But before they could leave the office to look for Carl, the sexton appeared in the doorway. “Carl, we were just on our way to look for you,” Isabel greeted him.
In his usual laconic style, Carl didn’t answer. He glanced at her, then walked in and stood near Max’s chair, staring down at him. Carl was not that tall, but had wide shoulders and a barrel chest. And there was something in his bearing that made it clear that there wasn’t much on this earth that scared him.
“This is Max,” Isabel said. “Max, this is Carl Tulley, our church sexton.”
Carl squinted down at Max. “You’re the kid who trashed the sanctuary? Get your things. Follow me.”
Max stood up and grabbed his pack, then glanced back at Isabel. His defiant expression had melted into one that was uneasy, even panicky. You’re leaving me alone with this guy? he seemed to say.
“Go along with Carl. I’ll be around in a while to see how you’re doing.”
“Come on, kid. I don’t bite. If you don’t give me any trouble,” Carl clarified.
“Right.” Max hefted the pack to his shoulder, trying to sound cool again.
The boy followed the sexton down the long hallway, purposely keeping a step or two behind the older man. He was bent over and walked as if his legs hurt, but he still looked incredibly strong. The sleeves of his gray utility shirt were rolled to the elbow, and Max saw a full gallery of tattoos. Awesome tattoos, he thought. He wanted to ask about them, but the guy didn’t seem very interested in conversation. Not like the woman minister, asking all kinds of questions and trying to give him cookies and milk. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
They came to the sanctuary, and Carl pulled open the heavy doors. He ran his big calloused hand lovingly over the wood, which was shiny and smooth, the brass fittings polished bright as gold.
“This here door is almost two hundred years old. It was made out of wood from the ship that the settlers who founded this village came over the ocean in. And all those big gray stones in the foundation, outside? They were carried on wagons up from the shore and laid by hand. Did you know that?”
Max shook his head. “Nope.”
“Nope, huh?” Carl mimicked the sound of the boy’s voice. “Do you even care?”
Carl opened the door all the way and walked into the darkened sanctuary. It seemed different from the other night, even darker and more mysterious. The big stained-glass windows glowed from the late afternoon light; Max hadn’t really noticed them the night before. The air was damp and cold and smelled like burning candles. A simple wooden cross hung over the offering table.
Carl turned to him, his battered face looking fierce. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say? A long time ago, people built this place by hand. And every generation since, other people take care of and preserve it. It’s like . . . like a museum or something. Ever been in a museum?”
Max nodded and shrugged. “Sure I have.”
“Well, would you race around on your board in a museum, wrecking the place? No, I don’t think you would,” Carl answered for him. “This place,” he added, waving his hand around the darkened sanctuary. “It’s even more special than a museum. It’s a church, a sacred place. God is here. Get what I’m saying?”
Max just nodded. He felt a tightness in his throat and wasn’t sure if it was just nerves or feeling angry at this old man’s scolding. Or maybe feeling guilty for what he had done with Zack and Leo. He didn’t think people cared this much. He really hadn’t been thinking much at all the other night when they broke in. It just seemed like a fun thing to do. He wasn’t trying to hurt anybody.
Carl went to the back wall and flipped a row of switches. It was suddenly very bright, and the sanctuary looked different, not quite as mysterious and holy, Max thought.
“Let there be light, the Good Book says.” Carl’s deep voice echoed in the emptiness. “So we can see the infernal mess you made Monday night,” he added. “I started in here yesterday but didn’t get too far. There’s a broom over there. You know how to work one of those, right?”
Max nodded and took hold of the broomstick. “Yeah, I do.”
“Then start on this side and sweep this whole floor—in between the pews, the aisles, up and down—everything. All the pieces of things you kids tore down and tore up, you put that in this bag, see? Some of the women in church are going to try to put these banners and such back together again. The rest of the stuff, you throw in that barrel. Got it?”
Max nodded. It wasn’t just me, he wanted to say. I wasn’t the only one.
But the grizzled old guy was giving him such a hard, angry look, he wasn’t going to get into it with him.
