Patterns of Swallows

by Connie Cook

  "Yes?" she said turning back, her heart rate quickening from rapid to dangerous. Her mouth was as dry as sand.

  "Do you have a little time after you finish shopping? There's something I'd like to talk to you about."

  Here it comes, Ruth thought, momentarily backsliding away from the miracle of the peace she'd experienced for the past couple of weeks and back into rank, stark terror.

  "Don't worry. It's not about the baby," Mrs. Turnbull said. Ruth's heart rate returned almost to normal.

  "I wonder if you might meet me at the Willow Inn for a late lunch. My treat, of course," Mrs. Turnbull continued.

  "I've had lunch, thank you," Ruth said, wishing desperately to avoid the encounter.

  "Tea, then?"

  "I suppose that would be all right. I really should get home ..."

  "I won't keep you long."

  There was no escape. She might as well get it over with, whatever it was.

  "All right. I'll meet you there as soon as I finish the marketing."

  "Good. I'll see you there.”

  * * *

  The Willow Inn was the most upscale establishment in the Arrowhead Valley.

  Located out away from the town limits on the east side of Arrow Mountain, it overlooked a stunning view of the canyon and the Arrow River. It boasted Arrowhead's finest accommodations and dining, and a tea shop included on its premises did a thriving trade by drawing the upper echelon of Arrowhead's feminine society for afternoon teas.

  As she parked her car in the lot, Ruth's mind was not on the view or the elegance, however.

  She absentmindedly noticed the busyness of the tea room and chose a table near the window, shielded by a wall and a large potted plant for privacy. Whatever it was about, she couldn't imagine that Edith Turnbull wanted the entire town of Arrowhead to know all about it. Then she put in her order and settled in to wait for Mrs. Turnbull.

  She didn't have long to wait.

  "Have you ordered?" Mrs. Turnbull asked her.

  "Yes, thanks. I ordered a pot of tea for two with cream and sugar. I thought you wouldn't be far behind me. Is that all right for you, or do you take lemon?"

  "Cream and sugar is fine, thank you. I hope you'll try some of their tea cakes. Or their raisin scones. They know how to do a first-rate tea at the Willow. Their scones are excellent. I think they're as good as any I've ever had in England."

  "I finished lunch not long ago, thanks. The tea will be fine."

  Not until the tea arrived and was poured and the first sip taken did Mrs. Turnbull come to the point.

  "What's this I've been hearing about Lily having some kind of death-bed repentance experience?"

  "Oh! You've heard that? What have you heard?"

  "Really nothing more than just that. Is there any truth to the rumours going around?"

  "I can't imagine how those rumours got started."

  "So there's no truth to them?"

  "I didn't mean that exactly. I just meant ... I have no idea how people could have heard anything about Lily's last moments. I haven't said anything to anyone. Maybe Mom told a few close friends ... I suppose she must have. Oh, yes. She would have told it to your minister, of course – the one who took the funeral. I'm sorry if you've been upset by the talk."

  "Well, it hasn't been pleasant exactly. One would like to think that with all the talking people did while she was alive, they could leave her memory alone to rest in peace now. But, of course, just give them something to talk about, and they'll do it. It is hurtful to hear people talking about her as though she were some heathen in danger of hellfire, hitting the sawdust trail in her last moments. Like some terrible sinner in need of saving. As though she wasn't a good church member all her life and born and raised in a proper Christian home."

  Ruth weighed her next words carefully.

  "If Lily was a good church member all her life and raised in a Christian home, then I'm sure she was taught from an early age that we're all sinners in need of saving. Perhaps that was why she came to find forgiveness in the end."

  "Nonsense! Lily was a good girl at heart. Oh, I admit she made her mistakes. One in particular, I mean. But she'd come to be very sorry for that. She came home, after all."

  Ruth said nothing. The silence grew awkward. Was there any point in speaking the truth to a woman as wilfully self-deceived as Edith Turnbull? What good could it do?

  "I wanted to take her back, you know. After she came home, I mean. Eventually. Maybe not at first, but eventually, I did want to take her back. It was her father who refused. If it had been up to me, the story would have gone much differently," Mrs. Turnbull said defensively.

