• • •

Upstairs, candles burned and light streamed in, dancing in color, but downstairs, in the northwest corner of Saint David’s Church, it was as dark and damp as any prison. Libby, walking backward, dragging a trash bag of donations too heavy to lift, backed right into Carrie as she reached for the light switch.

Libby shrieked with surprise. “Mercy,” she said, smoothing her blouse. “You scared me half to death.”

“I’m sorry, but I thought you heard me walking down.”

“I wasn’t expecting anyone, so I didn’t hear anyone.”

“But…it’s Wednesday,” Carrie said slowly. “I’m always here on Monday and Wednesday.”

“Carrie,” Libby said, grasping her hand, “no one expected you to come, today of all days.”

The police had clearly made a statement for the morning news. It was as if that video were reflected in Libby’s eyes, illuminating them both.

“Libby, I—”

“I know, I know, you poor thing. You need to stay busy, of course. And not be alone. And what better place than here, where you can also seek comfort?”

Carrie nodded, bit her lip, and Libby wrapped her in a hug, squeezing her twice before holding her at arm’s length and looking at her tenderly. Libby’s face, with her slightly furrowed brow, her high pink cheekbones, and her concerned blue eyes, was like a palette of pious motherhood. A good churchgoing woman who believed.

“Libby…”

“Yes, lovey? What is it?”

“I believe Ben has been… He’s been dead for a long time.”

The bag of clothes next to Libby fell over, releasing a small puff of air. Was this what John was alluding to when he’d called her and told her about Ben’s death? That Carrie wasn’t herself, that she seemed like she was losing her grip? Carrie looked normal enough in her simple sweater and corduroys. Libby saw the edge of the needlepoint belt beneath the sweater, calling to her with its turquoise waves and coral crabs and smiling whales. It was either a belt that went with everything or Carrie always wore Mary’s belt when she was seeing Libby.

Carrie’s face became streaked with tears, but she didn’t look crazy or confused or manic. No, Carrie looked exactly like Carrie, just with wet cheeks.

Libby took a deep breath. Was it possible John had just misunderstood? Didn’t men have trouble understanding women all the time? When she’d started going through early menopause and she’d come home one day to find dishes in the sink, papers strewn on the floor, and the dog’s water bowl completely dry, she had catapulted her purse across the kitchen with a warrior’s rage, screaming that no one did anything at home but her. Albert had stared at her blankly and, the next day, had called the family physician and asked for the name of a psychiatrist. That was how uncharacteristically women could act sometimes. That was how ridiculously men could respond. Was that, after all was said and done, what was going on here?

“Lovey, do you mean he’s been gone so long that you gave up hope of him being alive long ago?”

Carrie breathed in the damp air. Cold and wet, it sat in her lungs, weighing on her.

“Yes,” she said finally, thinking of press conferences and judge’s chambers and hands raised over Bibles. She couldn’t tell anyone, apparently. No one would understand, not even Libby. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

Libby pulled her back into a hug, told her the clothes could wait, and asked her if she’d like a cup of tea. She’d found out the hard way that Carrie didn’t drink coffee anymore after she ran out of a church reception, sobbing at the sight of people gathered around the big silver percolator.

“Yes, I guess tea would be nice,” she said.

“Does John know you’re here?”

She shook her head.

Libby went into the small kitchen to make the tea and texted John to tell him his wife was fine, safe. At least for now.