Grace in Autumn

by Lori Copeland

  Birdie held Olympia tight. “If you need anything—”

  “Yes, anything,” Bea echoed. “Anything a-tall, Olympia. We want to help you through the next few months.”

  Olympia straightened and pulled out of the embrace. “I’ll be fine. Annie’s here, and I have Tallulah and Caleb.”

  Wiping her eyes, Olympia turned to greet the Klackenbushes, who were coming up the walk with a covered pie plate.

  “Bea, we saw all that mail piled on the dock,” Dana said as she came up the path. “Where in the world is it coming from?”

  Birdie stiffened, knowing this was not the time or place to discuss such things.

  “Bea and I will take care of the mail, Dana.” After a final wave to Olympia, she descended the steps, pulling Bea with her. Across the street she spotted Zuriel walking to the dock with Georgie Graham.

  As the two sisters rode back to the bakery, Birdie prayed that Olympia would have strength for the dark days ahead. She’d never been a wife, so she couldn’t really imagine all a widow might feel, but she’d stood by her sister when Frank Coughlin died.

  Life was so brief, so temporary. Like a fragile vapor, a soul passed from earth to eternity in the blink of an eye. Edmund de Cuvier was a Christian, so now he was enjoying heaven, but that comfort didn’t lessen the fact that others would mourn.

  And tomorrow was Thanksgiving.

  The holiday would be celebrated in Heavenly Daze as it was in homes across America. Grateful hearts would gather around bountiful tables and give thanks for blessings large and small.

  But for Olympia and Annie, it would be a day of mourning. There would be no roasting turkey at Frenchman’s Fairest, no fragrant aroma of pumpkin pies, no air of celebration.

  Only an empty house filled with memories of happier days.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Buddy!” Birdie gaped in surprise. “Why, you look so distinguished!”

  Buddy Franklin stood before her in black tails, a white shirt, and a red satin cape. His long face gleamed in a bright spotlight, and beyond the edge of the stage, she could hear a spattering of anticipatory applause.

  “They’re waiting,” he said, winking at her. “And you look pretty foxy yourself.”

  Birdie blushed. “Aw, go on.”

  “No, Birdie, you are a vision of loveliness, a comet of cuteness, a shooting star from Saturn.” He paused as the orchestra music swelled. “You look just like … whatever.”

  While she watched, Buddy swept past her, his red cape flashing as he began a routine with moves like Fred Astaire.

  Birdie blinked. She didn’t know Buddy could dance. When did he learn to waltz like that?

  As the audience went wild, she turned, a little surprised to find herself in the wings of a stage. She glanced down as a feather rose in the heat of the lights and tickled her nose.

  Why was she wearing a red feather boa?

  Just then, Bea walked up in black fishnets, a sequined bodysuit, and a three-foot tall collar of ostrich feathers. “Out of the way, Sister,” Bea said, pushing her aside. “It’s showtime!”

  While Birdie watched in horror, Sister sashayed into the spotlight, joined at center stage by Vernie Bidderman, who wore a similar outfit of sequins, feathers, fishnets, and combat boots. As the crowd surged to their feet, Vernie and Bea linked arms and began a high kick that would have put the New York Rockettes to shame.

  As Birdie clung to the curtains for support, a man in the audience tossed a long-stemmed rose onto the stage. Bea dove forward, gave him a wink, then placed it in her mouth, never missing a beat.

  From the side of the stage, Buddy tapped his cane and called, “Step right up, ladies and gents, to see the brightest lights and the prettiest girls east of Las Vegas!”

  Birdie bolted upright, abruptly coming awake as sweat dripped from her forehead. She opened her eyes, blinking the nightmare from her field of vision. The aromas of mincemeat and pumpkin pies drifted from the kitchen and reminded her who and where she was.

  Feeling lightheaded, she exhaled in relief. Bea was up early, stuffing the turkey, setting hot rolls out to rise, and baking the traditional pies.

  The familiar sounds and smells of a holiday morning should have brought her a sense of joy and well-being, but Birdie couldn’t forget that these were dark days indeed. Her friends and neighbors were peeved at her, and Olympia’s loss lay heavy on her mind. Edmund was gone, and Birdie supposed she’d never bake another apple strudel without thinking of the banker with the kind heart.