  Ruth still found nothing to say. She sipped her tea.

  "I can't blame you for not believing me, I suppose. I should thank you for giving her a home. I want you to know I don't blame you for what happened."

  "Thank you, I'm glad to hear it," Ruth said drily.

  "I suppose you did what you thought was right in leading her toward some kind of death-bed repentance."

  Ruth cleared her throat.

  "Actually, I had nothing to do with any of it. I wasn't even with Lily at the end. I was away fetching Dr. Moffet."

  "Oh, I see." There was another long pause. "But you do know how it went in the end, what she said, how she was? Her mental state, I mean?"

  "More or less. Mom told me about it."

  "Did she mention ... Did Lily say anything about her family?"

  Ruth had to be honest. Yet, for once, she tried to be tactful all the same.

  "I'm not sure she had time to pass on last messages to her family. Of course, her first concern was for the baby. Before I left for the doctor, it was the last thing she said to me. She asked me to promise her I'd look after him. When she was alone with Mom, her main concern seemed to be to ask for forgiveness. She was very anxious that I should know she wanted me to forgive her. She asked Mom's forgiveness, and then she wanted to know if God could forgive her. She didn't seem to think it was possible He could. But Mom assured her He was not only willing; He wanted to forgive her. And I believe Lily found that forgiveness. The last thing she said was, 'Peace.' Just that one word. Her passing was very peaceful. I saw her an hour or so later, and the peace was still there on her face and in the room. I wish you could have seen her just then. I wish you could have been with her in the end. It all happened so suddenly, though."

  Mrs. Turnbull's face crumpled.

  "I'm so sorry. I really am," Ruth said softly, taking her unresponsive hand. "I understand a little more now how a mother must feel in a situation like this. I can't imagine how I'd feel to lose Gabriel. Especially if we'd been estranged."

  Edie fished in her purse for a handkerchief.

  "You and your mother-in-law forgave her without any fuss, I suppose. And convinced her that, of course, God would be eager to forgive her." Ruth was astonished by the bitterness in Edie's tone.

  "After a person has been forgiven of murder, there's not really anything she has the right not to forgive," Ruth said cryptically. She had no idea why she'd spoken out the private thoughts she'd been thinking about Joshua Bella, but then she had no idea what to say to Lily's mother. Was there any understanding her?

  "What are you insinuating, Ruth? How do you imagine I'm a murderer?" There was no mistaking the anger in the tone now.

  "I ... I didn't mean you," Ruth said.

  "I suppose you mean what they teach you in that church of yours. 'We're all responsible for the death of God's Son.' We're all guilty of murder, you mean. That's just the sort of false guilt they like to heap on you there. Harsh, unloving, judgmental doctrine like that is the reason Gus and I found elsewhere to attend. 'Judge not that ye be not judged,' after all. That's in the Bible, too, you know. Just tell me this. Do you really mean to tell me that you've forgiven Lily?"

  "Well, as you say, 'Judge not that ye be not judged.' I've been forgiven for a great deal myself. And so, yes, I believe I have forgiven her."

  "Just like that
? Just like that she can be forgiven? Free and easy? Without having to pay for anything she did?"

  Ruth considered her words carefully again before speaking them. Mrs. Turnbull was a complete enigma to her. She seemed to believe that God had no right to hold anything Lily had done against her, as though it was none of His concern in the first place. Yet she also seemed to believe that it was impossible for Ruth not to hold anything Lily had done against her.

  After a pause while she prayed for the right words, she said slowly, "There's always a price involved in forgiving, Mrs. Turnbull. But forgiveness means that the one who pays the price is the one doing the forgiving. Not the one being forgiven. That's just how it works. Otherwise, it's not forgiveness."

  Mrs. Turnbull crumpled again.

  Ruth could only watch her helplessly while she buried her face in her handkerchief.

  "How can you forgive her? I don't think I can forgive her," she said at length, muffled by the handkerchief and almost too low to hear.

  "I ... what do you ... I don't understand. Why don't you think you can forgive her?"

