The Color of Ordinary Time

by Virginia Voelker

  “He doesn’t have that in him, but I’m sorry for your sake that he doesn’t. How much did it cost you, bailing him out?”

  I hesitated to answer that question. John knew about my dreams of a more permanent home, where Ivy did not. Ivy wouldn’t have understood. In her visions of the future, a man would come along, marry her, buy her a house, and they’d have kids. Someday. But Ivy was in no hurry for the sense of permanence she had always had in her life. John had actually helped me think about what my home would look like, and what I wanted. He was good at asking the right questions.

  “About a year worth of saving,” I said. No point in lying.

  John whistled low, and nodded his head again. “I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve worked really hard for that money. What had they nabbed him for?”

  “Disturbing the peace, and trespassing. He decided to break up a Catholic church service.”

  John just shook his head again. I thought briefly about going into the rest of what happened, but couldn’t bring myself to tell him when I wasn’t sure myself exactly what was going on. I hadn’t even stopped to check my home voicemail, and see if Ruth Ann had called yet. I was almost sure she had, but I was not sure if I would be returning her call.

  “I’ve got parament duty tomorrow. How is this new pastor I keep hearing about?” I asked instead.

  “Pastor Brett seems nice enough. Not as jovial as Pastor Fritz, but more sincere, I think. He seems very earnest. Like he wouldn’t be able to lie even if he wanted to.”

  “Hum. I wonder if that is a help in the ministry, or a hinderance. Being too direct with people can cost you members.”

  “As Walton found out repeatedly the hard way.”

  “But, on the other hand, seeming to always be earnest makes you seem trustworthy.”

  “I think it probably makes him seem trustworthy. He’s not as militant as Walton.”

  “I’ll be interested to meet him. I wonder what Mrs. Clack thinks of him?”

  “She’s trying to get him married off to Charlene.”

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed. Charlene Buckmann was Jemma Clack’s niece by her younger sister Lena. Ever the focus of Jemma’s attentions, Charlene had been spoiled, and petted into a belief that the world really did revolve around her. It was unfortunate that neither Jemma nor Charlene had been able to find a man who agreed that Charlene was the center of the universe. Why either of them thought that Charlene would make a good pastor’s wife was beyond me.

  “I don’t know if that’s high praise or not. I mean, when is she not trying to get Charlene married off?” John chuckled at that.

  As we approached the area called Hiram’s Hill, I spotted something odd. Local lore had it that Hiram’s Hill, the only hillish elevation for miles, had once been settled by John Hiram and his wife Betsy. They had built a cabin on the hill, tried to farm the area, and failed. Something about an Illini burial ground, and a shaman’s curse. Stuff and nonsense of course. Not the sort of thing I was encouraged to research in my youth. The fire-blackened remains of the cabin and barn had stood untouched for decades. That day they were gone, and a new structure was starting to take shape on the crest of the hill.

  “What’s going up on the hill?”

  “Church,” said John.

  “Really,” I said pausing along the road next to a well beaten dirt path that led up the hill to where the cabin used to stand. “Seems like an odd place to put a church, way out here. Let’s go have a look.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” said John.

  “Are you tired? Want to go back?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what are they going to do? Shoot at us for trespassing?” I asked as I started down the path. John followed me without commenting.

  Up on the hill the stone foundation had been laid, and half of the first wall was framed out. John stood next to me as I studied the structure. “I can never tell how large a building is going to be at this stage. It seems small for anyone to be moving out here from town,” I said.

  “I thought he would have told you,” said John.

  “Who would have told me what?”

  “Your father. His congregation is moving out here.”

  That was what the scene at the crusade had been about. Changes in the ministry they wanted me to know about. Even as the pieces fell into place, I couldn’t comprehend the facts. “My father is building a church?” I asked unable to give the thought credit.

  “Not just a church,” said John before taking my arm and drawing me to the other side of the hill.

  Below us there was a stretch of meadow, that led down to a lake with some trees around beside the water. But the once-familiar scene had changed. Now there were small houses going up on the shore of the lake. I hadn’t noticed them before because the hill hid them from view of anyone out on the road.

