The year She Fell (3 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Somehow I made it through the session meeting that evening. It was typically contentious, but for once I didn’t worry that the union between Rushmore Presbyterian and Second would fall apart on my watch. Yes, the merger was three years old, but in
Virginia
, loyalties don’t fade so quickly. And rightly or wrongly, I was considered as a patsy of the Second faction. Every time I’d opened my mouth the last year, I’d hear from the Rushmoreans: “This isn’t the Catholic church, Ellen. You’re not a priest running the parish. Here, the congregation elects its leaders, and the leaders hire the minister.”

It was this faction who’d forced the last three ministers out.

I needed this job. It was a solid position for a relatively new seminary graduate, especially one without a Y chromosome. We couldn’t move to a new town, not with Tom teaching at the university, and our emotional and financial investment in the old house. And two years ago, when Tom had come back from
Tehran
, we’d promised Sarah that she could graduate from the local high school just like a normal kid. There was only one other Presbyterian congregation in town, one of those elite Big Steeple churches with a nationally known preacher at the pulpit. I wouldn’t be able to get on even as an assistant there, particularly if I were fired here.

But it wasn’t fear of unemployment that kept me silent and sullen in the corner of the Session Room as the Seconders insisted that the church replace the original arrangement of three columns of oak pews with two brand new columns of pews with a central aisle. Rather I kept going over and over in my head what I’d learned that day about my husband and my marriage and my life.

The boy would have been conceived sometime in the summer of 1990. Where was I then? Where was Tom? He had graduated from
Jefferson
in May. I had to stay on campus another couple weeks to finish up a course I’d missed because of student teaching. And we’d broken up, more or less, right around graduation. I remember going home heartbroken that June, unemployed too, sending out endless résumés in the hope that some kindergarten teacher somewhere had gotten sick or pregnant or rich over the vacation.

And then in August, Tom called me, and I let him talk, and before I knew it, we were married.

Suddenly I felt claustrophobic from being surrounded by all the trivial bickering about aisles and pews. “It’s past adjournment time,” I said, hoping the edge of panic didn’t show in my voice. I felt for my little notebook computer, finding it under my chair, and flipped it on. “When did you say is the next session meeting?”

I was typing the date when it came to me. I’ve always kept a calendar. In high school, it was just one of those little ones the Hallmark shop gave away, but then my older sister started giving me nice leatherette ones for Christmas each year. (Now, of course, I used an online calendar, but I still printed out each page and put it in a binder.) My calendar book was my life record. Sometimes I wrote down more than just my appointments. Sometimes I used the itemized lines to describe the day’s weather, record pretty phrases, emote a bit.

Those journal-like calendars would be in a box in my mother’s attic. I’d packed them away there (labeling the box “textbooks” in case Mother came across it) when Tom was first posted to
Brussels
and we were limited to shipping
600 pounds
of household goods.

As soon as the moderator dismissed us, I was out the door and into the parking lot, and in a moment was sitting in the sanctuary of my car, punching my mother’s number into the cell phone.

The housekeeper Merilee picked up the phone on the first ring. Her “Wakefields” was abrupt and angry. Mother must be keeping her late—“Merilee, this is Ellen.” I reminded myself to be courteous before making my demand. “How are you tonight?”

“I only answered because I thought it might be my ride. I don’t work here anymore. Your mother just fired me.”

This blunt declaration left me speechless. Merilee had been with our family for more than twenty years, almost since my father died. She ran the household, bought the groceries, cooked the meals. Without Merilee, well, I didn’t know what Mother would do.

Naturally, this had to come up just when I was getting pole axed by marital meltdown. I found my voice. “I’m sure she didn’t mean—let me talk to her and I’ll see if I can get her to see reason.”

“She accused me of stealing her jewelry.” Merilee’s voice was rich with contempt. “I’m not going to work for her after that, not if she begs me.”

“But—” I rubbed my forehead, trying to make some sense of this. I thought of Merilee, well into her fifties and now unemployed. “If you need a reference, of course I’ll write a letter for you.”

“Thanks,” she said curtly. “But everyone in town knows who I am, and what I am. Dr. Weaver will pay me twice as much as your mother does. He’s been trying to get me for years.”

“Merilee, you know she didn’t mean it. She must be confused or upset about something.”