  "For dying!" Edie Turnbull raised her head and exposed the unutterable weariness in her face to Ruth. "I can't forgive her for dying. If nothing ... if they ... if she hadn't done what she did, she'd still be alive today and at home with me and her father. I can't forgive her for it."

  Ruth reached for her hand again.

  "I'll pray for you," she said simply and meant it.

  As they rose to leave the tea room, Edie said with a sudden rush of tenderness, "How is the baby? I do think of him often."

  Ruth suddenly found plenty to say to Mrs. Turnbull.

  "He's very well. I mean, he has a bit of a cold at the moment, but generally he's excellent. He's such an adorable little fellow. Always so good-natured. Hardly even cries. He's started smiling at everything now. And growing like a little weed. Mom says he looks just like Graham did at that age. That may be because grandmothers always say things like that, though. I think he looks only just like himself," Ruth said and then was a little embarrassed to be rambling on like any proud mother of a new baby.

  "Please come and see him. You must come and see him. Any time. You'll always be welcome if you come to visit him. Mr. Turnbull, too."

  Mrs. Turnbull gave her a slight, sad smile. "I'd like that. Some day, perhaps."

  Apparently, if Gabriel was to be a MacKellum, he couldn't also be a Turnbull. At least not if Gus Turnbull had anything to say about it. But Ruth hoped Gabriel would some day be able to know his Grandma Turnbull. There was in her something worth knowing after all!

  Chapter 28

  If there was a steep price Ruth had paid for her share in the forgiveness Lily had been granted, there was a great reward that came along with it. But that, too, is the nature of forgiveness. There is always a reward. (We may wonder how God could consider His reward worth His cost, but the inevitable conclusion arises that He must do so.)

  Those were sweet days for Ruth, those days of early spring in Arrowhead.

  Little Gabe was growing fatter and dearer by the day.

  Ruth could hardly tear herself away to go off to work every day. Mom could hardly leave him to nap or amuse himself in his crib while she did her housework. Theirs was one household which was completely under the sway of its lord and master. And its lord and master was only four months old.

  Still, he showed no signs of being spoiled as yet. He continued to be good-tempered and sunny.

  "One of us will have to learn to toughen up with him when he gets old enough to be naughty," Ruth said, smiling into his face and shaking her hair over him for him to catch hold of in his chubby fists.

  "He'll never be naughty, will Grandma's good boy! No, he never will. That's my lad. That's Grandma's little man," said Grandma's little man's grandma. And you can well imagine the tone of voice and the expression of her face as she took him out of Ruth's arms.

  "Well, that settles that. It's up to me to toughen up, then," Ruth said, laughing at her mother-in-law's nonsense. "I hope it's healthy for a 'little man' to be raised by two women. Will we know what to do with him without some male influence?" she asked, suddenly worried.

  "Hmmph!" Mom snorted. And by the wordless expression, she may have been indicating her doubt that the little man would grow up without some male influence. Ruth had not entirely managed to keep up appearances of being wholly indifferent to Bo. At least not to the point where she could deceive her sharp-eyed mother-in-law.

  In fact, Bo was Ruth's one taste of bitter in those sweet days of spring.

  She had not entirely managed to convince herself that she was wholly indifferent, either. But, as women will, she was busily occupied in convincing herself that Bo was now wholly indifferent.

  For two people who worked together, they saw each other seldom on the job, and Ruth could only believe it was because Bo arranged things so that they saw each other seldom. That may indeed have been the case, but if it was, I can't make myself believe that it spoke of Bo's complete indifference.

  To be fair to Bo, his work managing the Hoffstetter orchards kept him out-of-doors most of the day, supervising the tail end of the winter pruning of the apple trees. But Ruth, in an unusually sensitive state, put the fact of Bo's lack of presence in the packing shed down to her presence in it.

  * * *

  The day was a fine one in mid-April, and Ruth felt like some fresh air.

  "C'mon, Gabe. You and I are going for a walk," she told him, bundling him up. The air was warm in the sunshine, but it would be cool in the shade, and they were going to a shady spot.

