The Winds of Marble Arch and Other Stories

by Connie Willis

  She wondered if this was some sort of vision, the kind people were always getting where they saw Jesus’ face on a refrigerator, or the Virgin Mary dressed in blue and white, surrounded by roses. But their rough brown cloaks were dripping melted snow on the nursery carpet, their feet in the useless sandals were bright red with cold, and they looked too frightened.

  And they didn’t look at all like they did in religious pictures. They were too short, his hair was greasy and his face was tough-looking, like a young punk’s, and her veil looked like a grubby dishtowel and it didn’t hang loose, it was tied around her neck and knotted in the back, and they were too young, almost as young as the children upstairs dressed like them.

  They were looking around the room frightenedly, at the white crib and the rocking chair and the light fixture overhead. The boy fumbled in his sash and brought out a leather sack. He held it out to Sharon.

  “How did you get here?” she said wonderingly. “You’re supposed to be on your way to Bethlehem.”

  He thrust the bag at her, and when she didn’t take it, untied the leather string and took out a crude-looking coin and held it out.

  “You don’t have to pay me,” she said, which was ridiculous. He couldn’t understand her. She held a flat hand up, pushing the coin away and shaking her head. That was a universal sign, wasn’t it? And what was the sign for welcome? She spread her arms out, smiling at the youngsters. “You are welcome to stay here,” she said, trying to put the meaning of the words into her voice. “Sit down. Rest.”

  They remained standing. Sharon pulled the rocking chair. “Sit, please.”

  Mary looked frightened, and Sharon put her hands on the arms of the chair and sat down to show her how. Joseph immediately knelt, and Mary tried awkwardly to.

  “No, no!” Sharon said, and stood up so fast she set the rocking chair swinging. “Don’t kneel. I’m nobody.” She looked hopelessly at them. “How did you get here? You’re not supposed to be here.”

  Joseph stood up. “Erkas,” he said, and went over to the bulletin board.

  It was covered with colored pictures from Jesus’ life: Jesus healing the lame boy, Jesus in the temple, Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane.

  He pointed to the picture of the Nativity scene. “Kumrah,” he said.

  Does he recognize himself? she wondered, but he was pointing at the donkey standing by the manger. “Erkas,” he said. “Erkas.”

  Did that mean “donkey,” or something else? Was he demanding to know what she had done with theirs, or trying to ask her if she had one? In all the pictures, all the versions of the story Mary was riding a donkey, but she had thought they’d gotten that part of the story wrong, as they had gotten everything else wrong, their faces, their clothes, and above all their youth, their helplessness.

  “Kumrah erkas,” he said. “Kumrah erkas. Bott lom?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know where Bethlehem is.”

  Or what to do with you, she thought. Her first instinct was to hide them here until the rehearsal was over and everybody had gone home. She couldn’t let Reverend Farrison find them.

  But surely as soon as she saw who they were, she would—what? Fall to her knees? Or call for the shelter’s van? “That’s the second couple tonight,” she’d said when she shut the door. Sharon wondered suddenly if it was them she’d turned away, if they’d wandered around the parking lot, lost and frightened, and then knocked on the door again.

  She couldn’t let Reverend Farrison find them, but there was no reason for her to come into the nursery. All the children were upstairs, and the refreshments were in the adult Sunday school room. But what if she checked the rooms before she locked up?

  I’ll take them home with me, Sharon thought. They’ll be safe there. If she could get them up the stairs and out of the parking lot before the rehearsal ended.

  I got them down here without anybody seeing them, she thought. But even if she could manage it, which she doubted, if they didn’t die of fright when she started the car and the seat belts closed down over them, home was no better than the shelter.

  They had gotten lost through some accident of time and space, and ended up at the church. The way back—if there was a way back, there had to be a way back, they had to be at Bethlehem by tomorrow night—was here.

  It occurred to her suddenly that maybe she shouldn’t have let them in, that the way back was outside the north door. But I couldn’t not let them in, she protested, it was snowing, and they didn’t have any shoes.

  But maybe if she’d turned them away, they would have walked off the porch and back into their own time. Maybe they still could.

