CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Alex and Tripod watched each other intently, neither moving a muscle. It was Alex who finally broke the stare-down. “Oh, come on then. We might as well get acquainted.” Alex wasn’t sure if it was proper etiquette to converse with a dog, but Dixon had told him Tripod was a good listener. “Would you like a dish of water? A bone?”

Tripod matched his pace to Alex’s as they moved toward the house. The dog seemed completely unaware that it was missing a leg—and if Tripod didn’t care, why should he?

Inside, he took an empty five-quart ice cream bucket he found under the sink, filled it half-full with cold water and set it on the floor. Tripod sniffed the bucket, found it to his liking and lapped up most of the water in record time. Then he stood looking up at his new master expectantly, waiting for his next cue.

This was more awkward than he’d expected it to be. A living being had just moved into his home and he knew nothing of its habits or personality. Maybe Tripod was a chewer or a barker or worse yet, a biter. But surely Dixon had better sense than to give a preacher a biting dog.

Alex moved into the living room and sat down on the couch just to see what the dog would do. It moved directly in front of him and sat stone still, big brown eyes gazing longingly at the cushion next to Alex’s.

“Oh, all right,” Alex sighed.

With a graceful leap, Tripod joined Alex on the couch and leaned into him, his warm, solid body resting against Alex’s arm and shoulder. It was a surprisingly pleasant sensation.

“Now what do you plan to do?” Alex inquired of the dog, which seemed remarkably intelligent, at least to his inexperienced eye.

Tripod lay down on the cushion, curled himself into a tight spiral like a nautilus shell and closed his eyes.

“Very well, if you insist.” Finally Alex allowed himself to do what he’d been longing for all day, particularly since the latest awkward venture to All Saints. Alex put his feet on the footstool, sank into the depths of the couch and closed his own eyes.

It was getting dark when he awoke. Tripod was still there next to him, motionless, his eyes open, watching for Alex’s next move.

“This is a fine way to spend a Friday night,” he commented to the dog. “Maybe I should make dinn…no, supper,” he said out loud and Tripod’s ears went up. “You’re particularly bright for a dog, aren’t you?” Tripod opened his mouth to yawn and Alex could have sworn he smiled at him.

The refrigerator was full of food; but Alex, already feeling like an overstuffed couch, decided that something light appealed to him tonight.

“Tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich,” he told the dog who lay on the rug in front of the sink. “And I’m going to have to get over talking to you like you’re human.”

Out here he was forced to take full notice of the solo nature of his life. At one time, particularly before meeting Natalie, he’d relished his hours alone, away from students, classes, and the demands of both teaching and seminary; but tonight he felt a twinge of pure, unadulterated loneliness.

Dixon could read the future, apparently, for he’d brought Alex companionship even before Alex knew he would need it. Alex scratched Tripod’s head and the dog’s rope-like tail thumped happily on the black-and-white tiled floor. Now he would have a companion at supper.

A gas stove was something with which Alex had had little experience. His previous homes had always had electric ranges. How hard could it be? He buttered bread and peeled the wrapper off two slices of American cheese. Turn it on, put the pan on the stove and grill the sandwich—there couldn’t be anything simpler than that. He’d put the bread and cheese on to grill just as the bell on the microwave rang, signaling that his tomato soup—made with milk, not water—was ready. He opened the door, grabbed for the bowl and sloshed steaming soup across the tops of his fingers.

“Ow!” Shaking his hand, he rushed to the sink, sending Tripod scrambling out of the way. He ran cold water on the burned spot, something he’d observed his mother doing for her own burned fingers when he was a child. “Keep it there until it stops burning,” she’d say. “Put the fire out. Cool it off.”

The cool water did indeed ease the sting and he would have stood there longer if the smoke alarm hadn’t begun to ring. Alex spun around to see flames licking up the sides of the frying pan, charring his grilled cheese sandwich. He was in such a rush to reach the stove he almost lost his balance on a wayward throw rug, but managed to turn off the gas and remove the pan from the burner without burning himself again. The smoke alarm screamed in his ears until he found a step stool in a coat closet and hiked himself up to the alarm and dismantled it. When all was said done, the room smelled as if he’d had a campfire on the countertop, gray smoke hovered in the air and his supper was up in flames. Tripod, with a keen sense of self survival, had disappeared beneath the table to wait out the crisis.

He would reheat the spaghetti and meatballs tonight after all. If he dared chance the microwave again, that was. Alex made a decision then and there while still standing on the stepstool, hand stinging and ego more than a little bruised. He would learn to cook, even if it killed him. And if tonight were any indication, it just might.

