Kimberly Stuart (3 page)

Holy Night

I was what you might call an accidental Christian. My parents, East Coast transplants from a small town in North Dakota, were brought up with the fear of God, tornados, and Martin Luther. They passed these convictions on to their only child, a girl with more interest in performing one-act operettas in the church basement for the ruffians who stole the communion bread than singing in a secluded choir loft, behind the congregation and out of sight of potential admirers. To my parents' consternation, I disavowed church attendance from the day I left their home until Mother and Dad were both old and gray. My mother in particular seemed to find great comfort in my “coming around” when I started singing for pay in an imposing and well-attended Episcopal church in Manhattan just before she died. I think Mother thought I'd returned to the fold when, in fact, I was merely adding more shoe money to my monthly income.

The Church universal had its share of dirty laundry. Followers of Jesus toted around some cultural baggage—the Crusades, the Inquisition, the televangelists, and that was just for starters. Despite those prickly thorns—so awkward in ecumenical settings—Christmas Eve resurfaced each December as one time when I was happy to be Christian. For one thing, the music had no parallel. Even the most calloused of souls had to feel
something
when Handel proclaimed the child born and celebrated with a chorus of hallelujahs. “Silent Night,” though sacrificed on the altar of popular music every year, remained the world's perfect lullaby. And “Joy to the World” offered endless possibilities for decorative soprano descants. Richard wrote several for me that I'd performed for everyone from the Unitarians (“let
all
[not just men] their songs employ”) to a gig a few years ago with the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir (add percussion, clapping, and an ocean of swaying).

At St. Mark's Episcopal on the Upper East Side, the Christmas mood was subdued. The sanctuary opened its arms to a legion of good-looking people in furs and precision haircuts. The smell of old money mingled sweetly with fresh-cut pine branches, trucked in from somewhere upstate. Decorative bunches woven with holly filled the space and brought to mind Bing, Nat, and Perry. For that evening's service, the organist and I had whipped up “O Holy Night” as a nod to a heavy tither who'd made her request known to the senior pastor. I'd warned Mavis, the organist, in no uncertain terms, that though I would perform the piece, neither she nor the philanthropist should expect any Celine Dion–inspired yelping. Mavis hadn't been able to hide her disappointment, but I stood my ground and we rehearsed the number accordingly.

I sat near the pulpit, resplendent in a cabernet-colored raw silk dress that hugged my figure in the bodice and then dropped into a lusciously full skirt. I had my father's height but was also grateful for my mother's contributions, most notably her shapely legs. Also gifted to me were Father's blue eyes, Mother's black hair. Father's impatience with imperfection, Mother's distrust of the government. Throw in my own original neuroses, and the result was one heck of a genetic cocktail.

My position facing the congregation allowed for optimum appraisal of those in attendance. I saw Lily MacIntosh, cohost of ABS's
America This Morning.
Having met Lily on several occasions, I could report her to be an unabashedly cold person after eleven in the morning. The mayor and his family arrived early, though I'd not yet seen Mr. and Mrs. Mayor interact. He stood at the narthex entrance, surrounded by a bevy of bodyguards, while she and their three pale and sullen children huddled together in a row near the front. Poor Mrs. Mayor. Even with the makeover team's intervention after her husband was sworn in, after the shellacked Jackie O. coiffure, crisp tweeds, and a softer shade of lipstick, the mayor's wife never seemed to look like she'd signed up for the job. She sat with an arm around one of her urchins, her expression more appropriate for Maundy Thursday than Christmas Eve.

Mavis launched into a contemplative and dissonant prelude of “We Three Kings.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Two minutes, Sadie.” Reverend Stephens smiled down at me before moving to take a seat on the other side of the pulpit. I watched him adjust the microphone on his skin-colored headset and then fiddle with the small control box attached underneath his vestments. The Reverend was about my age, well-regarded by his flock, and a good storyteller. His sermons entertained enough to keep my attention but were harmless enough to keep from offending his notoriously prickly congregation.

Nevertheless, should I ever find the need for a pastor type in times of need, I knew I'd never call on him. A few years back, I'd run into Stephens coming out of a five-star with his wife, both of them dressed to the hilt and the Reverend making a point to show me the new Tiffany bracelet he'd just given Mrs. Stephens for an anniversary gift. Call me a traditionalist, and perhaps I was out of the loop as far as trends among those of the cloth, but I liked my clergy to look a bit more monastic. Fine if they lost the hood and rope belt—but Tiffany's?