  She said, “Stay here,” putting her hand up to show them what she meant, and went out of the nursery into the hall, shutting the door tightly behind her.

  The choir was still singing “Joy to the World.” They must have had to stop again. Sharon ran silently up the stairs and past the adult Sunday school room. Its door was still half-open, and she could see the plates of cookies on the table. She opened the north door, hesitating a moment as if she expected to see sand and camels, and leaned out. It was still sleeting, and the cars had an inch of snow on them.

  She looked around for something to wedge the door open with, pushed one of the potted palms over, and went out on the porch. It was slick, and she had to take hold of the wall to keep her footing. She stepped carefully to the edge of the porch and peered into the sleet, already shivering, looking for what? A lessening of the sleet, a spot where the darkness was darker, or not so dark? A light?

  Nothing. After a minute she stepped off the porch, moving as cautiously as Mary and Joseph had going down the stairs, and made a circuit of the parking lot.

  Nothing. If the way back had been out here, it wasn’t now, and she was going to freeze if she stayed out here. She went back inside, and then stood there, staring at the door, trying to think what to do. I’ve got to get help, she thought, hugging her arms to herself for warmth. I’ve got to tell somebody. She started down the hall to the sanctuary.

  The organ had stopped. “Mary and Joseph, I need to talk to you for a minute,” Rose’s voice said. “Shepherds, leave your crooks on the front pew. The rest of you, there are refreshments in the adult Sunday school room. Choir, don’t leave. I need to go over some things with you.”

  There was a clatter of sticks and then a stampede, and Sharon was overwhelmed by shepherds elbowing their way to the refreshments. One of the wise men caught his Air Jordan in his robe and nearly fell down, and two of the angels lost their tinsel halos in their eagerness to reach the cookies.

  Sharon fought through them and into the back of the sanctuary. Rose was in the side aisle, showing Mary and Joseph how to walk, and the choir was gathering up their music. Sharon couldn’t see Dee.

  Virginia came down the center aisle, stripping off her robe as she walked. Sharon went to meet her. “Do you know where Dee is?” she asked her.

  “She went home,” Virginia said, handing Sharon a folder. “You left this on your chair.” Dee’s voice was giving out completely, and I said, “This is silly. Go home and go to bed.”

  “Virginia…” Sharon said.

  “Can you put my robe away for me?” Virginia said, pulling her stole off her head. “I’ve got exactly ten minutes to get to the mall.”

  Sharon nodded absently, and Virginia draped it over her arm and hurried out. Sharon scanned the choir, wondering who else she could confide in.

  Rose dismissed Mary and Joseph, who went off at a run, and crossed to the center aisle. “Rehearsal tomorrow night at 6:15,” she said. “I need you in your robes and up here right on time, because I’ve got to practice with the brass quartet at 6:40. Any questions?”

  Yes, Sharon thought, looking around the sanctuary. Who can I get to help me?

  “What are we singing for the processional?” one of the tenors asked.

  “‘Adeste Fideles,’” Rose said. “Before you leave, let’s line up so you can see who you
r partner is.”

  Reverend Wall was sitting in one of the back pews, looking at the notes to his sermon. Sharon sidled along the pew and sat down next to him.

  “Reverend Wall,” she said, and then had no idea how to start. “Do you know what erkas means? I think it’s Hebrew.”

  He raised his head from his notes and peered at her. “It’s Aramaic. It means ‘lost.’”

  “Lost.” He’d been trying to tell her at the door, in the furnace room, downstairs. “We’re lost.”

  “Forgotten,” Reverend Wall said. “Misplaced.”

  Misplaced, all right. By two thousand years, an ocean, and how many miles?

  “When Mary and Joseph journeyed up to Bethlehem from Nazareth, how did they go?” she asked, hoping he would say, “Why are you asking all these questions?” so she could tell him, but he said, “Ah. You weren’t listening to my sermon. We know nothing of that journey, only that they arrived in Bethlehem.”

  Not at this rate, she thought.

  “Pass in the anthem,” Rose said from the chancel. “I’ve only got thirty copies, and I don’t want to come up short tomorrow night.”