  Edmund loved apple strudel. His eyes would brighten and he’d give her a jaunty wink whenever she offered him one of the flaky delicacies. “Birdie,” he’d say in that gentle voice, “you make the best strudel in the State of Maine.”

  “Edmund Shots, you’re a smooth talker if ever I saw one,” Birdie would tease back. They’d share a good laugh and then Edmund would make a pretense of searching his pockets for change to pay her. Birdie never charged Edmund for strudel. The look of sheer ecstasy that transformed his face as he devoured the warm pastry was compensation enough.

  In later years, after Edmund developed diabetes, Birdie and Abner concocted a slightly-revised version of strudel using artificial sweetener and a less fatty crust. Though Edmund loved the original strudel best, he ate the new version with relish and appreciation, tempering his praise only slightly: “Birdie, you make the best cardboard-crust apple strudel in the State of Maine!”

  Chuckling at the memory, she swiped at tears dropping from her eyes. “I hope you’re eating all the strudel you want right now, Edmund. Save a piece for me.”

  Curling tighter under her blankets, she entertained the thought of staying in her pajamas all day. Could a body do that on Thanksgiving? Bea could attend the church service, and when she got home they could eat a quiet dinner with Abner. Later they could play a few games of dominoes: chicken foot or mexican train. She wouldn’t have to face anyone today or see irritation in her neighbors’ eyes.

  Oh, they would get over it, as Grandma Bitts used to say, but every time they looked toward the ferry office and saw a new mountain of mail sacks, they’d grumble her name.

  Never mind that she didn’t start that silly e-mail. She’d encouraged Bea to answer the first letter, and she’d been foolhardy enough to send money to a little girl who asked for it. Now only heaven knew what trouble tomorrow would bring.

  Swallowing, she realized her throat was sore. Stress, cold wind, and bad weather had taken their toll.

  She threw the covers back, then padded into the bathroom. Switching the light on, she opened her mouth and peered at her throat in the medicine cabinet mirror.

  Red as a turkey’s wattle.

  Drats.

  When she walked into the kitchen a moment later, Bea, still in her terry-cloth bathrobe and hair curlers, glanced up. Dropping the baster, she eyed Birdie with a calculating look. “You look a little streaked this morning, Sister.” Birdie opened her mouth to speak and nothing came out. Swallowing, she tried again, but nothing but a rusty squeak escaped her lips.

  “Oh, my,” Bea said, clucking. After shoving the roaster back into the oven, she shut the door and beckoned to Birdie. “Come with me.”

  Birdie shook her head, realizing too late the torture Bea had in mind.

  Throat swabbing—the purest form of inhumanity.

  For a moment they slapped at each other like little girls, then Bea latched onto Birdie’s hand and dragged her through the hallway and into her bathroom. Amidst retching and many emphatic stamps of her foot, Birdie endured the archaic treatment of having her throat swabbed with Mercurochrome. When it was over, she went back to her bedroom and dropped to the quilts for a moment, wondering why she couldn’t just suck on a throat lozenge like anybody else.

  Islanders were already pouring into Heavenly Daze Community Church by the time Bea and Birdie finally arrived.

  Few scowls were evident this morning; only friendly faces met the Wester sisters as they climbed the steps. Birdie greeted
her neighbors with a closed-lip smile, praying her teeth hadn’t been permanently stained from the Mercurochrome.

  “Sister’s sick this morning,” Bea announced to no one in particular as she planted herself on the piano bench.

  Standing at the pulpit, Micah lifted an inquisitive brow in Birdie’s direction. Shrugging, she pointed to her throat.

  “She’s lost her voice,” Bea announced, rapidly flipping through the hymnal on the piano. She looked up, fixing the song leader in a direct gaze. “I’m not in the mood for traditional hymns today. Since this is a holiday, I thought something special might be in order, so let’s start with 289 instead of 217, then sing 276 before 137, followed by 310 before we move right on to 452.”

  Frantically trying to keep up, Micah flipped through the pages and scribbled changes on the bulletin. Leaving Bea, Birdie hurried to find a seat in the rapidly-filling church.