Mavis's “We Three Kings” ended in an unresolved chord and she nodded at Stephens to begin.

He stood and strode to the pulpit in polished Prada wingtips. Opening his arms wide to his parishioners, he said, “Welcome, children of God, to this most holy night when we anticipate together the advent of Christ Jesus.”

The mayor hustled down the central aisle, bodyguards filing behind, and scooted into the row by his wife. Mrs. Mayor and the urchins didn't even glance in his direction.

“… And so let us sing together hymn 124, ‘It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.'”

Mavis swooped in with an introduction and Stephens invited the congregation to stand. My position on the marbled stage elevated me slightly but I remained well within earshot of a crooning woman in a ghastly velvet number with matching hat. She sang from her spot in the second row, staring straight at me as if to make all those hours with some poor penniless vocal teacher worth her while. To compensate for the Velveteen Rabbit's wild vibrato on the chorus, I resorted to lip-synching. Who, I ask you, needed dueling sopranos on the eve of Christ's birth?

A tone-deaf baritone joined the crooner for “Angels We Have Heard On High,” the two of them going for broke on the
glorias
. By the final verse, I was thinking of a safe place with padded walls, right when my upper register should have been soaring to the tops of the Gothic spires. Instead, I closed my eyes and tried to look serene as I listened to the final chorus before Stephens's short sermon.

“Why a baby?” he asked when the congregation had been seated. “A dependent, vulnerable babe, the Son of the Most High God. A dirty manger in an overcrowded town, two teenaged and scandalized parents, and the Son of the Most High God. The smell of animals, a group of ragtag, blue-collar shepherds, and the Son of the Most High God.”

The mayor cleared his throat, bothered perhaps by recent union strikes and his office's blunders in the negotiations. A group of ragtag, blue-collar workers
can
cause quite a ruckus.

“In our culture, we are not taught the value of humility,” Stephens continued. “Be more, do more, make more, we say to ourselves. Entertain us, appease us, and serve us, we say to our politicians.”

There, that gave the mayor a boost. He sat up in his pew. Mrs. Mayor slumped.

“Work faster, work longer, work harder, we say to our children, because we can't let the world pass us by. We need to be noticed. We need to be affirmed. We look to the world to tell us our value and are fearful of the day when no one is watching anymore.”

I bit the inside of my lower lip. Did someone tell Stephens about my sales numbers?

“And in the midst of this madness, we are visited by the Son of the Most High God, who turns the world on its end. Not more for abundance's sake, He says, but more to give to those in need. Not fame for fame's sake, but fame to spread God's love. This baby of whom the angels sing teaches us not to seek our own way and covet the praise of others but rather to seek humility, starting at the foot of a humble manger.”

I shifted in my seat. This was a bit much. Wasn't Christmas about pretty presents and peace and goodwill? Friends, family, and mistletoe? Where was all the good cheer? Since when did Bling Man think we were here to get our consciences pummeled? I glimpsed Lily MacIntosh trying to be discreet with her Blackberry and I wished I were, for once, nestled in a pew with the others instead of up on display.

Stephens launched into a treatise on social activism and I began to relax. If nothing else, I was a friend of the charity ball circuit. My thoughts had wandered to a favorite and insanely overpriced boutique in SoHo when my eyes drifted to movement in the back of the sanctuary. A man who looked like he was there to audition for the part of John the Baptist or Tom Hanks in
Castaway
entered and stood while a disgruntled row in back inched over to make room. It was Christmas, after all, so one could hardly make him sit on the floor. But judging by the sour expression of a little girl sitting near him, I gathered the man's aroma overpowered that of the pine branches. He leaned over and rested his hands on his knees, eyes fixed on Stephens and brow furrowed in concentration.

The sermon concluded and after a brief prayer, I stood and stepped forward as Mavis began the rolling chords of the introduction. One phrase in and I knew I was in remarkably good voice that evening, even for me. People smiled as I sang, a young couple near the front huddled closer to each other and joined hands. Lily even stopped with the Blackberry.

I finished the first verse and my eyes drifted again to the back of the room. John the Baptist had risen from his seat. But instead of turning to go, as I'd assumed, he walked slowly down the center aisle. His eyes did not waver from mine, even with the rustle and twitter of people on both sides of the aisle as he made his way toward me. My hands became clammy and I began to worry he would just keep on walking right up to the stage, those intense eyes staring at me right before he ate me for breakfast. One of the mayor's bodyguards stood from his pew and seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of taking out a man whose only crime at this point was ruffling the feathers of convention. I cleared my throat and stood straighter. This man was not going to be the source of my first and only fold during a performance.

