Perhaps men were always struck dumb by the mysteries of birth, Delta thought. Or maybe just struck stupid, so that they insisted on saddling their offspring with idiotic nicknames that stuck with them forever.
But she wasn’t really annoyed with Rankin. How could she be, when he was the answer to every prayer she never dared to pray?
Faith, Grandma Mitchell insisted, was the journey of a lifetime. Certainty was a myth. The wrestling would go on forever. And yet as Delta glanced back over the past seven years, she could make out the faint outline of a serpentine path, drawing her on to where she was meant to be. She might not be able to see beyond the turns ahead, but she had become convinced that, in Dame Julians words, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, all manner of thing shall be well.” And if she’d ever needed evidence of the wellness of all things, she only had to look down, for she held the proof in her arms.
THE BABY HAD FALLEN ASLEEP, and Rankin took her, cradling her against his chest. “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said quietly. “Grandma Mitchell died.”
A cold emptiness rushed into Delta, a winter blast through an unseen crevice. “No!”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How? And when?”
He edged onto the bed next to her. “The night before last, while you were in labor. Her heart gave out, apparently. She died peacefully in her sleep. I’m on my way over to Clay and Hannah’s now.”
“When’s the funeral? I want to go.”
“A couple of days, maybe three. The family’s coming in tonight and tomorrow.”
“I’ll be out of the hospital tomorrow.”
Rankin stroked an errant lock of hair out of her eyes. “Sweetheart, it’s too soon—”
“I feel fine. I’m going, Rankin, and I don’t want to argue about it. I need to say good-bye.”
He nodded. “All right. I know how much you loved her. Death was a release for her, I’m certain. But it will be a loss for the rest of us. I’ll give your condolences to the family.”
He kissed her—twice—and left her alone with the baby, and with her grief.
THE GATHERING at the funeral home felt more like a church coffee hour than a visitation. Delta recognized almost everyone except for five or six people gathered around Clay and Hannah Mitchell, whom she assumed to be their extended family.
Few of the church members knew the deceased, as she had been homebound. And yet half the congregation seemed to be there, not so much out of personal sorrow but out of loyalty. Clay and Hannah had been members of the church long before Rankin had come to be their pastor.
As if some invisible cue had been given, the hubbub died down and all eyes turned in their direction the moment Delta and Rankin walked through the door. Clay made his way through the milling crowd. “Delta! I didn’t really expect you, but thanks for coming. Grandma would have wanted you here.”
“I’m so sorry, Clay,” she said. “I’ll miss her so much.”
Clay bent down over the blanket-wrapped bundle Delta held in her arms. Unshed tears glistened in his eyes. “So this is the new one. She’s beautiful, Delta. I wish Grandma had lived to see her.”
“Six pounds seven ounces,” Rankin said, beaming over Clay’s shoulder. “Her name’s Mary Elizabeth—I call her Sugar.”
Clay ran a hand through his hair. “The cycle of death and life,” he mused. “I wonder if it’s true, that when one person dies as another is being born, part of the dying person’s soul remains with the newborn.”
Delta smiled. “I devoutly hope so,” she said. “If a bit of your grandmother slips into our daughter, she will grow up to be a very fortunate woman indeed.”
Clay turned to Rankin, drew him into a hug, and held him there for a minute. “Grandma was ready to go, but still we’re going to miss her.”
“So will we.” Rankin nodded. “I’ll come by the house later and we can finish up details for the funeral.” He gripped Clay’s forearm and looked into his eyes. “You guys doing all right? You know, food and all that?”
Clay barked out a laugh. “Lord, yes. Vinca Hollowell’s inundated us with so many casseroles that we’ll need to buy a second freezer. I suppose you’ll be getting some of Vinca’s lasagna too.”
Clay moved back to his family, and Delta and Rankin began to thread their way across the room, greeting people with hugs and handshakes as they went. Everyone stopped them, wanting to ooh and ahh over the baby.
At last they got to Vinca Hollowell. Vinca was the chair of the social committee, a rotund little woman with bright darting eyes, a tireless worker. She squeezed Delta’s hand and congratulated her on the baby, promising that someone would come by the parsonage in the morning to bring food.
“We’re fine, Vinca,” Rankin assured her. “Delta and I can fend for ourselves. Don’t kill yourself trying to get everything done all at once.”
“Nonsense, Pastor,” she said, fidgeting with his lapel and brushing an imaginary piece of lint off his shoulder. “I just— well, you know. I like for things to be done right.”
“And you always do them beautifully, Vinca.” Rankin smiled down at her. “Once we get the baby settled into a routine at home, I’d like to come visit you.”
Vinca gave a quick glance at Delta, and she saw a shadow move behind the woman’s eyes. “Well, I—that is—you know, my husband, Ham, he’s not a churchgoing man, and he doesn’t like to have—” She paused. “I’ll come to the church instead, all right? I’ll call you next week. See you at the funeral, Pastor.” And she was gone, flitting with surprising speed back toward the refreshment table.
“Are you all right?” Rankin said when Vinca had disappeared into the crowd. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine. You go do your pastor thing. I want to pay my respects to Grandma, and in a few minutes you can take me home.”