  “My father is building...? What? A community? A commune?”

  “Right now I think we’re all going with religious cooperative,” said John.

  For a minute I felt as if gravity had let go, and we’d been thrown out into space. It didn’t make sense that my father, who had always preached against church buildings, would suddenly decide not to just build a church, but an entire community. I wanted to drive back to Kentucky and yell at him. He was changing the rules. He was giving in. He was not being true to his own beliefs. Agree with him, disagree with him — he was selling out, and I was angry at him.

  “We need to go,” I managed to choke out.

  “Come on,” said John as he gently tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and drew me away. “I thought sure he would have told you.”

  “He tried. I wasn’t listening.”

  John nodded, and we walked back to the Brandt’s in silence.

  *

  The next morning Dory was still absent from the breakfast table, and Ivy was present but still sullen. I had not slept well either. There had been no quiet chat the night before after we turned the lights out, and Ivy gave no clue about what had happened while I was gone. Instead the stubborn silence of unspoken recriminations reigned between us. I thought about apologizing, but did not.

  Linus and the boys ate quickly, and quietly. At one point John got up and refreshed everyone’s coffee, which was the best part of the quiet meal that morning. Cereal and milk, but none of the fruit, toast, or muffins Dory would have provided.

  “What are you girls up to today?” asked Linus about half way through his bowl of cereal.

  “I’m headed out to St. Paul’s to look over the paraments. Probably won’t be back for lunch,” I said. It didn’t take a very astute reading of the room to figure out that I needed to be as far away from the Brandt’s for as much of the day as possible.

  Linus nodded.

  “I could give you a lift into town if you want. I’m headed that way for an interview in Troy,” said John.

  Ivy snorted derisively before I could reply. “How’s she going to get back, genius?”

  “I’d pick her up again,” said John, but his ears turned red with embarrassment at her tone.

  Linus gave Ivy a hard look, making her duck her head and concentrate on her cereal.

  “Thanks anyway,” I said, “It will be simpler if I drive myself.”

  John nodded, and conversation for rest of the meal perished on the spot.

  When everyone finished eating, and the table was cleared, John and I headed out to our cars. He waved to me as I pulled into the parking lot next to St. Paul’s. I waved back, but he had already driven past me, so I was pretty sure he didn’t see the gesture.

  The paraments at St. Paul’s were my second personal ritual of the summer. I had made them all the summer before my father and I parted ways. He’d been out on his crusade when I had finally convinced Pastor Fritz to baptize and confirm me. I’d been taking membership classes on the sly for two years, but Pastor Fritz wasn’t subversive enough to baptize a minor child without parental permission. So we made a deal, and P
astor Fritz baptized me after my father left town that summer, about a month after my 18th birthday. The paraments were my confirmation project. Materials paid for by the church; labor all done by me. When they were finished, ten days before my father came home from his crusade, I was confirmed as an adult member of the congregation.

  Mrs. Clack waved to me as I passed the church office. She was on the phone talking to someone about Charlene’s latest adventures. I didn’t see any sign that anyone else was in the building as I proceeded up the short staircase to the sanctuary level of the church.

  St. Paul’s was a smallish church, with plain cream walls and very little in the way of embellishment. The air of solemnity and solidity the church exuded were similar to that of many of its members. This was a hard working church. A plain spoken church. A church that knew that work was worship. In keeping with the simple beauty of the place, the paraments I made were simple. The green set on the altar that day was embellished with embroidered sheaves of wheat and bunches of grapes. From a spot in the middle of the center aisle, next to the front pew, they looked to be in good shape still. I would check them last.

  The sacristy was a small room, reached by a door hidden in the wall to the right of the altar, but the paraments at St. Paul’s were kept in a larger room just off the front of the sanctuary. Before the church had been added to in the sixties, the room had been a classroom. After the addition started being used, the old classroom became the banner room, used to store paraments, banners, and other things that wouldn’t fit in the tiny sacristy.

