Out Of The Deep I Cry

shipped kids off to the country to escape it. But I thought, I’ll look into it. See if there’s anything to what she says.”

“And?” Clare said.

“It’s all hooey. No reputable scientific study has ever shown a relationship between vaccinations and autism. I told her we couldn’t support her. There are too darn many real scary things out there for us to be wasting our time on imaginary monsters.” She crossed her arms over her low-slung bosom and burrowed her hands up under her sweatshirt sleeves. “Everybody wants something or someone to blame when bad things happen. You have to learn how to figure out if there was a fault or not, that’s what I think. Otherwise, it’ll drive you crazy. Nobody can live with thinking that right out there, just out of reach, is the person who hurt you. It’ll drive you crazy.”

Chapter 25

NOW

Sunday, March 26, the Third Sunday in Lent

And in the prayers of the people, we continue to pray for the recovery of Lauraine Johnson after her recent surgery; for Roger Andernach, who has been admitted to a nursing home; for David Reid and Beth Reid, on bed rest with twins; for Renee Rouse and for Dr. Allan Rouse, still missing; for Russ Van Alstyne, recovering from a broken leg. Please add your own prayers and petitions.” Nathan Andernach, St. Alban’s deacon, paused. There were some semiaudible mumblings from the congregation. Names. The suggestion of a petition. Someone said firmly, “For all the men and women serving in our country’s armed forces.”

Clare smiled to herself, but her mind was on Allan Rouse. He had been missing for nine days now. There had been an initial flurry of articles in the Post-Star, short because of the lack of information, and getting shorter each succeeding day until they had disappeared. The consensus at Thursday’s Stewardship Committee meeting was that he had, as Dr. Anne baldly stated, “snuffed it.” “It just builds on you over the years,” she had told the rest of the committee members, who had left the capital campaign prospectuses unread on the table in favor of dissecting the town’s most newsworthy event. “Especially solo practitioners. There’s no one to confer with, no one to help you. Every bad decision, every shortcut you’ve taken, every patient you sent away, wondering if you’ve done any good-it can just drag you under sometimes. Some doctors get hooked on their own prescription pads. Some of ’em retire to fish in Florida. And some of ’em…” She had drawn a finger across her throat.

“Lord, let your loving kindness be upon them,” Nathan said.

“Who put their trust in you,” the congregation answered.

“We pray to you also for the forgiveness of our sins,” Nathan said. He bowed his head and stepped away from the lectern.

Clare flew back into the present moment, her hands resting on the smooth white linen of the altar cloth, the sound-rumbling, creaking, sighing-as a hundred people got to their knees. “Have mercy on us, most merciful Father,” they began. The corporate confession of sin went on, smooth and untroubled, not like the halting sentences and tearful interruptions she heard in the privacy of her office, when people wrestled one at a time with failings, with ugliness and nasty truths inside them.

There was an “Amen,” and the church fell silent. Heads bowed or faces covered with a splayed hand or tilted up, eyes closed. Waiting for her to forgive their sins. She reached for the cord of compassion inside her, plucked it, let it resonate until she felt herself a small reflection of the Great Compassion. “May our God who always tempers justice with mercy pour out forgiveness over you,” she said, “washing clean all your sins, strengthening you to do all good things, bringing you day by day and hour by hour into eternal life.” She held back the long, loose sleeve of her alb so that it couldn’t knock over the elements on the altar before her, and sketched a huge cross in the air. “In the name of the Creator, the Redeemer, and the Sustainer, amen.”

“Amen,” they replied. The sound of a hundred people getting to their feet before the Peace and the announcements-parents hissing, bulletins flapping open, hymnals thumping to the floor-was louder than any other part of the service.

“The peace of the Lord be always with you,” Clare said cheerfully, but as she turned to embrace Nathan her eyes fell on Mrs. Marshall, collected and composed in her usual place, and Clare’s mind flashed to what she had found out about Jonathon Ketchem. And suddenly she didn’t feel so peaceful.

After the service, after the coffee hour, after speaking with a hundred people, making appointments, promising phone calls, asking after ailments, sharing news from the committee meetings, commiserating about troubles and laughing at jokes, after all that, Clare liked to take a turn around the church alone.

She didn’t have to. All that needed to be done after everyone had finally left was to lock and bolt the great outer doors. Up the main aisle, down the aisle, three minutes, tops. The rest of the locking up-the parish hall and kitchen doors, setting the alarm-all of that happened outside the sanctuary. She always flew through those steps, eager to get out of the place by then, to get back home and change out of her cassock into jeans and a sweater, ready for the rest of Sunday afternoon. She frequently had an invitation to one of her parishioners’ houses, or she would go running, or curl up with the Sunday paper and then try out a new recipe for dinner. She looked forward to her afternoon away from the church. But before she left, she visited her sanctuary. Alone.

She locked the doors and closed the inner narthex doors behind her. The church was darkened. The sun was bright outside, but the light shafting through the stained-glass windows was filtered, softened, different from workaday light meant to illuminate. This light was meant to teach, and as she walked toward Jane Ketchem’s window, she was ready to learn.

Mr. Hadley had been mopping down this area regularly, but the slowly warming temperatures continued to send water streaming and dribbling around the casement and splattering against the glass. The shield-bearing angels appeared to be wading through water toward her, presenting to her their message of cool comfort. For he doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men.

She had always registered the figures climbing into the radiant light as a group of children, but now she saw they were two girls and two boys. Peter. Lucy. Jack. Mary. Mrs. Marshall had said her mother never spoke of them. Clare wondered if, as a girl, their surviving sister had ever gone to their graves. With her grandmother, perhaps. Their short lives and long deaths had cast a shadow over so many people. If they had lived, Mrs. Marshall might now have children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren filling up her life, instead of an empty, outdated house and vestry meetings. There would be no Jonathon Ketchem Clinic, because his memorial would be a stone in the town cemetery, next to his wife’s. Allan Rouse would have found some other way to pay for medical school, and settled far from Millers Kill. Clare would be looking at a far different window. She glanced up to where the roofers were disassembling the ceiling to expose the rotten beams. And she would be going from door to door with her begging bowl, looking for enough money to cover the bare minimum of the repair.

All that because four children weren’t inoculated with the diphtheria vaccine. No wonder Dr. Rouse had taken Debba Clow out there. The thought of Debba turned her away from the window. Whatever Allan Rouse had told her that night, it hadn’t persuaded her to go ahead and have her little girl vaccinated. If, as everyone assumed, Dr. Rouse had committed suicide, Debba would be off the hook as far as police suspicions of her involvement went. But she would still be facing a custody battle with her ex and, more significantly, an ongoing struggle with her children’s father about what was best for them. Clare couldn’t do anything to budge Debba off Russ Van Alstyne’s very short list of suspects in Rouse’s disappearance, but she could give the artist the support she needed to help make decent decisions about the future. And the first step, Clare decided, would be to find out more about the past.

Hi, Mrs. Marshall,” Clare said as the older woman opened her front door. Mrs. Marshall rearranged her look of obvious surprise into a more polite welcoming smile. “Can I come in for a sec?” Clare stepped into the foyer. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first, this idea popped into my head and I-oh! Hello, Mr. Madsen.” Norm Madsen smiled from the door to the dining room. We don’t invite ourselves over to other people’s houses, young lady, her grandmother Fergusson said. “Oh.” Clare could feel her cheeks pinking. “I’m afraid I’m