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear; and Alex finally felt calm and relaxed about his initial sermon. He took a deep breath as he left the house and grew almost light-headed as a result. He’d grown so accustomed to fumes from automobiles, taxis and city buses that that air scented only with earth and its perfumes—flowers, loamy soil and cut hay—made him almost giddy.

What’s more, he’d committed to running daily now that he had Tripod. The dog delighted in their early morning run and had kept pace with Alex unless he spotted a rabbit. Then he shifted into mach speed and left Alex eating his dust. When the dog tired of the chase, he returned to the relative sedateness of their jog.

It seemed amazing that he’d only been here a few days, Alex mused. The friends he’d already made—Dixon, Mark, Mike and Lauren—felt like they’d been in his life forever.

A whine behind him made Alex turn around. Tripod sat inside the house behind the screen door, head and ears drooping disconsolately.

“You can’t come today. It’s my first sermon, and I’m sure they don’t want you lying underfoot in the pulpit. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.”

Tripod slowly crumpled onto the rug in front of the door as if disappointment had dissolved his bones. Alex felt like he was leaving a child behind to fend for itself, but he knew better. The dog would be on his bed, head on a pillow, before the van left the driveway. Tripod just wanted a little sympathy first. Then he would make himself truly comfortable.

There was a single car at the church when he arrived. He could hear strains of the organ though the walls of the church. That would be the organist, Annie Henderson, whom he’d met only briefly to hand over the numbers of the hymns they would sing that day.

He rehearsed the morning in his mind as he mounted the front steps. First the service at Hilltop at nine, time for greeting the congregants and then off to All Saints for the eleven o’clock service. He had to be sure to leave Hilltop early enough in order to get to All Saints on time and without speeding.

Annie turned around the moment he set foot inside the church. “Good morning! Couldn’t be any prettier out, could it?” She was a woman of rusty hues from the top of her red-brown hair to her sun-kissed skin, the generous smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the silky bronze blouse she wore. “I’ve been working on those new hymns. I hope you have a good, strong voice. Every time this congregation gets a new one to learn, they start to sing in whispers. I know God hears them, but it would be nice if they could hear each other too.”

Alex put his sermon notes on the pulpit, opened the Bible, lit the candles and turned on the primitive sound system. Then he and Annie discussed the weather, the crops and the general topics that everyone out here seemed to feel necessary to cover before a real conversation could begin.

“You’re early,” he commented as he opened a couple windows to let the breeze freshen the room.

“I’ve got to be. Aggie and Leonard Lundqvist always come early, as do Brunhilda and Bessie Bruun. They’re usually in their pews a half hour before the service starts. Bessie doesn’t go out much due to her condition, but she loves to go to church and they come when they can. I’m surprised they aren’t here already. Perhaps Bessie isn’t up to it today.”

“About that…”

“I don’t know exactly what happened to Bessie,” Annie said bluntly. “I’ve heard that she was always a little odd. Maybe it was shyness, I don’t know. I haven’t lived here all my life. I married into the Hilltop family. My husband says Bessie has been nervous in crowds for a very long time and the older she becomes, the more reclusive she is. Sorry I can’t tell you more.”

Alex tried to process this.

“Oh yes, and I forgot to mention Lila Mason, who always comes to church either an hour early or an hour late.”

“Excuse me?”

“Lila’s memory is good, but short. About a minute long, I’d say. She always forgets to set her clock forward for daylight savings in the spring and back again in the fall, so she keeps a clock set to each time ‘Just in case.’ That way she’s always got the right time somewhere. Unfortunately, she usually can’t remember which clock is which, so she comes when she feels like it.”

“Is she…does she suffer from…is she safe at home alone?” He tried to frame the questions as tactfully as he could.

Annie smiled at the concern in his voice. “You mean, is something wrong with her? She’s just forgetful. Sometimes she just doesn’t listen when someone is telling her something, and she gets it all bollixed up. It used to be easier when she got most of her facts straight, but now…” Annie’s friendly face creased with concern. “Too bad too, since Lila loves to gossip. Now there’s a font of misinformation if I’ve ever known one!”

“Can she be helped? There are medications.…”

“Oh, Lila doesn’t believe in medications. Or doctors either, although she did go to the clinic once for stitches when she jammed her hand on the knife she’d put into her knitting bag.”

Alex’s eyebrows rose and Annie hurried to explain.

“She put it there because she couldn’t find her scissors. If Lila takes anything, she’s made it herself. She self-medicates.”

Alex didn’t like the sound of that.

