Hill of Grace

by Stephen Orr

Hot here. But Tanunda too I guess. Some nights I don’t sleep so well. This is me lonely maybe, and the flat, which is hot but only very temporary, as I have already explained.

  The following pages were letters to the children, describing, as he already had in a dozen others, the city and its many wonders. Careful to avoid any criticism of Seymour, or even William. Creating, in every word, an alternative existence they wouldn’t be able to resist for too much longer.

  Thursday, March 19, two days to go. William woke early, tasting bacon in his mouth, smelling summer through every uncut hair in his nostrils. Without waking Bluma or eating breakfast he pulled on work pants and a shirt and headed off for Murray Street, past stores whose every detail had become as familiar as the freckles on Bluma’s arms. Paddon’s Garage, mortar crumbling between weathered ironstone, Mr Paddon himself out with his trowel, pitting himself against the rising damp of a thousand cleared paddocks. Tanunda Motors, its bitumen cracked in a spider-web William could draw from memory, starting at the footpath and finishing at a peppercorn tree consuming the walls of Davis’ Tank and Silo Makers. John Horsburgh’s papers and tobacco, breathing Port Royal onto a footpath which led around the corner to the Salvation Army hall, recently given over to Heron’s the draper with his Methodist church bell hung over the doorway, used and abused in the early afternoon as school kids climbed on each other’s shoulders, ringing the bell and running for their very lives as though they were the first that had ever thought of it.

  William knew that the township of Tanunda would be safe, mostly. Unaltered in its composition of small details forming a whole. That’s why he couldn’t understand why people had been so hard to convince. Like Miels the barber, wielding his clippers under a crucifix of polished oak, Jesus weeping for the same haircut a dozen times a day, five days a week for eternity and beyond. Miels was a sensible Catholic but like most, too eager to accept Rome’s version of events. Apparently the Pope hadn’t read Revelations. ‘You’ve made yourself a name, William,’ Miels said, as he trimmed William’s hair to within a micron of his scalp.

  William ran his hands over the stubble. ‘I haven’t made it, I was given it. Speak your mind you make enemies, Barry.’

  ‘Dunno. I speak my mind all day, don’t have no enemies. None that I know of anyway. Though I had this dream last night that me house was robbed.’

  A man so involved in small talk, busy bending over balding heads, William thought, that he doesn’t see his roof slowly cracking and caving in. Barry Miels – in his white, short-sleeved, cotton-blend uniform – made of more veneer than the lino which ran up his shop walls in a splatter pattern his wife had picked out. Barry, with the races on the radio, refusing to change stations for the William Millers of the world.

  William felt ready. He stopped at Eudunda Farmers and bought a bag of oranges, finishing two before he arrived at Seymour’s, sitting on the front porch with Bluma and the Hickses, up to their wrists in juice and pulp as sweet as it was sticky. The smell of near-perfect pot cake drifted out of the windows, tumbling towards the footpath like Horsburgh’s tobacco, carrying (in a vision, a landscape of food thrown up in the final moments) the smell of pickled cucumbers and Bruno’s best blutwurst.

  There was work to be done. Things to be made ready. As Bluma and Mary kept cooking, William and Seymour set to the yard, weeding, pruning and watering parched shrubs, cleaning up piles of rubbish and putting out bins for trucks that might or might not come. And when they’d finished they went to William’s and did the same, labouring in singlets in the full sun as Bruno and Edna watched in amusement from their refrigerated kitchen.

  Friday was more of the same. Arthur Blessitt followed the progress of the mercury on his radio, regularly retreating to his backyard and his water tank, lifting the access and immersing himself in a dark, murky world of sediment and kerosene. If the world did end they’d never find him here, floating like a baby in a pool of stale amnion.

  Saturday, March 21, 1952. William was up early, setting up a trestle under the myrtle his grandfather Anthelm had planted in anticipation of this very day, setting out seats and wiping off cobwebs. Arthur watched, through a small rust hole in the top of the tank, as he floated. Eventually he saw Mary Hicks and Bluma emerge from the house, laying a setting and arranging dishes covered with foil.

