Not a Sparrow Falls

by Linda Nichols

  “This child is circling the drain, and we’ve got to move quickly,” she said. “The seriousness of her acting out is escalating.” She turned forthright gray eyes on Bridie and Lorna. “I’ve suggested she see a counselor, but her father seems reluctant. Frankly, considering what they’ve been through, I think the whole family could use some help.”

  “Alasdair might be open to that now,” Lorna said, and Bridie read between the lines. Now that everything in his life was headed down the drain, too. There was something about complete failure that left a person open to suggestions.

  “Good.” Mrs. Tronsett bobbed her brillo head. “I’ve made a list of psychologists who speak Presbyterian.” Her mouth hinted at a smile. Lorna looked a little shocked to hear the principal of the church school cracking jokes.

  “I’ve called Samantha in on several occasions, but our conversations never seem to get past go.” Mrs. Tronsett was all business again. She leaned over and brought a file from the drawer. “Her English teacher gave me this. It was the subject of one of those conversations. I asked her why she’d chosen this topic, hoping to get her to open up. She simply said she was interested in her mother’s new home.”

  Mrs. Tronsett handed over three wide-ruled pages, stapled in the corner. Lorna held out her hand for them, then scooted near Bridie so they could read together. The handwriting was the same neat, penciled cursive Bridie remembered from the note on the church bulletin board. “Hell,” the title read, and Bridie got a chill deep in her gut.

  ****

  “Take a look at this.” Bridie looked around to make sure Samantha was nowhere near, then handed Carmen the paper.

  Carmen took it from her, gave her a quizzical look, and began to read: “The Westminster Larger Catechism asks, ‘What are the punishments of sin in the world to come? Answer: The punishments of sin in the world to come are everlasting separation from the comfortable presence of God, and most grievous torments in soul and body, without intermission, in hell fire forever.’ Whoa!” Carmen murmured.

  “Go on reading,” Bridie said grimly.

  “What, exactly, is hell like?” Carmen read. “Is it a lake of fire, a place where worms eat your body day and night? Do you see reruns of all your mistakes and sins over and over? Or is it nothing? Just empty and black? No one knows for sure, because once you get there, you can never leave.” Carmen gave her head a shake. “This is pretty tortured stuff for a thirteen-year-old. Next thing you know she’ll be like one of those Goths with the black lipstick and hair, and the nails through the lip.”

  Bridie snatched the paper from her hand and gave her an irritated look. “Carmen, that’s not exactly helpful right now,” she snapped.

  “Sorry.” Carmen had the grace to look ashamed.

  Bridie slumped down in the kitchen chair and looked at that awful essay one more time. She practically knew it by heart.

  “What are you guys gonna do for the kid?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice flat. When she looked up Carmen was biting her lip, looking at her sympathetically.

  “You really care about her, don’t you?”

  Did she? She rubbed her neck, which felt kinked and knotted. She had absolutely no idea what to do, but the truth was, that fact bothered her deeply. “I guess I do.”

  Carmen held out her hand for the paper. “Please?” she asked. “I’ll be nice this time.”

  Bridie handed it over.

  Carmen reread the essay, her face intent, then looked up. “She said this is where her ma was?”

  Bridie nodded. “Said she wanted to learn about her mother’s new home.”

  “Now, why would she think that?” Carmen asked, as usual coming straight to the point. “Her ma must have been religious to end up married to his holiness. So why would Samantha think she’d go to hell when she died?”

  Sixteen

  Alasdair lay in the bed and stared up at the water-stained ceiling. His covers were soft and fragrant, not the scratchy, balled-up mess he’d begun with. She’d changed them, the first time early in his illness. He’d gotten up to use the bathroom. He’d come back and the bed had been fresh. A quilt he vaguely remembered from his childhood had replaced the wool blanket. The sheets had been changed, the corner turned down invitingly. A clean pajama bottom and a pair of underwear had been draped at the foot of the bed. The tray on the bedside table held a fresh pitcher of water with ice and lemon and a clean glass. The wastebasket had been emptied of the used tissues.

