As it turned out, the old saddle racks had been the ideal base for shelving. Take them down, tack up some drywall, apply some paint, and it had looked downright professional once the members sussed out some used furniture, a couple lamps, and an old desk that had been in someone’s garage or barn. He’d hung up his community college associate’s degree and his printable certificate of ordination, in Walmart’s nicest frames, and his church had been in business.
It hadn’t been comfortable to be in his office, though, not since Rosalina, and he’d been doing his work in odd places most of the time. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried. He’d sit at the desk and get started, but then his eyes would wander from his laptop screen to the old upholstered armchair, donated by Sister Rebecca and Brother Thomas, which now had an accusatory stain on the seat, which might have been there all along but he hadn’t noticed before. He’d see that storm-colored chair, how it looked for all the world like a lap, like his lap, which he’d eased Rosalina onto, and then he had to leave the office every time, before he started looking at the rug—a remnant from the Walmart over in Elmont—and remember that it was five by eight, as if he’d planned to choose something big enough to cushion two bodies, which he swore to God he never had.
Now, though, the merciful message of forgiveness, it was time to realize that when God cleaned your soul, He expected you to move on. He wouldn’t have provided the church, Gary reasoned to himself, if He didn’t want you working in the building. And so, Gary woke that blindingly bright Wednesday morning after a day of rest following the trip from Atlanta, unloading his aunt CarolSue’s stuff, carting away his mother’s cast-offs, which of course the church could use, not that he mentioned that to her, a trip to Elmont to turn in the U-Haul, and a twelve-hour sleep in what passed for a parsonage—a room and bath, with kitchen privileges, in Sister Martha’s farmhouse—and went to the church. He let himself into his office, took a breath, exhaled, breathed in again and sat at his desk. Cautious, he looked around. Praise God, he said. Thank you Jesus. It’s over, it’s done. I’m free.
CarolSue
“Does anyone around here play bridge?” I asked Louisa the next day. I was sweating in the steamy kitchen while I was drying the canning pot and two dozen more mason jars, bands, and lids for the next day’s use. After the hot afternoon’s work. Yes, the house would cool down a lot with twilight, and, of course, now that we were finished—until tomorrow—with Louisa’s manic canning. I was dying to buy her a giant freezer and be done with this ridiculous daily sauna, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
“Huh? The bridge will be out again in September. Drives us insane. The detour is way out of the way. Every damn fall some part of it needs repair.”
“What are you talking about? I asked if anyone plays bridge?”
“Yeah, it’s a game the idiot Great State of Indiana plays with the rural population that can’t muster enough votes to get rid of the administration.”
“Louisa. Look at me. Bridge. It’s a card game.” I enunciated as if she were slow-witted or had been drinking her special tea, which I think she had anyway. “I played it with other women. In Atlanta. You remember. I used to tell you. I was in a couple of bridge clubs. We had a fancy lunch. We played bridge.”
“Oh. That. No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why would they do that?”
I had another exceedingly strong homicidal impulse right then. What could I do? The puffy sheriff would be along, doubtless, before I could deal with my sister’s body, although the notion of digging up all the remaining produce and burying her in the damn vegetable garden was attractive. I temporarily shelved the notion for later consideration and resorted to my nonlethal weapon of choice for the moment.
“Oh, I don’t know. Why would anyone want to relax and enjoy themselves in air-conditioned comfort, laughing with friends and doing something intellectually challenging, when they could spend all day every day in a sweat shop slaving to produce what she could easily and cheaply buy in a grocery store? I have no idea.”
As you can imagine, I’d gone too far.
“I’m sorry,” I said. She’d turned away, facing the sink now, refusing to look at me, staring at the old wallpaper with the little peach and yellow watering cans and flowers she and Harold had chosen many years ago that she said she was ready to take down. But hadn’t. I’d moved here, but was clinging to my old life, the one Charlie had brought me to, that I’d shared with him each time I’d come home from those afternoon games. And Louisa: “napping” with Gus, but oh, no mistaking that she was still and ever Harold’s wife. How could she not understand?
“I’m sorry, too,” she finally said. “We’ve lived such different lives.”
“Until now,” I said. “But I need to find . . . I don’t know. What do you do?”
“You know what I do.”
“I can’t tutor,” I said. “You’re a teacher. You had a career. You have the animals and helping at the school, and now Gus and helping Brandon, and . . . I don’t know how to fit.”
“You could help supervise at the playground at school? They always need volunteer adults. How about maybe helping the librarian there? Marian loves a volunteer.”
“School is your thing. I can’t just slide into your life. I should have thought of all this before I came.”
Indeed. I should have thought of all that before I came.
Louisa
Louisa knew, she knew all too well that CarolSue was hurting. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t talking about Charlie; he was all she thought about, all she really wanted when she brought up something like ladies’ card games. Because those were part of her Atlanta life and her Atlanta life was her Charlie life, and that was gone. Louisa knew.
Did CarolSue think Louisa didn’t understand? Sure, it was different when Louisa lost Harold, but so much the same, too. Louisa knew that given an empty house at night, CarolSue would wander around the rooms like a silent ghost, touching this and that, guessing what Charlie had last touched with his warm hand. Or what was maybe worse: the nights she would keen, a mortally wounded animal. Louisa had been in her own husband-empty house after CarolSue had gone back home, and Marvelle’s effort to provide comfort hadn’t kept her in her bed. Back in Atlanta, CarolSue hadn’t even had a cat, and certainly not her sister, plus Marvelle, Jessie, and the hens to help her go on.
Louisa figured that CarolSue outside working in the garden was the best thing for her. The bounty and the beauty of growing things, the vibrant vegetables and flowers, fresh air and the physical fatigue from the good labor: All this would distract her, and she’d fall into an exhausted sleep at night. Louisa always did. Except the nights that Gus stayed over, not that he’d been able to do that since CarolSue had moved in. Louisa knew CarolSue was up and about and neither she nor Gus felt right about it. “It would be like rubbing her face in sleeping alone all night,” Gus said, and Louisa had to admit that was exactly right.
If she could just get CarolSue over worrying about keeping her manicure, and her sister would just give the farm—and the woods and the animals—a chance, they’d help her heal. The animals and the land had saved Louisa’s life. They were the lifeblood she had to give the sister she loved. Louisa was sure of her Plan, especially since it was the only one she had.
Chapter 7
Gary
It