Annie saw the expression on his face. “Nothing illegal or dangerous, mind you. Just concoctions she brews up. Her house usually smells like she’s been cooking hay and old shoes, but she drinks the stuff and says it helps her memory. And she takes vitamins too. Her cupboards are just as full of vitamins as the Medi-Shop’s pharmacy in Wheatville.”

Annie began to ruffle through the pages of her music. “She’s mostly harmless—as long as you don’t try to get directions from her or ask her what happened on such-and-such a date. Lila’s very ‘in the moment,’ like people say nowadays. LIVE IN THE MOMENT, her bumper sticker says. Unfortunately that’s the only moment Lila has sometimes.”

“That’s very sad,” Alex commented.

“Not for Lila. She’s the happiest little camper on earth.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I hear a car driving in. Find your place, Reverend, the race is about to begin.”

Alex was grateful for the familiar faces that walked through the door to greet him. Mike Carlsen arrived in a suit, and Lauren in a brightly colored jacket that highlighted the copper in her hair. Dixon Daniels and Mark Nash followed not long after. Dixon had forgone the Red’s cap and even tamed his hair. Mark, of course, looked perfectly at home in a suit. They were early, no doubt, to give him moral support. Angels, that’s what they were, Alex decided, sent to bear him up on their wings.

Ava and Ralph Johnson arrived with Ralph’s mother Isabelle. Isabelle, according to Gandy, was a bit of a legend around Hilltop. Though she was remarkable in many ways, including her age, most knew her for her driving skills—or lack of them. Exceedingly independent, Isabelle refused to give up her car for fear of losing her autonomy. Others, including her son and daughter-in-law, were more in fear for her life—and their own—as long as Isabelle was behind the wheel. It was, rumor had it, a long-running battle.

Alex glanced through the door and was pleased to see a few teenagers gathering outside. Two were talking on cell phones and one was listening to an iPod. Typical teenagers in every way. Alex didn’t recognize any faces, but there were a couple redheads in the bunch, and Will Packard came to mind. He hoped to see Will in church someday—if his father ever got over thinking the new pastor was crazy.

Other members of the call committee also came early. Stoddard Bloch stomped in, spine straight as if a steel rod ran up his back, wearing a gray wool jacket that looked hot and itchy on this beautiful day. His chins waggled as he walked. His wife Edith, in a pale blue, nondescript dress and bright cobalt blue shoes, scurried behind him like a little mother hen, clucking and chirping and agreeing with every word the man uttered.

Mattie Olsen followed, beaming happily because she’d met the new pastor ages ago and was pleased to tell that to anyone who would listen. She wore a hat with a veil, a fashion Alex hadn’t seen since he was a young boy and then only on his grandmother.

Ole Swenson of Twinkle Toes fame arrived next. Wiry and thin, Ole wore a well-tailored navy blue suit that was shiny in the seat and at the elbows but still looked good on his sinewy frame. “You’ll have to stop over and see the pigs,” he told Alex as he shook his hand vigorously. His voice crackled with age but was laced with good humor. “I hear you were there when my truck tipped and Twinkle Toes made a run for it. I’d like you to meet her again, under better circumstances.” His laugh, a hearty, infectious chortle, bubbled from him and he winked at Alex. “If you come at noon, we’ll have a pork sandwich.”

That juxtaposition nearly sent Alex’s imagination into overload.

Mildred and Winchester Holmquist made a regal pair. Chester, attentive and solicitous, stood with impressive military posture by his wife’s side. Mildred’s hair was silver-white and her face surprisingly unlined. Her expression was serene.

Hans and Hilda Aadland, elderly Norwegian immigrants and Scandinavian to the core, entered the church holding hands. They were followed by Margaret and Dale Keller. Margaret’s quick, bird-like movements and Dale’s propensity not to raise his voice above a whisper made them a particularly odd pair.

A woman with platinum blonde hair tottered in on improbable but very stylish shoes. She was perfectly made up with smart, tasteful clothes. The man with her was equally well dressed. They made a striking couple.

“I’m Belle Wells, Pastor, and this is my husband Curtis. Welcome to the community. I hear you’re from Chicago—how exciting! I’m from that area myself. We must have tea and talk about the city!” She turned with bright eyes to her husband, “Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Oh yes,” Curtis said absently, as if he’d quit listening to his wife quite some time ago.

As they walked away, Lauren sidled up to Alex and whispered, “Belle’s never quite adjusted to being a country girl. She’s always looking for someone who has been away from the farm. She and Curtis met while he was in the military and he swept her off her feet and carried her to Hilltop. I don’t think she’s ever gotten over it. Do you remember the old television show Green Acres? That’s Curtis and Belle.”

