The Widow
Monday is the furthest away from God’s day, which makes it more of a weekend for Father Johnstone. He sleeps in late, around 9:00 or 9:30—whenever his Yorkshire terrier, Mary, begins licking the pastor’s hand to wake him up, a trick she learned many years ago. The two get out of bed. Father Johnstone fires up the coffee pot, having prepared the grounds and water the night before, and lets Mary out into the marigold-spotted pasture through the back door. She takes her usual three or four energetic laps around the yard before relieving herself, and the pastor grabs the newspaper off the front porch.
Reading The Pratt Tribune is part leisure and part homework for Father Johnstone. Over coffee—a teeth-staining black, no sugar or cream—he flips to the Local section, checking birth announcements, engagements, obituaries. If someone in Pratt passes on, there’s an entire family tree that Father Johnstone will need to be extra sensitive to. He needs to know which townsfolk receive congratulations or condolences, which couples might request the services of the church for a baptism or wedding. The paper has always been his way of staying one step ahead.
As The Good Book says: ‘Keep watch over your flock. Be thou diligent to know the state of thy flock, and look well to thy herds.’
Although Father Johnstone stays well-informed through the daily news, the reality is that he usually knows the story before it’s published, as was the case with Travis Durphy and his engagement to Heather Graybel. Today, there is no death or new life, no marital bond that he needs to concern himself with. The only thing of interest to him is the daily crossword puzzle (a favorite pastime of his) and an article reporting an overwhelming amount of pests eating the crops, which could severely hurt the town if not handled soon.
The pastor is about halfway through the first paragraph when he hears Mary scratching at the screen door, immediately darting for the fridge when Father Johnstone lets her back into the kitchen. She casts her eyes to the dish up top containing an assortment of brick red, beige, and pine-green milk bones, barking in anticipation and bouncing on her bony hind legs. Besides the afternoon walks Father Johnstone takes her on and the hard nap that follows, this is the highlight of Mary’s day. Some of the men tease Father Johnstone for having what they consider an effeminate-looking dog, often saying something to the effect of, ‘How the heck you supposed’ta tree a coon with that lil’ rat, preacher?’ It’s all in good fun though. The people of Pratt have a certain amount of pity for the man who will never marry, never have kids of his own, and who will never know the love of a woman (physical or otherwise). He is devoted to God and the flock, but this can be a lonely existence at times, and so Father Johnstone snatched up Mary without second thought when he heard Shirley Adams was selling puppies for $50 a head at the market square.
It was nine years ago when Mrs. Adams plucked one of these little bears from a wicker basket by the scruff of the neck, handing her over to the pastor pale belly-first. She was barely bigger than a peach, black and tan. Soft. Softer than anything. Mary licked the print of Father Johnstone’s thumb and acknowledged him with beady black eyes that squinted in the sunlight. Her nose was wet coal, framed in tiny strands of caramel. Then, right as the pastor was falling in love, Mrs. Adams said, “She’s not for sale, Father. I’m sorry.” And his heart cracked. A bruise spread over Father Johnstone’s chest as he slowly extended his arms, palms up and full of fur, ready to hand Mary back over. She’d be with some other family by the end of the hour, he thought, seeing her only in passing on his walks through Pratt for years to come. She’d be ‘the one that got away,’ as they say. But then Mrs. Adams said, “No, I can’t take money for that one,” smiling mischievously at her own prank, and Father Johnstone let his arms reel back in where Mary settled in the crook of his elbow, nuzzling her face into his bicep. “I think you’re just going to have to take the little lady home with ya,” she said. “And I’ll say a prayer that she doesn’t chew up too much of your stuff.”
There’s not a piece of furniture in the house that doesn’t have tears in the fabric or splinters of wood missing. Mary’s teeth were particularly unyielding, especially in the first couple years, but he loves her, even during her destructive spells. He’s grown to appreciate the markings of his little companion. Every scar in his coffee table or stain in the carpet brings a smile to his face. They give the home character, keeping that memory of the bear in the basket alive and well. Father Johnstone always makes a point to stop by the Adams place at least once a month to visit with Shirley. They’ll chat over coffee while Mary plays with her siblings, Missy and Chips. The parents passed on some years ago from natural causes, and Father Johnstone could swear he’d never seen a bigger turnout for a dog funeral, let alone two.
After breakfast, Father Johnstone lets the dishes and pan soak in hot tap water and soap, continuing his morning routine of a shower and shave. He puts on his usual garb, a short-sleeve button down and dark slacks, black cowboy boots with gray embroidery. After giving Mary a little scratch behind the ear, he heads out the door.
