The Buried Bride

Five-1

Five

I CRAWL OUT OF BED about 7 a.m. and get dressed for the 8 a.m. Mass. One of the first things I did upon returning to Myerton was to let the congregation know that I would be saying the early morning mass again during Lent. It has been surprisingly well-attended. In another change—one that’s harder—I stand in the back after Mass, greeting the people as they leave. Most of them stop, saying with smiles how glad they are to see me back, hope I’m feeling better, expressing sorrow for Sonya’s death, and even some admiration for my role in breaking up the human trafficking ring.

One person who I notice hangs back is Miriam Conway. She holds the hand of her oldest daughter and carries her youngest in a carrier on her back. She stands looking at me, her expression at once open and unreadable. I look in her direction and flash her a smile. She doesn’t return the smile, but instead quickly calls her twins and hustles them out the side door.

By the time I get back to the Rectory, Anna has my breakfast ready. I am surprised and thrilled to see she has made her incredible homemade angel biscuits, something that has not happened in months.

“Thank you so much,” I mumble between bites. “You know I love these.”

“I do know, and I am glad to make them,” she says as she works at the counter. “By the way, I really enjoyed the time with Helen last night, even if she was about to beat me.”

“I’m glad you did. I enjoyed it, too.”

“You know, Tom” she goes on, turning from the sink and clutching the dish towel, “you and Joan were only married for three years when she died. You never really got to settle into a normal married life. Drew and I were married for more than 15 years and I can tell you from experience, you spend a lot more time eating together and playing Monopoly than you do being physical in bed.”

She pauses as I look at her, my mouthful of biscuit frozen in mid-chew. Then she says, “It’s true that you and Helen can never have everything that a married couple has, but you can have a lot, and my prayer for both of you is that you find it to be enough.”

Finally swallowing, I say, “Me, too, Anna. And this morning, at this moment, I believe we will.”

“Now,” she says briskly, no doubt as anxious as I am to change the subject, “we need to talk about the matter of the DRE.”

I groan. Joyanna Martin had been the Director of Religious Education at Saint Clare’s for more than 30 years before I arrived. She had loved Father Anthony and they had gotten along well, keeping the parish program well-established in the practices laid down when she was a teenager in the 1970s. She is not a bad woman, but she was never very comfortable taking suggestions from me. For example, Joyanna rejected my suggestion that children could benefit more from learning some of the music sung in the Mass than they could “Michael Row the Boat Ashore,” a dated song completely devoid of any known theology.

Since we had never gotten along well to begin with, I began avoiding her assiduously during the months following Father Leonard’s death. I dodged her at Mass and refused to take or return her calls. Apparently, my defection to Bellamy in the past few weeks proved to be the final straw and she quit while I was gone.

“Look,” I say, “before we try to hire someone else, let me give Joyanna a call. Maybe if I apologize profusely, beg her to return, and agree to put that banner where Jesus looks like Ringo Starr back up, she’ll come back.”

“It's too late, Tom,” Anna says. “She has sold her house and taken a job as a manager for a home for the aged somewhere in Washington state.”

“Well, she ought to like that.”

“And anyway, Tom, you and I both know the parish is better off without her. These modern families want more than people did forty years ago, and they need more.”

“I know,” I sigh. “But I hate the idea of having to go through the hiring process.”

“I know,” she says with a smile, “and since I’ve been in a particularly charitable mood since your sister was killed, while you were gone I put out the word that we’re looking for someone. We’ve had several applicants, including one from outside the parish. You can go through the motions but she is the only one really worth interviewing.”

“Anna,” I say, toasting her with my coffee, “You’re an angel. Tell me all about her.”

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