All Mortal Flesh

officers eyeing her as she left the station parking lot, she had-sneaked was such an ugly word; she preferred entered with stealth-at any rate, she made it into the church without being seen. A quick reconnoiter outside the hall confirmed that neither Lois nor Elizabeth de Groot was around. Clare dashed into her office and grabbed her appointment book and while-you-were-out memos. From the sacristy, she took her traveling kit: a plain leather box containing wafers, wine, clean linen, and the silver pieces used in celebrating the Eucharist. God-in-a-box, as she sometimes thought of it.

Suitably prepped, she set out to lose herself in the halls of the Washington County Hospital and the Infirmary. Father Lawrence had covered her duties as celebrant during the time she was off, but the hospital and old-age- home visits were a week overdue. In her car, she put in a quick call to the secretary, which she knew would be answered by the parish office’s machine. “Lois, it’s Clare. I’m going to be out for the afternoon”-she kept it vague, in case de Groot got the idea to tag along after her-“but you can reach me on my cell if it’s an emergency. Please apologize to Deacon de Groot, and you can ask her to… to… help collate this month’s newsletter.” Then she felt guilty and added, “Show her the January and February schedules and see if she can sit in on some of the committee meetings. We want everyone to get the chance to know her.”

Over the next few hours, visiting the sick and elderly in her care, she managed to forget, from time to time, the bishop’s judgment hanging over her, her new watchdog-deacon, and her unease about being seen in Russ’s company today of all days. It was impossible to think of herself when confronted with others’ overwhelming needs. Gillian Gordounston, who had just moved from Albany to Millers Kill with her husband because she thought it would be a good place to raise children, only to wind up on bed rest with triplets, not knowing a soul except her doctor and the rector of the church they had attended exactly two times. Twelve-year-old Joseph van Eyk, whose kidneys had failed last year, hospitalized the third time for a post-transplant infection. Liz Garrettson’s elderly mother, who went in and out of the emergency room while her daughter and son-in-law remained locked in battle over whether she should be moved to their house or institutionalized. Today she was weepy and confused, convinced that men were breaking into her home to kill her cats. Mrs. Oliver, her wit still Dorothy Parker-sharp at ninety, trapped in a body that could no longer stand or walk or even lift a cup to her lips without aid. Oh, yes. Always, in serving, Clare could forget herself.

But she could not forget Russ’s pain, his poor murdered wife, or the guilt-equal parts sin and complicity-that clung to her like a wet dress. In the quiet moments, walking down institutional hallways where her own footsteps seemed to dog her, she prayed, comforting rote prayers she had always known by heart. Ave Maria and St. John Chrysostom’s. The Magnificat and the prayer of St. Jerome. Lord, thou hast sought me out and known me.

Returning to the rectory at the end of the day, she drove through a darkness punctuated by still-shining Christmas lights and glowing windows framing families gathering around the dinner table. The pretty displays made her heart ache. They were like visions of a lost paradise to all the souls for whom there was no home, no welcoming arms, no happy endings. She was in a thoroughly melancholy mood when she pulled into the miniature parking space behind the church and saw that all the lights were still on.

She checked her watch. Six thirty. The Tuesday night AA meeting that took place in the parish hall didn’t begin until seven thirty, and they never set up before seven. She got out of her Subaru, dread on one shoulder and curiosity on the other, and let herself in the kitchen door. She threaded her way through the shadowy undercroft and climbed the stairs. She heard a buzz of conversation from down the hall. She replaced her traveling kit in the sacristy and started toward the noise, which seemed to originate from the meeting room.

“There you are.”

She whirled around. Geoffrey Burns, the junior warden, stalked down the hall toward her, a tall cardboard coffee cup in one hand. “We’ve been waiting for you to get back.”

“We?”

He shrugged toward the chapter room, where committee meetings were held. “Terry McKellan called me. Told me about the situation. I suggested we get your input before we decide how to respond.”