  Somehow, Micah adapted to the change of program. The song service was uplifting, and Birdie felt her heart rejoice as an assortment of voices rattled the rafters on a cold, sunshiny Thanksgiving morning on the island of Heavenly Daze. Thundering praises vibrated against the windows as they sang praises to the great I Am, the Exalted Jesus Christ, King of all kings and Lord of all lords.

  Unable to sing over her aching throat, Birdie enjoyed listening. The powerful hymns washed over her, assuring her of God’s love and filling her with a heady elation she sorely needed.

  Beside her, Vernie Bidderman belted out the old hymns in her husky alto, occasionally clapping her coarse, work-worn hands in disjointed rhythm.

  Across the aisle, Mike and Dana Klackenbush sat beside Babette and Charles Graham, two young couples with their whole lives ahead of them. Young Georgie scribbled on a notepad, occasionally reaching over to filch a breath mint out of his mother’s purse. Babette and Charles smiled adoringly at their son’s antics, then looked at each other as if they shared a secret.

  Birdie lifted a brow, wondering what it was.

  She was a little surprised to see Olympia and Annie in church, but there they were, in the center of the de Cuvier pew just ahead of her. As the music swelled, Olympia reached out to hold Annie’s hand, and something in the gesture twisted at Birdie’s heart. And something seemed odd—as a rule, Caleb sat with the island’s other single men at the back of the church, but this morning Zuriel, Yakov, Abner, and Elezar sat on the de Cuvier pew, almost as if forming a protective shield around the mourning women. “Thank you,” Birdie whispered, knowing they couldn’t hear, but feeling grateful all the same.

  She felt Edmund’s presence as surely as if he sat in the pew next to Olympia. How wonderful to know that for those in Christ, partings like these were but brief absences.

  Buddy Maxwell, wearing his usual muddy boots, sat toward the front, and that was a miracle in itself. Dana must have bribed him into attending. The Lansdowns and the Higgs sat next to Edith Wickam, while Dr. Marc sat at the end of the pew. Captain Stroble had even come to church this morning.

  Oh dear! Birdie slid lower in her seat as the significance of his presence hit her. Surely he hadn’t come to deliver more mail—not on Thanksgiving!

  She lowered her gaze, then felt herself flushing even more deeply, rattled by a sudden self-awareness. She’d been scanning the audience and taking a mental roll call because … she was looking for Salt!

  Thank the Lord, he hadn’t come. She’d die if he caught her looking for him.

  When the last amen died away, Pastor Wickam rose from his chair and walked to the pulpit. The middle-aged minister wore fall colors—a handsome brown tweed coat with a buttercup yellow shirt set off with a cinnamon and yellow striped tie. Birdie made a mental note to congratulate Edith on her splendid job of dressing him for the occasion.

  After reaching up to smooth his mostly nonexistent hair, he opened his sermon notes, glancing up only briefly when Micah quietly moved to sit on the de Cuvier pew.

  Birdie had to smile when she saw the pastor’s automatic head patting gesture. Winslow had come a long way since his fascination with hair. These days he wore his bald spot like a badge of honor, openly declaring that vanity and preoccupation with shedding follicles was a waste of good time. A couple of weeks ago when Birdie caught him in the mercantile, he flashed a grin and told her he’d discovered certain advantages to going bald: one, he could comb his hair with a washrag, and two, with just a little more hair loss, he would look like he had a continual halo ’round his head.

  And that, Winslow had humbly confessed, was exactly the effect he wanted.

  Pastor Wickam stood silently for a moment, gazing out at his flock. Then slowly he closed his Bible and opened his eyes. “For a moment, we’re going to talk about the life of Edmund Shots de Cuvier. Saturday we’ll gather once again and ask the question, ‘Death, where is thy sting?’ Olympia has lost a mate of forty years; Annie, a beloved uncle. All of us have lost a friend; the world, a great benefactor. Edmund will be missed.”

  Olympia sniffed audibly, and from the other side of the room Birdie saw the flutter of tissues being pulled from pockets and purses. She lifted her own handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

  “Which brings me to my topic for this special Thanksgiving service. We all suffer from emotions, whether from irritation or grouchiness or depression. The events of the past few days have shown me how quick we are to show emotion, but how reluctant we are to show true compassion and love.

  “Some of us here this morning,” Winslow continued, “have been blessed beyond our wildest expectations. And some of us are hurting.”