  It was a spot Ruth hadn't visited since the day of Graham's burial. For some inexplicable reason, maybe a touch of not-unpleasant melancholia, she wanted to take Gabe there today.

  "Mom, I need some air. I'm going to take Gabe out for a little. Would you like to come along?"

  "I'll stay and get supper ready. You go ahead. Supper will be ready in an hour or so."

  "We'll be back by then. It'll be Gabe's supper time by then, too, so we'll have to be back."

  "Enjoy yourself." Mom smiled at the sight of her daughter-in-law, bright in her blue spring jacket with a red, plaid blouse peeking out, holding the baby on her hip with one hand and pulling his buggy with the other. Ruth had new life and colour these days. Motherhood suited her wonderfully.

  Ruth loaded the buggy and the baby in the car and drove to the cemetery. She parked at the entrance and pushed Gabe in his buggy up the paved path to the top near the stand of tall pines.

  It was a goodish climb. The rural cemetery was set on one of Arrowhead's many small hills.

  This was no city cemetery with neatly laid-out, modern plots and no foliage to speak of other than trim grass and flowers of remembrance. It was an old cemetery and had a certain natural wildness about it, left to its own devices for the most part.

  The peace of the place and its air of solemnity crept into Ruth's soul, suiting her mood perfectly. She wasn't sad exactly. In fact, she was very nearly happy. Contented. But in a quiet, wistful way.

  She'd come for a specific reason, she realized, as she sat on the ground under the pines, holding Gabriel on her knee so that he was facing two headstones.

  "Eli ('Guy') Haskell MacKellum. Loving husband and father. 'The LORD redeemeth the soul of his servants: and none of them that trust in him shall be desolate.' Psalm 34:22," one proclaimed.

  The other said simply, "Graham Haskell MacKellum" and his dates.

  We should have had a verse put on it, Ruth thought, but now as then – as at the time of the choosing of the epitaph – nothing suitable came to mind. Till the stone eroded into illegibility, it would record nothing of the man other than the bare facts of his name and the dates of his brief history. Nothing of his hopes, his dreams, his occasional, treasured moments of extraordinary thoughtfulness and tenderness, his teasing, boyish grin, his very humanness.

  "Your father, Little One. I wish there was more for you to know him by. I wish you could ha
ve known him and grown to love him. I wish ... I don't know what I wish. I wish I'll have the right words to tell you all about him someday. That might be tricky though. I guess I wish you'll end up a better man than your father was. But he was only a man. Just a man. And faults and all, I loved him."

  She recognized that the past tense meant more to her than just a convention of speech. She realized that the task she'd come here to perform was the task of finally saying good-bye.

  Turning Gabe to her, she buried her face in his little shirt front as he tugged on her hair and tried to get masses of it into his mouth.

  Then a sound from below her in the graveyard caught her attention. It was the sound of the slow swinging of the cast iron gate at the entrance.

  In another moment, she had identified the person coming through the gate as Bo.

  She shrunk back under the pines, hoping he wouldn't see her at the top of the hill. But of course he'd know she was there. Her car was right by the entrance.

  She waited until he spotted her and came toward her before making any noise or movement.

  "Hello, Gabe. Hello, Ruth," he said. He had a pair of pruning shears in his hand.

  "Hello," she said. The mood of the place was still upon her, and she felt disinclined for speech.

  "No better place to come to in all of Arrowhead to do a bit of thinking, is there? No more peaceful spot. I come now and again for a bit of peace and quiet and to trim back the mock orange bushes from around Dad's grave. They grow wild at that spot, and they like to take over. Beautiful, though, when they bloom. Nothing has a fragrance like a mock orange."

  "They're my favourite," Ruth said. "And wild roses, too. For fragrance, I mean."

  "Well, better get on with my job. Didn't mean to intrude. Just thought I'd better come and say hello."

  "Thanks, Bo."

  As he turned to leave, Gabe began to pout and fuss. He'd been ignored by Bo. It had never happened before. Though they saw each other usually only at church, Bo was a particular favourite of Gabriel's, and Gabriel was a particular favourite of Bo's.

  Ruth laughed at Gabe's protruding lower lip.