“Sure. Or maybe it’s that young college boyfriend that’s confusing her, making her worry about where her treasures are going. But it’s your problem, not mine. Look, there’s my ride. Goodbye.”

And she hung up before I could ask what on earth she meant by a young college boyfriend.

It sounded so unlikely that I figured Merilee was making a joke about one of the elderly deans who sometimes lectured to Mother’s Philomathian Society. Or maybe she meant one of the students my father’s legacy funded, who were expected to express their gratitude with occasional yard work.

I hit redial. This time, after ten rings, my mother answered, her voice imperious as ever. “Yes?”

“Mother, this is Ellen. Look, I just called and talked to Merilee, and she told me—”

“That I’d fired her.”

“Mother, you know Merilee wouldn’t steal from you.”

“I don’t know that at all. In fact, I saw her at my jewelry box this morning, and when I looked this evening, my grandmother’s cameo was gone.”

I shook my head in confusion. “That cameo—it was buried with Cathy. Don’t you remember?”

There was the barest moment of a pause, and then my mother said, “Nonsense. It was the gold brooch we put on Cathy. It matched the blouse better.”

Her voice was so certain that I questioned my own memory. But I had too clear a vision of that cameo on my sister’s poor broken chest. She was buried with one item from each parent—my late father’s signet ring on her finger, and my mother’s cameo on her bodice. “It was the cameo.”

“It’s been almost twenty years, dear.” Now Mother sounded soothing. “You can’t be blamed for forgetting something so trivial.”

But it wasn’t trivial. I was about to protest once more, but Mother interrupted, “By the way, I have been thinking about my will. I should probably talk to you and Laura and Theresa about this before I call my attorney.”

“Your will?” Was Mother ill? Was that why she was reviewing her will? “What about it?”

“Oh, we should be together to discuss this, though I don’t know how that can come to be. After all, Laura is so . . .
 
busy with her career, and Theresa, well, I don’t know whether that cloister of hers allows her out for trivial things like a parent’s last will and testament.”

It was getting hot in the car. With my free hand, I turned on the ignition and flipped on the air conditioner. “I’m sure,” I said as carefully as possible, “that if you think it’s important, Theresa will find a way to come home. It’s not as if they can hold her if she wants to leave. But is there some reason this has become imperative?”

“No reason.” Not that Mother would say if she were ill. She was of that stiff-upper-lip generation who always responded
I’m just fine, thank you
. She added, “But the college is doing some expanding, and I’ve been talking to President Urich about perhaps helping out with a contribution. You know, if your Sarah goes there next year, it will be the 7
^th
generation of Wakefields at Loudon.”

Sarah could do better than a tiny old liberal arts college hanging off a mountain in
West Virginia
. The
University
of
Chicago
, maybe, or
St. Johns
—“She does have other schools on her list, Mother.”

“Yes, but she’s always loved visiting here and walking through the campus, and that she’s even considering it makes me remember again how important the college is to our family. And so I thought about a large contribution—well, it’s not something I want to do without talking to my daughters, of course. But I would like to make a decision while the fund-drive is going on.”

Grimly I recalled Merilee’s mention of a young college boyfriend. I could just imagine how attentive a fundraiser would be to a wealthy widow with a family tradition of supporting the college—and three daughters who seldom came home to visit. Especially if the wealthy widow might be fading a bit mentally—“Why don’t I call Laura and Theresa, and see if—”

A rap on my window distracted me.

It was Tom. He was standing beside my car, his hands jammed into the back pockets of his jeans. I said into the phone, “Mother, I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Once I’d stashed the phone in my purse, I rolled the window down six inches or so. “Yes?”

“Come on out. Let’s take a walk.”

I glanced around the church parking lot. Only Tom’s Jeep and my Volvo were left in the growing dusk. “Are you planning on telling me everything?”

His eyes narrowed. “There’s nothing left to tell.”

He expected me to be satisfied with that. It was my duty, for the good of the marriage.

Rebellion spurted through me. I was sick of duty. And I didn’t want to go on feeling responsible for a marriage I no longer recognized. “I’m going to a hotel. I’ll call you in the next couple days.” And then I raised the window, put the car into gear, and drove off and left him standing there.

For five miles, it felt good. I drove out of town, just so I wouldn’t have to stop and decide where I was going. A hotel. That would work. Anything would be better than going home and confronting Tom in his name-rank-and-serial-number-only mode.