THE THANKSGIVING MASS at St John’s, their parish church, had been packed but she and Mike and the kids had managed to squeeze into a bench up near the front of the crowded Easton congregation. Martha had always found the ritual of the mass with its Old and New Testament readings and gospel, offertory prayers and communion, deeply satisfying. Not just from the spiritual point of view but also from a community one, as the traditional wooden church was mostly filled with their neighbours and people she knew. Glancing around at the heads bent in silent prayer, one could almost hazard a guess as to their needs and intentions. Patrick used to serve mass here along with other boys from his class but at the ripe old age of twelve had refused to do it any more.
Father Eugene Reagan, their ageing parish priest, stepped slowly up to the altar, but his voice and conviction were as strong as ever as he welcomed the parishioners and began the mass. He preached a sermon on charity being its own reward. Patrick and Mary Rose both cast their eyes upwards, bored. At the offertory procession the small kids proudly carried up a range of gifts to the altar, including the large hamper which had been left at the door and would be distributed to needy families in the parish later.
Martha smiled to herself, watching Alice be very self-conscious and holy as she went up to communion with the rest of them. She tried to concentrate on her daughter and ignore the stares of recognition as they filed back down to their seat.
Afterwards they joined the large group outside on the step, chatting to each other. Evie and Frank with their kids Becky and Niall came over to join them. Father Eugene greeted the two men warmly and shook Evie’s hand. Martha was totally ignored.
‘Father Eugene, that was a lovely sermon,’ she started to say, but before she could continue he interrupted her.
‘Mrs McGill, I’m reading very sad things about you, very sad. You seem determined to get yourself involved in something you know nothing about, which is always a dangerous thing.’
‘Dangerous!’ She all but laughed.
‘Yes, I believe so.’
Her cheeks reddened. How dare he! She felt like a small child being admonished and belittled in front of her husband, children and close friends, there on the steps of the church she had just worshipped in.
‘Hey, Evie!’ Embarrassed, Frank Hayes jangled his car keys. ‘I think it’s time we were going, if we want to get something to eat.’
Evie shot her a glance of commiseration. ‘Martha, don’t forget we’ve got supper at Kim’s on Thursday. If you want I’ll pick you up.’
‘That’d be great.’
The priest was clearly annoyed with her and she was not about to let herself be bullied about what she could or could not do by some elderly man, priest or not!
‘Do you wish to speak with me, Father?’ she asked angrily.
‘I do.’ He stiffened.
Mike and the kids decided to make themselves scarce and to go sit in the car. Now that the mass crowd had cleared, Martha was nervous as to what the priest could want with her. As their church donation had been given on time and both she and Mike had helped out at church within the past few months, Martha knew exactly what he wanted to discuss.
‘Yes, Father?’ She tried to appear respectful to this man of God.
‘Martha, I’m worried about you. These things I read in the newspapers and hear on the radio about you are upsetting, especially when we know that none of it is true. So why won’t you come out and deny them and put an end to all this gossip and rumour and talk of miracles?’
‘Don’t you believe in miracles, Father?’
‘Jesus and the holy saints performed miracles, not some Easton housewife with nothing better to do,’ he said, acidly.
‘Father Eugene!’ She gasped, hurt by his tone. ‘I have never claimed to perform miracles, never,’ she insisted. ‘All I do is try to help and heal those that need it.’
A vexed expression crossed his face.
‘You make a mockery of your faith and this church. All this publicity and shenanigans is giving poor innocent people false hope.’
‘Father Reagon, let me assure you my faith is strong, and although I may not have degrees in theology or Bible studies like you, I do believe that I am doing the Lord’s work too. Now if you’ll excuse me, my husband and children are waiting.’
Almost shaking, she walked back to the car, trying to control herself so that the kids didn’t see how upset she had been by the patronizing words of a man who believed his was the only way to connect with the Holy Spirit.
Mad as hell by the time they reached Mike’s parents’ house, Martha realized she could not let the priest’s words mar their family Thanksgiving celebration meal. It was the one day of the year when Pat McGill rolled out the red carpet and invited her son and daughter and their families to a huge meal. Aunt Dot and Uncle Harry, who’d no children, joined them.
The McGills had a beautiful home out near Beaver Brook, a white-painted colonial with a deck out back. The green lawn was perfectly mowed, the hedges clipped, shrubs and bushes pruned hard. The shame of it was that by the end of the week Patricia and Ed McGill would have packed and moved to the small bungalow they owned in Sarasota, Florida. The first snows and cold drove them south like the rest of the snow-birds to the sunshine state. At sixty-five years of age Patricia McGill had decided that she’d had more than enough of the cold, and would no longer contemplate another New England winter. Ed agreed and, packing up his golf clubs, looked forward to a daily round of golf followed by a leisurely swim under constant blue skies. The Thanksgiving meal was an annual farewell to their children and family until they returned after Easter.
‘Martha! You OK?’ asked Mike, squeezing her hand as the kids jumped out of the car and ran up the path and into Grandpa Ed’s open arms, Alice squealing as her grandfather greeted her with a mighty bear hug.
‘Sure, Mike, sure,’ she replied, determined not to let the priest’s words spoil the day.