Chapter 23
Of all the things I’ve ever had to do, forcing myself to walk down the aisle past the gauntlet of staring eyes to take a seat in the front pew, where the minister’s wife should sit, on that first Sunday after we got back from San Diego, was the hardest. A week before we left, Paul had informed Mr. Dwyer, who was head of the deacons’ board, of our intention to marry and asked him to lead the Sunday service during our honeymoon. According to Paul’s report, Mr. Dwyer had been flabbergasted by this seemingly impetuous decision on the part of his normally staid and predictable pastor.
“He sputtered quite a bit and then said he thought we’d better convene an ‘emergency meeting of the elders’ to discuss the wisdom of such a move and its impact on the congregation. I told him there was only one person I needed to discuss marriage with and that you’d said yes. Then I turned on my heel and left him standing there with his mouth open.” When Paul told me the story as we were cocooned in the perfect, tiny world of our train compartment, the bombastic deacon’s meddling seemed trivial, a good joke between the two of us. On that Sunday in Dillon I wasn’t so sure.
It was impossible to face breakfast that morning, which was probably just as well. My stomach was so full of butterflies I’m not sure I could have kept anything down, and wouldn’t that have made a lovely impression on the congregation? Nothing in Ruby’s jokes or Mama’s stolid encouragement eased my fears. I was certain Paul would have been able to say something to me that would help, but he’d gotten up and gone to the church before dawn. It was surprising for me to realize how quickly I’d come to value his advice and support. He molded himself into the family easily and immediately, as though we’d been married twenty years instead of two weeks. When we’d moved a full-sized bed into my room and scooted the quilting frame a bit farther into the southwest window corner to make room for Paul’s desk and books, his things looked as though they’d always been there. The room seemed suddenly cozier and more welcoming, not crowded at all, and I wondered how I hadn’t felt naked in all that empty space for all those years.
Naked was the perfect way to describe my feelings as I pulled myself over the threshold of the church door and through the vestibule to the sanctuary. Mama and Ruby were right behind me, but even so I felt terribly alone. I could feel the heat on my face as I limped toward my seat. Maybe it was my imagination, but the pews seemed full to bursting with curious saints that day, and I suddenly had a horrifying vision of myself tripping and falling in front of everyone. My cane thumped more loudly than it ever had on the worn wooden floorboards, and I was reminded of what a poor congregation we were, not a pane of stained glass or an inch of carpet in the whole place, just simple white walls and woodwork that Paul had painted himself.
Paul smiled encouragingly from his seat near the altar. I sighed in relief when I finally reached the front pew without incident and took my place while the ancient organ groaned out the opening bars of “Savior, Like a Shepherd Lead Us.” I sang along, grateful that people were watching their hymnals now instead of me.
The choir sang on key, mostly, and Paul preached a good sermon, one of his best, I thought, even squeezing in a couple of jokes relevant to the text. That was not normally his style, but I had suggested he try adding a little humor to his messages, not by way of being entertaining, but more to help people translate the lofty-sounding words and acts of the biblical fathers into terms they could relate to. It pleased me to see how much more engaged the congregation became after they’d laughed a bit, leaning in closer toward the pulpit and thoughtfully nodding their agreement when Paul exhorted them on the urgency of not giving up before the race had been won. For the first time I thought that even with all my faults, I might be more of an asset than liability to my husband. As Paul finished leading the closing hymn and prepared to give the benediction, to my surprise, Mr. Dwyer stood up, grasped his coat lapels with both hands, and cleared his throat. Paul was clearly taken aback by the interruption and shot me a worried glance.
“Pardon me for breaking in, Pastor,” the deacon boomed in his best oratorical style, “but I have something to say on behalf of the board and the congregation as a whole.” My heart pounded apprehensively. Disapproving of our marriage, even to the point of calling a deacons’ meeting was one thing, but calling Paul on the carpet because of me, especially in front of the whole church, was too shameful to imagine. What had I gotten him into?
