Arrayed in the long glass counter on which his cash register sat were the knives he carried. Near the door stood a three-by-three-foot polished maple board that rested on a tripod. Will had affixed shelves to the board, on which he displayed a selection of some of the components he used in his work: barrels, actions, frames, slides, stocks, grips. The shop front wasn’t an area that he’d created to feel particularly warm and welcoming. It had a Spartan, utilitarian sensibility.
She went through the open door behind the counter and into the back of the shop, where Will stood at one of his workbenches. He had several rifles laid out before him. When Lucinda came in, he left the bench and met her near the door.
“Thanks.”
He took the Tupperware container she handed him, but didn’t open it. She never ate lunch with him, only brought his food. In the afternoon or evening when he came home, he would hand her the empty Tupperware to wash. Music came softly from a CD player on a shelf, Neil Young’s Harvest, one of his favorites. When he was young and courting her, he had played the guitar. They would take a picnic lunch to one of the beaches and he would sing to her and strum. He hadn’t touched a guitar in years.
“It’s quiet,” she said. Often when she came, he was dealing with a customer.
“I didn’t want to see anyone today,” he said.
“Misty didn’t cry at all this morning.”
“That’s good, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“You want her to cry, Luci?”
“I thought she would miss her mother.”
“You feed her, change her, hold her. What would Rayette do that you don’t?”
“I’m not her mother, Will.”
“You are now.”
“If I was Rayette, I wouldn’t want her to forget me.”
“She’s only six months old, Luci. She doesn’t understand about mothers. She understands wet and dry, hungry and full.”
“There’s more to a mother than that, Will.”
“Whatever it is, it’s coming from you now.”
She looked behind him at the table where he’d just been working and where three rifles lay. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“A Winchester Stealth, a Weatherby TRR, a Dragunov. These are very powerful rifles, Will. Sniper rifles.”
“What do you know about rifles?”
“When you talk to me, do you think I don’t listen? What are you doing with these rifles?”
“I have a buyer.”
There were many things her husband was, but a good liar he was not.
“Six months ago,” she said, “you sold a very expensive Robar Elite shotgun to Buck Reinhardt.”
“So?”
“I know you think he killed Alejandro and Rayette. You told me as much last night.”
“Go home, Luci. Take the baby and go home.”
“Alejandro and Rayette are dead. Nothing we do can bring them back.”
“Go home.”
“We have to think of Misty now, Will. I will try to be her mother, but you must be her father. You have to be there for her, Will. You have to be there for us.”
“Go home.”
This time it was an order, and she understood that he was finished with listening. Whatever she said now, he would not hear.
She turned and started away.
“Luci.”
She glanced back.
“Thank you for bringing me lunch.”
There was so much more she wanted to do, for Will, for Uly, for Misty, for them all, but she felt powerless.
She caught Father Ted as he was crossing the yard between St. Agnes and the rectory. He wasn’t a priest who wore a cassock or a clerical shirt or a collar on an everyday basis. He’d visited the day before to express his sympathy and offer his help, and he’d looked priestly then, but today he was wearing a blue denim long-sleeved shirt and jeans.
“Father Ted,” Lucinda called out to him.
He turned and smiled. “Lucinda.” Misty was asleep in the stroller and Lucinda took her time reaching the priest. When he looked at her closely, he seemed gravely concerned. “Is everything all right?”
“May I talk to you?” she said.
“Of course. Shall we go into my office?”
“Thank you.”
They went together into the wing that housed the church offices and the education classrooms. The priest unlocked the door. The building was empty. She liked the quiet, the emptiness that was not really emptiness, she knew, because the church and every part of it was filled with the Holy Spirit. The young priest stopped at the front desk and picked up some mail.
“How is the baby?”
“She is doing well, Father. But…”
“But what?”
“It’s almost as if she doesn’t even miss her mother.”
“In a way, that strikes me as a blessing.”
“For her, yes. But I think of poor Rayette. Her little girl will never know her, probably never even think of her as her mother.”
“You can help her with that. You can make sure she knows who her mother was and that Rayette loved her deeply.”
“I will try, Father.”
“Is that all?”
“No.” Lucinda thought for a moment, not certain how to approach her real concern. “Father, what is the duty of a wife toward her husband?”
The priest put down the mail and lines appeared on his brow as he considered. “I would say it’s to love him, to respect him, to support him, to create and raise a family with him, to help as he strives in his service to God and the Church. If we look at scripture, Ephesians tells us that a wife should respect and obey her husband.”
“What if a wife is afraid of something?”
“Afraid of her husband?”
“No, no. Afraid for him.”
“Then I think she does all that she can to help him.”
“What if he doesn’t want her help?”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I’m sorry, Father, I can’t.”
“Well then, this is what I think. But, Lucinda, it’s only what I think, not necessarily advice. I think sometimes people don’t really know what they want, but I’ve never seen a situation where giving a loving hand was a mistake.” The lines on his young brow deepened and he leaned toward her confidentially. “Is there something you want to tell me, something I might be able to help with?”
“No, Father. It’s all right. Thank you.” Misty was awake and had begun to fuss in her stroller. Hungry, Lucinda thought. “I should get home.”
“All right, then. I’ll see you on Wednesday for the service and burial.”
