But Father Crisp and the Sisters of Mercy, knowing of her only that she shared those original parents shared by everyone, named her Judith Sorrow: Sorrow for her situation, and Judith for that Apocryphal widow who defeated the army of Nebuchadnezzar by herself cutting off the head of his general, Holofernes. They named her that; then told her to be a good, obedient girl; then fed her, clothed her, and taught her what they knew. Still, she had in these last five years hardly attended Mass at all. Poor child, sighed the old priest, inching his hips over to escape the spot where a spring poked up in his lumpy mattress. Poor child. Pray God this tragedy isn't the last straw for her, and she turns her face entirely away from His loving kindness, unreconciled. Why in the world had God tried this particular child in this particularly horrible way? And conscientiously attempting to discover the answer to this question, Father Crisp fell asleep.
His Anglican brother, Father Sloan Highwick, had gone to bed hours earlier, without a single word written on his Whitsunday sermon. For more than forty years of Saturday nights, Highwick had said that he probably should jot down some notes in preparation of his pastoral duty, but somehow he never did it, finally relying on his general maxim that it was all to the glory of the Lord anyhow, whatever we do.
He slept and was joined one by one by other Dingleyans as night moved across all the round earth, until only one light burned high above the little town, shining from the window where Ramona Dingley lay, watched over by Orchid and Sammy and Jonathan. And the light kept darkness away until the Morning Star came and found it burning.
part seven
chapter 67
Father Highwick drew to a close:
"And finally, dear friends, on this Whitsunday feast let us remind ourselves of these three or four great truths. Truly God is no great respecter of persons. For He rains on all alike, and of course is more often sunny, we mustn't forget, though from down here it may seem a bit gloomy, or even splashes and no umbrella; for He told us after what happened to poor Noah that He would never flood us out again. And he's kept that promise like the True God He is. And yet, though all the same we're none of us alike, as we heard in today's Epistle, ah, sorry, yes, um, here it is: 'For to one is given by the Spirit the word of wisdom; to another the word of knowledge,' and it goes on and on, we might say, to butcher and baker and Indian chief, or anything we like; rich, poor, Christian or apostle, or rather apostate, male or female, married or monosexual. To God these little differences of opinion are nothing. Nothing. And so no matter what we do, my friends, it's all to the glory of the Lord. Which is my second point. And which is why, isn't it, that when after that glorious moment when Peter was enjoying a little picnic lunch up on a friend's roof and he fell asleep from the heat and the dust of the day, God came down to him in a great, huge, snowy white sheet so big its corners were the ends of the world, and God said to him something like, 'Peter. Why don't you let the Gentiles come and join in as well as the Jews, and don't hold a bit of surgery (that only half the population was getting anyhow, now that I think of it) against the whole rest of the world.' Which is why, after that, on Pentecost the apostles began with no planning ahead to speak in tongues so all the multitudes were amazed and understood every word of that gibberish just as if it were English. Whether they were Parthians or Moabites and I think some Romans were there and Cappadocians and all those other little countries that are all over the Holy Lands. And I know that there are a few denominations who even in this day and age have continued to see fit to have convulsions and babble away for all they're worth, I'm sure with the best intentions in the world, but I really think we needn't go to that length here at St. Andrew's in order to find words to wonder at the wonderful works of God. Of which we ourselves are surely the wonderfulest, or most wonderful, of all. Think of all those people together talking away in a great hubbub, not the Tower of Babel now, but a babble of Good News. For what is the Good News? I'm reminded that our curate, Father Fields, whom we've been so proud and happy to have with us this last year, told me, I think, that 'gossip' and 'gospel' meant the same thing. Or perhaps that wasn't it. I see Jonathan laughing there! I know, it was that 'gossip' means 'kinsman'! Yes, and so does 'kind.' And that's my fourth point. Kindness and kinship. If someone, our parent or child or friend or whoever, asks any one of us for bread, will we give him a stone? Or if fish, will we give him a serpent? Let's remember to ask, 'How much more shall your Heavenly Father give?'
And if we can listen so happily to a song—I know at least personally I love to sing, though I've been told I can't carry a tune at all—then perhaps what sounds like babble to us sounds to God with His great universal ears like sublimest music! My friends, it is not the letters or the language of the words, but their spirit.
"Trust in the spirit of the words no matter if they make no sense.
In the Pennsylvania town where my mother grew up, a church minister kept calling for God to strike with lightning an apparently (I was too young to know myself one way or the other) salacious and evil beer hall that was too great a temptation to the poor thirsty miners. And lightning did strike it, and there it was burned to ashes.
