removed the churchwomen?s necklace. I don?t deserve this, I reflected bitterly. Selfish to worry about what I didn?t deserve, but I didn?t care. Tears leaked out of my eyes as I groped around on my knees until I found the buttons. I have suffered enough already. Hey, God? Did you hear me? If you?re really there. After placing the buttons on my bureau, I reached for Tom?s pillow on the bed, then buried my face in it. I sobbed and gasped, then inhaled deeply. Even though he?d spent the last few nights at his cabin, the pillowcase had the wonderful smell of him.
In the shower the spray went to scalding as I rocked back and forth, back and forth. Eventually I wrapped myself in a thick terrycloth towel and sat on the bed, dizzy and exhausted. I rose and pulled on a sweatsuit. Again I caught a glimpse of my wan reflection. What to say to Arch? To Julian? I didn?t even know what I was going to say to myself.
In the kitchen the counters were empty except for a tray of marzipan-covered petit fours and chocolate truffles that had been meant to be take-home presents for our wedding guests. I asked Arch if anybody had called. He said no and went back to methodically pulling off the wrapping and then eating truffles one small bite at a time. I hugged myself and began to rock again. Arch stopped in midbite his eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
?What?s going on, Mom??
?Oh, Arch … I?m afraid I have some bad news.?
?Father Olson, I heard.?
?No. This is about Tom.? Arch was one of the people who had to know. I braced myself, then flatly recounted the bare outlines of the story: Tom finding the mortally injured priest and then apparently being hurt and forcefully taken.
As I spoke, My son?s freckled face went numb with shock. When I?d finished, he sat motionless for a longtime, then carefully, he put the half-eaten truffle back on the paper napkin embossed with Tom and Goldy, April 11. He pushed his glasses up his nose and clasped his hands under his armpits.
?Tom Schulz was kidnapped??
?They think so.?
?They?re going to find him, aren?t they??
There was no point in equivocating. I hope so, or The police are working on it would only lead to a tangle of unanswerable questions and a flood of worries. There was no reason to voice the unwanted fears that chilled my spirit the way winter winds howl down the mountains. I saw myself picking out a plain coffin for Tom Schulz. In a few short years, Arch would go off to college. I would live out my days alone.
?Yes,? I told my son firmly, with more conviction than I felt. ?They will find him.?
Arch started to sweep the kitchen floor, an order-restoring chore he often undertook when his outer life was in chaos. My stomach said I should eat, but one glance inside the walk-in refrigerator at the platters of beautifully decorated reception food made me turn away. Would whoever abducted Tom feed him? I paced around the kitchen, felt the gnawing in my stomach develop into spasms, willed the pains away. Arch finished the floor, took out his drawing materials, and sat at the kitchen table. He knew I would want him within sight.
My business line rang. The sudden noise made me cry out as if I?d been struck. I dived for it.
?What?? I shouted. If it was a client, I thought belatedly, I could kiss this booking good-bye.
?Goldy?? came the tentative, frightened voice of Zelda Preston. ?Are you all right? I mean, I know you aren?t all right … you can?t be after what?s happened … ?
Zelda Preston, motherin-law to scarecrow Agatha in the church kitchen, was a current Altar Guild member and, until very recently, the organist at St. Luke?s. Zelda and Lucille Boatwright had both been widowed about a decade ago. The two women were almost constantly in each other?s company now, except when Zelda met with the master swimmers and did her weekly three miles? worth of laps. With her attenuated face that always reminded me of a camel?s, her wiry muscles, and her long braid of gray hair wound on top of her head, Zelda Preston seemed the tall, rod-thin counterpart to Lucille?s stodgy, solid self.
I said, ?Are you calling about Lucille??
?Oh, my dear Goldy. No. I?m calling about you. I want to do something for you, poor dear … ? Her voice faltered.