  It was true what was said of illness, that it made the world end at the foot of your bed. For ten days now, by his calculation, his world had consisted of heat and thirst, swirling illness, ravaging coughs, dry, wasting, lip-cracking fevers, and Her. Their connection felt primal and intimate. Hers had been the hands that held the pan when he was sick, taken it away when he was finished, and cleaned him up. Her cool palm had pressed his forehead, held his hand. Her steady blue eyes brought him back from the jumbled jungle of fever dreams. Her calm voice was like a strong rope tying him fast when he had no strength left to hold on.

  During that time the realities of his life had loosened their hold. He had children. They visited his dreams, but he didn’t see them in the flesh. The things he did in the world that had seemed so important became far points on a distant horizon that receded even farther each day. Even the church no longer had the power to lift him up or cast him down. He was cast down already. His spirit, along with his body, felt wracked and broken. He’d been cut back like a pruned vine. Back to the ground. Back to the root.

  “When I said, ‘My foot is slipping,’ your love, O Lord, supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul.”

  He said it aloud, his voice sounding ragged and out of use. It had been one of the verses she’d recited. Promise after promise she had poured from her heart to his. He didn’t think she’d been reading, though he couldn’t be sure. In fact, he couldn’t be sure it had actually happened. The whole memory might have been one of his overheated dreams. But he didn’t think so. The scene was too real, too clear to have been a dream. He remembered weeping as the sheer weight of his sins and omissions had crashed upon him. He remembered her leaning over him, reminding him, reciting the words that kept despair at bay. No. It had not been his imagination. It had happened. Of that much he was sure. If she had not been the one who had defended him against the darkness, then it must have been one of God’s own messengers, sent to fight for him when he had no strength of his own.

  He sat up. The light-headedness was almost gone. Calvin, his brother-in-law, had examined him again yesterday. “You’ve had influenza and pneumonia,” he pronounced after listening to Alasdair’s lungs. “It’s clearing.”

  She had checked on him again after Calvin left, moving around the room silently. Since the fever had broken she spoke to him only if he spoke first, and he hadn’t often had the energy.

  She’d brought him a tray and an extra blanket.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She nodded. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  She gave him a slight smile. “You look like you’d have to get better to die.”

  He had managed a smile of his own, leaned across to sip the glass of clear liquid she held toward him, straw considerately bent.

  “Seven-Up,” she had explained. “I beat the fizz out with a fork so it wouldn’t hurt your throat,” and he was touched again. Such a small thing, but so kind.

  He sat up higher on his pillow now and took a deep breath. He smelled something wonderful. It was the unmistakable aroma of bread baking. He closed his eyes and was back in Edinburgh at the house on Whipple Street, watching their housekeeper—what was her name?—pull the golden loaves from the oven. He could see her just as if she stood before him. Tall and lean with a square, honest face. She wore a cotton shirtwaist dress and black lace-up shoes, and the ever-present sweater. Her hands were thick and knotted. He could almost see her slice the brea
d into thick slabs, spread them with a swipe of butter, which quickly became a dripping puddle dotted with great islands of bumpy blackberry jam. His stomach twisted, but not with illness this time. He was hungry, he realized as it growled.

  He rose, pulled on his pants and shirt and slippers, and emerged from his room. He blinked. Things seemed different somehow, and the impression was even stronger as he reached the landing. Things looked different. He felt curiosity instead of his usual flatness. Proceeding down the stairs, he could hear voices coming from the kitchen and he began to notice the changes.

  The windows were uncovered, for one thing. The heavy drapes that usually hung over most of them were pulled back and tied, even the sheer panels drawn aside. The glass had been washed. He descended the stairs and at the bottom had to step over one of those plastic baby gates he’d been meaning to buy. He blinked again as he passed through the hall and on impulse went to the living room. Things were different there, as well as in the dining room. Things were missing. The knick-knacks and bric-a-brac that had been there for three generations were gone. Every table was bare.

