7

While events of infinite importance have been of daily occurrence … it could hardly be expected that even a ladies Missionary Sewing Circle could pursue its work with accustomed interest and success.

Annual report, 1861
Missionary Sewing Circle
First Parish Congregational Church, Lincoln

On the steps of the church they stood in knots and clusters, wondering what had gone wrong with Howie Sawyer, asking each other about the illness that had so plainly brought the minister’s wife to death’s door.

“What about the reception in the parish house?” said Geneva Jones, thinking about the tray of elegant tidbits waiting in her car. “I suppose it will be called off.”

“Oh, too bad,” said Betsy Bucky, disappointed. Betsy had brought a batch of her special coconut squares, and she was eager to hear the little cries of pleasure as people bit into them.

Only Parker Upshaw knew what was the matter with Claire Bold. “Cancer, naturally,” he said grimly. “She’s had two operations already. She’s due for another mastectomy this week.”

“Oh, the poor darling,” said Imogene Gibby.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Geneva Jones.”

Rosemary Hill said nothing, but she listened anxiously to Parker Upshaw, then hurried home to lie down with a heating pad over the place that hurt.

Deborah Shooky was distressed at the sight of her husband’s drawn face in the bright noonday light outside the church. “Phil, dear, are you all right?”

“Oh, sure,” said Phil. “Just sort of upset. It was terrible seeing Howie Sawyer like that. You know, out of his head like that.”

Hilary Tarkington was surprised to find her husband lying in the back seat of their fourteen-year-old Chrysler. “Oh, George, dear, I should have come out sooner.”

“It’s all right,” said George, pulling himself up. He sat in the back seat, wheezing, while Hilary drove home. Shifting the gears noisily, she told him about the minister’s wife. “Oh, George, you didn’t see her lying on the floor. Oh, the poor woman.”

It had been a shattering morning. Eloise Baxter rushed away for a dialysis appointment at Mass. General Hospital. Bill Molyneux suspected a return of his own peculiar symptoms. Agatha Palmer felt distinctly unwell. Thad Boland went home in a fit of nervousness and made himself a sandwich, but he couldn’t get it down. He took one bite and left the rest on his plate. The sickness in the church was catching. There was illness in the air.

Only a few parishioners were still gathered around the church door when Joe Bold and Ed Bell came out, carrying Claire between them on their crossed hands. Claire was sitting up with her arms around their shoulders, her face white and strained. But then Ed said something that made her laugh as they tucked her in the back seat of his car.

Homer and Mary Kelly hurried across the grass. “Is there anything we can do?” said Homer. “Mary knew Mrs. Bold at school.”

Ed Bell was pleased. So was Joe Bold. Mary leaned down to the back window of the car and introduced herself. Claire’s face brightened. She grasped Mary’s hand. “Why don’t you come with us?” said Joe. “I know it will do her good.”

They took off quickly, the five of them in Ed Bell’s car, accompanied by Peter Terry in his police cruiser. It was Ed who had called police headquarters in the Town Hall, and he was glad that the man on hand was his old friend Pete, even though it was Sunday, and you would think the chief of police would be home Sunday morning with his wife.

Pulling the cruiser away from the curb, Pete Terry turned on his siren, thinking unhappily at the same time about his wife, Flo, and her crazy prophecies. Damn it, the woman was right again.

Arlene Pott was one of the last to leave the church. She was reluctant to go home. Not till everyone else had driven away did she walk around the green to her own car on Carlisle Road. Working her key into the lock, she felt the churchly aura of comfortable sanctity slip away, and all the excitement of the new minister’s appearance, and the sensational confusion of the two interruptions. As soon as she opened the door of her car, she was enveloped once again in the poisonous atmosphere of home. Her fear gripped her as she drove down Lowell Road. Wally was probably carrying on with Josie Coil right now.

Arlene’s suspicions were well grounded. No sooner had she driven off to church that morning than Josie had come running right over to be with Wally. Josie had known Wally was waiting for her. She knew how unhappy he was with Arlene. She knew his whole life had taken on new meaning since she had moved next door to take care of old Mrs. Hawk.