“Hey! You . . . kid.”
“My name is Max.”
“You got to look at what you’re doing. Pay attention. You’re pushing it along without even looking.” Carl took the broom and demonstrated the way he wanted the floor swept. “See, these wooden tiles have rows. You go up and down, short quick strokes. Press the broom down, and watch what you’re doing so you don’t miss any dirt. You understand?”
Max nodded. “I get it. Don’t worry.”
Carl handed him the broom, then stood there and watched Max sweep, making sure he did it exactly as instructed. His surveillance made Max even more annoyed. He wanted to just drop the broom and stalk out.
But he knew that would only make things worse with his father. His dad said the church was being very nice about the situation and that he had better just do what they said—or he would be in even more trouble. Max knew that if he got in any more trouble, he was going to have problems getting into college. And that’s what his father worried about the most lately.
“Eyes on the floor, son. What are you, daydreaming again already?” Carl scolded.
“I’m watching, don’t worry.” Max finally focused, moving the broom up and down the rows the way he’d been told.
Finally, after Max demonstrated that he could also use a dustpan properly, Carl stalked over to the center aisle and knelt down on the floor near a spot where the wooden tiles had been badly damaged by the skateboards.
“Okay, I’m going to run the sander now. This will make some noise and plenty of dust. You’ll need to sweep and mop,” Carl warned him. “Then I have to varnish these spots all over again, and then we have to buff the entire floor.”
“All right. Whatever.”
Carl didn’t look that pleased by Max’s answer, but he turned on his machine and started to work on the floor. For crying out loud, it was just a scratch in some wood. The guy was making a world crisis out of it. Though Max had to admit, he had no idea how complicated it was to fix the scratches. It really was a pain.
Max returned to his assignment, trying hard to focus on the task. Zack and Leo didn’t know what they were missing. Max wasn’t sure why he hadn’t turned them in and let them share the good times around here. Right now, he was thinking maybe he ought to. But he wouldn’t snitch on his friends. They had made fun of him for getting caught, but he could tell they sort of respected him, too, for keeping his mouth shut. That part was cool. He wasn’t proud of what they’d done Monday night. But he wasn’t completely sorry, either.
NEARLY TWO HOURS LATER, AS ISABEL APPROACHED THE SANCTUARY, SHE heard Max and Carl talking. She didn’t approve of eavesdropping, but couldn’t help wondering what they were discussing and how they were getting along. Max’s voice seemed genuinely interested and totally without its sardonic edge.
She peered inside and saw them working together, polishing the wooden pews. They didn’t even notice her standing there.
“You were really in prison? What did you do?” she heard Max ask.
“Killed a man. By accident. We were fighting in a bar. I was just trying to defend myself. I broke a chair over his head. I wasn’t thinking . . . but I paid the price. I took a man’s life, accident or not.” Carl sounded as somber as Isabel had ever heard him. “I ruined my own life, too, that night, but here I am. By the grace of God,” he added.
“How many years were you in jail?”
“Fifteen. They let me out a few years short of the term for good behavior. So that’s where these tattoos come from. While I was inside, I did this to myself. I wish now I didn’t have them, but I’ll wear them to the grave.”
Isabel stepped into the sanctuary just in time to see Max’s thoughtful expression. It always amazed her, the way God worked things out just right, though as a person of faith, she shouldn’t be surprised.
She had insisted that Max return to the church in order to teach him a lesson. She had hoped to talk with him, to get to know him and help him. But she had never factored in Carl’s influence, which might have the most impact of all.
“We’re almost done for the day, Reverend.” Carl stepped out of the pew carrying the big buffing cloth in one hand and a can of wax in the other.
“Everything looks great. You’re doing a good job,” Isabel said to Max. He met her gaze for a moment then looked away, seeming not sullen but shy.
“We have a ways to go before we’re ready for Christmas.” Carl’s tone was friendlier but still stern as he glanced at the boy. “Give me your cloth. I’ll put this stuff away.” He took Max’s buffing cloth and added it to his own in a plastic bucket. “You stow that broom and dustpan in the closet I showed you.”