Mr. Dwyer cleared his throat again and furrowed his brow ominously. “We were all of us surprised by our pastor’s sudden announcement of his intention to marry, especially without consulting the board on his plans. To add insult to injury, he failed to invite a single member here present to the wedding.” He paused importantly before going on. “However, we are all good Christians here, and mindful of our Lord’s teaching, we have decided to forgive and forget. So, Pastor Van Dyver and”—he nodded in my direction, his eyes twinkling just a bit—“Mrs. Van Dyver, please accept our congratulations on the celebration of your nuptials. Since we couldn’t join you at the ceremony, we thought we’d at least better come to the reception, which we decided to throw for you ourselves. It will commence immediately following the service in my store!” At this triumphant finish, the congregation burst into applause. Paul still looked a bit stunned and seemed unsure of how to respond.
“Well, come on, Paul,” Mr. Dwyer boomed. “Say the benediction! My missus made a huge cake, and it’s over at the store drying out!”
The entire gathering laughed, and Paul joined in before raising his hands wide, as though reaching out to touch every member there present as he spoke the familiar, comforting words of blessing: “And now, may the Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make His face shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee and give thee peace.” With the organ’s triumphant fanfare, Paul stepped down and away from the altar to join me, and we were suddenly surrounded by a throng of people, all wanting to shake our hands and wish us well.
Mrs. Dwyer had indeed made an enormous wedding cake, with pink and white rosettes and a doll-sized bride and groom on top. She’d even thought to paint a tiny clerical collar around the groom’s neck. Everyone laughed at that. The other ladies of church had provided a fizzy pink punch, trays loaded with sandwiches, and bowls of salted nuts. Plus, they’d taken up a collection to buy us a beautiful gift, an entire set of blue willow china, eight settings. Mama was especially impressed with that. “Imagine,” she breathed in wonder while running a cautious finger around a plate rim, “everything matching everything else and not a chip anywhere! I never saw anything so pretty. Do you dare use them?”
Paul winked at me from across the room where he was trapped with several stacks of canned baby peas on one side and Mr. Dwyer and Emmit Smalley, who were arguing about predestination, as usual, on the other. There was no hope of escape, but Paul didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he appeared to be enjoying himself. I was, too. Everyone was so kind—though I found all the compliments and sudden attention overwhelming and a bit bewildering.
I saw Mrs. Hutchinson standing alone manning the punch bowl. She waved me over, and I worked my way through the throng to talk with her. She had always been a sweet woman, plump and pink with snow white hair, always smelling faintly of lavender and new bread. Even so, I was a little nervous greeting her. Her approval or disapproval of Paul’s choice of wife could influence the entire congregation. She had been chair of the altar guild for as long anybody could remember—even when I was a little girl she seemed about as elderly as she was right now, which I suppose was about eighty. When she saw me squeezing through the crowd toward her, she smiled and filled a glass with punch.
“Thirsty?” she asked, offering me a cup. “It’s warm in here with all these people.” I thanked her and took a sip of the punch. It was too sweet, but I drank it anyway.
“Morgan wanted me to thank you for your letters to him. It means so much to get mail from home,” I said.
“Oh, I’m glad to do it,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s my way of helping with the war effort. I try to write every serviceman from Dillon at least once a month. It’s not much, but at my age”—she added with a wink—“it’s about all I can manage.” Then she asked, “How is Morgan? It must have been wonderful to see him.”
“It was,” I said sincerely. “I feel so lucky, which I guess is a strange thing to say when the whole world is at war, but so many people haven’t seen their boys since they signed up and others will never see them again. Then here I am. I got to spend three whole days with my son. I’m married to a wonderful man, and now this.” I spread my arm out to indicate the room and the warm welcome home. “I just don’t know what to say. It’s all a little—”
“Unsettling?” she interrupted, looking at me with her wise old eyes that seemed to see right inside my thoughts. They were eyes to trust.
