Not a Sparrow Falls

by Linda Nichols

  “Uh-oh,” Samantha said. Bridie began reading the next entry without comment.

  The sun is pouring through the windows of our apartment this morning. It is a beautiful day with a hint of autumn in the air, and I’m cheered immensely. And I’ve identified my trouble. Who wouldn’t be depressed, thousands of miles from home, alone in a new country? I feel much better now. I even made a cake for Alasdair’s family.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Bridie said, agreeing with Samantha. A glance at the next lines confirmed it.

  The visit from his family was horrible. His one sister Winifred is beastly, and I’m afraid to say his mother is just like her.

  “You’ll have to come to Alexandria for a proper ceremony and reception,” she said. I said nothing, just smiled, but wanted to say that I was properly married and what more was there to it? I was a little vexed that Alasdair didn’t say more. He just watched, and sometimes I thought he was amused.

  His father was brusque and preoccupied, always dragging Alasdair off for whispered consultations, of which I overheard only a word or two—elders and budgets and meetings. Church things. Only one member of the family was kind to me—Alasdair’s sister Lorna. I can tell she knows what it’s like to be the underdog.

  My new motherin-law offered to take me shopping and help me decorate the apartment. “It is decorated,” I answered, and there was a deadly silence before Fiona began chattering. It was horrible the entire day. After they’d taken us to dinner, I served the cake, and it wasn’t done in the middle. They all sat there, spooning soupy bites of chocolate into their mouths. Oh, I wanted to die. Lorna tried to help, saying she’d heard pudding cakes were quite popular and wasn’t I clever to make one, but it didn’t fool anyone. In fact, Winifred argued with her. “This is no pudding cake,” she said. Then Fiona began asking me about what classes I would be taking, but she set her cake aside without touching it. Winifred wouldn’t let it alone. “I know pudding when I taste it,” she said, “and this isn’t pudding.” Then Mother MacPherson said, “Winifred, that’s quite enough. Regardless of Anna’s problems with the cake, your behavior is quite inexcusable.” And the most unbelievable part of the entire day was that when I repeated the conversation to Alasdair, he laughed!! “That’s each of them in a nutshell,” he said. “They each just gave you a little character sketch of themselves.”

  I tried to explain to him how I had felt—stupid and worthless. I hoped he would hold me and tell me that I wasn’t any of those things—at least not to him. But all he did was say they were the ones who had the problem, and I should try to take them all with a grain of salt, or I would go mad, and then he left to do some work on campus.

  “Read Psalm 146,” he said in parting. I am furious at his high-handed ways and even more furious that I did as he asked.

  “Do not put your trust in princes, in mortal men, who cannot save. When their spirit departs, they return to the ground; on that very day their plans come to nothing. Blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the Lord his God, the Maker of heaven and earth, the sea, and everything in them—the Lord, who remains faithful forever.”

  I don’t know whether to be angry or grieved. I am going to bed.

  Bridie stopped and looked at Samantha.

  “Keep going,” Samantha said, sounding irritated.

  Bridie read on.

  I have decided to take life by the horns. I have signed up for my classes, gotten myself a job. At a retirement home. I will lead them in activities—crafts and such—three times a week in the afternoon. And my first time there, while knotting beads, I made a friend. Her name is Elizabeth Bacon, and she is quite an interesting person. A former jeweler, and I was quite embarrassed at my clumsy craft project.

  “Stringing beads must be child’s play to you,” I apologized.

  “Not at all,” she said. “It gives me something to do.”

  We chatted quite a bit. She admired my wedding ring and said the diamond was first-rate. She is forthright and cheerful. Just the kind of friend I need.

  There were a lot of entries after this about Boston. Things Anna was doing. It seemed in the next weeks she had succeeded in crafting a life for herself. She attended her classes, even made a friend in the apartment building, or at least an acquaintance who enjoyed going with her to the flea markets and secondhand stores. There were more poignant entries, almost desperate sounding, of the depth of her love for Alasdair.