  Edna Hermann peered from her venetians as her husband read from the Oracle: ‘Tomorrow, March 21, is the day of reckoning. Have you packed your bags and said your prayers? Mr Miller has …’ The newspaper naming names: Seymour, Mary, Ellen and the children. Continuing the shaming the Elders had tried to help them avoid. Anticipating the conclusion of the drama which had started with the handbills, continuing via doorknocks and washed-out rallies.

  Just before lunch, William, Bluma, the Hickses, Ellen and her children gathered in the shade of the myrtle, praying and eating.

  Chas Tabrar pulled his mother’s sleeve and asked, ‘When’s it gonna happen?’

  William overheard and said, ‘When He’s ready,’ starting to become a little unsure himself. Not that he could complain. If he’d wanted a sign, what better than nine straight days of heat?

  When the story of the last days was written, this would be a chapter unto itself, requiring no dressing up or exaggeration to make itself mythical. People would read about his backyard devotion and say, ‘Wow, what sort of man was this Miller?’

  Back in Adelaide, Nathan and Phil had returned to the Semaphore baths. Nathan was full of anticipation, contemplating new beginnings after a year of changes more dramatic than Blue Hills. All of it necessary in the end, he supposed. Like Phil said, you had to crack an egg to make an omelette. Changes that might require forgiveness on his part, although God knows it’d be hard. Watching Phil on a bench, sucking in his guts as he talked to a girl twice his age, he guessed you had to let people go on making their own disasters.

  Meanwhile, Joseph Tabrar lay in the Parklands, his shirt flapping open in a hot northerly. Like Nathan, he was full of anticipation, four pages of rentals sitting beneath his lunchbox, circled, crossed out and recircled in red. He smiled, and sighed, listening to the crows crazy with heat and a jackhammer sounding distantly from the city.

  The Millerites were barely into their dessert when Arthur emerged from his water tank, completely naked, smiling at his audience and trying to cover himself. William cleared his throat, picked up his Bible and turned to Luke, reading as Seymour redirected his grandchildren’s stares.

  Arthur went inside and dried himself off. He answered a knock at his front door and found Trevor Streim and Ron Rohwer standing with broad, happy smiles and bottles of Woodroofe’s lemonade. ‘This is unusual,’ he managed.

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite us in?’ Trevor asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  Arthur tried to settle the Elders on his lounge but they insisted on going outside, settling in on his ark beneath the lopped cross still resting against the rainwater tank. Soon they were joined by Gunther Fritschle and Ian Doms, and after lunch, Bruno Hermann, who brought along a string of sausages. Arthur played the uneasy host, setting out cups and opening a few bottles of wine William had given him the vintage before last.

  William refused to look at them, blocking out their voices as he moved through the Gospels, realising that this was the final test. He could hear them raise their voices, laughing at jokes that probably weren’t funny, patting each other on the shoulders and messing each others hair in a way they’d never generally do.

  Arthur just sat quietly, watching the Millerites and feeling guilty, trying to think of a way of telling them that this wasn’t his idea.

  Chas pulled Ellen’s sleeve again and said, ‘Can we go over there?’ But before she had a chance to reply, Seymour slammed his fist down on the table, staring at the children and saying, ‘They should know better … now listen.’

  William, Bluma and Seymour eventually fell asleep in their chairs, Mary stretched out on the grass beside them. The children started a game of cricket, and whe
n the ball went over Arthur’s fence David went to fetch it.

  ‘Having fun?’ Trevor Streim asked.

  ‘Not as much as you,’ he replied.

  The laugh woke Seymour. ‘David!’ he called, scowling, waiting until his grandson had returned to the fielding before closing his eyes and snoozing.

  At eight o’clock the Millerites made a meal of leftovers.

  ‘Pathetic,’ William whispered to Seymour. ‘It’s like the Keystone Cops. Is that the best they could do?’

  On Arthur’s side, Gunther built a fire and Ron cooked pancakes beside Arthur’s wilting carnations. After dark the fire grew larger and the party louder. They stood around the flames with bottles in their hands, occasionally hushing into a discussion which was followed by a half dozen flame-lit faces turning to look at the Millerites.