He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Okay. But don’t stay too long.”
NEAR THE OPEN CASKET the scent of lilies nearly overwhelmed her. The smell reminded her of Easter, of resurrection, of hope and a new beginning. She gazed down at the face of Gladys Mitchell, serene in death as she had never been in life. No one— not Clay, not even Rankin—could ever comprehend what this woman had meant to Delta.
On the way in, Delta had overheard someone describe Grandma Mitchell as “that sweet old lady,” but it was hardly an accurate portrayal. The woman was an institution, a matriarch— by her own admission a “mule-headed intractable old broad.”
Delta stared at the emaciated body. How could such a frail shell contain that flaming spirit and not be burned to ash? She had given Delta so much—wisdom, enlightenment, a sense of direction. And now that bright soul was extinguished.
She heard the old woman’s words echo in her mind:
Faith is the work of a lifetime…. Life gives us two choices: change or die. My best advice is not to die until you’re dead.
Delta gazed down on the lifeless face in the coffin and cuddled the sleeping newborn close to her breast. “This woman,” she whispered to her infant daughter, “is the wisest person I know. She gave me permission to seek, to grow, to wrestle, and to change. I’ll do my best to pass those lessons on to you.”
Then she reached with one hand and felt inside her purse to find half a pack of Camels still there.
No one was looking. She palmed the pack and slipped it under the satin pillow.
TWENTY-NINE
THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME
DECEMBER 1977
Delta sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor of the living room and considered the huge box in front of her—a dollhouse for Sugar, lovingly crafted by her doting grandfather. She had just enough of the Snoopy wrapping paper left, she thought, to go around three sides of the cardboard box. She could make it work.
From the hallway, she heard a commotion, a high-pitched shriek. Fifteen-month-old Sugar hurtled unsteadily into the room, fresh from her bath and stark naked. Hot on her heels was Nanny, the six-month-old golden retriever pup
py.
Nanny had been Rankin’s idea. Every child needed to grow up with a dog, he insisted. And the truth was, Nanny and Sugar adored each other. The dog was sweet-tempered and patient, if not the brightest star in the firmament.
“Twee!” Sugar yelled with delight. She headed straight for the Christmas tree, grabbed a light string, and began to pull.
Delta lurched to her feet in time to save the Christmas tree, but just as she scooped her daughter up in her arms and turned, she caught a glimpse of Nanny, squatting her golden haunches directly over the Snoopy paper laid out on the floor.
“Nanny, no!” she yelled. “Rankin!”
Rankin appeared in the doorway with a towel thrown over his shoulder and a diaper dangling from one hand. But too late. Nanny had already left a wide puddle square in the middle of the wrapping paper.
He shrugged and grinned. “At least she went on the paper. That’s progress.”
Delta glared at him. “Very funny.”
“I’ll take her outside. Leave the mess. I’ll clean it up in a minute.”
Sugar was squirming to get down, flailing her pudgy arms. Delta set her on the floor and reconsidered the large cardboard box, wondering where on earth she would find enough paper to wrap it now.
Her back was turned only a second or two, but it was enough.
“Peeee!” Sugar squealed. “Nanny peeee!”
Delta wheeled around to see Sugar squatting on the paper, peeing in exactly the same spot Nanny had chosen, and puddling her hands in the mess.
“Shit,” she groaned.
Sugar looked up. “Sit,” she repeated with a wide smile.
Rankin chose that moment to return. With a single glance he took in the situation, then began to laugh.
“Yeah, it’s hilarious,” Delta said, shooting daggers at him. “You take her back to the bath, and I’ll clean up the paper.”
Rankin scooped up their daughter and, holding her dripping at arm’s length, dashed for the bathroom.
DELTA HAD FINALLY LEARNED to cook. The parsonage kitchen emanated the smells of Christmas—turkey roasting in the oven, apple and pumpkin pies cooling on the counter, cornbread dressing awaiting its turn in the oven. Cinnamon and sage and allspice. On the stereo Bing Crosby was singing “White Christmas.”
Delta opened the oven door and inhaled the fragrance as she squeezed drippings from the baster over the sizzling bird. Perfect. Another hour, and it would be done, right on time. At two, the guests would start to arrive—members of the congregation who had no family, nowhere else to go. Millicent and Stella, widows whose grown children lived in California and Florida. Ron and Edie, newly married. Walter, whose divorce had just been finalized and whose two sons would be with their mother for Christmas. Libby and Sandra, whose parents had rejected them. James, the homeless man who sat in the back row at church every Sunday. Rankin referred to him as “James the Brother of Jesus.” He always went away with a huge bag of leftovers to share with his friends on the streets.
It was a grand custom, Delta thought, this gathering of the outcasts. Since their first year in Asheville, she and Rankin had hosted this traditional Christmas dinner, and although the guest list changed from year to year, it always proved to be a time of great joy and gratitude. Exactly the kind of Christmas celebration, Rankin said, that God would have planned. Plenty of room in the inn.