Wally Pott was a small-time insurance adjuster who spent his days arguing with the wrathful owners of wrecked automobiles and the survivors of accidents. Some of the survivors were damaged and crippled, some were not, but all were greedy and litigious. The work was infuriating, the pay was small. Wally’s salary was only a tenth of Arlene’s income, a monthly stipend left her by her father, who had been a wealthy contractor. Arlene’s father’s money had paid for their new house. His company had built it. Arlene never let Wally forget that the house was hers, and hers alone. “Take your feet off my sofa,” she would say. “Don’t walk on my grass.”

It was a bitter standoff. The weeks and months had come to seem more and more unbearable to Wally until the day Josie Coil came to work next door. They had been attracted to each other right away. Josie respected him. Josie admired him. Wally swelled in his own estimation. The dimples in Josie’s cheeks were invitations to a better life.

But this morning Josie was restive. “Look, Wally, how long can we go on like this? Honest to God, I’m really sick of it. You know what I think I’ll do? I’m going to take that job in the modeling agency in Watertown. This guy I met, this Victor, he says I can get a job easy. You know, doing ads for fingernail polish and panty hose.” Josie waggled her fingers and pointed her toes.

“What guy?” said. Wally uneasily.

“Oh, this big good-looking guy, I told you, his name’s Victor. I could tell he fell for me in a big way. So what good does it do to wait around while you make up your mind? It’s Arlene’s money, right? This whole house, it’s Arlene’s daddy’s money that built it? So if you divorce her, she gets the house and the alimony, right? So, listen, I’d have to go on working, wouldn’t I? Nursing old ladies like Mrs. Hawk, the way I am now, right? Giving them baths in bed, emptying their bedpans? What good is that? Honestly, now, Wally.”

Wally glowered at her. “Listen, you just forget this Victor guy, you hear me? I’ll break his neck.”

Josie laughed, showing her dimples. “Oh, Wally, no wonder you’re jealous. You should see him. He’s really good-looking. You know, big and strong, with these heavy eyebrows that meet in the middle and this big cleft chin. And he’s really crazy about me, I can tell. So hurry up, okay, Wally? Do something. I mean, here I am”—Josie spread her arms and looked down at her plump breasts, her delicious tummy, her cozy thighs—”just withering on the vine.”

Josie stayed too long in the Potts’ pink-and-beige living room. Not until Arlene’s car door slammed in the driveway did she jump up and scuttle out the back door.

Arlene was no fool. She saw the bushes shake, she saw the white trousers scramble through them. And she couldn’t bear it. She was crushed.

But Arlene was tired of fighting with Wally. Walking across the grass, she unrolled the chicken-wire door of her vegetable garden and put her big purple pocketbook down at the end of the stretched white string that showed where she had planted her early peas. Squatting down on her high heels, she stared along the row, looking for some sign of life, tears running down her heavy cheeks.

Eleanor Bell and her mother were the last to get home from church that morning because they had to walk all the way. When they turned in to their driveway, Eleanor was astounded to see Bo Harris waiting for them on the front porch, looking at them anxiously. His bicycle was leaning against the porch steps.

“Mrs. Bell?” he said eagerly. “Did your husband tell you about me and my car? I mean, my name’s Bo Harris. Did he say anything about me?”

“Why, no, he didn’t,” said Lorraine.

“Hello, Bo,” said Eleanor, thrilled and excited.

Ignoring Eleanor, Bo followed her mother into the house, talking a blue streak. “It’s this car I just bought—my mother won’t let me fix it in our driveway. So Mr. Bell said maybe I could work on it in your backyard, if it’s okay with you. I mean, my mother cuts the grass with a pair of scissors, I mean, you know, she’s really fussy, but I noticed your grass isn’t exactly—”

Lorraine laughed. “I’m insulted, but never mind.” She sighed, picturing pieces of junk car littering the back yard. “Well, if Ed says it’s all right, I won’t say no.”

“Gee, thanks, Mrs. Bell.”

“Have something to eat, Bo?” said Eleanor, smiling eagerly, snatching off the cover of a chocolate cake her mother was saving for company. Eleanor’s hair was a riot of golden curls. Her nose and cheeks were pink. This morning in church her mother’s friends had gushed over her. “Oh, my dear, how precious.” “Oh, Eleanor, dear, how charming.” “Ah, youth! Darling Eleanor!”

But Bo Harris didn’t seem to see her. “So I’ll get my father to bring it over with the trailer hitch on his car. Okay with you, Mrs. Bell?”