Winter's Light

Chapter 1I sit in Trinity Park, facing the century-old gothic revival architecture of St. Thomas’s Episcopal Church across the street. A December wind brushes across my face. Leafless birch trees bend their gnarled limbs in front of the church, in the snow-blanketed garden—like parishioners in silent prayer. Pedestrians shuffle along the snowy landscape of the antique shops and mom-and-pop restaurants. In the church tower, the bells clang noon. My eyes start to close against the hypnotic knock of the bells. My mind drifts back to when I sold my house and moved in with Milestone County’s Sheriff Philip Erickson. Everything changed. I was no longer alone. I now slept beside a sexy snoring sheriff. And I have someone to talk to whenever I have a problem I can’t quite work out on my own. Lying in Philip’s arms feels like being in love for the very first time. The sound of ice and snow crunching beneath tires breaks my train of thought. Lurching forward, I yank on the collar of my heavy pea coat to protect my neck from the bitingly cold wind. Pedestrians pass me, shielding their faces with gloved hands against the icy afternoon. Bundled up against the harsh winter elements, they head purposefully towards their destinations. Remembering everything I have to prepare for the holidays, I am about to heave myself off the frozen metal bench when a white-haired woman, wrapped in ratty old clothes, hunkered against the bitter air, collapses on the bench next to me. She exhales, and her deep breath clouds in front of us like a thick fog. “Do you mind if I sit here, dear?” she asks, looking up at me, a worried expression on her weathered face. I smile. “Not at all.” “I didn’t mean to scare you, young fellow.” She folds her mitten-covered hands across her lap. “The music of the bells is lovely, isn’t it?” I nod and turn to the towering St. Thomas’s Episcopal Church. “They remind me of my late husband, Ollie,” the woman whispers. I turn and glance down at the bird-like woman. Her eyes are fixed on the bell tower as if frozen in time. “Forty-six years of happiness.” The way she shakes her head and waves her hands reminds me of my own mother. “When you’ve had the best,” she says, “who cares about the rest.” A slight hum of laughter from between her thin lips, but it comes out as a rattling wheeze. I stare at her, speechless. Who is this person? The woman looks over at me. “Are you married, dear?” A tiny smile raises the crinkled folds of skin around her mouth. I kick snow with the tip of my boot, tucking my hands into my pockets. Stalling for time, I pause, staring up at the stainless-steel sky. “No. I’m not married.” “It’s the best feeling in the world. Sharing a life with someone who loves you. Unconditionally.” She sighs and adds, “A glorious feeling, let me tell you.” She bats at the air as if a foul-smelling odor pervades the air. “These young kids today don’t know the meaning of love.” She turns to me. “You know what I’m sayin’, young man?” Again, perplexed. Out of courteously, I nod. She adds, “America’s youth would rather surrender themselves for a one-night quickie than devote to one partner for the rest of their lives.” She nudges me lightly in my right arm before I have time to respond. “Do you know why?” I throw up my hands, unsure what to say. “People are scared of commitment,” she continues. “That’s why there’s so much divorce in our culture today. People are unhappy with themselves, and they’d rather run away from their problems instead of trying to work them out.” She scoffs, and a few specks of spittle fly out of her mouth. “Not Ollie and me. Oh goodness, no. We couldn’t live without each other, even through the difficult times.” I look away nonchalantly, down at my lap, to the ground, then up to the leaden sky, over the tip of the church tower. But then the woman pulls me back into the conversation by slapping my leg gently. “My world revolved around my husband. If it weren’t for Ollie, I wouldn’t be here. And I still don’t know how to go on living without him.” She stares out across the busy street, where people are milling about in conversation or walking at a brisk pace around the corner. I turn to her. “You seem to be keeping good spirits through it all.” Then she looks over at me. Her jaw starts to quiver. I shift positions so I am giving her my full attention—my left knee brushes her leg and I wrap an arm behind her on the bench as if I am going to hug her. Even under the thick fabric of her worn thermal pants, I notice how skinny she is. “How long has he been gone?” I ask and wonder if I should intrude on this stranger’s personal life. She is quiet as a mouse, and before she answers, she glances up at the bell tower one last time. Taking a detour in the conversation, she says, “I miss going to church with my husband. Ollie was a religious man. He loved the church.” She reaches into her side pocket and pulls out a grimy rag to wipe her nose. She cries lightly into her balled-up cloth. She shakes her head. I observe the thin smudges of dirt on the side of her face. She tucks the cloth back into her pocket and leans her head closer to me, as though she is going to tell a private joke, or fall asleep on my shoulder. But she says instead, “Ollie and I never missed Sunday Mass in all of the fifteen years we went to church.” Something in the way she says her late husband’s name—Ollie—touches me to the bone. The chilly afternoon wind prickles the nape of my neck. It is as if she is waiting for her husband to come out the church’s front doors and join us on the bench. “Do you go to church—?” She looks at me, resting her hand on my arm, to finish the question. I smile. “My name is Christian.” “Nice name. I’m Rose, by the way. Sorry for the long rant.” “Not at all. And yes, we…go to church.” “We?” Her eyes pop open wide, surprised. Seconds feel like minutes as a silence engulfs us. We sit in companionable silence. I say, “My partner and I.” She has an inquisitive sparkle in her voice. “Partner sounds permanent.” I leave it at that, shift, and look out at the parade of passersby in front of us. But Rose says, “Don’t give up on each other.” I smile at the words of wisdom pouring out of Mother Teresa sitting hunched over beside me. “Love and faith are the key to a lasting relationship,” she says, as if musing on her own inner thoughts. “Trust me.” Phillip’s handsome face dashes into my thoughts, and I say to Rose, “I believe you’re right.” “Good. My work here is done.” At that, she pulls herself off the bench, using my arm for support. Her yardstick figure startles me. But when she turns and notices me staring, I look away, my gaze darting to the ground. Then up at the crowded street. Rose reaches her hand out to me, placing it on my shoulder. Her steely grey eyes stare into mine. “You’re a lucky young man.” You don’t know the half of it, I want to tell her. But she turns slowly on the icy ground and I want to reach out and lend a hand. She is gone as quickly as she arrived, weaving through a crowd of people and passing vehicles. I reach down for the paper bag on the bench. It crinkles in my hands as I start off towards the sheriff’s office two blocks away. But before I reach the barbershop on the corner, a curious feeling like a tap on the shoulder forces me to turn around and glimpse Rose one last time. I am bowled over at what I see: Rose is at the far end of the park, ambling closer to the wrought-iron fence separating the church from the sidewalk. She is pushing a shopping cart filled to the rim with plastic soda bottles and a heap of unwashed clothes. My heart collapses in my chest. I lean against the corner lamppost for balance. Pausing in the busy street, I feel alone and wonder if that is how Rose feels too.