  I love the banner room. I did most of the work on the paraments sitting at the large table that sits square in the center of the room. Rumor had it that the table had been built in the room, and could never be moved out, as its builders hadn’t made it small enough to get out the door. I had never tried to move the table out. I’m not sure anyone else actually had, either.

  That day, I propped the door to the banner room open with the brown rubber doorstop that always sat behind the door. That way Mrs. Clack would be able to find me easily when she came looking. Then I placed the green-flowered tote bag with my sewing kit in it on the table. I opened one of the four huge windows. Somewhere nearby someone was cutting grass. I could hear the motor, and smell the sweet green aroma. Then I turned my attention to the four large wardrobes along the wall between the classroom and the sanctuary.

  I started with the purple altar antependium. Purple, the color of the penitent. The color of royalty. It hung in the wardrobe beside its matching stole, chasuble, and antependium for the lectern and the pulpit. I carefully took the cloth and spread it on the square table. Then I went over it slowly, looking for a loose thread here, or a missing bead there. Most repairs I would do that day. A hanging bit of fringe was easy enough to secure. Other jobs I would write down in a little notebook I carried just for that purpose.

  The altar antependium required no repairs, and, as I started to fold it to fit it on its hanger, I became aware of a figure standing in the doorway, watching me. “Hi, Mrs. Clack. How is Charlene these days?” I asked without really looking up. Mrs. Clack was always ready to talk about Charlene.

  “I’m not sure how Charlene is,” said a male voice.

  I looked up quickly then and saw the figure was in fact a man, perhaps in his late twenties, in a black clerical shirt and black pants.

  “I’m sorry. You must be Pastor Brett,” I said.

  “I am. And you must be Keziah Taylor.” He stepped forward with a jerk, and shook my hand. “I was expecting someone, well older.”

  I chuckled a little. “It’s the name. I guess it sounds like someone much older. Lots of people tell me that.”

  He seemed relived that he had not said the wrong thing, and I understood what John had meant when he called the young pastor “earnest.” He seemed afraid to give offense, but at the same time unable to filter his words. Interesting.

  “Mrs. Clack told me you’d be up here working this morning. I understand that you had to be out of town this last weekend on a family emergency. Is everything alright with your father?”

  “What did Mrs. Clack tell you about my father?” I countered.

  He flustered a bit, and blushed faintly. I didn’t know if it was because he’d been gossiped to, or because he’d listened, or maybe because he just wasn’t used to being questioned by people. “She’s told me he can be difficult,” he said after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

  “It’s okay. Somebody would have told you about Walton Taylor eventually. Or, worse yet — you would have met him unprepared. He is fine. I bailed him out, and now he’s difficult, but fine.”

  “Good,” he said, then fell silent. I moved to the wardrobe, rehung the altar antependium, and drew out the one for the lectern. As I spread it on the table for inspection, he stepped forward and ran a finger over the edge of the fabric nearest to him. “You do beautiful work. Not a common talent anymore.”

  I thought about explaining that knowing how to sew had once been necessity for me. I thought about explaining that learning to embroider had been a sin for me. Dory had taught me, when it became clear Ivy had no interest. Embroidery was vain. This work joined two things I enjoyed doing, but was also the point where my two lives came together. But I didn’t explain. Instead I said, “Thank you.”

  “Can I ask? I don’t want to be nosey. But while all of the paraments are beautiful, I noticed the green set are more elaborate than the rest. I wonder if there is a reason for that.”

  “Well they are the set you have to look at the most,” I said, as I looked down at the antependium in front of me. The purple was the most austere of the sets. Simple gold crosses embroidered in the center of each piece. At the time I made them, I considered making them more elaborate. Instead, the thought of penance had led me to simplicity. Plus — you can’t really go wrong with crosses in a church.

  “True,” he said.

  “Craftsman’s choice. I like the green set best.”

  He seemed pleasantly surprised at that answer. “You have a favorite time of the church year?”

  “Sort of. I like green. And I like what the Catholics call this time of year. The ‘Weeks after Pentecost’ lacks poetry.”

  “Ordinary Time?”