He was going to have to start a notebook, Alex decided as he greeted person after person, for keeping track of this wide and sometimes quirky flock. The buzz of conversation filled his ears, and young children gathered in the back pew to giggle and swing their legs.

Alex recognized the home-party lady by her perfume. Lilly Sumptner swished up to him in a stylish and puffy taffeta skirt and a cloud of Citrus Sunshine. She had her curly-haired husband Randy in tow. “My daughter in Minneapolis sent me this. Isn’t it something?”

“It certainly is.” It was something, all right, but Alex didn’t know quite what. He’d never paid much attention to women’s fashions. Apparently he should have.

A pleasant-looking young couple, Nancy and Ben Jenkins, introduced themselves and told Alex they lived on “the Hubbard place.” Several people had mentioned it, but Alex still wasn’t certain why.

“You’ll have to stop by,” Nancy said warmly, her brown eyes glowing. “We live in that old barn of a place, but someday soon we hope to have a home that doesn’t have clanking radiators and drafty windows. It’s better in the summer, so come soon. We love to entertain.”

He’d be busy until a month from February, Alex realized, if he were to take everyone up on their offers of hospitality. He looked forward to it.

There were Clarence and Lydia Olson minus brother Jacob, downhearted Jonas Owens and his family, and so many others that Alex’s brain threatened to implode. Even his study of the church directory hadn’t prepared him for this.

A well-dressed and -coiffed couple, Katrinka and Harris Hanson, arrived, wondering out loud whether or not there would be food served after the service. Alex heard Matt and Martha Jacobson invite them over for a noon meal at their house to salve their disappointment at not having a free meal at church.

There were others, of course, some of whom stood out more in Alex’s mind than others. Inga and Jim Sorenson were particularly memorable. Inga, the local artist, arrived in something she’d created out of what appeared to be white cotton dishcloths and tempera paints. Around her neck she wore a chunky, colorfully painted necklace made of clay beads. On her feet were slip-on white canvas shoes with faces painted on the toes so that they smiled out at all the other shoes. She was in her “youth and light” phase, she told Alex by way of introduction.

Her husband Jim made even Ole Swenson and Jonas Owens look obese. He was tall and beanpole thin, a skeleton with clothing. Alex heard him make a joke to Dixon about Inga’s poor cooking. Alex made a mental note to himself avoid dinner at the Sorensons’ home.

Then Annie Henderson began to play “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” That was Alex’s cue to get to the front of the church. The Lord would take it from here.

He’d finished his sermon, one of his better ones, he hoped, and was shaking hands, when Dixon sidled up beside him and whispered in his ear. “You’d better get going or you won’t get to All Saints on time for their service.”

Alex glanced at his watch. “I know. I hope I haven’t spent too much time visiting. Can I make it?”

“Depends on how heavy your foot is on the gas pedal,” Dixon said with a grin.

Gravel roads were not meant for speeding, Alex decided on the way to All Saints. He gripped the wheel with both hands as the car shimmied, and he prayed he would stay on the road for the next nine miles. It would be a fine mess if the new preacher landed himself in the hospital the first Sunday out.

He winced as a small stones spit up from beneath his tires and made stone chips in the paint. He took his foot off the gas pedal and realized he was still stirring up a blinding cloud of dust behind him. He careened into the parking lot of All Saints and, legs still shaking from the adrenaline pumping in his system, grabbed his Bible and sermon notes and flew up the steps.

And all for fewer than twenty people.

They were clustered in the back pews like they wanted to leave as much space as possible between themselves and the new pastor. The organist hammered out “Beautiful Savior” on the piano, and a gaunt man with narrowed eyes, obviously the usher of the day, glared at him. The clock on the wall said 11:02.

Wherever two or more are gathered, he reminded himself. It didn’t matter how many pews were filled. What mattered was who was in those pews. Whom did God want to speak to today?

He recognized Amy Clayborn and the elderly gray-haired woman from the quilting group. Amy smiled tentatively; and the older woman, to his surprise, gave him a thumbs-up. It wasn’t much, but it was enough encouragement enough to carry on. He’d hoped to see Alf Nyborg in the pew, but apparently he’d chosen not to come today. It was discouraging, but Alex refused to allow himself to dwell on it. Alf would be able to hear him preach for many Sundays to come.

Afterward, Alex couldn’t remember what he said, but he hoped he’d stuck to his notes to some extent. It was alarming and a little nerve-wracking to be late, ostracized and deemed an obvious disappointment on his first Sunday, but that was exactly how the experience had made him feel.

This was only his first Sunday, and Alex felt like he’d lived a few lifetimes during it. He was very glad to be able to go home and take a nap.