Isabel watched Max obediently head for the choir room. Carl went in another direction to put away his sander and tools.
“Reverend? Is my son ready to go? It’s six o’clock.”
Isabel turned to face Jacob Ferguson, Max’s father. He looked very different today, wearing a tweed sports jacket, a blue shirt, and a tie. He also wore an impatient expression that matched his tone of voice perfectly.
“I sent him a text and he never answered. I got a little worried,” he explained.
“He’ll be right back. He’s just putting away supplies. Why don’t we wait outside? I’m sure he’ll find us.”
As they walked out to the narthex, Carl followed carrying some of his equipment. The two men eyed each other as they passed through the big wooden doors.
“You the boy’s father?” Carl asked abruptly.
“Yes, I am. And you are?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll probably never see you again, mister. I just want you to know your boy is all right. He’s not a bad kid. I thought he might be when I saw what he did in there Monday night,” Carl said bluntly.
Isabel tried to interrupt the sexton before he could go any further. “Carl, I’m not sure Mr. Ferguson—”
“That’s okay. Let him speak.” Jacob studied Carl, his expression curious. “I want to hear what he has to say. Go on. He’s not a bad kid, but . . . what?”
“Don’t let him get no tattoos, for one thing.”
Jacob’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “He told you he wanted a tattoo?”
“Yes, sir, he did. But don’t let him. Just put your foot down. Don’t coddle him. Put him to work. He’s got a lot of energy. You can’t let a kid like that glide around on his skateboard all over town, doing anything he pleases. No wonder he got into trouble. It could have been worse, believe me.”
Isabel waited to see how Max’s father would take this advice. She wondered if he would be angry, but if he was, he didn’t show it. “I get your point,” he said finally.
Max walked out of the choir room and came toward them, his backpack in one hand and skateboard in the other. “Hey, Dad. I missed your text. Sorry. I didn’t even know what time it was.”
“You were working so hard, you lost track?” his father asked dryly.
“Yeah, I guess. There aren’t any clocks in there. It’s sort of like being in this timeless place.”
Jacob nodded, an amused expression on his face, then turned to Isabel. “He’ll be back next week. Any particular days?”
“I already worked it out with Carl. I know when he needs me to come,” Max cut in.
Jacob exchanged another look with Isabel. “That man with the wood sander, that was Carl, I assume?”
“Yes, Carl Tulley, our sexton. He’s in charge of cleaning and repairs around here.”
“I see.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. He’s cool. He was in jail, like, for killing somebody,” Max informed him.
Jacob’s eyes widened and he turned to Isabel. “Is that true? You left a former convict alone with my son?”
“Carl went to jail for manslaughter more than twenty years ago. He’s held this job for the last five years, ever since his release. I don’t believe anyone at church has had any reason to doubt his integrity or to fear him. There are children in this church, Mr. Ferguson. We certainly wouldn’t employ anyone who posed a threat to them. Your son is perfectly safe around Carl.”
“I know he’s scary, Dad. But it’s, like, a cool scary once you get him talking a little.”
Jacob sighed. “Let’s go. It’s getting late.” He turned to Isabel. “I’ll be speaking to you, Reverend.”
Isabel didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure what he meant. He wanted to talk more about Carl? Or about their agreement to have Max work here? She could handle that. She wouldn’t mind talking to Jacob some more. He was intelligent and clearly cared about his son. He did seem conservative and a bit of a rigid thinker, which were not qualities she admired. But something about him caught her interest. She noticed that today even more than Monday night. Or maybe it was just the sports jacket and tie. He was very good-looking. She hadn’t noticed that Monday night, either.
CAROLYN WAS ALREADY IN THE KITCHEN FIXING BREAKFAST WHEN BEN came downstairs on Thursday morning. Though he was still moving slowly, he had showered and dressed and was ready for the day. He kissed her on the cheek and poured himself a cup of coffee. He had to drink decaf now and still wasn’t quite used to it, but he decided to keep his usual grumble to himself today. He would get used to decaf in time. A small burden to bear, considering the alternatives.