  “TMI,” Samantha said, waving her hand. “Skip those.” Bridie flipped quickly through, not sure if she was motivated by respect for Anna’s privacy or something else.

  Alasdair is quite cheered by my new approach to life and apologized if he had seemed to thrust me away. I told him that I don’t believe he realizes what a healing effect he has on me, on everyone. I believe the Lord uses people to meet our needs. One day I’ll try to explain it to him better. I must go and do my assignments. I am behind in my literature class and have a paper due tomorrow for creative writing that I can’t face. I don’t feel exceptionally well.

  Bridie closed the book.

  “I hate that.”

  “What? What’s the matter with you?” Bridie asked.

  “I just hate the way she quits right in the middle of things.”

  “Patience. We’ll get back to her tomorrow. And after that we’d better get busy on Christmas things.”

  Bridie said good night, kissed Samantha on the forehead, and turned out her light. The house was quiet. A light burned under the door of Alasdair’s study, but the door was closed. What would he say if he knew what they were doing just on the other side of that wall? She let herself out and stepped into the cold night, locking the door behind her to keep them safe.

  Twenty-Four

  Bob Henry threw down the last of Knox Presbyterian’s spreadsheets in disgust. It would be Christmas in a few days, and here he was. Still grinding away and getting nowhere. His girlfriend had gone to the Bahamas. Without him. And here he sat in his windowless office still looking through balance sheets. Perfectly legitimate balance sheets.

  Nothing was missing from petty cash. There were no slush funds. Nothing unaccounted for. He’d been looking over this mess for weeks now. Had even brought in one of his accounting buddies to take a closer look. Nada. Zilch. And he was running out of time. Gerry had been asking for his input for weeks, wanting to get back to the Knox elders. Just yesterday he’d brought it up again.

  “Edgar Willis called again, Bob. I must have your report soon.”

  “There are just a few more facts I need to document, sir,” Bob had hedged. But he couldn’t hold things off much longer, and not just because of Gerry’s impatience. Bob’s own timeline was tight. The General Assembly Council members had to make their recommendation for president four months before the annual meeting. That meant decisions were being made right now. If Bob was going to pull something out of the hat to make the Knox elders swoon with delight, now was the time. He sighed, rubbed his stiff neck, and went back to the paperwork spread all over his desk.

  He started in again with the current month. Offering was down, but that was to be expected around the holidays. Besides, the first thing that happened when congregations weren’t happy was that they shut their wallets. He shook his head and flipped through the pages. One more time. The second to the last paper, a yellow carbonized form, caught his eye. He frowned. Someone had been added to the church health insurance policy. Bridget Collins. Her birth date was listed along with social security number. Who was she?

  He flipped open the phone book and dialed the extension for Human Resources. No, the woman assured him. There had been no new hires at the Alexandria church. The only open position was the associate pastor, but it hadn’t been officially posted yet.

  Bob hung up and scratched his chin, mildly interested. He looked up another number—Knox’s office. The secretary answered. He remembered her—a young brittle type with suspicious eyes that he’d tried to chat up when he was there. S
he hadn’t liked him. She’d almost accused him of stirring up trouble and completely clammed up when he tried to ask a few innocent questions.

  “This is Henry Fallon from Human Resources,” he lied, picking the first name that came into his head—his maternal grandfather’s. “I’ve got an add-on for the health insurance, and I’m confused.”

  “Yes,” she answered, not committing herself to help.

  “Um. This Bridget Collins. What’s her capacity? I need to have something to put down. We can’t just add people to the policy.”

  “She’s the nanny, and before you start arguing, let me just say that I told Lorna I thought there might be a problem. I’ll give you her number if you have a question.”

  “Whose nanny?”

  “Reverend MacPherson’s. He hired her to watch his kids.”

  “Does she live in? Because if she doesn’t live in, she’s not considered a full-time employee and wouldn’t be eligible for benefits.” Brilliant. And he had hardly been trying.

  “I don’t know. Call Lorna—Reverend MacPherson’s sister. Here’s her number.” She reeled off digits Bob didn’t bother to copy. He signed off and sat there for another few minutes, thinking.

