37

Oh that I had a complete control over my feelings! Then would my face always be clothed in smiles.

James Lorin Chapin
Private Journal, Lincoln, 1849

The shrill sound of the doorbell frightened Police Chief Peter Terry on the porch of the Bells’ house as much as it did Ed and Lorraine Bell upstairs in bed. It was the Sunday after New Year’s Day, very early in the morning. “You’ve got to get over there before church,” Flo Terry had said to her husband. “Otherwise they’ll be out all day, doing one thing or another.”

So here he was, in person, being ushered into the living room by Ed, who was tying the string of his bathrobe and waving him into a chair beside the Christmas tree.

Pete looked sheepishly at the tree, which was glowing with funny lights that bubbled up from the bottom to the top. “It’s just that Flo thinks there was something queer about the way a bunch of those people from Old West Church who died this fall always came to a meeting at your house on Sunday afternoons.”

“Coffee?” said Lorraine, suddenly appearing in front of Pete in a rumpled nightgown and bed jacket, her hair on end.

“Coffee?” Pete looked up in surprise. “Oh, no, thank you. Well, maybe. Well, yes, I guess so. But not if it’s any trouble.”

“Coffee, Ed?” said Lorraine, looking at her husband fiercely, her eyes brilliant with unspoken messages.

“Why, yes, dear,” said Ed mildly.

“So, ha-ha, she thought maybe the meeting had something to do with the fact that they all died.” Pete flapped his hand to dismiss the ridiculous notion. “Maybe she thinks Lorraine was, ha-ha, feeding them poisoned cookies or something.”

“You hear that, dear?” said Ed, calling to his wife, who was grimly slamming pots around in the kitchen.

“Anyway, Flo just wanted me to ask you what the meetings were for. She says Judy Molyneux said they were charitable, and Maureen Donlevy thought they were some kind of retreat, and somebody else thought you were all getting together to study the Bible. I mean, everybody thought they were for something different.”

“They were right,” said Ed. “All of them were right. It was all of those things at once, you see.”

“Oh, no kidding!” Pete slapped his knee. “Oh, I get it. That explains it. Well, so that’s it. Well, well. Okay, I see. Oh, sure. Well, never mind. Say, never mind about the coffee. Hey, Lorraine! Never mind about the coffee! I won’t stay for coffee. I’ll just be on my way. Hey, I’m sorry to have bothered you, ha-ha, so early Sunday morning. Hey, you people, Happy New Year!”

Peter Terry was a willow reed, thought Lorraine, looking out of the kitchen as the front door slammed. He would bend with every wind. But his wife was still a menacing threat. Flo Terry was a rod of iron.

The Gibbys had sold their house. They were walking around it for the last time, their footsteps noisy in the empty rooms. The kids were already in Cambridge at Imogene’s mother’s house in Porter Square. Imogene was trying not to cry. She stroked the trash compacter and ran her fingers down the frame of the bay window in the family room.

“Oh, Imogene,” said Jerry, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” said Imogene. “Someday we’ll have a place like this again. You’ll see.”

“Are you sure you want to go to church?”

“Oh, yes.” Imogene dabbed at her eyes at the kitchen sink. “I’m okay now.”

Parker Upshaw was in church that morning, just as usual. Parker never missed a Sunday, because he was keeping tabs on Joe Bold. Sitting with folded arms, he took mental notes, listening for hesitations and falterings, grading the sermons on a scale of one to ten, recording the evidence in a folder on his desk at home. He was preparing for another approach to the Parish Committee, making a case for the dismissal of the Reverend Joseph Bold. His wife, Libby, looked at him sideways when he whipped out his pencil during the final hymn to make a note on his order of service. “It’s like the Spanish Inquisition,” she whispered. “You’d think the man was a heretic.”

“I suspect the Inquisition had a bad press,” murmured Parker smugly, pleased with himself, reflecting that the Spanish inquisitors had probably been a bunch of good hard-nosed guys who made tough decisions in a time of crisis. They had probably saved the church in the long run. If it hadn’t been for them, the whole Catholic Church might not have survived. The Pope would be digging potatoes in Poland. The Vatican would be a collection of high-priced condominiums.

Parker bowed his head for the final blessing, then walked to the door with Libby, suffused with self-righteousness, vowing to run uphill to the car to improve the shining hour. But outside he came face-to-face with Jerry Gibby. In Upshaw’s state of exaltation, Jerry was little more than a blip on the screen of his own self-satisfaction. Looking right through him, Parker shouldered past Jerry and descended the steps, buttoning his coat.

But Jerry Gibby was not a stream of electrons in a cathode-ray tube. He was an overweight mass of suffering flesh, racked with rage and frustration, encased in a too small suit. Superimposed on Upshaw’s arrogant face Jerry could see Imogene’s plump hand stroking the frame of the window. Maddened by vexation and resentment, he struck at his tormentor, hitting him clumsily in the right shoulder. Then, screwing up his face and shutting his eyes, he pushed Upshaw down the steps and punched the top button of his coat.

Imogene screamed. Ed Bell and Homer Kelly pulled Jerry away from Upshaw, who was bending over, holding his middle, his face contorted. “Don’t think I won’t do something about this, Gibby,” he gasped angrily. “Unprovoked assault and battery. You’ll hear from me.”

And, of course, Jerry did. Next day the doorbell rang loudly in Imogene’s mother’s house in Porter Square. The man at the door was wearing a blue uniform. He was an old friend of Jerry’s from high school. A sob rose in Jerry’s throat when he saw the big envelope in his friend’s hand.

“Sorry, Jerry,” said the officer, handing him the summons.

“Gee, thanks,” said Jerry bitterly.