“What’s for breakfast? Smells good.” He sat down at the table and glanced at the newspaper.
“Egg-white omelet with low-fat cheese. Whole wheat toast, no butter,” she added in a stern voice, glancing over her shoulder at him.
“All right. No butter.” He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, then mimicked a police officer’s voice. “Drop the butter tub and come out with your hands up.”
“Oh, Ben, you make me laugh. You’re certainly in a good mood today,” Carolyn commented. “You must be feeling good.”
“I feel very good. And I’ve finally decided,” he added.
“Oh . . . decided about what?” She glanced at him over her shoulder, then looked back at her cooking.
“About retiring, dear. You know.”
“I thought that’s what you were talking about. I just wanted to make sure,” she admitted. She separated the eggs into two portions, put a slice of dry toast and orange sections on each plate, and brought them to the table. Then she sat down facing him. “Well, what’s the verdict?”
He could see the anticipation in her eyes but could tell she was trying to hide it from him.
“I think I should do it. I think we should do it,” he corrected himself. “I think it’s time.”
Carolyn let out a long, loud breath. “Well, I’m glad to hear you say that. I hope you’re sure and have given yourself enough time to make this decision.”
“I’ve had plenty of time. I’m very sure,” he promised her.
She took a bite of her eggs. He could tell her thoughts were spinning. “It’s very exciting, Ben. It really is. What’s the first step?”
“I need to call Reverend Boland, but I don’t think he’ll be surprised.”
“No, I don’t think he will be,” Carolyn agreed.
“Then all the church members. That will be the hardest part,” he said quietly. “I think I should tell the trustees and church council all at once, rather than make a dozen calls and say the same thing . . . and answer the same questions over and over again. That way no one will feel left out or as i
f they were the last to be told.”
“Why don’t you ask them to come over here?” Carolyn suggested. “I’ll serve some coffee and cake.”
“Good idea. The sooner, the better. Maybe tomorrow night? Would that be all right with you?”
“Oh, it’s fine with me. I have no plans. Even if I did, this is important enough to cancel most anything, don’t you think?” she asked with a small laugh.
“Yes, come to think of it, it is,” he agreed. He reached over and squeezed her hand. “It’s finally happening, dear. Are you excited?”
Carolyn smiled at him and returned the pressure of his touch. “Yes, very. And happy, too,” she added. “Are you, Ben?”
“Yes, I am.” He did feel happy—and even more, relieved. If he felt a quiver of regret or ambivalence saying the words out loud, well, that was only natural. It was going to take time to get used to the idea.
WHILE DR. HARDING FINISHED WITH HIS LAST PATIENT ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Regina went out to the empty waiting room and straightened up the magazines and chairs. People always forgot things, mostly gloves and scarves; children left behind toys. Tonight she found one black waterproof mitten and a well-worn copy of The Little Engine That Could. Regina knew the story well. She stared at the cover a moment and smiled. That’s me, she thought, paging through the book.
“That one is hard to resist, isn’t it? I keep a copy in my office and still read it from time to time.”
Regina looked up to find Molly standing in the office doorway. She smiled and closed the book. “It is a good one,” she agreed.
“If you’re done with it, give me a turn. I could use a pep talk from the Little Engine right now.” Molly dropped onto one of the fabric-covered chairs and let out a long sigh.
She looks tired, Regina thought. Not her usual high-energ y self. “Bad day?” Regina asked. She sat down on a chair nearby with the book in her lap.
“Real bad. I am in over my eyeballs with work. As I should be, since this is the busiest time of the year. But my staff is dwindling down to a skeleton crew. I just got a call on my cell—another server is down with the flu and can’t make it tomorrow. And I had her scheduled to do two events: a birthday brunch and a cocktail party at night. Betty and I are both willing to get out there and serve,” she added, mentioning her partner, Betty Bowman. “But we’re only two people. We can’t be four places at once.”
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