Zelda carried a painful past, but we?d never had any sisterly soul-baring talks. An older female Episcopalian would rather die impoverished than discuss psychic wounds, a conversation she would put in the same category as comparing bra sizes. Nevertheless, Zelda?s attempt to offer sympathy touched me, and awakened guilt. I hadn?t called her this past month, when the many disagreements she and Father Olson had had about ecclesiastical music had ended up with his firing her. Still, what would I have said? You want to have lunch and talk about how getting fired is like getting divorced? I didn?t think so.
?Zelda. You are thoughtful to call. I don?t need anything, thanks.? I cleared my throat, keenly aware that I needed to keep both phone lines clear in case the police needed to reach me. I didn?t know which number they had. Since I had no call-waiting, I couldn?t risk giving the police a busy signal. But explaining all this, plus Tom?s disappearance, were more than I cold handle at the moment. ?I need to go.?
?Oh, all right. But Goldy,? she went on meekly, ?I am so terribly sorry to bother you about this, but I?m just trying to see what you want done with your wedding flowers. Lucille isn?t available, as you probably know, so I need to step in for her to help plan the Holy Week services and the funeral for Father Olson.? She paused. ?Have you heard anything? I mean, about what happened to him??
?Not yet.?
?Well … If you wish, we could try to use these flowers for Father Olson … I know it sounds petty, but someone must start to make the decisions, and Doug Ramsey is impossible… If you donated the flowers, it would certainly save the parish money, goodness knows. However, I do not know what our new priest will want. Not our new priest,? she corrected herself, ?whoever those people down at the diocese send to us.? Zelda?s voice dropped on the word diocese in a way that left no doubt as to her opinion of that ecclesiastical body.
?Tell you what,? I said placatingly, desperate to clear the phone line. ?Why don?t you donate them to the Catholic church? Their parish is bigger; they?re sure to have a wedding coming up soon.?
?The Catholics!? Having a wedding during Holy Week? For heaven?s sake, the least you could do is donate them to someone from our parish who is ill. Honestly, Goldy. The Catholics.?
?Fine, Zelda. Really. Who?s in the hospital at the moment/ Whatever will make you happy.? This whole conversation was absurd. But however much we might disagree or be upset, Episcopalians did not hang up on each other.
She trilled, ?Roger Bampton is home from the hospital although …? She broke off and announced, ?Victor Mancuso has shingles, but I don?t know which hospital he?s in, and of course it would be difficult to track down the church secretary, since she took her Easter vacation early.? She paused again. ?And its you I want to have happy, my dear.?
?Victor Mancuso?? I said, incredulous. VM. I demanded, ?Who?s Victor Mancuso??
?No one really, he?s the secretary?s uncle. She just put him on the prayer list before she left. Nobody else knows anything about him, I already asked.?
On the prayer list, on the prayer list. P.R.A.Y. I struggled to think: The prayer list contained names of all those for whom the parish offered intercessory requests. Or, as Arch maintained, it was the list of people and things we wanted God to fix. The charismatic segment of the congregation, those parishioners who put ultra- enthusiastic emphasis on spiritual gifts and a personal relationship with Jesus, offered intercessions on a much more regular and serious basis than most of the rest of us. There was also a small noncharismatic women?s prayer group that met weekly. Zelda, I remembered, was a member of this group. Maybe she could help decipher the acronyms in Tom?s note.
I asked sharply, ?is there an ecumenical or parish organization with the initials P.R.A.Y.? Maybe something like, Protestant-Roman Catholic Association of Youth??
Zelda drew in her breath, confused. ?Goldy? What in the world are you talking about? Are they the ones you want to donate the flowers to? Because I can?t be calling all around ? ?
?Zelda, is there such an organization? P.R.A.Y.? I?m sure I?ve heard of it somewhere.?
?Well, I?m sure I haven?t, and I?ve been in this parish for twenty years, ever since Father Pinckney ? ?
?Okay, thanks, Zelda. Please. Use the flowers in any way you wish. I?m sorry, I have to go.? We both stuttered good-byes and gently hung up.
Arch glanced at me, frowned, and left the room to look for some colored pencils. I stared at my catering