“Fall on your knees,”
I sang with authority.

The man smiled, looking as if those were exactly the words he'd been waiting for. And right there, in a room full of New York City high rollers, he lowered himself slowly, down to his knees, and bowed his head. The dark, drab gray of his clothing collapsed into a muddy pool of submission, stark in contrast to the colorful and wealthy sea that surrounded him on either side. He lifted his open hands in a small gesture, bringing them to rest in front of him as if he were letting water run through his fingers.

I caught my breath in the middle of a phrase.

Fall on your knees.

I stopped singing.

Fall on your knees.

The words rang in my ears, disorienting me until the velvet woman in front cleared her throat loudly. I gathered myself to finish the piece, though only through sheer force of will could I sing any words other than the ones that had brought that man to put his knees to the ground. The song was a command, though I'd never heard it that way. And I had certainly not thought it applied to me. Shepherds, yes. But not me. In a room full of people who were faithful to max out their 401(k)'s, monitor the nanny's hours, and keep up their appearances in the Hamptons, this man fell on his knees without a care of what they thought of him.

I finished the piece and stood still at the front of the room. Stephens touched my elbow and I remembered to return to my chair. When I sat down and looked up the center aisle, the man was gone.

It was not my practice to go looking for signs and wonders. After all, one could find just about anything if one looked hard enough. That Christmas Eve, I had not come to church looking, certainly not for a sign to leave the home I loved to travel to what I thought would be the ends of the earth, no stable in sight.

But for days afterward, the words and images pestered me. The unusually provocative sermon on humility, the man falling to his knees before a newborn baby king, the disconcerting feeling that a homeless man in Velcro sneakers had a better idea of the whole picture than I did.

Within four days, I'd called Avi and booked a flight for the unknown.

Tall Corn State

“Folks, we're about ten minutes from touchdown. Weather in Maplewood is nippy this afternoon. We're looking at seventeen degrees with winds out of the northwest at twenty miles an hour. Buckle up and get ready to button up!”

Was it a requirement in pilot training to talk like a game show host? I tossed back the remaining drops of my drink. I clutched the shreds of a Heartland Air cocktail napkin in both hands and focused my mind on unloading all my building angst onto our saccharine pilot and his solitary flight attendant, Beverly. Perhaps in an effort to counterbalance her cohort in the cockpit, Beverly was aviation's version of a truck stop waitress.

“You done?” she said, nodding to my empty wine glass. Beverly appeared to have plucked all of the eyebrows God gave her only to draw them back in with an orange eyebrow pencil.

I smiled. “Yes, thank you.” I handed her my glass. “Tell me, Beverly. Are you based in Maplewood?”

Beverly's pretend brows shot into an impressive crop of bangs. “I most certainly am not. I live in Chicago. Have since I was a kid and don't plan on moving any time soon.” She swiveled a half turn to collect an empty ginger ale can from the traveler across the row. Before moving on, she dropped her head and shoulders nearly into my lap and said in a stage whisper, “And if I were to move, you can bet your bippy it wouldn't be to
Iowa
.” She snorted.

The woman across the aisle from me cleared her throat and shot a look at Beverly's retreating rump.

To be fair, by that point in the flight I had tried Beverly's patience just a wee bit. It was an exhaust issue. We were flying on a plane that should have been retired sometime after the Great War. I'd been forced into this, as Heartland Air was the only carrier flying into Maplewood. The. Only. One. I'd flown JFK to Chicago and then been routed to an obscure part of O'Hare known only to select airport employees and Iowans. The flight was to last less than an hour, but I spent the first thirty minutes having to use my portable air purifier to free my lungs of the stench.

“Whatcha got there, ma'am?” Beverly had asked when she saw me pull it out of my carry-on.

“Air purifier,” I gasped, pushing the knob up to the highest setting. The fumes were overtaking the cabin and I could
not
understand how the other passengers could sit idly by, content to page through the latest issue of
SkyShop
in search of a new inflatable mattress.

Beverly narrowed her eyes, a band of green eye shadow clearly visible on each lid. “They let that thing through security?”

I nodded and closed my eyes.
Think purity. Think O
2
. Do not asphyxiate on a plane headed for Middle-earth.

Beverly shook her head slowly. “I'm pretty sure the FAA would prohibit something like that. One false move and, were you so inclined, you could turn that puppy into a weapon.”