The market is only a few blocks away from Father Johnstone’s house, so he prefers walking over driving. Bringing out the car for such a short trip seems like a waste, and gas is fairly expensive in Pratt, being a small town and all. Besides Mary, the only other prize possession that Father Johnstone has is the 1970 Dodge Challenger sitting under a cloth tarp in his garage, which is probably in need of a good wash. He got it for cheap from a fellow a couple towns over in Barnes, mostly because the guy wanted it off his lot. “It’s just killing grass and collectin’ bugs sitting here,” he said, giving the sagging tires a little kick.
The car needed work, a slew of repairs, and the kind of attention only a non-married man with time on his hands could afford. A lot of pastors in small towns make this same move, either to cope with the loneliness or to give them some additional fulfillment beyond the flock. Instead of building a family, Father Johnstone built a car. He couldn’t have a child, so he bought the closest thing to it. Substitutions like these keep the hands busy, keep the mind from wandering off the righteous path. The heart can love without drifting into the dark fields of lust. It is the delicate balance of being a man of God and being simply a man. Without Mary, without the Challenger and his routine, Father Johnstone fears the solitude would have taken over. Turned him somehow.
At Rawlings market, Father Johnstone picks up the usual: apples, yellow pears, a tin of strawberries to twist in sugar. He gets a loaf of sourdough and some lettuce for sandwiches. Mrs. Rawlings comes over while he’s browsing through the wooden crates of produce, telling him he’s got to try the new cider her husband made over the weekend. Father Johnstone obliges, putting a couple liters in his bag along with some ears of corn. He then backtracks two blocks to the butcher’s, ordering a half-pound of lean turkey, some baby swiss, a few cutlets of pork, and one strip steak. Mary, of course, will be expecting her share of the leftovers.
A block east of the butcher’s is the Presto Diner, a place that has had a recent swell in customers thanks to the addition of a new waitress, Miss Madeline Paige. She had been living in Portland up until a few months ago when her aunt Josephine got sick and passed on, leaving the house to her next of kin. The mortgage note had already been paid off. It just needed to be claimed, but a few property hounds were praying it wouldn’t, considering its vicinity to the daisy hill and that beautiful view. Josephine used to always say nothing brought her more joy than watching that hill turn to popcorn every spring.
Auction murmurs ran rampant, but after a few weeks of going through the paperwork, the town finally discovered the identity and whereabouts of Miss Madeline Paige of Portland, Oregon. She was asked to come to Pratt to settle the affairs of the property, and two Greyhound buses and a cab later, the twenty-four-year-old city girl walked down the main road turning the head of every boy she passed. “A smile that could start a campfire,” they said. “And eyes just as warm.”
Madeline fell in love with the town, the people. Life was si
mple in Pratt. The air was clean. And she marveled at the daisy hill, just like her aunt did. Father Johnstone personally took Miss Paige to the cemetery to pay her respects after she got her paperwork for the house in order. It was the least he could do since she missed the actual funeral. Madeline and her aunt were never that close, so she took it well. No tears. She placed white tulips on the burial plot and asked Father Johnstone to tell her stories about her aunt and the town.
“And they can’t be sad,” Madeline said. “I’ve had enough sadness in my life already, so you better put a smile on my face.”
Father Johnstone spent that afternoon sharing coffee and pecan pie with Madeline, and for every memory he shared about the town and Josephine, he got a story in return about the city of Portland and all of Madeline’s other travels. Despite her young age, she had seen much of the world so far: New York, California, Texas, and even Europe. Pratt was to be another chapter of that.
“I’ll leave when it’s time to leave,” she said. “But for now, I’m home.”
Father Johnstone would almost consider her a drifter if the term didn’t sound so disparaging. However, Madeline settled into her new house quick enough. There was never a moving truck or series of packages delivered to the doorstep. She came to town with nothing but a leather satchel and the clothes on her back. Many of the women stopped by with casseroles and desserts to help fill the fridge. “Just to help you by until you get your feet on the ground,” they said. A few days later she got the job at Presto Diner, and suddenly, all the young men were compelled to eat greasy eggs and burnt waffles in hopes of getting a peek at ‘the new girl in town.’ $10 tips were being left on orders of sour pink lemonade and not-so-sweet tea. It was quite the spectacle.
It remains so even now, all these months later as Father Johnstone walks in with his paper sack of groceries. Every booth, table, and stool is occupied, mostly by grain plant workers on their lunch break, but Father Johnstone recognizes a cluster of boys in the back corner as students. This doesn’t hold his attention long though. The priest smells something in the air, a scent he’s never encountered before in all his years of coming to Presto. It’s the smell of cooking. Not burning or grease fire, but real down home cooking, and it almost makes the pastor wish he could sit down and have one of Mr. Farson’s golden brown waffles or a side of perfectly crisp bacon that old man Clevenger is pushing down his gullet. Presto has never been known for its food. In fact, just the opposite. Often times you’ll overhear people say, “Too short on time and money for a real meal. Gonna hit Presto.”