“Respond?” She knew she sounded like a feeble-minded parrot, but she couldn’t get her head around which situation Geoff or Terry thought they needed to respond to.

“Linda Van Alstyne’s death. Look, come on inside and sit down. You look like crap warmed over.” Burns, a short, darkly intense man, wasn’t exactly known for his charm, but Clare allowed him to usher her into the chapter room. Normally, the graceful space with its oak paneling and leaded windows soothed her. Normally, she didn’t walk in there to be ambushed by Terry McKellan sitting at the large mahogany table with Mrs. Henry Marshall and Elizabeth de Groot. The new deacon looked at her reproachfully, as if she were a dog Clare had left alone too long.

“Elizabeth.” Clare tried to keep her lack of enthusiasm from showing in her voice. “I didn’t expect to see you this late. You must have a long ride home.”

“I do,” Elizabeth said, a touch of gentle censure in her tone. “But I hoped we’d have the chance to finish our talk. I was waiting in the church when Mrs. Marshall let herself in.”

“Clare, you didn’t tell us the bishop was sending us a deacon.” Mrs. Marshall shook her head.

“I only just found out yesterday.” She glanced from the elderly lady in toucan-pink lipstick and matching sweater to Terry McKellan, whose glossy brown mustache and habitual brown tweed jacket made him look like an overweight seal. “I wish you had called me if you were planning a meeting.”

“I spoke with Lacey earlier today, but she decided to come over on her own,” Terry said, rising from his seat as Clare sat down. “Glad we got here in time to meet Ms. de Groot, though.” “Please. Elizabeth.”

Clare had the sensation of being a character in a bad Pirandello play. “What’s going on?”

There was a sudden silence. The three vestry members looked at their new deacon. She met their gazes, smiling, until the penny dropped. “Ah,” de Groot said. “Clare, I’ll wait for you in your office.” She rose smoothly from her chair and glided through the chapter room door.

“Nice woman,” Terry McKellan said. “Seems very sensible.” Although she was almost certain he didn’t mean it as a jab, Clare found herself flushing.

“I’ll ask again. What’s with the surprise inspection?”

Geoff Burns plopped into the chair next to her. “Don’t get your back up, Clare. All of us have heard the stories flying around town today about Linda Van Alstyne’s death. Most of ’em revolve around why her husband shot her. And most of ’em cite you as a proximate cause.”

“Me?” Then the rest of his statement caught up with her. “Russ? Killing his wife? That’s…” Words failed the wrongness of the idea. “Ludicrous,” she settled. Mrs. Marshall bobbed her head in agreement. Geoff Burns shrugged. “Geoff, he couldn’t have done it. He wouldn’t have. Not ever. Not for any reason.”

“Clare, I do a lot of criminal work these days. My clients have one thing in common. They’re all innocent.” He sounded as if he were drinking cynicism instead of coffee.

Clare shoved against the table. “You better have a situation besides ignorant gossip, or I’m out of here.”

“Please, dear.” Mrs. Marshall rested one hand on Clare’s arm. “I know this is hard for you. It doesn’t seem like it, but we’re here to help.” Her face, every edge softened by seventy-seven winters, radiated concern.

“None of us like the gossip any more than you do,” Terry McKellan said. “But it’s already loose in the town. The issue is, what can we do to stop it and minimize the damage to your reputation.”

“And to the church’s.” Clare didn’t know why the words were bitter on her teeth. Since the November day two years ago when she had first passed through the great double doors of St. Alban’s as its first female pastor, she had known that she was the public face of the church. Had known that she would always be under scrutiny, by those seeking a pattern for Christianity and by those wondering when she would screw up. She had tried to live up to her office. She had tried for two years of loneliness and isolation, with no one knowing who she really was except God and Russ Van Alstyne.

“I was thinking.” Terry McKellan stroked his mustache. “There’s that fellow you’ve been seeing down in New York.”

“Hugh Parteger?”

“How serious are you two?”

Clare spread her hands. “We enjoy each other’s company. I’ve been down to the city to visit him a few times,