In the breakfast nook Sugar napped in her playpen with Nanny dozing on the floor beside her. Delta watched her daughter for a moment, her cheeks flushed pink with sleep, a delicate line of silver drool at one corner of her mouth. Her pudgy baby hands closed and opened again, grasping at some bright plaything in her dreams.
A warmth filled Delta—a radiance that had nothing to do with Christmas. But then again, perhaps it had everything to do with Christmas. Maybe every birth was an incarnation.
She leaned down to slide the turkey back into the oven, and as she did so she bumped butts with Rankin, who stood opposite her in the narrow kitchen. She gave a little laugh and turned.
Her face was flushed from the heat of the oven, the front of her blouse dusted with flour. Yet the expression on his face told her he had never seen anyone as beautiful in his life. He gazed at her, and his eyes went soft and liquid.
“Care to dance?” Rankin held out his arms and she came to him, flour and all. They waltzed around the cramped kitchen in a rhythmic embrace and he kissed her while Bing sang softly in the background.
Just as the dance might have developed into something else— something neither of them had time for, given that Millie and Stella would probably get there half an hour early—the telephone rang.
“I’ll get it.” Delta lunged for the kitchen phone. Sugar stirred in her sleep but did not wake, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She picked up the receiver. “Merry Christmas.”
“Delta?” a tentative voice said. “I’m sorry to bother you on Christmas day. This is Vinca Hollowell.”
“It’s no bother, Vinca.” This wasn’t the complete truth, of course—the dinner was half done and time was slipping away. But Delta didn’t say so.
“I—ah, as I said, I’m sorry to bother you, but—” She hesitated. Delta heard something in her voice, an edge of desperation. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
“What’s wrong, Vinca?”
“It’s Ham. He’s—he’s been drinking. Again.”
“Is he there?”
“Yes. It was all my fault. I burned the turkey roast, you see, and—”
Delta closed her eyes and prayed for wisdom, not to mention patience. Hamlin Hollowell was a nasty drunk, a cruel man who apparently delighted in making Vinca’s life miserable. Through sheer repetition he had her convinced that she was worthless, even though she was as close to a saint as anyone Delta had ever met.
In the background behind Vinca’s sniffling Delta heard a crash. “What’s happening?”
“He’s breaking up the kitchen,” she admitted. “Throwing stuff, dishes and the like.”
“Has he hurt you?”
“Oh, no, he would never—” Another crash, and Vinca broke into sobs.
“Vinca, go outside. Never mind Ham, just get out of the way. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
DELTA HUNG UP the telephone and gave Rankin a thirty-second summary of what was going on.
“You stay here. I’ll go get her.”
This was the part of a pastor’s life Delta hated most. Not the interruption of schedules—she was used to that by now. But the realization that Rankin could at any moment walk into a situation that could get nasty in a heartbeat.
She couldn’t have stopped him from going even if she had wanted to. This was who Rankin was, what he was called to do. Being a minister—at least according to Rankin’s definition— was not just about preaching on Sunday mornings, marrying and burying and visiting people in the hospital. It was about standing up for those who couldn’t fend for themselves. About justice. About showing mercy, even in the midst of risk.
Delta might not be a pastor, but she understood that sense of call. How many times had she faced down racists and hostile policemen at voter registration rallies? How many times had the Delta Belles continued to sing in the midst of booing and jeers and shouting? Still, she couldn’t help worrying when Rankin went off into what might turn into a volatile situation.
“Get Sugar’s blanket,” she said. “The turkey will keep. I’m going with you.”
RANKIN DROVE A LITTLE too fast, snaking around the mountain roads on his way to Vinca’s house. Once he nearly missed a curve, sliding sideways onto the shoulder.
“You won’t do anyone any good if you kill us all getting there,” Delta muttered grimly.
He took his foot off the gas.
Grandma Mitchell had once warned Delta about Vinca. “Keep an eye on that girl,” she had said bluntly. “Her husband’s no good.”
How Grandma knew this, Delta had no idea, but the old woman knew many things, and when she spoke, Delta listened.
Delta had never been told how Vinca and Ham had gotten together, but her imagination had pieced together a story that seemed altogether logical. She could envision a young Ham, masculine and muscular, a mans man whose tastes ran to monster truck rallies and demolition derbies and guzzling a few brewskis with the guys after work. The kind of man who refers to his wife as “the little woman” and whistles at long legs in a short skirt. He might have been handsome in years gone by—a shadow of it still lingered in his strong jaw line and reddish blond hair.
Vinca, small and round and maternal, with bright optimistic eyes that saw the best in everyone, would have been a pushover for a man like Ham. She would have seen the need in him—the need for love, for a wife, for a home. She would have been convinced that faithfulness could change him, that if someone believed in him and loved him, he wouldn’t need to drink and swagger so.
Unfortunately, Delta mused, love was not always enough. Not even the most devoted wife could compete when her husband’s mistress was alcohol.
They pulled into the gravel driveway of the shambling un-painted house and Delta wondered, just briefly, if the severity of Hollowell’s injuries prevented him from keeping up his own place. “The cobbler’s children have no shoes,” she heard Grandma Mitchell whisper inside her head.
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