Considering the boost in clientele and quality, the once-seedy diner is starting to look a little more appealing. Father Johnstone would be sorely tempted to sit down if it weren’t for the lack of space, not to mention a few cuts of meat in his bag that are already losing their cool. A moment later he meets eyes with Madeline, who is in the middle of pouring coffee for a couple of plant workers. She gives the pastor a smile from behind the counter, holding up her index finger and mouthing, “One sec,” before dashing back into the kitchen. She emerges seconds later holding a paper plate, wrapped in tinfoil and tied off in red yarn, announcing over her shoulder, “Be right back with more coffee, Mr. Curtis.” He smiles and tips his hat.
“Father, I’ve got a confession to make,” Madeline says. “My feet are killing me and I’ve taken the Lord’s name in vain at least seventeen times today already.” She smiles. Every man in the diner wants to be Father Johnstone right now as they attempt to stifle their envy with short stacks or home fries.
“Well then, I thank the Lord I know you’re joking, Miss Paige,” he says, returning a smile of his own. “And I’ll pray for your feet.”
She laughs. “Foot prayers? Really, Johnstone? If you do that I’m going to stop baking for you, although you’ve got so many fine ladies baking for you I’m not sure that’s much of a threat.”
“Do I sense some jealousy in our big city girl?” Father Johnstone teases. Even though the knives and forks continue to clink against the plates, he can still feel every eye in the diner on himself and Madeline.
“Well,” she considers, “the way to a man’s heart is his stomach, and from what I hear, nearly every girl in town has had their way with yours,” Madeline teases back, placing the plate carefully in the grocery sack that’s in the crook of Father Johnstone’s arm. “Peanut butter, oatmeal raisin, and white chocolate chip—and let me know if the oatmeal is too heavy on nutmeg. Might’ve gone a little overboard.”
“You really want to win this contest, don’t you?”
“Johnstone, you’re not a woman of Pratt until you’ve proven you can bake,” Madeline says. “So I’m really counting on that overwhelming sense of honesty you have.”
“I will surely do my best then,” he nods, trying his damndest not to blush or grin like an idiot. The flock needs to know that at least one person can resist the charms and campfire smile of Miss Madeline Paige.
“I know you will,” she says. “Now I’ve gotta get back. Feel free to stop by later with your pup if you’re out for a walk.”
“We might just do that,” he says.
Father Johnstone exits the Presto Diner panging with hunger, and yet, oddly satisfied with his brief encounter with Madeline. She’s injected new life into this town, increased its morale somehow. The women of Pratt love stopping by the Paige residence for a glass of cider, or even some wine if it’s late enough in the evening. They’ll sit on the porch swing admiring the daisy hill, and Madeline will tell them her tales of living around the country: the fast life of New York, the dirty glamour of L.A., and most recently, Portland’s endearing weirdness.
“There’s a place where they make a doughnut that has cough syrup in it,” Madeline revealed once, and although the ladies laughed, there was much revolt at the idea of someone willingly putting that in their mouth, not to mention paying hard-earned money to do it. Portland might as well have been Jupiter as far as the ladies were concerned.
For these otherworldly anecdotes Madeline receives recipes, homemade wines, and directions on where to find the best ingredients in Pratt for a particular dish or stew. There’s also the issue of town gossip, and due to the fact that Madeline is ‘the new girl in town,’ the women and wives delight in catching her up on who is shacking with who and any scandal, be it ever so trivial. It’s smalltown drama.
Madeline Paige is viewed in a similar light as Danger was: bigger than the town of Pratt, and yet, a steadfast admirer of its people and charm. It’s the ones like Madeline who can leave at any time that remind the lifers just how special this place is, and it makes Father Johnstone wonder if her coming here is simple coincidence or a gift from God. Did the Lord see it fit to take Josephine so that he could send Madeline in her stead? he wonders. And how long will she stay?
Consumed by these thoughts, Father Johnstone is very nearly home when he notices a red ribbon tied around Helena Wright’s mailbox. It wasn’t there before when he passed by on his way to Rawlings market—he’s sure of it. The ribbon sticks out like blood on a sheet the way it’s wrapped around the white post. It’s been at least three months since he’s seen it, calling out to Father Johnstone in just the way they had agreed upon: an emergency.
For a brief moment, Father Johnstone considers walking the remaining two blocks back to his house to drop off the groceries, but then he sees Helena in the window. Her finger has the curtain pulled aside, eyes staring him down. Beckoning. He can’t leave, not when she’s so obviously seen him on the fringe of her front yard. With the burst of the spring season in effect, her lawn is more wild than ever. The blades easily come halfway up his boots as he treads through, stomping towards the front door that’s in dire need of a paint job. Helena already has the door cracked before the pastor can ready his knuckles to knock, and he enters stiffly, preparing himself for the same story he’s heard before:
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