  Sharon looked up. The choir was leaving. “On this journey, was there anyplace where they might have gotten lost?” she said hurriedly.

  “‘Erkas’ can also mean ‘hidden, passed out of sight,’” he said. “Aramaic is very similar to Hebrew. In Hebrew, the word—”

  “Reverend Wall,” Reverend Farrison said from the center aisle. “I need to talk to you about the benediction.”

  “Ah. Do you want me to give it now?” he said, and stood up, clutching his papers.

  Sharon took the opportunity to grab her folder and duck out. She ran downstairs after the choir.

  There was no reason for any of the choir to go into the nursery, but she stationed herself in the hall, sorting through the music in her folder as if she were putting it in order, and trying to think what to do.

  Maybe, if everyone went into the choir room, she could duck into the nursery or one of the Sunday school rooms and hide until everybody was gone. But she didn’t know whether Reverend Farrison checked each of the rooms before leaving. Or worse, locked them.

  She could tell her she needed to stay late, to practice the anthem, but she didn’t think Reverend Farrison would trust her to lock up, and she didn’t want to call attention to herself, to make Reverend Farrison think, “Where’s Sharon Englert? I didn’t see her leave.” Maybe she could hide in the chancel, or the flower room, but that meant leaving the nursery unguarded.

  She had to decide. The crowd was thinning out, the choir handing Rose their music and putting on their coats and boots. She had to do something. Reverend Farrison could come down the stairs any minute to search the nursery. But she continued to stand there, sorting blindly through her music, and Reverend Farrison came down the steps, carrying a ring of keys.

  Sharon stepped back protectively, the way Joseph had, but Reverend Farrison didn’t even see her. She went up to Rose and said, “Can you lock up for me? I’ve got to be at Emmanuel Lutheran at 9:30 to collect their Least of These contributions.”

  “I was supposed to go meet with the brass quartet—” Rose said reluctantly.

  Don’t let Rose talk you out of it, Sharon thought.

  “Be sure to lock all the doors, including the Fellowship Hall,” Reverend Farrison said, handing her the keys.

  “No, I’ve got mine,” Rose said. “But—”

  “And check the parking lot. There were some homeless hanging around earlier. Thanks.”

  She ran upstairs, and Sharon immediately went over to Rose. “Rose,” she said.

  Rose held out her hand for Sharon’s anthem.

  Sharon shuffled through her music and handed it to her. “I was wondering,” she said, trying to keep her voice casual, “I need to stay and practice the music for tomorrow. I’d be glad to lock up for you. I could drop the keys by your house tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, you’re a godsend,” Rose said. She handed Sharon the stack of music and got her keys out of her purse. “These are the keys to the outside doors, north door, east door, Fellowship Hall,” she said, ticking them off so fast, Sharon couldn’t see which was which, but it didn’t matter. She could figure them out after everybody left.

  “This is the choir-room door,” Rose said. She handed them to Sharon. “I really appreciate this. The brass quartet couldn’t come to the rehearsal, they had a concert tonight, and I really need to go over the introit with them. They’re having a terrible time with the middle part.”

  So am I, Sharon thought.

  Rose yanked on her coat. “And after I meet with them, I’ve got to go over to Miriam Berg’s and pick up the baby Jesus.” She stopped, her arm half in her coat sleeve. “Did you need me to stay and go over the music with you?”

  “No!” Sharon said, alarmed. “No, I’ll be fine. I just need to run through it a couple of times.”

  “Okay. Great. Thanks again,” she said, patting her pockets for her keys. She took the keyring away from Sharon and unhooked her car keys. “You’re a godsend, I mean it,” she said, and took off up the stairs at a trot.

  Two of the altos came out, pulling on their gloves. “Do you know what I’ve got to face when I get home?” Julia said. “Putting up the tree.”

  They handed their music to Sharon.

  “I hate Christmas,” Karen said. “By the time it’s over, I’m worn to a frazzle.”

  They hurried up the stairs, still talking, and Sharon leaned into the choir room to make sure it was empty, dumped the music and Rose’s robe on a chair, took off her robe, and went upstairs.