  He checked the birth date and did a little math. Bridget Collins was twenty-six years old. He wondered what she looked like. His job would be easier if she was a babe. He copied down the social security number, feeling uninspired. The odds of Alasdair having an affair were slim to none, but, he reminded himself, he didn’t have to prove anything. He just had to get enough to convince MacPherson that it was in his own and his family’s best interest to resign.

  He would go back to Alexandria and see what he could find out. Slightly cheered, he picked up the telephone one more time and put in a call to one of the denomination hacks whose son was a lawyer for the Commonwealth Attorney General. He’d lean on him to get the goods on this nanny, though he could probably find out all he wanted himself from the Internet if he looked in the right places. There was almost nothing you couldn’t find out about a person if you had their name and social security number.

  Twenty-Five

  “Do you think Aunt Lorna will like this?” Samantha asked, holding up the necklace she’d been working on.

  “I think she’ll love it,” Bridie said. The visit to the bead shop had been a big success. Everyone would be getting something strung for Christmas. “Don’t forget to tell her what the woman said.”

  “That moonstones give a woman an allure of mystery,” Samantha quoted and bent back over her project. “I’m writing it on the card.”

  Bridie watched her a moment longer, then climbed onto the bed and opened the book Samantha had left on the pillow. Anna’s face looked back at her from the first page and Bridie was startled at how close she felt to this woman. How real she had become. Her face was familiar, like a dear friend’s. Ah! She’d cut her hair. It suited her, softly framing her face and curling behind her ears. Her face was so pretty, her features so fine and exquisite. She was smiling in this picture, and her eyes were shining. Alasdair stood beside her, a younger, more vivid version of himself. His face had grown even more familiar. Bridie resisted the impulse to trace its lines with her finger. She strained her eyes but couldn’t make out whether there was a stain of ink on his finger even then. She took a deep breath, then began to read.

  “Show me Boston,” I told Alasdair. “Turnabout’s fair play.” And to my great surprise, he did.

  “Wake up,” he said to me this morning, handing me a steaming cup of tea and a fresh croissant on a tray. He even put a doily on it—stolen from the end table. “Today you’re mine,” he said. I loved the sound of that.

  I ate my breakfast, then dressed. He was tapping his foot, waiting.

  The morning was spent touring bookshops. He bought me a beautiful edition of Blake, and I bought him a volume of Calvin’s Commentaries he’s been wanting. The city is beautiful. All the leaves are turning, and the air is crisp and cool. We ate lunch at a little café near the French Cultural Center and the library. We had onion soup with thick cheesy crust and shared a chocolate crepe for dessert. In the afternoon we saw Old North Church and the site of the Boston Tea Party. We finished at the observatory just as the stars were coming out. It was lovely. A completely lovely day.

  “Are you sure she’s talking about Dad?” Samantha asked, stringing another bead. Bridie gave her a look. The next entry was dated November.

  Winter has descended on us in earnest. Our little apartment is snug and warm while the freezing rain beats hard little taps on the window. I suppose it’s not all that difficult to heat two rooms and a loo. Ah, well. What it lacks in space, it makes up for in charm.

  I have a secret. I’ve told no one yet, but I think I’m pregnant. I can feel the changes in my body, even though I’m just a few days late. I feel very heavy, sort of overripe and queasy. We shall see. Next week should be soon enough to test. I wonder what he will say. I think he will be pleased, but one never knows. We’ve only been married a few months, after all. Perhaps he would rather have waited. I’m afraid to tell him. Why is it the woman always feels as if it’s her situation, and the man merely a spectator rather than a participant?

  Another thought dawned. Father. My heart sinks. If I am pregnant, the news will send him raving. Perhaps I won’t tell him until I’m well along or maybe even delivered. Spare myself the continued exhortations to talk to someone. Well, at any rate, I won’t let worries about him spoil my joy. Just because something happened to Mother doesn’t mean it will happen to me. I’m thinking Devon if it’s a boy and Clarice if a girl. Or perhaps Ellen and William. We shall see.