  “Exactly. Like that part of the year is for getting up and doing your work, and going about your life. Nothing special. Nothing stressful, or exciting. Routine and peacefulness. Ordinary time.”

  He gave me a lopsided half grin. “I suppose it matters not at all to you that we study the miracles of Jesus during this time of year. Hardly ordinary”

  “If you are the Son of God, isn’t doing miracles your job?” I asked lightly.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  I chuckled. From the sanctuary, the heavy tread of Mrs. Clack hurried toward the banner room. She arrived breathless and flushed.

  “Come quick, Pastor! Charlene has brought some cupcakes for the bake sale on Sunday. You have to come taste one,” she said from the door.

  “But it’s Tuesday,” I said, without thinking. Mrs. Clack shot me a look that left me six inches shorter.

  “If they are for the bake sale, perhaps I should leave them for the sale,” said Pastor Brett.

  “Don’t be silly. They have to have your approval,” said Mrs. Clack, as she grabbed his arm and started to pull him back out, into the sanctuary.

  Was it my imagination, or did Pastor Brett roll his eyes as he was drawn away?

  Eight

  My third personal ritual of summer vacations was not something I was proud of. I would break into my father’s house.

  The little, whiteish house on Stern street was out on a gravel road on the edge of town. The backyard was large, and unfenced. There was an old metal clothesline near the house that was strung, not with clothes line, but with yellow electrical wire. Why? Because someone had donated wire, and not clothesline. There is a large wood pile behind the garage, with an ax hanging under the eaves.

  I parked down the street a
nd made my way down the road, into the back yard. The back door key was under an overturned flower pot that sat on the little square of pavement separating the door from the back yard. I wouldn’t need it. My father rarely bothered to lock the back door. I guess he figured it was hardly worth it. We’d never really had anything worth stealing. As I turned the dark brown knob it squeaked and the glass in the door wobbled eerily. I paused to wave at Mrs. Masters, my father’s neighbor to the left. She was watching me out her kitchen window. When I waved she did not wave back, just let her curtain fall back into place. She was the neighborhood watch. I didn’t know if she reported me to my father or not. I doubted it. They were not friends. She liked to sleep in on Sunday, and all the singing over at my father’s garage woke her often.

  As I stepped in, closing the door behind me, a small shiver passed through me. The kitchen had not changed since I had left. Same rusting, retro white and red table. Same meant-to-be-sunny yellow linoleum. Same white cabinets, and white walls. There was a new tile missing from the yellow and white backsplash over the scratched sink. Even the same white dish rack, and glass canisters full of rice, and beans on the white counters. I checked the yellow refrigerator for food. There was a carton of milk, already spoiled, and a loaf of homemade bread already molding. That was it. I closed the fridge, leaving them there, and moved into the living room.

  The old wood stove still stood in the corner. The old quilt still lay over the sagging once-blue couch, and my father’s cracked and faded leather armchair still sat in its corner. I didn’t pause in the living room to study anything more closely. I had a goal in mind.

  Up the front stairs. I tripped slightly on the hole in the faded runner on the fifth stair, then made it safely to the landing. To the right lay my old room, now stripped of anything that had once been mine. To the left, my father’s room. I paused in the familiar dim hallway to take a deep breath. I carefully entered my father’s room.

  Again, I did not pause to look around, but simply knelt before the battered fourth-hand chest of drawers, and opened the bottom drawer. Under the patched, moth-eaten sweaters, tucked away at the back, there was an old, slightly torn manila envelope. In the envelope were three pictures. The first was a tiny young woman standing next to a tall man who looked slightly older than her. She is dressed in a long white wedding dress, he is in a dark blue suite. They look happy. The date on the back is March 1977. The second picture is the same young woman sitting, smiling in a hospital bed. She is holding a baby wrapped in a light blue blanket. She is glowing with joy. The third picture is only half a picture really. The same young woman stands on a front lawn smiling. She looks tired in this one. Like there is effort behind her smile. There is a hand on her shoulder, but it is impossible to tell who the hand belongs to. The rest of the picture had been torn away.