I let out a long exhale.
I
lived through September 11 while Bev was watching clips on the
Today
show, and
she
wanted to lecture
me
about security risks? “I assure you, I took my
air purifier
through all the x-rays. I was even frisked in Chicago. I'm safe.” I took another drag of pure air.

Beverly straightened and put her hand on her hip. “Well. I suppose as long as you keep it to yourself.” She made two fingers into a V and pointed to her eyeballs. “But I'm keeping my eye on you.”

The stench lifted halfway through the flight, though Beverly remained vigilant each time she passed my seat. Six years into the era of homeland security and Eagle Eye Bev was one of our more visible successes.

The plane banked to the left, giving me my first aerial view of Maplewood. Not an encouraging sight. The town held a little potential to be charming in a desperate, Mitford sort of way. I could make out a church spire and a bell tower, which appeared to be part of Moravia's campus. Clusters of residential areas circled the campus. From my vantage point, I saw a total of six traffic lights. Be assured that I counted.

The outskirts of town held even less promise. Enormous machines, probably having to do with harvesting flax or something in that vein, spotted wide-open lots. Shades of gray dominated the color palette, with no break in the scheme for miles upon miles. No, wait: as the plane dropped in altitude I could make out small piles of hardened snow, which, though technically gray, I, in my magnanimity, chalked up as white. Gray and white and Sadie Maddox. One of these things was sure to kill the others.

I resisted the urge to cling to Beverly when the plane landed. We disembarked single file.

“Have a good one,” Beverly said. She stood in the service area near the cockpit, arms crossed over an ample, cardigan-ed bosom.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice sounding much like a boy soprano's. I tried again, volume and false confidence up a notch. “You have a good day too, Beverly.”

She sniffed. “I will as soon as we're back up in the air and headed home.”

Home
, I thought. As I climbed through the chilly gate and walked toward baggage claim, home felt very far away.

The fifteen or so passengers from Heartland Air Flight 2301 stood milling around the single baggage carrel. Maplewood Regional Airport was more of a glorified garage. On my way to baggage claim, I'd passed one other gate, a set of restrooms, and a small nook where one could choose from a startling selection of beef jerky. No one had stepped forward from the small crowd of people waiting to welcome passengers so I stood alone looking for my bags. The air in the airport/garage was rather chilly and I was glad I'd worn my mink.

I fished my phone out of a new Gucci, a departure gift to myself, and waited for Richard to answer.

“Sadie?”

“Hello, Richard. I just wanted you to know I made it okay.” I lowered myself into a chair.

“And how's Green Acres looking these days?”

“Sparse. Gray.” I glanced at the faces in the luggage crowd and lowered my voice. “They're staring at me.”

“Probably fascinated by the wild animal from New York. What are you wearing?”

“Choo boots, Saint Laurent black trousers, my mink, Dolce sunglasses.”

Richard sounded like he was choking. “Good Lord, Sadie. You might as well be wearing a
hijab
.”

I sighed. “Richard, what have I done?”

“So the John the Baptist incident at your church is finally losing some of its afterglow.”

I'd cited the “O Holy Night” moment of clarity when I'd told Richard of my decision to take the job at Moravia. I had failed to mention the added incentive of a dwindling balance in my savings account. Avi had droned on mercilessly about my failure to plan for my retirement, my need to be stowing more away for the proverbial winter of the body. I admitted I'd been a horrible squirrel. Saving, in my opinion, had never been as much fun as
acquiring
. Nevertheless, when it came to choosing between curbing my spending and taking a semester's leave to the cornfields, I'm afraid I just didn't have the strength for that kind of self-denial. And so the reluctant relocation.

I felt the sting of tears and kept my sunglasses right where they were. “Thank you, Richard, for your encouragement. You've always known just the right thing to say.”

Richard cleared his throat, which I knew was his attempt to take me seriously. “Sadie, love, listen. You're having an adventure, that's what. You're going to see an area of the country that is, though completely neglected by civilized people, a point of much anthropological interest. Think of it as a humanitarian effort. Think Mother Teresa.”

“So I've landed in Calcutta.”

“No, no, of course not.” Richard paused. “That would mean you could get good ethnic food.” He cackled at his own joke.

I closed my eyes behind my sunglasses. “You are not helping.”

