stars.
Mary takes Elizabeth’s hand. The two girls press closer to the varnished box. And there she is. Annie Levinsky, lying on creamy slippery cloth and wearing a long white dress. Annie with a veil fluffed around her face and holding a red rose in her hand. Her hand is stiff, her eyes are closed, she has rouge on her cheeks, she’s wearing lipstick. Mrs. Levinsky is leaning over her, crying, fussing with the veil so it lies in curves around her daughter’s face. And the bearded priest is swinging a purple cord with a silver cup on the end of it and chanting in a dark strange language. Smoke rises from the cup, and Elizabeth can smell spices – cloves or cinnamon. It’s too much all at one time and she closes her eyes.
And now the men in black suits are carrying the box outside. They carry it to the open grave in the churchyard. And Mary and Elizabeth are standing together by a mound of frozen dirt. Again the priest chants and swings the smoking cup, and smoke rises in thin streamers into the cold grey air. With thick ropes, the men lower the box into the hole, and the people throw chunks of frozen dirt down on it, each clod landing with a thud. Then, for the first time in the entire service, the priest speaks in English, “Let us go forth as light bearers to meet the Christ who cometh forth from the grave as a Bridegroom.”
Elizabeth whispers into Mary’s ear, quietly but with authority, for she’s the daughter of the preacher, “She marries Jesus.” Then the two girls take each other by the hand and begin to cry, softly at first, only a few light sniffles, then louder until they are sobbing, their bodies shaking. Weeping for Annie Levinsky whom they didn’t know really, never played with, hardly spoke to, for Annie was a shy girl, sick and smelling sour. But now, oh wonder, she’s the bride of Christ. And one day she’ll be pulled right out of the dirt to meet her husband in the air.
Annie Levinsky, lying at the bottom of a frozen hole, wearing lipstick and a long white dress, and smelling like cinnamon.
On the tenth of November the choir, under the direction of Hilda Munson, folds. At their last gathering, Jonathan, the only tenor left, makes a short but glowing speech on the contribution Hilda has made to St. John’s congregation with her faithful service.
“When we were in need, you were there, Hilda, generous with your time and talents.” He stands in the church kitchen around the oilcloth-covered table where five other loyal singers are seated, drinking coffee and eating chocolate cake. Hilda sits at the head of the table, daubing her eyes with a white handkerchief. “And rest assured, Hilda,” he continues, “we haven’t seen the last of you. Your skills will always be needed.”
On November 12, Eli is reappointed conductor.
Again, Jonathan Lund drives his Plymouth down the road past the creamery, past Jacobson’s pasture, and this time farther still so he can take the back road, the long way around, to the trailer.
“We’re on,” he says to Eli in the trailer’s kitchen. “The Messiah’s back.”
“Hallelujah!” Eli shouts.
In the bedroom, Nettie flops down on the blanket.
“Oh piss,” she says.
At supper tables throughout the parish the talk is of the coming Messiah .
“So Doc’s put the plug in the jug again.”
“But how can they get this thing together in four weeks?”
“I hear Eli’s getting some musicians from Moose Jaw to help out.”
“Hilda must really be burning over this.”
However, in the Munson house Hilda seems strangely calm. She is standing in front of the living-room window, gazing out at the snow-packed street beyond her yard. “Do I have something to tell you, Sam Munson. A real surprise.” She pulls the curtain to the side, bends her head closer to the glass. “You’ll have to wait to find out though.” She backs away from the window. “Grace Olson will be furious, of course, but that’s her problem.”
In the small house behind
Mary takes Elizabeth’s hand. The two girls press closer to the varnished box. And there she is. Annie Levinsky, lying on creamy slippery cloth and wearing a long white dress. Annie with a veil fluffed around her face and holding a red rose in her hand. Her hand is stiff, her eyes are closed, she has rouge on her cheeks, she’s wearing lipstick. Mrs. Levinsky is leaning over her, crying, fussing with the veil so it lies in curves around her daughter’s face. And the bearded priest is swinging a purple cord with a silver cup on the end of it and chanting in a dark strange language. Smoke rises from the cup, and Elizabeth can smell spices – cloves or cinnamon. It’s too much all at one time and she closes her eyes.
And now the men in black suits are carrying the box outside. They carry it to the open grave in the churchyard. And Mary and Elizabeth are standing together by a mound of frozen dirt. Again the priest chants and swings the smoking cup, and smoke rises in thin streamers into the cold grey air. With thick ropes, the men lower the box into the hole, and the people throw chunks of frozen dirt down on it, each clod landing with a thud. Then, for the first time in the entire service, the priest speaks in English, “Let us go forth as light bearers to meet the Christ who cometh forth from the grave as a Bridegroom.”
Elizabeth whispers into Mary’s ear, quietly but with authority, for she’s the daughter of the preacher, “She marries Jesus.” Then the two girls take each other by the hand and begin to cry, softly at first, only a few light sniffles, then louder until they are sobbing, their bodies shaking. Weeping for Annie Levinsky whom they didn’t know really, never played with, hardly spoke to, for Annie was a shy girl, sick and smelling sour. But now, oh wonder, she’s the bride of Christ. And one day she’ll be pulled right out of the dirt to meet her husband in the air.
Annie Levinsky, lying at the bottom of a frozen hole, wearing lipstick and a long white dress, and smelling like cinnamon.
On the tenth of November the choir, under the direction of Hilda Munson, folds. At their last gathering, Jonathan, the only tenor left, makes a short but glowing speech on the contribution Hilda has made to St. John’s congregation with her faithful service.
“When we were in need, you were there, Hilda, generous with your time and talents.” He stands in the church kitchen around the oilcloth-covered table where five other loyal singers are seated, drinking coffee and eating chocolate cake. Hilda sits at the head of the table, daubing her eyes with a white handkerchief. “And rest assured, Hilda,” he continues, “we haven’t seen the last of you. Your skills will always be needed.”
On November 12, Eli is reappointed conductor.
Again, Jonathan Lund drives his Plymouth down the road past the creamery, past Jacobson’s pasture, and this time farther still so he can take the back road, the long way around, to the trailer.
“We’re on,” he says to Eli in the trailer’s kitchen. “The Messiah’s back.”
“Hallelujah!” Eli shouts.
In the bedroom, Nettie flops down on the blanket.
“Oh piss,” she says.
At supper tables throughout the parish the talk is of the coming Messiah .
“So Doc’s put the plug in the jug again.”
“But how can they get this thing together in four weeks?”
“I hear Eli’s getting some musicians from Moose Jaw to help out.”
“Hilda must really be burning over this.”
However, in the Munson house Hilda seems strangely calm. She is standing in front of the living-room window, gazing out at the snow-packed street beyond her yard. “Do I have something to tell you, Sam Munson. A real surprise.” She pulls the curtain to the side, bends her head closer to the glass. “You’ll have to wait to find out though.” She backs away from the window. “Grace Olson will be furious, of course, but that’s her problem.”
In the small house behind
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