  When he got to the kitchen, he saw why. Instead of being penned up in their play area, the twins were running free. Cameron was sitting on the floor, banging a plastic bowl with a wooden spoon. His hair had been trimmed. His nose wasn’t running. Bonnie was leaning over the bottom drawer, tossing plastic freezer containers and lids behind her without even looking to see where they landed. She was wearing clothes he hadn’t seen, and her hair was combed prettily and held back with a barrette. The kitchen was warm, the bread smell filled it, and now that he was closer he identified the perfume of cinnamon and ginger as well. Bridie was bent over the counter, doing something to a mound of dark brown dough.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  She stopped her work and looked up. Her eyes were disconcertingly blue and clear. Something about her, or perhaps their situation, put him off balance.

  “Good morning.” She smiled but quickly ducked her head back down over her task. Perhaps she felt it, too. “I see you’re feeling better.”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  “What will you have for breakfast?” She tossed him a quick look. “I’ll make you scrambled eggs, hot cereal, anything you want.”

  “Cold cereal will be fine.”

  She leaned over, reached past Bonnie, and retrieved a pot and lid. “Oatmeal will go down easy and stick with you.”

  Alasdair pictured the steaming bowl. He hadn’t had a proper bowl of oatmeal in years.

  “Thank you,” he said, then, not seeing what more was required of him, he sat down at the table. The woman—Bridie—Miss Collins—he coached himself, busied herself with the oatmeal, then turned up the heat on the kettle. In a moment she placed before him a cup, warmed, and a teapot. He lifted the lid. Loose tea leaves floated on top of steaming water. She set the strainer beside his cup along with a pitcher of cream, a saucer of lemon slices, and the sugar bowl, then went back to her work. He looked around for a moment. Both babies were jabbering and playing. He poured out a cup of the tea, added a little milk and sugar, took a hesitant sip. His taste buds felt traumatized and his stomach tentative. He rolled the liquid around on his tongue. The tea tasted good at first but quickly became too strong and acidic. He set the cup aside.

  After a while Bridie served his oatmeal. It was thick and creamy. He sprinkled it with brown sugar, poured a little cream onto it, and ate it slowly, taking small bites.

  The bread came out of the oven before he was finished, and it was as if she had read his mind. She sliced off a large hunk, put it onto his plate, handed him a pot of jam and the butter dish. He broke off a small piece, not risking the butter and jam. It was good just as it was, but after a few bites he was full.

  “It’s delicious, but I’m not up to par yet.”

  “You’ll know you’re really well when your appetite comes back.” She smiled at him and didn’t seem offended at his half-finished breakfast.

  Cameron was pulling on her leg. Bridie leaned over and smiled at him, held out her hands. “What do you say?” she asked.

  “Up,” Cameron answered, clear as a bell.

  She picked him up and set him on her hip.

  Alasdair watched as they played and talked. The two of them had obviously forged a relationship in the time he’d been out of the picture. He smiled and felt a moment of contentment.

  The telephone rang. The moment went away.

  Bridie answered the telephone. “Just a moment, please,” she said.

  Alasdair felt a familiar weariness, nodded, and reached for the receiver. He noticed the stack of phone messages on the counter beside it. His oatmeal began to churn uncomfortably.

  He listened with half his attention to the Sunday school superintendent’s concerns about the fourth-grade curriculum, then hung up the phone and carried his plate to the sink.

  “Are you going to be fit to go to Boston by Friday?” Bridie asked him, her face concerned.

  More weariness piled on. He hoped the arrangements Lorna had made weren’t about to come unraveled. He nodded. “Yes. I’m sure I’ll be completely recovered by then. Will it still be convenient for you to stay with the children?”

  “Oh, sure. I was just thinking of you.”

  Someone was thinking of him. He gave his head a small shake. “Thank you,” he said, putting the plate down and turning to face her. “Thank you for everything. For nursing me through my illness. For taking care of me and my family. You can’t know how much it meant.”

  She was silent again. She set Cameron back onto the floor, and her shiny hair slid from her shoulder. She stood up, an unreadable look in the forget-me-not eyes. “You’re very welcome,” she said.

  He nodded, and not seeming to find any further reason to stay, he dragged himself heavily up the stairs. His reprieve was over.

