A Light in the Window (18 page)

“Timothy, I know how you feel about me, how you’ve always felt. I can see it ...”

He flung the door open and ran into the street without looking behind him, without observing the careful, lifelong practice of locking up church property, without taking his briefacse, without considering that he might have handled the whole thing far better by meeting her head-on and coming, once and for all, to manly terms with an ungodly circumstance.

He struck the pillow on the study sofa with such force that a welt gaped open, releasing a pouf of white feathers.

The vestry. They could help him. Or should he call Stuart? What could the vestry do, after all? What did you do to provoke it, someone might ask, and well they might. The answer was simple: Nothing! He had done nothing, never, not the slightest thing. He had been kind to her over the years, he had gritted his teeth and been kind, that was all, nothing more than he had been to anyone else in the parish, including her beleaguered dead husband.

Had he passed Ed Coffey when he hurried out of the office and down the sidewalk? Had Ed sat watching him from behind the wheel of the Lincoln, as he fled like a hare before a hound? It was humiliating to think that Ed might even now be shaking his head with pity over the priest who could not hold his own with his employer. Would Ed have to watch him skulk about eternally, fleeing from church offices, trapped in rainstorms, until either he or Edith gave up and gave in?

Certainly, he would never give in.

But he felt a chilling dread that Edith Mallory would not give in, either. There was something indomitable about her; she had had her way with Pat Mallory for more than three decades. She was not used to giving in.

He was not pleased that he felt oddly fearful, like a child in a tale of a wicked stepmother. And why did it suddenly occur to him that her direct approaches were preliminary to something more subtle, something he might not be able to recognize and avoid?

Percy looked at him meaningfully. “That feller you got doin’ up your nursin’ home ... ?”

“What about him?”

“He ain’t my chew of tobacco.”

“Is that right?”

“Started comin’ in here two mornin’s ago orderin’ me around like some ninnyhammer, I like to shoved ‘is head in ’is grits.”

“Aha.”

“Too bad you missed th’ last two mornin’s, he comes th’ same time as your crowd, sits by hisself in th’ front booth. Do this, do that, run here, run there. Makes Parrish Guthrie look like a church saint.”

“They say he’s the best in the business.”

“I’ll show ’im some business,” said Percy.

After he left the Grill, he stopped in front of Happy Endings bookstore. He was looking over new titles in the window when Fancy Skinner got out of her car at the curb. He saw that Fancy had dyed a streak in her blond hair to match her 1982 pink Cadillac, and was wearing an angora sweater of the same hue.

“How you doin’?” she called, waving to him.

“Terrific. How’s your new shop?”

“Couldn’t be better. My Mister Coffee busted this mornin’ and I’m goin’ in th’ Grill for a coffee to go. By th’ way, that bozo of yours up at your nursin’ home....”

“Ah, which one is that?”

“Buck Leeper. Came in for a haircut, ordered me around like a slave. When he told me to give ‘im his change, I told ’im to bend over. You oughtn’t to let him run loose.”

“Well.” What else could he say?

“You ought let me take a little off your sides. That’s kind of a chipmunk look you got there.”

“Right.”

So now Buck Leeper was
his
bozo, doing up
his
nursing home, and
he
was the one responsible for letting him run loose.

The Sunday of the Village Advent Walk was bright with sun, yet bitterly cold. He was glad to put on the camel topcoat Puny had brushed and hung on the closet door. He had let it hang there for more than two weeks, eagerly waiting for the weather to turn cold. Winters had become so mild, he had scarcely had it on his back in recent years. Let the hard winter come! he thought, whistling the morning anthem.

At four o’clock, the villagers poured into Lord’s Chapel, teeth chattering, to stand expectantly in the pews as the choir processed along the aisle. “O Zion, that bringest good tidings, get thee up to the heights and sing!” Rays of afternoon light poured through the stained glass windows, drenching the sanctuary with splashes of color. It was enough, he thought, if no word were spoken or hymn sung.

After the service, he and Dooley followed the singing procession to the Methodist chapel, where the children’s choir met them on the steps. “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” they warbled, sending puffs of warm breath into the freezing air. People filled the nave and were standing in the churchyard as the ancient story of Christmas was read from Luke, and candles were lighted in every window.

Afterward, they trooped down the alleyway and across Main Street, singing to the tops of their voices in wildly random keys. They were led, at this point, by J.C. Hogan, who was walking backwards at a heedless trot while snapping pictures of the oncoming throng.

The Presbyterians joined them on the corner of Main Street and Lilac Road with ten pieces of brass, and led the frozen, exhilarated regiment across the street to First Baptist, where the the lower grades sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” accompanied by their preacher on the guitar. They also saw a re-enactment of the manger scene, for which the preacher’s wife had made all the costumes.

Then, everyone clattered to the fellowship hall, where the brass band was rattling the cupboards with “Joy to the World!” The women of the church had set out an awesome array of sandwiches, cookies, cake, homemade candy, hot chocolate, and steaming apple cider.

“I think we’re about to get our second wind,” said the rector to his Presbyterian colleague.

“One more denomination in this town and some of us couldn’t make it around. We’ve just clocked a mile and a quarter.”

“I don’t think there is another denomination, is there?” asked Miss Pruitt, the Sunday School supervisor.

“Well, let’s see. There’s the Lutherans!”

Edith Mallory made her way through the crowd, carrying a sloshing cup of cider. There was a certain look in her eye, as if he might be a nail and she a hammer, determined to pound him squarely on the head.

“Lovely service at Lord’s Chapel,” she said, coolly.

“Yes, I thought so, and how did you like the walk?”

“Walk? I never walk on the Advent Walk, I always ride.”

“I see.”

He turned away so hastily that he knocked the cider out of Mayor Cunningham’s hand, and took refuge in helping someone clean it up. When he got to his feet again in the milling crowd, Edith had disappeared.

Keeping his head down, he found Dooley and left for home, to steam himself like a clam in the shower, and reread the letter that waited by his bed.