  “Clarice.” Samantha made a face. “She must not have seen Hannibal.”

  “It’s a perfectly fine name,” Bridie said.

  “I like your name,” Samantha said. “Mary Bridget.”

  Bridie turned toward her sharply. Samantha’s head was bent again over the beads. “How’d you know that?” she asked, keeping her voice calm.

  “Your Bible. It was in the guest room, and I saw it when I dusted. How come it says Washburn on the front when your name is Collins?” she asked, still not looking up from her beading.

  Bridie’s heart thumped, and she answered recklessly. “I have a secret life.”

  “No. Really.” Samantha looked up, interested, innocent, not at all suspicious.

  “It was my mama’s.” Bridie felt a jolt inside as the lie left her lips. She had the sudden urge to take it back. To tell the whole truth.

  And get thrown into jail just in time for Christmas. Now that would be a fine how-do-you-do.

  “It’s a pretty name,” Samantha said, head bent back over the beads. The moment was gone. Bridie focused her attention back on Anna’s book and tried to quiet her guilt.

  A lab slip from Brigham and Women’s Hospital decorated the page. An order for a pregnancy test with the word Yes!!! written across in red ink and the date. Anna had attached an antique baby cap beside the paper. It was covered with lace and satin ribbons that trailed to the bottom of the page.

  I told Alasdair, and he was wonderful. He was surprised at first, but then the happiness spread over his face. I asked if it was too soon for a baby. He shook his head and kissed me. He said it wasn’t our plans that mattered, but God’s—that he had thought we would wait, but obviously we’d been overruled. I feel a great relief and now am even more joyful. I called my father at Alasdair’s insistence, and even he was pleasant about it. He did chat with Alasdair for quite a time afterward, though. I asked what they talked about, and Alasdair was vague. “He just wants me to take good care of you,” he said, kissing my cheek, but I think his eyes were a little troubled. Trust Father to suck the joy out of an occasion from clear across the ocean.

  I won’t allow it. If he wants to color his life with gloom, that is his choice, but I will not. This very day I went out and began shopping. I was looking for a crib in secondhand shops but instead found this little cap. I do feel rather ill, an
d looking at it reminds me of the joy at the end of the road.

  I have to go to work this afternoon. Sometimes I regret having taken the job, but I do enjoy visiting with the old people, especially Elizabeth. She was quite overjoyed when I told her the news. She and I have become fast friends. I told her about Alasdair’s family’s visit, and she laughed and laughed. “Oh, honey, don’t take them seriously,” she advised. “They obviously have no class.”

  I smiled at that all day. At how positively outraged Mother MacPherson would be to be told her clan has no class. Lorna excepted, of course. She is a dear. Here is the note she sent me after the pudding cake fiasco.

  A small piece of white stationery was pasted beside a Victorian-era Valentine, erupting with hearts and lace in shades of pink, green, and white.

  I saw this card in an antique shop and thought of you, Anna. Even though it’s not Valentine’s Day, I had to buy it. I enjoyed meeting you so very much. Your home is lovely. I hope you don’t mind that I copied one of your ideas. I found an old wrought-iron chandelier in Mother’s attic. I painted it white, and it now hangs in my dining room with tiny pink candles. I think of you each time I see it and thank God for giving my brother such a wonderful wife and me such a delightful sister-in-law.

  Love, Lorna

  PS: I’m looking forward to seeing you at Christmas.

  “Uh-oh,” Samantha said, “I smell trouble brewing.”

  Sure enough.

  Alasdair says we must go to Alexandria for Christmas holiday. I went in the bedroom and cried but dried my tears before I reemerged. I know I am being silly and immature. I told Elizabeth, and she just said I should show them what class looks like. I suppose.

  Alasdair says his father has a matter to discuss with him. I hope it’s not that there is some ghastly family name that must be passed down. Suppose instead of Devon or Clarice they insist on Imogene or Orbit? Borrowing trouble. I have dropped my writing class. I have no energy to spare once I go to work.