And the beer hall owner hired a lawyer, and he sued the minister.
And the minister laughed and said, 'Don't be an idiot.'
"But God is an idiot. I mean, God is an idiot to the wise. And who do you suppose was saved? The wise minister? Or the poor beer hall manager? Well, let's hope they both were. But our Savior will always leave the fat sober sheep in the pen and go out in the dark of night to search for the one little drunken ewe that has wandered off and toppled into a ditch. And if Christ will stoop down in that ditch, let's try not to mind too much the mud on our knees. Or stand above and pitch down rocks. Or walk away and say, 'I don't understand what you're saying. We don't speak the same language.' Because the same heart beats in every human breast. And so, sixth but last, my good neighbors. This has been a horrible week. With this awful fire.
And I don't think I can remember quite so many sorrowful deaths in so short a span since we lost that June so many of our good boys overseas fighting Hitler because there comes a point when you have to.
Some of you have come to me and said that saying that death has no dominion since Christ died does not help the hurt. So I would say, well, I remember my mother told me often, 'Sloan, never grab a rose.'
Of course, perhaps she meant because of briars, but we could say that our loved ones are all roses, and we only kill them when we won't hold open our hands, and their deaths only hurt us when we clutch.
So in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Next week will be much better. It always is. Such is Life. Amen."
Prudence Lattice listened with affection to Father Highwick's sermon, though he had told the congregation the story of the beer hall many times before. For some odd reason she was having strange, sudden pains in her chest, and then a jabbing, funny kind of pain running down her arms. Don't be melodramatic, she told herself.
These last few days have you all upset; put it out of your mind. And quickly she rummaged through her purse to find a dollar before Ernest Ransom reached her back pew with the gold plate. And as the offertory was collected, the Alexander Hamilton Academy Choir, celestially scrubbed and robed, sang "Gloria" as well as they could.
And Mass was said. And Communion offered. For some odd reason, Prudence Lattice was having difficulty straightening up. Alone in the pew in front of her she noticed the attractive young man, the academy headmaster, to whom she'd given her handkerchief on Saturday. She tapped his shoulder, and when he jerked around, she whispered, "Excuse me. Will you be taking Communion?"
"No, ah, no, not at all. Came to hear the choir. My boys. Not a member."
She tapped his shoulder again and whispered, "Excuse me. I'm sorry to bother you, but I have this funny stitch in my side for some reason and can't seem to get going by myself. Could I ask for your arm so I could take Communion? Would you mind?"
What could he do? Refuse her? Walter
Saar slid out of the pew and helped the tiny elderly woman out of hers. Together they started down the aisle, then stood at the back of the line of communicants who were waiting, Saar was thinking crimson-faced, to gobble God like piglets at a sow, shepherded there by their babbling pastor.
There at the rail the congregation knelt, different sizes and colors and ages all scrunched together as the smiling Father Highwick and the serious, radiant Jonathan walked among them offering a corpse's body and blood as gifts, Walter told himself as he felt the slight weight of the woman lean into him. Some at the rail he recognized. Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Ransom were handsome even from the rear. Beside Priss, Tracy Canopy, and next to her the emaciated wraith of what looked like the sort of old derelict Walter suspected he would someday become if he didn't stop drinking, an old man with matted hair and no socks, and next to him the huge bulk of Otto Scaper, and next to him two teenagers, one blind, and next to them Walter walked slowly beside the bent figure of Prudence Lattice, just as Priss Ransom, starting to stand, nearly stumbled back to her knees at the sight of him. For as Walter attempted to disconnect himself from her arm, Prudence plopped down onto the purple cushion and pulled him down with her. Toward them came the rector with the silver cup of wafers and behind him the curate with the gold cup of wine. Above them was the larger-than-life crucifix and in front of them was the choir, singing, and, no doubt, staring at their headmaster. Everyone else along the rail was reaching out, and suddenly Walter Saar, the color of the cushion and feeling a perfect fool, said out loud, "Oh, what the hell!" and reached out his hands, too.
About the Author
Michael Malone is the author of ten works of fiction and two works of nonfiction. Educated at Carolina and at Harvard, he has taught at Yale, at the University of Pennsylvania, and at Swarthmore. Among his prizes are the Edgar, the O.Henry, the Writers Guild Award, and the Emmy. He lives in Hillsborough, North Carolina, with his wife, Maureen Quilligan, chair of the English department at Duke University.
Document Outline
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Dingley Falls, Conneticut
The People
Part One Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11
Part Two Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22
Part Three Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33
Part Four Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44
Part Five Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55
Part Six Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66
Part Seven Chapter 67
About the Author
Back Cover
Michael Malone Page 63