  Seventeen

  Bob Henry sat on the hard motel mattress and gazed at the water stain on the ceiling. It was his second week at the Capitol City Motor Inn. Here he was, just a few miles away from the Hilton and the Sheraton, but they were in a different world. Even a Motel 6 would have been an improvement over this.

  He’d been schmoozing and buying people coffee and doughnuts for a week and a half. The locals seemed only too happy to gripe about their pastor. He had made numerous visits to the county courthouse to check records, and his laptop was so overheated from the hours he’d spent online, he’d probably scorched the bedspread. His preliminary inquiries hadn’t exactly come up dry, but neither had he found the pot of gold.

  Two of the sisters were completely clean. Not even any rumors, and he’d certainly beat the bushes to cover that angle. Too bad being a battle-axe wasn’t a crime, or he’d have Winifred against the wall. He’d nosed around the university to see if there was an academic skeleton in Fiona’s closet—plagiarism, hanky-panky with a student, but nada. Zilch. And the youngest, Lorna, had divorced a year ago. There was a declaration of bankruptcy on file, but no police reports for domestic abuse, no restraining orders. Nothing good.

  He was still waiting for the police report from Anna’s accident. That should come in any day now. The daughter was a strong contender for black sheep. He’d been asking around, and the scuttlebutt seemed to be that she was “troubled,” which was slightly encouraging. Still, he didn’t really have anything he could take to the bank.

  Which was problematic. He leaned back onto the pillow and locked his hands behind his neck. He would have to regroup and come at this from another angle.

  He went through all the categories of ecclesiastical hanky-panky in his head. The big one, the brass ring, would be a woman, of course. An improper relationship, usually with a distressed counselee, was the number one reason a minister got taken out. He’d asked around, but not even MacPherson’s enemies knew of any women.

  What else? Money, of course. He glanced over at the stack of papers on the corner of his bed. He’d had central accounting send him a copy of the churc
h’s balance sheets for the last year, but he’d hoped to avoid going though them. Nothing bored him more than numbers. His mind ran through other categories of moral failure: drugs, perversions, addictions. None of those seemed promising. He couldn’t picture Alasdair a closet addict, and perversion was a stretch even for his imagination.

  Bob flipped on the television with the remote, watched a few minutes of the news, then sat up and rubbed his face. He was going back to Richmond tomorrow. Gerry had summoned him, but he hated to leave without what he’d come for. He sighed and picked up the first of the spreadsheets. He might as well order a pizza. It was going to be a long night.

  Eighteen

  Bridie turned sideways to get the last box through the narrow attic doorway. She smiled, thinking what a mess of nonsense Carmen would be carrying on about crazy wives living up here. Bridie, however, was quite certain there were no wives here, crazy or otherwise. This attic had become very familiar in the last few days. She wished she had a nickel for every trip she’d made up those narrow stairs, a penny for every piece of bric-a-brac she’d stashed away—carefully packed, of course. Layers of tissue kept Mama MacPherson’s treasures safe for the next generation.

  She’d even brought a little order to the cluttered mess, though she hadn’t intended to reorganize the MacPhersons’ attic.

  “Do you have any Christmas decorations?” she’d asked Lorna a few days before. The spirit of the season was coming upon her whether she liked it or not.

  “They’d be in the attic,” Lorna had answered. She’d checked her watch, and Bridie knew she would probably make herself late for work at the photo processing plant if she came back inside.

  “That’s all right. Forget it.”

  “No,” Lorna had protested. “I think it would be nice for the children. Would you mind taking a look?”

  She’d shrugged and said she guessed not. Now she understood Lorna’s apologetic expression. The place had been a rat’s nest—packed from corner to corner with castoffs of the rich and snooty who hadn’t thrown anything away in centuries. She’d looked through ten or more boxes and found lots of hats and clothes that smelled of camphor, but so far no Christmas decorations. It hadn’t been a complete waste of time, though. She’d discovered a few useful things—an entire set of good, sturdy pottery dishes, which she’d immediately brought down to the kitchen, as well as a wool plaid tablecloth, two afghans, spare bedding, including a few beautiful old quilts, and a large overstuffed chair that had been buried under a mound of faded draperies. She’d found three ginger-jar lamps that would nicely light the living room.