpit supply on Sundays. Sadly, our church is without a pastor right now. Pastor Johnson, the man who married us, was called away to care for his aging parents after the death of his younger brother overseas. Stuart is wonderful with children, but does not truly feel led to teach or preach to adults!
I think of you often as I tend my garden and prepare some of the recipes you taught me to make. I hope you and the restaurant are doing well and that your husband will soon be home.
Sincerely,
Cornelia (Simpson) Baker
Maggie read the note two more times. Among all the girls she’d sheltered, Cornelia stood out. She was the hardest worker and the most levelheaded, by far. The most ambitious, too, finishing high school by correspondence while she worked in the restaurant and waited for her baby to arrive. Even with all that on her plate, she also took the most interest in learning cooking and serving skills and in doing her work with integrity. It was surprising that a girl like that would even find herself in such a position in the first place. But Maggie never asked, and the girls rarely volunteered the circumstances surrounding their confinement. Most of them, like Charlotte, held high hopes that their babies’ fathers would come galloping in like knights in shining armor and make everything right. They never did.
So, Cornelia had saved up her restaurant earnings and gone on to be a teacher. Maggie was not surprised to hear she was doing well and had already married. She was a pretty girl, and pleasant—even in the face of Maggie’s cold treatment. She supposed she should write back and inform Cornelia of the loss of the restaurant, in case she was ever in the city and came looking. One could always hope.
But there wasn’t time for such things now. Maggie picked up a newspaper at the stand next to the bus stop and walked to Mrs. O’Toole’s in time to help with lunch preparations. It was the least she could do, since Mrs. O’Toole insisted she wasn’t charging either Maggie or Charlotte room and board until they could get their situations settled.
Reuben did not return for lunch.
After the dishes were cleared away, Maggie spent the first hour of the afternoon looking for job ads in the paper, and the remainder of the day visiting four different restaurants that were looking for cooks and waitresses. At the first three, she introduced herself to the manager on duty and each told her the same thing: They were not hiring.
The last restaurant she visited was in the Fort Garry Hotel, the grandest hotel in Winnipeg. Lots of famous people had stayed there, including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and King George and Queen Elizabeth. Maggie had been there once, for a wedding, and thought herself awfully bold to be approaching the imposing building now—especially with the dinner hour only a couple of hours away. But what did she have to lose?
The maître d’ looked Maggie up and down when she explained why she was there. She was certain he was about to dismiss her when, to her surprise, the manager walked up behind him and asked a point-blank question.
“Did I hear you say Bert’s Restaurant?”
Maggie nodded. “Bert Sutherland
was my father.”
“That place has a reputation for great pie. You the baker by any chance?”
“Yes, of course.” Maggie tried not to stammer. “And chief cook.”
“If you can crank out ten pies in time for tonight’s dessert cart, and if they meet our standards, you might just have yourself a job.”
“N-now?” Maggie did stammer this time.
“Our pastry chef enlisted in the army and didn’t show up for work. I’m desperate. You willing or not?” The man said most of this without looking up from the clipboard he carried.
“Uh—sure. Can I just make one telephone call?” Maggie fished through her purse for Mrs. O’Toole’s number.
“Show her the phone, Marcel, then show her the kitchen,” the manager said to the maître d’, before turning away so he could tackle his next dilemma. He hadn’t even given Maggie his name, nor had he asked for hers.
CHAPTER 29
Charlotte stared at her reflection in Mrs. O’Toole’s full-length mirror, slightly tilted on its stand. Despite her new matronly figure, she still looked like a child. Her long, sandy blond hair had not been trimmed in over a year and hung to the middle of her back. The skirt and blouse she wore were offerings from Mrs. O’Toole’s attic and tragically outdated.
She knew she should feel grateful, and she was trying. The truth was, Mrs. O’Toole was rapidly becoming her only companion. Mrs. Marshall was busy with business affairs and job hunting. Her new friend, Reverend Fennel, who had seemed so kind and trustworthy, was suddenly distant. She still had not succeeded in reaching her parents by telephone. She had called her friend Rose, who was eager to hear whatever Charlotte might know about the fire, which was nothing. Rose expressed no interest in Charlotte’s baby, but was excited about starting her last year of high school this week.