I Shall Not Want

Clare looked at her hearth, the best thing about her mid-nineteenth-century office. On cold winter days, she could warm herself in front of its brick and iron surround. Now it lay dark and ashy. There was a metaphor there for her life, but she was too flat to pursue it. 'I don't think so, Mr. Hadley. I'm leaving for an ecumenical lunch in Saratoga soon.'

' 'Kay. I'll stock your wood up some, though. S'posed to be colder'n a Norwegian well digger's you-know-what the rest of this week.' He withdrew, leaving the scent of lemon and tobacco to mark his passing. She heard him addressing someone in the hall-' 'Lo, Father'-and was therefore unsurprised when her lunch date appeared in her doorway a half hour early, tall and gaunt and hunched forward like a fastidious vulture.

'Father Aberforth.' She got up from her desk to greet the elderly deacon, best known as the bishop's hatchet man.

'Ms. Fergusson.' He surprised her by trapping her hand within his much larger ones. He studied her with his penetrating black eyes. 'How are you?' he asked. It was not a pleasantry.

'I'm sorry. Were we doing a session today?' The diocesan deacon had fallen into the role of her counselor and confessor. It was not a comfortable relationship. Their talks were like scalding showers: cleansing but painful.

'Sarcasm ill becomes you. How are you?'

She let her eyes slide away to the vine-and-fruit pattern of her carpet. 'Okay. Good enough.'

He let her tug her hand free. 'Good enough, hmm?' He lowered his towering frame into one of the two admiral's chairs fronting the empty fireplace. 'I suppose it's always a relief to know one isn't about to be dragged off and tried for manslaughter.' Willard Aberforth was nothing if not blunt.

She turned to her desk. The letter from the District Attorney for the state of New York, Washington County, was still there, half covered by the sermon draft.

Upon hearing evidence in the matter of the death of Aaron MacEntyre, the grand jury has declined to indict. Therefore, in accordance with the Medical Examiner's testimony, the state of New York rules your participation in the events leading to said death is consistent with self-defense as defined in N.Y.S.C Sec. II, p. 1- 12.

'Oh, yeah,' she said. 'I dodged the bullet on that one.' She could hear the bitterness in her voice.

'You were justified, girl. I know it and the bishop knows it and the state of New York in its magisterial wisdom knows it. Let it go. You saved three lives. Perhaps more.' He paused. 'Have you heard anything from this police chief of yours?'

'No.' Her tone would have warned off a lesser man, but the deacon, a survivor of the Battle of Cho-San Reservoir, wasn't deterred.

'He is newly widowed,' he said reasonably.

'Yes.'

'Grief takes time.'

'Yes.'

'Perhaps you might approach him in a month or two.'

She folded her hands over her chair back and watched her knuckles whiten. 'He isn't going to want me to approach him in a month or two-or four. I'm the reason his wife is dead.'

There was another pause. 'Would you do me the courtesy of turning around so I can talk to your face instead of your scapulae?'

She turned around.

Aberforth was looking at her through half-closed eyes. 'Do you believe that?'

'Yes.'

He shook his head, sending his bloodhoundlike jowls swaying. 'Good God, girl, your pride is truly monumental.'

'My pride?'

'Your pride. Did you or did you not make a full confession and repentance to the bishop?' He folded his black-coated arms.

'You know I did.'

'Did he, in the name of our Lord, absolve your sins?'

She knew where this was going, and she didn't like it. 'He did.'

'Then who are you to presume that your errors, your mistakes of judgment, your faults are so grievous that they stymie God Himself? Do you think your ability to sin rises above God's ability to forgive?'

She blinked hard. She shook her head. 'I can't-'

'You cling to your faults like a woman clinging to a lover.' He leaned forward. 'A lover who has betrayed her.'

She shook her head again.

'Are you angry with your police chief?'

She set her jaw. 'Of course not. He's the one who's suffering.'

'I seem to recall that he entertained the possibility that you may have been responsible for a murder.'

'For an hour! God, why do I tell you this stuff?'

'Who else can you tell?'

Russ. But that time was gone. Now there was no one else.

'He chose his marriage over you,' Aberforth went on.

'I chose his marriage over me, too.'

'But as soon as he was in crisis, he was back at your door, asking for your help. Then, in his moment of deepest need, he turned his back on you.'

'His wife had just died!'

'And since then he has steadfastly ignored your existence. Yet you harbor no anger toward him. None whatsoever.'

She turned back to her desk. Gripped the back of her chair again to stop the shaking. Breathed in. Breathed out. Waited until she knew her voice wouldn't crack. 'You're right. I need to let go of… my sense of complicity in her death. I'll focus on that.'

'Oh, my dear Ms. Fergusson.'

She turned around at that.

'You are a very good priest in many ways. And someday, if your self-awareness approaches half your awareness of others, you might be an extraordinary priest.' He folded his hands. 'I do not think that day will be today, however.'

III

Clare was profoundly grateful the ecumenical luncheon was arranged mixer-style. After the strained ride from Millers Kill-not eased by the fact Father Aberforth insisted on driving his Isuzu Scout a conservative ten miles below the speed limit all the way to Saratoga-she didn't want to deal with any more togetherness with her spiritual advisor for a while. The deacon was seated at the other end of the Holiday Inn's Burgoyne Room, while Clare was ensconced at a table with a nun, a Lutheran pastor, a UCC minister, and an American Baptist preacher-all of whom were a good twenty-five to thirty years older than she was. The only other person attending who was close to her age was Father St. Laurent, a devastatingly good-looking Roman Catholic priest who made the RC's vows of celibacy seem like a crime against the human gene pool. He had glanced at Clare with a sympathetic smile from the middle of his own collection of fossils. Experienced clerics, she corrected herself.