  The Miller party had returned to the Bible, read by the light of a gas-lamp. The children had fallen asleep and Ellen had covered them with rugs. As William droned in their ears, their minds drifted into their own personal realms. Ellen’s to Joseph, sitting alone somewhere, waiting; Mary’s to Seymour, and how she’d soon have her old husband back again, bruised and damaged but wiser for the experience. And Bluma’s to Nathan, sitting in his loft (which William had since converted to storage) reading a text on the mechanics of temperature. Calling down to them as he used to, ‘Goodnight, Mum, Dad …’

  By eleven things had grown quiet on both sides of the fence. The odd, occasional slapping of a mozzie, a bottle dropped and smashed in Arthur’s yard. Just before midnight William started reading from Revelations, mumbling in a rushed monotone that hid his anxiety.

  As midnight came and went the Elders and the others fell silent and looked over at the Millerites. William kept reading until ten past twelve. At the end of chapter three he looked up at his friends and said, slowly, ‘Maybe I’ve miscalculated.’

  Seymour looked at him. ‘But you were so sure.’

  He kept reading the Bible, as if there was something he’d missed.

  ‘William,’ Trevor called, across the fence, ‘how’s about you come over and join us?’ But William just kept reading, silently, following passages with his finger as if he’d already found where he’d gone wrong. Mary and Ellen started clearing the dishes and Seymour sat motionless, his head bowed.

  Soon after both parties broke up. Arthur emptied the last of the wine onto the fire and it fizzed and smoked and eventually died, leaving his yard in darkness. He stripped and climbed back into his rainwater tank, watching Seymour stretch out his hand and cover William’s, squeezing it and then standing to go inside, taking the first of his grandchildren with him.

  It was just after one in the morning. Seymour’s grandchildren were asleep in William’s bed. Mary, Ellen and Bluma were in the kitchen drinking coffee. Seymour and William walked back to the privacy of William’s vines, knelt and started praying. The plan was to create and continue a dialogue with God until they were given, or came to understand, some explanation. By two o’clock the women were calling from the house. Seymour stopped praying: ‘William, I’m not getting anything but sore knees …’ They stood up, shook hands, and Seymour returned to the women on the porch. William walked through the vines towards the track at the bottom of his property. Sitting on a fallen log he resorted to logic.

  By three o’clock he had the glimmer of an idea.

  Trying not to wake Bluma, he went into his study and turned on the light, sitting and opening Anthelm’s old Bible, writing inside the back cover, Tonight I saw distinctly and clearly that instead of our Saviour coming out of the Most Holy of the Heavenly sanctuary to come to this earth, He has in fact entered the second apartment of that sanctuary, and that He has work to perform there before coming to earth.

  His revelation was that just as the Old Testament had explained, there were two phases in the ministry of the old priests: one known as the Heavenly sanctuary, the other as the Heavenly holy of holies. He was right after all, only instead of Jesus moving from the Heavenly sanctuary to earth, he’d detoured via this other realm to see out the second stage of his ministry before returning to gather his followers.

  Bluma, waking up in an empty bed, got up and opened the study door. ‘What are you writing now?’

  ‘Nothing, I can’t sleep … go back to bed.’

  That night the wind changed and dark clouds moved in, opening up as Bluma drifted off.

  The rain was gone by morning and the next day was balmy. Like William’s mood. Locking himself in his study and refusing to emerge. Returning to Anthelm’s Bible and writing, Were I to live my life over again, with the same evidence that I had, to be honest with God and man, I’d do the same again. I confess my error and acknowledge my disappointment. Yet I still believe that the day of the Lord is near, even at the door …

  Like Bluma, standing, listening, trying to tempt him out with fried sausage and fresh bread. At one point he stopped answering her completely.

  But just after six p.m. things changed. William emerged from his room, throwing his hands in the air, picking Bluma up by the hips and trying to lift her. ‘Praise Jesus!’ he cried, dancing about in circles and kissing her on the cheek.

  ‘What?’ she asked. ‘What is it?’ Thinking he’d finally admitted the truth to himself.

  But he looked her squarely in the eyes and said, ‘I was reading my Concordance, and here in the chronology, a simple note: “In figuring the terminus ad quem, we need to make allowance for the fact that the Christian era is dated from Year one, not Year zero …”’

  She looked at him. ‘So?’

  ‘I was a year off. There was no 0 BC. Therefore, in a sense, this year doesn’t happen till next year.’

