by M. Mabie
While heads were buried in prayer around me, I glanced around at the men and women who were going forward. Additionally, I noticed a handful of men flank the pews and begin to pass the collection plates.
At a funeral.
I smoldered in the back.
“Give from your hearts to the place where we can come together, this Holy ground where we gather today to celebrate Jacob’s homecoming. It needs you.”
My jaw ached, locked.
In hours, I’d be gone. I could hold it in. I stretched, side-to-side, to quell the impulse to get up and leave.
After minutes that never seemed like they’d end, and hymns that annoyed me mostly because I was annoyed by everything else, the offering plate got to me. I passed it directly to Brother Bill Collector on my right with such force a few envelopes tumbled out.
I still didn’t care. Wrong was wrong. There wasn’t a damn thing honorable or holy about preying on people at a funeral.
The polished man picked them up quietly, placed the opposite side’s plate on top, offered me a smug grin before saying, “God bless,” and headed to the front.
There wasn’t anything Godly about it.
Jacob’s funeral was just another payday for the church. Another opportunity to make a withdraw from the congregation. Another crime in the name of the Lord. Another reason to leave that place and everyone who lived there.
As a different song began, men flanked the casket, lifting it up, and started the march up the center with my brother. Behind them, my weeping mother walked beside my dad as he shook the hands of menfolk they passed.
And behind them was Myra.
Her face was empty; her mouth pulled tightly into a thin line. Again, void the typical emotions you’d expect from a grieving widow, and her eyes focused on the floor in front of her. Her lengthy hair didn’t even move as she walked. Her skirt barely swayed. It was as if she were floating up the aisle because her movements were so meek and inconspicuous.
I was staring, and she must have sensed it. When she was less than a few yards away, her eyes met mine, but her head stayed down. That blue had haunted me since yesterday. Like a deep well, a bottomless pool of solitude reflecting at me.
I held her gaze, and although her expression never changed, it was like she spoke to me with her eyes, but even that voice was too quiet to hear clearly.
As she passed, she examined my clothes. From my boots to the creases on my shirt. The hair. The beard. And just before she was gone, she blinked and caught my eyes again.
She was hollow.
I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to her. Knowing her options probably weren’t anything desirable or worthy of looking forward to, I bit down on my bottom lip to keep from shouting out on her behalf.
With only a few hours or less left in Lancaster, there wasn’t anything I could do. And it wasn’t my place, regardless of how compelled I was to see to it that she was okay. That she’d be okay in the future.
Nobody was looking after her. No family supporting her. Or had I just forgotten how reserved these people were? Hopefully, she had someone to lean on, comfort her if that’s what she needed. Of course, she hadn’t looked too distraught, which again was altogether odd.
On the drive to the cemetery, I did what I could to chase away the questions I had about the woman. I distracted myself with thoughts of my shop, and if it would finally be possible to expand. Running numbers in my head, I brainstormed ways to add more money to my savings. When the right building became available, I hoped I’d be ready.
I supposed it was up to the bank, and all I could do was wait to hear whether they’d loan me the money to get started or not. It would still happen either way but having the backing would certainly speed things up.
My old truck crept to a stop behind a Buick, and like everyone else, I walked quietly to the gravesite. Once more, I stayed in the back and listened as my father prayed and preached. Thankfully, it was a shorter version because the sun beat overhead and a sweat broke on my neck.
I thought through a small prayer for my brother as they lowered him into the ground, but before I silently send it prayer up to God, I added a line or two for Myra.
10
Myra
I felt bad for Abraham.
I had many brothers and only one sister, for a little while, and when she passed away, I was terribly sad. If brothers were sadder for their brothers and sister for their sisters, then I was sure Abraham was feeling the pain of that loss.
I’d only been six when Maureen went to Heaven, and fourteen when momma followed her. Since our older brothers had left home way before I was ready to, and our mother and my older sister had gone to be with Jesus, I’d spent years taking care of my father and helping my sisters-in-law with their children.
Marriage hadn’t even been on my radar; I hadn’t even switched my maturity ring to my left hand until Pastor spoke with me and father. Although by then he was far worse and didn’t know who I was anymore. I’d just been busy serving my family the best I could.
God must have known though because Pastor reached out to me, letting me know how he’d prayed for me and our family and how he had gotten a message in his heart about Jacob and I marrying.
Pastor had been a blessing to me and my brothers with getting father into the old age home where he got the care he needed. It wasn’t until Mitchell, my oldest brother, had explained to me that I was engaged that I’d even considered getting married.
After a few dinners with Jacob and the Hathaways, all the big decisions had been sorted out.
It wasn’t how I’d imagined courting and engagement, but I was blessed that at just the right time Jesus worked in my life and was providing for me. Just as I’d been taught, he did for his faithful believers.
But now what?
As I rode with Jacob’s mother and father back to the church, past the other vehicles down the lane in the cemetery, I noticed Abraham getting into his truck alone. It reminded me of a dream I must have had the night before. I couldn’t recall much about it, but piece-by-piece since seeing him that morning, it was coming back to me.
