Humanity Committee, standing proudly with the committee I was on with him, the diocesan Board of Theological Examiners. Had been on with him. Someone would have to call the diocesan office. A photograph over the desk made my ears ring: dark-bearded Olson, holding a tiny white-robed infant and bending over the baptismal font. Someone would have to arrange the funeral. The first rites to the last.
I tried to open one of the old windows, but it was painted shut. I turned away and willed myself not to think of Ted Olson dying. Dead. What ran through my head were images of him alive. Olson laughing and arguing at our Theological Examiners? meeting; Olson rolling his eyes as I shook out an enormous molded grapefruit salad for the Women?s Prayer Group; Olson preaching on his favorite topic ? renewal.
And then in my recollection his face was suddenly, vividly, up close, in one of our early premarital counseling sessions. I had never really known Ted Olson until we began that very personal journey into discussing Tom?s and my relationship. I recalled the skin at the sides of his eyes crinkling deeply when he laughed, his slender fingers absently stroking his dark beard when he listened. For the sessions, he had worn jeans topped with dark turtlenecks instead of his customary black clerical shirt and white collar. Sitting in his tweed-covered swivel chair, he had lifted one dark eyebrow and eyed me skeptically.
?And why exactly do you want to get married again??
?Second time?s the charm.?
A mischievous smile curled his mouth. ?Do you always hide behind the flip answer??
?It helps.?
Sometimes it helped. And now Olson was gone. I tried again to breathe deeply and told myself to stop thinking about him. But I couldn?t.
?Mom??
Arch stood uneasily between the secretary?s desk and a stack of contorted water pipes. He bit the inside of his cheek and tugged on the hem of the tux.
?Do you want me to leave? Marla said I should come over.? ?No, no, I?m glad you came.? I asked him to sit down so I could explain that Father Olson, who had been due to present Arch for confirmation this month, wasn?t going to show up. And why.
?Yeah, I heard,? he said haltingly when I?d told him the news. He raised his chin and pushed his glasses up his freckled nose. In Aspen Meadow, a mountain town that was more like a village than a suburb, Arch had had much experience of death. Here, the two of us knew a larger group of people than I ever had in the towns I?d lived in before moving to Colorado. For Arch, to experience townspeople killed in skiing and car accidents, n avalanches, by cancer or of heart attacks, was unfortunately commonplace.
He asked in a low voice, ?Do they know hot it happened yet??
?Tom will.?
Beneath his freckles, Arch?s face had turned translucently white. The skin under his eyes was dark as pitch. ?Where is Tom? Will he be here soon??
When I nodded, he said, ?Julian wants to know what you want to do with the food.?
?Oh, Lord. I don?t know.?
Arch waited for me to elaborate. Then he went on. ?Something else. Mrs. Boatwright, you know?? When I nodded, he said, ?Well, they?re waiting to take her when the Mountain Rescue Team gets here. But …? He stopped.
?What is it, Arch? Things couldn?t get much worse.?
?She was sitting out there in the hall, you know, after she passed out. Then she saw me and like, signaled me over. She told me in this loud whisper to ask you to donate the food to Aspen Meadow Outreach. ?Obviously your mother won?t be able to use it today,? ? Arch whispered in an uncannily throaty imitation, ? ? and I?ve seen this kind of thing before.? ?
?Seen a priest die before a wedding??
?No.? Arch drew his lips into a thoughtful pucker, then continued. ?Mrs. Boatwright said she?d seen a groom change his mind.? He singsonged, ? ?Sometimes they just can?t go through with it.? ? He?d always had a talent for imitation, but I?d never been devastated by the results before.
?What did you tell her??
?I said I?d have to ask you. About the food. I didn?t say anything about Tom. I mean, is that rude or what??
?Very. The nerve. Listen, Arch,? I said defiantly, ?Tom called here and asked for me, for heaven?s sake. He didn?t change his mind. Father Olson is dead. And Tome asked if I wanted to get married tonight, just not in the church.?
?Yeah, well, you?re not, are you?? my son asked. When I groaned, he added, ?So what should we do with the food platters??
I rubbed my temples. I was developing a blinding headache. ?I?ll figure something out when I get home. I can?t fret about it now. Would you please ask Julian to pack everything into the van??
?Okay, but there?s one more thing … ?
?Arch!?
?Mom! Sorry! Julian wants to know what he should do with your parents.?
?Give them to Aspen Meadow Outreach.?
?Mom! And I hate to tell you, but Grandma and Grandpa asked me if the groom had changed his mind, too.?
?Great.? I reflected for a moment. I couldn?t just abandon my parents at the church. They?d been reluctant to venture from the Jersey shore to the high altitude of the Rockies in the first place. They felt uncomfortable in my modest house, with my modest life. I mean, I?d married a doctor, which they?d deemed good, gotten a divorce, which they saw as unfortunate, and gone into food service, which they found lamentable. Now I was marrying a cop. My parents did not view this as a move in the right direction, and unspoken behind their cautionary words about hasty marriages was the sense that they hadn?t done very well on their investment in their only daughter. ?Invite them back to the house,? I told Arch. ?Their plane goes out late this afternoon anyway, wedding or no wedding. Tell them I?ll be along as soon as Tom gets here. Then we can make a few plans. And Arch ? thanks. I?m really sorry about all this.?
He hesitated. ?So there isn?t going to be a wedding, then.?
I gave him a brief hug. ?No, hon. Not today.?
?I?m really sorry, Mom.? He pulled away and concentrated his gaze on the bookshelves. ?You don?t? think Tom Schulz would just not show up, do you??
My ears started to ring. ?With the priest dead? No. It?s just, you know, with this ? ? I did not finish the thought. ?Don?t? worry,? I said finally. ?Tom and I are going to get married. Here at the church, too. Just not his very minute.?
When he raised his head, Arch?s young face was taut with disappointment. Wordlessly, he clomped out of the office door.
An oppressive silence again descended on the old building. I sat pleating the beige silk between my fingers. Within moments there was the sudden overhead scraping from the family of raccoons. When they were undisturbed by the presence of people, they noisily reclaimed their territory. Their scratching made my flesh crawl.
?Enough!? I shouted as I heaved my hymnal at the ceiling. It slammed against the rafters with a satisfying thwack.
That shut them up. I picked the hymnal off the floor and threw it against the wall. The shock reverberated through a bookshelf. A pile of theology books thudded to the floor; notes popped off a bulletin board; my streetclothes fell from the hook. I walked across the office, lowered myself into the tweed swivel chair, then quickly jumped out. The chair was Ted Olson?s.
Disconsolately, I threaded my way through the debris of torn pipes and broken drywall to the secretary?s office. Through the thick windows I saw the Mountain Rescue ambulance arrive and then swiftly depart, presumably with Lucille Boatwright. Guests streamed out of the church, heads bowed, as if it were the end of the Good Friday liturgy instead of an aborted wedding ceremony. So much for the silent prayer service.
Gripping bowls and then the cake, Julian Teller did his loyal-assistant routine and made several laborious trips out to my van. I yearned to help him. But I couldn?t bear the thought of clearing the parish kitchen of food that was supposed to be served after my own wedding. Finally Julian escorted my bewildered parents, with Arch, to the parking lot. The van revved and took off.