  The congregation shifted and shuffled. Birdie felt a collective movement of heads turning to look toward Olympia and Annie.

  Winslow paused, apparently sorting his thoughts. Birdie tightened her grip on her handkerchief. Long pauses weren’t Pastor Wickam’s style; he usually plunged headlong into his message, well aware that pies were cooling and potatoes waiting to be mashed for the holiday dinner.

  After a long moment, he lifted his gaze and looked directly at Birdie. “Some people here today are hurting, and, may God forgive us, we are the source of that pain.”

  Voices whispered, eyes lowered. Birdie could have heard a pin drop as the meaning of Pastor’s words penetrated hearts and souls.

  Next to Birdie, Vernie shifted, then a rough hand reached out to cover hers. Without a word, she gave Birdie’s hand a gentle squeeze.

  The pastor’s gaze remained on Birdie. “Birdie, we are your family, too, and I fear we have lost sight of that fact. What you did last week by helping that little girl was a Christlike thing to do. I’ve thought about it often, and I’ve been ashamed of my own response.” A blush ran like a shadow over his cheeks. “In our selfishness, we tend to cling to what we think is ours—the island, the budget, the wonderful peace and privacy we enjoy here in Heavenly Daze. Often we don’t want to share. We want to be God’s people, but we want to be left alone—”

  “Preacher?”

  Every eye swung to the front pew, where Floyd Lansdown had just stood.

  Birdie stirred uneasily in her seat. No one ever interrupted the message, not even if the sermon stepped on a few toes.

  Pastor Wickam’s face went blank with shock. “Is there something you wanted to add, Floyd?”

  “Not add,” Floyd said. “Maybe correct.”

  Winslow smiled. “Why not? This is the day for sharing.”

  Floyd turned slightly to face the congregation. “It’s not that we didn’t want to help that family,” he said, casting a quick look at Cleta. “All of us saw the need, but what about the furnace? That old thing’s about to go. If we took money from the furnace fund to help the Akermans, then when the furnace died we wouldn’t have one red cent to fix it.”

  From the piano bench, Bea piped up. “The money for that family came from me and Birdie. For heaven’s sake, why is everyone making such a big deal out of one letter? This is Thanksgiving. Let’s forgive and forget and get on with the service.” She turned to her hymnal, fli
pping heatedly through the pages. “The way some of you have been treating Birdie is a crime. She did what she felt was right, and that’s the end of it.” She paused, snapping the hymnal closed, then dropped it to her lap and crossed her arms.

  Vernie waved her hand. “What about the grant money we received from Rex Hartwell? Have we spent all of that?”

  Floyd shrugged. “Not all of it—we put that new roof on and made some foundation repairs. There’s a little left, but we haven’t bought a dishwasher for the parsonage yet.”

  Edith Wickam timidly lifted her hand. “I don’t need a dishwasher,” she said, looking at her husband. Emboldened by his smile, she shifted and looked out at the congregation. “I’ve been doing dishes by hand for years and it hasn’t hurt me a bit.”

  Floyd shoved at his glasses. “The point is, we’ve stretched what we have until it’s screaming for mercy. Most of us don’t like saying no any more than Birdie, but we don’t have the means to help others. Apart from the Gettys and Gates of the world, who does?”

  Words bubbled in Birdie’s throat, but pain stopped them short. She grinned, suddenly grateful for the laryngitis. God was allowing her to listen for a change.

  “Money is always a concern with a small congregation,” Winslow admitted. “But how we treat each other shouldn’t be.”

  “Money may not be a pleasant subject, but it is a necessity,” Vernie pointed out.

  “That’s the truth!” Cleta stood. “We don’t mean to be callous, Pastor, but the Lord expects us to plan ahead and save for a rainy day. Too many folks spend without thinking, then suddenly they’re down and out looking for help.”

  Several in the congregation amen’d the sentiment.

  Cleta lifted a warning finger. “What if another emergency comes up—maybe someone gets sick and can’t take care of himself, or they raise the church insurance premium? What’ll we do then? We’ll have no emergency funds whatsoever if we start trying to answer all those angel letters. Don’t we need to think of our welfare first? We can’t take care of everyone. We’re not God.”