  Miriam was coming out of the adult Sunday school room, carrying a pitcher of Kool-Aid. “Come on, Elizabeth,” she called into the room. “We’ve got to get to Buymore before it closes. She managed to completely destroy her halo,” she said to Sharon, “so now I’ve got to go buy some more tinsel. Elizabeth, we’re the last ones here.”

  Elizabeth strolled out, holding a Christmas-tree cookie in her mittened hand. She stopped halfway to the door to lick the cookie’s frosting.

  “Elizabeth,” Miriam said. “Come on.”

  Sharon held the door for them, and Miriam went out, ducking her head against the driving sleet. Elizabeth dawdled after her, looking up at the sky.

  Miriam waved. “See you tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll be here,” Sharon said, and shut the door. I’ll still be here, she thought. And what if they are? What happens then? Does the Christmas pageant disappear, and all the rest of it? The cookies and the shopping and the Senior Prom Barbies? And the church?

  She watched Miriam and Elizabeth through the stained-glass panel till she saw the car’s taillights, purple through the blue glass, pull out of the parking lot, and then tried the keys one after the other, till she found the right one, and locked the door.

  She checked quickly in the sanctuary and the bathrooms, in case somebody was still there, and then ran down the stairs to the nursery to make sure they were still there, that they hadn’t disappeared.

  They were there, sitting on the floor next to the rocking chair and sharing what looked like dried dates from an unfolded cloth. Joseph started to stand up as soon as he saw her poke her head in the door, but she motioned him back down. “Stay here,” she said softly, and realized she didn’t need to whisper. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’m just going to lock the doors.”

  She pulled the door shut, and went back upstairs. It hadn’t occurred to her they’d be hungry, and she had no idea what they were used to eating—unleavened bread? Lamb? Whatever it was, there probably wasn’t any in the kitchen, but the deacons had had an Advent supper last week. With luck, there might be some chili in the refrigerator. Or, better yet, some crackers.

  The kitchen was locked. She’d forgotten Miriam had said that, and anyway, one of the keys must open it. None of them did, and after she’d tried all of them twice she remembered they were Rose’s keys, not Reverend Farriso
n’s, and turned the lights on in the Fellowship Hall. There was tons of food in there, stacked on tables alongside the blankets and used clothes and toys. And all of it was in cans, just the way Reverend Farrison had specified in the bulletin.

  Miriam had taken the Kool-Aid home, but Sharon hadn’t seen her carrying any cookies. The kids probably ate them all, she thought, but she went into the adult Sunday school room and looked. There was half a paper-plateful left, and Miriam had been right—the kids liked the Christmas trees and Santas the best—the only ones left were yellow stars. There was a stack of paper cups, too. She picked them both up and took them downstairs.

  “I brought you some food,” she said, and set the plate on the floor between them.

  They were staring in alarm at her, and Joseph was scrambling to his feet.

  “It’s food,” she said, bringing her hand to her mouth and pretending to chew. “Cakes.”

  Joseph was pulling on Mary’s arm, trying to yank her up, and they were both staring, horrified, at her jeans and sweatshirt. She realized suddenly they must not have recognized her without her choir robe. Worse, the robe looked at least a little like their clothes, but this getup must have looked totally alien.

  “I’ll bring you something to drink,” she said hastily, showing them the paper cups, and went out. She ran down to the choir room. Her robe was still draped over the chair where she’d dumped it, along with Rose’s and the music. She put the robe on and then filled the paper cups at the water fountain and carried them back to the nursery.

  They were standing, but when they saw her in the robe, they sat back down. She handed Mary one of the paper cups, but she only looked at her fearfully. Sharon held it out to Joseph. He took it, too firmly, and it crumpled, water spurting onto the carpet.

  “That’s okay; it doesn’t matter,” Sharon said, cursing herself for being an idiot. “I’ll get you a real cup.”

  She ran upstairs, trying to think where there would be one. The coffee cups were in the kitchen, and so were the glasses, and she hadn’t seen anything in the Fellowship Hall or the adult Sunday school room.