“Yes,” I admitted in a whisper and leaned closer to make sure no one else could hear. “Mrs. Hutchinson, when I was a little girl all the people in town either pitied me or mocked me because of my leg. Then I had Morgan, and nobody would speak to me at all. After Papa died, people softened up a little, but they still held me at arm’s length. Folks tolerated me, but just barely. Now, overnight, people are talking to me, shaking my hand, asking me over for coffee.... It’s nice, but I know it’s just because of Paul. People in Dillon don’t like me; they never have.”
As I spoke, Mrs. Hutchinson’s tranquil countenance clouded over. “Evangeline Glennon Van Dyver, that is a bunch of hooey!” she scolded, and I nearly smiled at her reproach, as though by invoking my full name she’d get my full attention, exactly the way Mama did to me when I was little—and exactly as I’d done when Morgan was a boy. A mother’s instinct and a mother’s care.
“When you were little, yes,” she agreed, “there were people who pitied you, but mostly they were concerned about you. It’s a small town, Eva; every child here belongs to all of us, and when they aren’t well, we all worry. And, yes, there were children who taunted you, but that’s what children do!” She pointed a gnarled finger at me and shook it admonishingly, then sighed with exasperation and continued on, more gently.
“If you’d had two legs straight as sticks, they’d have teased you about the length of your hair or the freckles on your nose or something else. But, you were so self-conscious! I remember how shy you were in my class, never even tried to talk with the other girls, always off by yourself, reading. You never let anyone get close.” Just then two little girls in pigtails with matching ribbons, the Robins girls, approached the table. Shyly, they asked Mrs. Hutchinson if they could have more punch. She ladled the fizzy pink potion into their waiting glasses, gave them a smile, and cautioned them not to drink too much or they’d upset their stomachs. They thanked her and scooted off toward the food table, looking for a second slice of cake. Mrs. Hutchinson shook her head disapprovingly.
“They’ll ruin their supper, that’s all. Oh well”—she shrugged in defeat—“I suppose it’s a special occasion. Now, what were we talking about?” She answered her own question before I could say a word. “That’s right, you. Yes, when you had your baby and no husband to go with it, people were shocked. A lot of folks avoided you, and I’m ashamed to say that I was one of them. Others cut you cold. Well,” she said uncertainly, “I don’t know if that’s right or wrong, but that’s the way it’s always been. I guess we think that sort of treatment will make girls think twice before they ...” She lowered her voice, and I thought I detected just a hint of a blush on her well-lined cheeks. “Well, you know what I mean,” she whispered.
“Over time, though, people saw what you were made of. People in this town respect you, Eva. They have for a long time.”
“If that’s true,” I said, “they did an awfully good job of keeping it to themselves until today.” Even as I spoke I felt a little ashamed of the bitter edge in my voice.
Mrs. Hutchinson nodded sagely. “You’re right, Eva, but you’ve got to forgive them. It’s hard for people to come right out and say what they think if they’re not sure everyone else will feel the same way. Sometimes they need a little nudge.
“The day you left on your honeymoon, Mr. Dwyer called a special meeting of the church just to plan this party for you and Paul. I will admit, there were one or two hateful old busybodies (don’t ask me to tell you who, that’d be gossiping) who wanted to turn the meeting into a vote on whether or not we should keep a pastor who would marry a ‘woman of questionable character,’ as they put it.” I felt my face flush with embarrassment, ashamed to think of my past being discussed in public and mortified to imagine my actions casting a shadow on Paul. Mrs. Hutchinson eyed me sympathetically.