  She dropped into a chair. ‘William …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not again …’

  He looked at her sternly. ‘This time we tell no one, except Seymour.’

  Bluma shook her head, quickly at first and then in slow, wide arcs. ‘No … no no no.’

  ‘This time – ’ ‘No!’ She stood up, both fists clenched, and held them against her body. ‘Not again, William. I won’t go through it again.’

  ‘Bluma.’

  She took a deep breath and her body stiffened. ‘I don’t have the strength, William.’

  ‘Let me explain.’

  ‘No!’ She walked towards their bedroom and closed the door, but he followed her in anyway.

  ‘I admit,’ he explained, ‘I should’ve thought it through more.

  It was such a simple thing.’

  She took a suitcase from under their bed and unzipped it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to see my son,’ she replied.

  He took the case from her and started zipping it up. ‘You will.’

  She tried to take the case back but he wouldn’t let it go.

  ‘William,’ she said, fighting to take it with all her energy. Then she let go, and screamed at the top of her voice, ‘Give me the case.’

  William let go and took a step back. Instead of reclaiming the case, she turned and walked out of their bedroom, out the front door and into the darkness. She walked the streets of Tanunda for an hour, deep in thought. Eventually she asked for a room at the Tanunda Hotel, telling the manager, a friend of Seymour, that William thought it best while he painted.

  William searched town for two hours, blinded to everyone and everything passing by, trying to work out where Bluma might go to get away from him. Not that she’d ever done anything like this before. Except for the time, just after their engagement, when Bluma’s mother wouldn’t let him past their front door for a week. In the end it turned out to be something she’d heard via a friend via a friend. Something about his father, and the coming of the Lord. Completely untrue, or so William explained to Bluma, standing beneath her window one dark night when her parents were asleep.

  But this was different. Bluma was his wife now. Valley wives, Lutheran wives, didn’t do this sort of thing. Thi
s smacked of a romance novel. The American way. The had-it-too-good-for-too-long way. Soft. Not the Bluma he knew.

  And he knew her well. Like the seasons, or the taste of a ripe grape. He knew every thought she had before she had it (or so he believed). Which made his search even more frustrating. Where was she? A bench, the grandstand, on a train to town? He knocked on Seymour’s door (claiming she’d said she was off visiting somewhere) but couldn’t bring himself to check Joshua’s or Arthur’s place. He could just imagine her in Arthur’s living-room, sipping on watery coffee, portraying him as some sort of ogre.

  Oh well, what’s it matter, he thought, in the end. If that’s the way she wants it. Returning home he was expecting to see her there in their living-room. But their house was dark and cold and empty.

  The next morning when William went to buy milk and bread (the first time he’d had the shop stuff in years) Seymour stopped him outside the Lutheran school and asked, ‘You didn’t need any help?’

  ‘Doing what?’ William replied.

  ‘Painting.’

  William was careful with his words. ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘Paint triggers Bluma’s asthma?’

  ‘Yes … yes.’

  ‘How long will she be at the hotel?’

  Ten minutes later William was at the front desk, and a few seconds after that, up the stairs and outside Bluma’s first floor room. ‘Bluma,’ he called, knocking loudly.

  Sitting in bed eating her breakfast, listening to the radio, Bluma took a moment to think. Whether to answer him or pretend to be out. Whether she should call down to have him removed, or open the door and have it out in the hallway.

  ‘Bluma,’ she heard him call, ‘don’t be so melodramatic.’

  She sat, tight-lipped, pulling the sheet up over her legs, wondering if this man was really her husband.

  ‘Bluma, open the door and we’ll talk.’

  She didn’t answer him.

  ‘Bluma!’

  He continued knocking and pleading for another ten minutes before he gave up. Bluma sat silently in bed for another half hour before she dared pick up the phone and ask the front desk if he’d gone. ‘Yes he’s gone, but he wasn’t happy,’ a voice explained. Then she got up and showered and sat in a chair overlooking Murray Street, unsure of what to do. She saw William emerging from a shop and looking up at her room. She shot back, falling to the ground and crawling to a distant corner. She sat there for another hour, scared, cold, shivering, before a pass key opened the door and a maid entered.