Part 8 (2/2)

I stood up and went over to the office door that opened to the sanctuary, but there was William, carefully placing paper airplanes in the large Bible on Robert's pulpit. I turned and looked back at Robert in alarm. ”Is Jackson here today?” Jackson was the church janitor.

”No. He only comes on Fridays.”

Could someone have been listening to us? And why?

During church on Sunday morning, I looked around at the faces, many of which were becoming familiar to me. Elder Ray MacNeil stood to read Scripture from the pulpit Bible. He opened up the Bible, took a deep breath to begin reading the text, but then abruptly stopped himself. One by one, he pulled out paper airplanes William had hidden.

He gathered the airplanes, turned to Robert, and said, ”Reverend, I believe these belong to you.” The congregation erupted in laughter; I looked over at William as he looked at me with wide eyes. Neither of us dared to steal a glance at Robert's aunt, who was, no doubt, glaring down at us from the choir loft.

Robert's sermons saw a definite upturn after he let me edit them. Every single week, we would argue agreeably about my comments, he would sigh in exasperation, but many of my suggestions would be woven into his sermon by Sunday morning.

The pews were a little less empty. I overheard two ladies at Ibsen's store one day when I was picking up a few things for Miss Gordon. ”So I'm going to try that Presbyterian Church next Sunday. Have you noticed the t.i.tles out on the marquee in front of the church? This next week's is: 'What Are You Going to Do?' And last week's was 'Are You Sure?' About what? That's what I want to know.”

The other lady leaned over and whispered loudly, ”you know all about that preacher, don't you? You don't? Sure you do. Remember what happened to his pretty wife? Such a shame. You don't know? Well, you won't hear it from me. That Martha Gordon made it clear to everyone in town she would personally draw and quarter anyone who uttered a word about the preacher's pretty wife. She would, too. But you've seen his little boy, haven't you? That little blond boy one who doesn't talk? Such a shame.”

What about his pretty wife? I wanted to interrupt to ask but didn't. What could have been such a shame? I was dying with curiosity to know more about this mysterious woman, but out of respect for Robert, I knew I shouldn't ask.

I had lived in the Gordon household for six months; I had learned quite a bit about Robert. I knew he loved his coffee, and I had learned, by experience, he didn't like to talk in the morning until he had his first cup. He stayed up late at night to read and study. He would drop anything to help someone. It seemed as if at least once a week, most often late on Sat.u.r.day nights despite the demands of a busy Sunday morning church service, there would come a persistent rapping on the door, and Robert would dutifully head out to solve the visitor's problem, without question or complaint. A few nights ago, he was asked to stop a fight between two miners who were drunk and threatening to kill each other.

People tended to view a minister as someone who belonged to them, day or night. A parsonage wasn't respected as a home but considered a twenty-four-hour- a-day office. It often occurred to me, were it not for his aunt's cold countenance, many more than drunken miners would be knocking on the parsonage door in the wee hours.

But there was much about Robert that I didn't know nor did he make easy. He was a man typical of his generation: He guarded his emotions and kept his opinions to himself, veiled by a gentleman's exterior. It took patience and persistence to try and have him be more forthcoming about personal details. Usually, I had to have a reason to find out more information.

It was only when we celebrated his birthday one evening that I learned he was thirty-four years old. His age surprised me; he seemed older. Another time, after I had wandered through the church cemetery searching without success for his wife's grave, I noticed his parents' deaths were separated by only a few days. When I asked him about them, he told me his parents had both died from an influenza epidemic that swept through the town when he was away at seminary, more than ten years ago. Forty-four people in the town died from that epidemic-not uncommon in those days.

”It's so sad to think your parents' deaths could have been prevented with this new medical miracle.” I pointed to the newspaper headline. Just this year, in 1943, the first antibiotic, penicillin, was finally made in ma.s.s production and was now available for large scale use. It was having a significant effect on the battlefield by rapidly conquering the biggest wartime killer: infected wounds.

”Yes, that thought occurred to me.”

That was all.

Another time, I was playing the piano with the pedal on mute one evening so I wouldn't disturb Miss Gordon when Robert came in to the parlor and sat down to listen. When I finished the piece, he asked what I had been playing.

”It's called Two-Part Invention by Johann Sebastian Bach,” I answered. ”The left hand, the ba.s.s cleft, plays a melody, and the right hand, the treble cleft, echoes it. Here, listen.” I played a few measures for him. ”I had a teacher at University who said the two-part invention symbolized an ideal marriage. Each hand had its work to do, but together, they complemented each other.”

He gave a short, cynical laugh. ”Is there really such a thing? A perfect marriage?” Then, abruptly, he got up and left.

I watched him go and thought about his missing wife. His wife might be gone, but her absence loomed large.

One evening, as we cleared the dinner dishes, I said, ”Robert, I was just thinking...”

”Uh oh,” he winced. ”I'm starting to brace myself when you start a sentence with those words.”

I ignored that remark. ”I'd like to learn how to drive a car.”

”Not a bad idea.”

This conversation was going better than I had expected. ”When could we start?”

”Wait. You mean, my car? My Hudson?” His eyes were wide with alarm.

”Well, yes, of course.”

”But I love that car.”

”I'm not going to hurt it,” I said with disgust. ”I just want to learn to drive it. Think about it. I could run errands for your aunt or for you. It would be a very good skill for me to have.”

Robert put his hand to his forehead to think for a moment. ”Well, then, Aunt Martha, I think you should teach her.”

That was a twist. Miss Gordon able to drive a car? A buggy and horses-now that I could picture.

”Your thoughts are written on your face, Louisa. I'll have you know I am an excellent driver. I taught my own brother, Robert's father, how to drive. You don't know everything, I hope you know,” she said.

I coughed to cover a smirk. ”I would never doubt you, Miss Gordon. So would you be willing to teach me?”

”Perhaps, someday.”

”Perhaps someday soon?” I asked.

She frowned. ”I can see I'll get no peace about the matter. Sat.u.r.day then.”

Sat.u.r.day couldn't come soon enough. That afternoon, Miss Gordon found me out in the backyard, throwing a ball with William and Dog. She shook the car keys at me and said, ”Let's be off.”

She didn't have to tell me twice. I dropped the ball, grinned at William, and headed to Robert's car.

”In the driver's seat. Be quick about it!” she said bossily.

I sat behind the wheel as she explained the meaning of the instruments on the dashboard. Every single one. She spoke authoritatively and with great detail. I knew enough not to ask questions, but I missed half of her lecture due to the excitement I felt at becoming a driver. That, and I was distracted by the sight of Robert watching us from the parlor window, looking as if he was about to be ill.

Miss Gordon described the odometer, the speedometer, the heater, the winds.h.i.+eld wipers, and finally, the pedals on the floor. I had been so accustomed to staccato orders from her that I had no idea she could talk for so long.

”Now, the one on the right is the gas pedal, you gently push it in to go faster. The one in the middle is the brake pedal, and the one on the left is the clutch. You press it in, all of the way to the floor, and release it slowly as you s.h.i.+ft gears.” She pointed to the gears.h.i.+ft, described the purpose of each gear, the point at which I should s.h.i.+ft gears, and how to downs.h.i.+ft.

I tried to listen to her, but I couldn't wait until I could turn the engine on-the first time in my entire life that I had turned a key to a motor. Finally, the moment had come. She had exhausted herself of all automotive information. She braced herself and said, ”proceed.”

I turned the key and nothing happened.

”Press the gas pedal. The engine needs fuel.”

So I turned the key again, and the engine roared to life. What a thrill! And we hadn't even left the driveway.

”Okay, now we are going to drive down the street in first gear.”

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