We’d been walking together somewhere, and he’d been a few steps ahead. I trailed, and before I fell too far behind, he looked over his shoulder and offered me his hand.
It was sweet, which seemed funny because Abraham didn’t come across as sweet. In fact, he was almost the opposite of his brother. He seemed hard where Jacob was soft, sure where his brother had been uncertain.
Abraham was strong. Jacob wasn’t.
For thinking something so ugly about a man at his funeral, I berated myself through the serving line in the cafeteria at church and even skipped my favorite foods as penance. I wasn’t worthy of the mercy Heavenly Father was giving me.
As I ate, I prayed for patience and acceptance for whatever was ahead. I asked for guidance too.
I cleaned my spot and rose to head toward the kitchen and see if I could be of help when I noticed him watching me. It was such an intense glare that it startled me.
His plate was piled high, nearly overflowing, and he had an extra plate with pie on it, but his eyes were on me. He never stopped eating when I caught him looking my way.
It was aggressive and, for some reason, it felt scandalous watching him back, so I turned away.
11
Abe
Shortly after Myra left their table, my father left the dining hall in the direction of his office. I wanted to get the talk he wanted to have with me over with, but I couldn’t be bothered until my plate was clean.
I hadn’t eaten that well in years. The potatoes. The salads and side dishes. The ham and roasted turkey. The rolls. The pies—I’d selfishly grabbed two pieces. Apple and cherry. It was, by far, the best part of the trip. And faced with probably the worst part, I savored every bite knowing it was almost over.
Soon I’d be able to ignore what was happening in Lancaster, and they’d ignore me.
Finally, when I was finished with my se
cond plate, I cleaned my place and took the tray to the kitchen window where I saw Myra working with the other women.
She didn’t notice me as I stood there for a while and watched her work at her husband’s funeral lunch. She was young, and apparently a hard worker, she could have so much more all on her own. What a shame.
Killing a few minutes, I stopped in the men’s room on my way to the Pastor’s office. I looked like a real mess—even more than normal—but I was proud. So after washing my hands, I tossed the towel in the trash and didn’t try to make myself more presentable. My wrinkles and stains would have to do.
Maybe he’d be so disgusted and embarrassed that he’d just keep it short and tell me to never come back, and that would be fine by me. Maybe I’d be officially banished, and they’d never contact me again. I could only imagine the story he’d make up to justify it, but I didn’t care about that either.
I was ready to leave.
His door was closed, but before I knocked on the frosted glass pane, I overheard others speaking.
“Pastor,” a man said. “I already have eight mouths to feed. She’s my sister and all, and don’t get me wrong, she’s very helpful, but I don’t see her living with me as a good fit.”
A different voice, “We could use her. Janette is pregnant again and God’s blessed me with mostly boys. Another female around would be welcome at my house. I’m sure you and the other Legacies would proudly offer that kind of generosity a spot on the board.”
My father answered, “Why don’t we have a meeting with them when Matthew gets back to town. She’s fine in the house for a few days. I’ll call a special Legacy board for next Saturday to weigh the options. After some prayer and thought, between me, the other elders of the church, and you—her brothers—we’ll find the right solution. It might be best if we pray about possibly re-marrying her to a different man, maybe another bereaved and banded widow. She might be a blessing to someone, and if God shows us paths, gentlemen, we should consider them. I’ll visit and pray over your father and see if I can hear His message.”
Predictably, they spoke about Myra like she had no option, no say in what would happen to her. Like it wasn’t her life. Instead, they were juggling her around like some housekeeper looking for work. Or worse, some scrap of pity flesh they could throw at an old Legacy tiger not quick enough to get it for himself anymore.
I knocked once but didn’t wait to open the door.
“Abraham, come in,” Father greeted with little enthusiasm, standing at his desk. The other three men, one of whom hadn’t spoken that I could hear—an older man whose shirt was more wrinkled than mine—headed for the door.
Was he the other widow? He must have been in his sixties. My stomach rolled as he licked his lips and twisted his band around the ring finger on his left hand before offering my dad a shake in parting.
Lancaster was evil.
I took a seat, sitting back as relaxed as I could to show how little I cared about the conversation we were about to have. My arms folded, I waited while they said their goodbyes and my dad closed his office door.
“Abraham.” He took his seat and rolled the leatherback chair forward, all business. “I’m surprised you showed up.”
So he understood I didn’t owe him gratitude or anything else, I stated, “You might want to get your money back at the hotel. I paid cash.”
“You know, you could have a good life here, son.” His padded shoulders shrugged. “A home. A family. Even a furniture business, if that’s what you wanted.”
How did he know about that?
“I have all that.” A home that was small, but mine. My handful of friends who were more family than I’d ever known. And my future was up to me, not him or some group of elders to decide.
“Really? You forget I know Ted and Dori Grier at the mill. The other day when your mother couldn’t reach you, I gave them a call. They said you were thinking about opening a store of your own but hadn’t heard back from the bank. In fact, that’s who she first thought I was when I called up there last week.”