“You'll be fine,” Richard said, trying very hard to sound persuasive. “You'll mold young minds, educe great music out of what appears to be a lost cause, and be back in New York with a renewed sense of purpose and a packed recital schedule in no time. I have a call in to Judith—”

“Ms. Maddox?”

I opened my eyes and saw before me a small white woman with an afro. She wore enormous Smurf-blue frames
à la
Sally Jessy Raphael, circa 1989. I signed off with Richard and stood to my feet. “Yes, I'm Sadie Maddox.”

The woman smiled broadly and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Wonderful, wonderful. I'm so sorry to be late. My name is Miranda Ellsworth. I'm the music department secretary at Moravia College.” She thrust out her hand.

I took it and she shook vigorously. The woman was in desperate need of moisturizer. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ellsworth,” I said. The baggage carrel lurched into motion and pieces of luggage began lumbering around the conveyor belt. “Ah, good. Excuse me while I get my luggage.” I made a move toward the bags but was stopped by Ms. Ellsworth.

“Oh, no, we couldn't possibly—Cal will help with that, won't you, dear? You just point, Ms. Maddox.”

A man who must have been standing nearby the whole time emerged to offer his hand.

“Cal Hartley,” he said, voice gruff and eyes meeting mine. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, tight crop of chestnut hair, cheeks ruddy from the cold. He gripped my hand, shook once and walked to the baggage carrel. In one fell swoop, he lifted my two Louis Vuitton suitcases off the moving belt and was back by Ms. Ellsworth's side. He looked at my bags and raised his eyebrows at me as if to say,
did I choose correctly?

I nodded.
All right, all right,
I thought.
So my luggage stands out too.

“Truck's out front.” Cal gestured for Ms. Ellsworth to lead the way. I followed like an obedient schnauzer.

“Did you have a nice flight, then?” Ms. Ellsworth took my elbow when we got outside. I was at least twenty years her junior but perhaps she thought we city folk weren't used to icy sidewalks.

“I did, thank you.” An image of Beverly and her “eyebrows” skittered across my mind and I wished I'd made friends with her. Perhaps she would have offered me a place to stay in Chicago and I could commute to Iowa. We picked our way across an icy mound on our passage across the street. Cal had parked his black pickup in what most airports would have reserved for a high-grossing ticket zone. Cal's truck, the only vehicle there, had been left running and unlocked.

Cal heaved my luggage into the back of the pickup bed and came to open the passenger door.

“I'll sit in back,” Ms. Ellsworth said, gathering her polyester pants up a notch before scrambling into the back seat in one swift, afro-ed motion. I stood staring at the good three feet I'd need to mount before getting my body up into the seat. Curse it that I'd quit yoga.

“Need some help?” Cal asked, and I thought I saw the slightest hint of a smile forming around his eyes. He offered me his hand. I took it and he helped steady me as I pulled myself up into the cab of the truck. My rear hung off the edge of the seat for a few graceless moments. I hoped Cal was distracted by the mink. “Thank you,” I said, smoothing my hair as he slammed the door shut. Lovely first impression I was making.

The frame of the truck lowered a bit; I could see Cal in the bed securing my luggage for the ride.

“Ms. Maddox, we are
thrilled
to have you join us for the semester,” Ms. Ellsworth said. She'd edged her upper body into the space between the driver's and passenger's seats. “You have a lot of fans at Moravia, let me tell you.”

“Thank you, Ms. Ellsworth. I hope to be of some help.” I could just hear Richard snorting at my attempt at humility.

Ms. Ellsworth cleared her throat. “There has been one small change of plans.” She pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. Perhaps a pair that weighed less than a kilogram would help with the slippage problem. “It's regarding your housing situation.”

The dean of the college had worked out the details with Avi, but I'd been told I'd stay in a cozy two-bedroom bungalow within walking distance of campus. This had, in fact, been a point of solace to me during my last days in New York. I'd pictured myself curling up by a fire, retiring to a spacious and quiet home after a day's work, reading through the collected works of Jane Austen in my spare time.

“Is there a problem?” I asked, though the pit in my stomach was already clueing me in to her answer.

Ms. Ellsworth pursed her lips. “Well, yes, I'm afraid. The house we had in mind for you has been sold.”

“Sold?”

Cal opened the driver's side door and swung himself up to the seat. He shifted into drive, not looking at either of us nor speaking a word.

“I'm so sorry,” Ms. Ellsworth said. “It was some sort of an administrative mix-up. But don't worry.” She reached out to pat my arm. Her translucent skin showed every purple vein. “Our Plan B is even better.”