“Now, Eva, don’t go upsetting yourself. Mr. Dwyer may be a little too fond of the sound of his own voice, but he’s a good man deep down. He told the old biddies to sit down before somebody started telling tales on them! Then,” she reported with a satisfied nod, “Charley Cheevers, of all people! I don’t think I’ve ever known him to speak in public! Charley got to his feet and said you had more character than any woman he’d ever met. ‘Look at the way she’s raised her boy,’ he said, ‘and how she took care of her folks and ran her business. Good as any man! And she lives clean, too, never been seen to smoke or drink or chase after men. Sure, she made one mistake when she was young, and she got caught, but as near as I can tell, that’s the only one. That’s a damn sight less than most people. Hell, we ought to be proud to have a woman like that as our pastor’s wife!’”
“Mr. Cheevers has always been kind to me.” I smiled.
“Yes,” Mrs. Hutchinson agreed, “Charley Cheevers is the salt of the earth, and everybody in town knows it. Once he spoke up for you, seems like it gave everyone permission to voice their agreement. They meant it, too. At my age I can tell the difference between sincerity and the need to go along with the crowd.” Again there was a mischievous wink.
I could have hugged the old lady right then and there, but I still had my doubts. “But really, Paul is the one who—” I started.
Mrs. Hutchinson scowled again and waggled a warning finger in my face. “Don’t go doing that to yourself. It’s not like people in town took to Reverend Van Dyver right off, you know. He was awful different, and it made them nervous. He was good-looking, but he had a strange accent and manner. He preached long, serious sermons full of big words that hit a little too close to home for most folks. Of course, we’re supposed to come to church because we want to find out where and how we need to change, but most people really come to service wanting to hear about how the other fellow needs to change.” She chuckled, pleased with her own joke.
“People had a hard time warming up to Paul,” she continued, “but he seems more accessible since you came into his life, more human. Make no mistake, Eva, this party is for both of you, and it’s more an apology than a wedding celebration. It’s the church’s way of saying we’re sorry for the way we’ve treated you both in the past; and, Eva,” she said hoarsely, raising her chin and looking me in the eye, as though determined to face the music square on, “I include myself on the list of those needing your forgiveness. We were wrong. But there’s no one we’d rather have lead our church than you and Paul. The only question is, will you accept our apology?”
For a second I was moved beyond words; then I said, “Of course I will,” and somehow just saying those words filled me with a lightness I’d been waiting for all my life. For the first time, I felt like I was in exactly the right place: home. Without thinking, I embraced Mrs. Hutchinson. Hugging her was like wrapping my arms around a pile of sweet, warm bread dough. When she squeezed me back, we lost our balance for a moment and nearly tipped over the punch bowl. With a joint gasp, we broke apart just in time to grab the bowl before it spilled. Then, looking at each other and realizing how close we’d come to unleashing a pink, sticky flood all over the pristine white tablecloth, we broke into a tide of laughter that attracted the attention of Mrs. Dwyer, who was working nearby refilling the sandwich trays.
“What are you two up to?” she asked cheerily.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Mrs. Hutchinson grinned and patted me on the arm. “Mrs. Van Dyver has just agreed to make a quilt for the raffle at the church bazaar this year, haven’t you, Eva? “ Her eyes twinkled, as she was clearly enjoying the look of confusion on my face.
My jaw had dropped in surprise, but Mrs. Dwyer’s expectant face showed me there was only one thing I could say.
“Of course, I’d be happy to.”
“Well, that is good news!” Mrs. Dwyer exclaimed. “Your quilts are so beautiful, Eva, I’m sure we’ll raise more money than ever before. We’ll be halfway to a new organ before you know it. How kind of you. But making a quilt is so much work, and the bazaar is in September. Is there enough time?”
“Well, perhaps some of the ladies would be willing to help me with the cutting and quilting?” I asked.
Mrs. Dwyer was enthusiastic about the plan. “I’m sure we could find at least a dozen ladies who would love to help,” she twittered, “if only for the chance to see your work and learn from it.”
“Wonderful idea,” Mrs. Hutchinson agreed. “And after the quilt, Eva, we can start embroidering new altar cloths!” the elderly woman chirped, as Mrs. Dwyer led me away by the arm, eager to spread the word.