Composure would serve me, so I held on to it. With a firm tone, I gave him instruction. “Don’t call there.”
“Can’t I check on you?” His attempt at portraying a hurt father was weak at best. “You are my only son.”
“You had Jacob. I’m not coming back.” I pitched forward and rested my forearms on my thighs, refusing to look away, refusing to give his power-hungry ego anything. “What do you want? I need to hit the road.”
“So, you’re not done running from God and your family yet?”
He thought he knew what buttons to push with me: God and family. But I remained calm, unaffected. He wasn’t qualified to give me God any more than he was to be a good father. Frankly, the conversation he had before ours was more irritating. It was the one that took up so much space in my mind, that my head ached from the pressure.
Slowly, I said, unafraid, “God and I are fine.”
“Looks like it.” He folded his hands atop his Bible. “You think your long hair and unshaven face is giving glory to Him? Stepping foot into a Holy house, looking like a drifter, is Christ-like?”
“You’re a fool. He doesn’t care, and neither do I.”
His eye dug into me. “Oh, He cares. He’s watching you, Abraham. He sees all you do. He knows the choices you make, and you’ll pay for those choices one day.”
I wasn’t falling for it. “I sleep just fine at night.”
“Alone, I’m sure. He doesn’t bless men like you with His precious helpmeets. They aren’t for you; they’re for better men.”
I slept alone by choice, not because of divine intervention.
“Like Jacob? And whoever calls dibs on his precious helpmeet?”
He squinted. “Jacob had his own demons, but he had the good sense to listen. And poor Myra will go where the Lord sees fit.”
My voice rose right along with my pointing finger. “Where you see fit.”
Without any shame or hesitation, he answered, “Yes.” He was proud of it.
My fuse was close to lit, and I hadn’t felt my temper enflame like that since I’d left the first time. To Hell with Lancaster, yelling and screaming wasn’t me anymore. I didn’t have the time for it.
“Are we finished?”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re in a hurry to get back to your shack in Fairview.”
Anywhere was better than there.
As I got up to leave, my chair raked across the wooden floor making a scratching sound that pleased me. I liked the thought of leaving a mark, scuffing it up.
I didn’t look back. I didn’t say anything.
Down the hall one way was a door, the other way was my mother, and I was damn sure that once I got outside the heavy walls of their church, I wasn’t coming back. But no matter how much I despised my father, I couldn’t just leave without saying goodbye to her. It wouldn’t be the right thing to do.
I didn’t have to search long for her, finding her in the cafeteria, hunched over wiping tables clean.
I marched straight to her, “Mom, it was good to see you.” But really it wasn’t. She was miserable, and we were at a funeral.
She was wearing an apron and placed her rag on the picnic table-style bench seat. She wiped her hands off and stood up.
“I thought maybe you’d stay a few days.” She smiled, but her eyes frowned.
I rubbed her arm because she looked like she might cry. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
When she nodded the large bun of long salt and peppery hair shook. “All right, dear.” She cleared her throat and added, “I love you, Abraham. God bless you, honey.” Her right arm wrapped around me and I returned the single-armed embrace knowing their rules. Stupid rules. A mother should be able to hug her son, as tight and as hard as she wanted, but eyes were watching.
Including Myra’s.
Without much thought, I kissed the top of my mother’s head before she broke away. I didn’t have anyone to answer to—not ther
e anyway—but she did.
My mom gave me a frail, wobbly smile and went back to work.
I was going to leave.
Right then.
But as I passed the open double doors to the kitchen where Myra was, I paused. A few seconds standing there turned into a few more, and before I thought better of it, I spoke to Myra who hadn’t moved since I walked in.
“May I please talk to you?”
She hesitantly looked at my mother through the door who was now also watching, and then to the other ladies who also observed.
I shook my head, sick of that damned place. “Oh, for crying out loud, it’ll just take a second,” I added when she didn’t reply.
The hens in the room didn’t know what to make of me, the lost son of their Pastor, speaking to Myra, but I didn’t care. I was good as gone.
But before I left, I had to get something off my chest.
Noticing her shrink, I softened. “Please.” I wasn’t angry at her, but for her.
She slowly folded her dishtowel and set it down, then walked my way. Eyes on the floor. Arms at her side.
She came to the wide doorway, and I nodded for her to step outside it with me a few feet toward the hall to escape prying ears. I marched us out of sight toward the exit and then turned to face a pallid-looking young woman. I pitied her.
How old was she anyway? Twenty? Twenty-one?
She seemed nervous, and her breaths were deep.
“You don’t know me, and none of this is my business, but are you okay?” My words were rushed, but her passiveness drove me crazy. Didn’t she have a backbone?
She said, just over a whisper, “I’m fine.”
“Oh, stop it.”
She jumped, which also annoyed me. I wasn’t being cross, only concerned, but she apparently couldn’t tell the difference.
“Do you know what you’re going to do?”