darkness. The shadows of the night moved in shifting patterns from the wind, and for a moment she had the strange feeling that there was still someone out there.
She smiled ruefully. There is no one out there, she reminded herself. No one at all. You couldn’t be more alone.
Rubbing her sore hand, she turned back to the ironing board. The rain spit at the windowpanes, and the storm, which had died down for a moment, resumed its restless prowling around the house.
Chapter 4
“COME ON, DEAR,” AUNT MAY WHISPERED, NUDGING BETH, as the sounds of the closing hymn swelled from the organ and filled the church. “We go first.”
Beth felt drowsy and heavy-limbed, as if someone had just awakened her from a drugged sleep. She dragged herself to her feet and blinked at her aunt. May was adjusting her black hat and prodding Francie to her feet as the shining coffin, accompanied by a group of men from the church, passed by the entrance to the pew.
Somehow Beth had managed to tune it out, not to hear more than a smattering of the words of Uncle James’s tribute from the pulpit to Martin Pearson. She had spent the time studying the familiar altar, thinking about Mike, and wondering if everything was all right at home. She knew what he had been saying. Something about the good Christian, loving father and husband, but she was able to muffle the words with her thoughts of things outside the church, far from this place. Still, the service had seemed interminable, as if she were to spend the rest of her life rooted to the cold wooden bench, captive to the sounds of her uncle’s halting voice, the isolated whimpers, the loud, harsh notes of the organ. She had thought about people in prisons and how they must cope with confinement. She had escaped through her thoughts to other places, but the tension had never left her body.
Now, to her amazement, it was over. It was as if someone had opened the door to her cell and walked away. She felt dazed and not certain that it wasn’t a grim prank, that if she stood up and started out, she would be rudely pushed back in her place. She could see Francie waiting in the aisle. Aunt May reached for Beth’s arm as she slid out of the pew and then took Francie’s arm and walked slowly between them behind the coffin toward the back of the church.
Beth kept her gaze focused on the church doors in the back, never once glancing down at the coffin. She could feel the curious gazes of the mourners trained on her. She was a stranger in this town now, and she could imagine their gossip. She was not weeping. Her expression was completely blank. She knew they would talk about that. How life in the city had made her cold and indifferent, taken out her heart and replaced it with a lump of coal.
Numbly she put one foot in front of the other. She could feel May shaking beside her, and she knew without looking that she was weeping. But there was no way that Beth could accommodate the onlookers. They might be able to point her out to their children, in a way they deemed subtle, as an example of what happened when a young person went away. For a few of those young ones, Beth knew, this would serve only to pique their curiosity. There were always those who wanted to escape.
True to Uncle James’s prediction, the rain had stopped, although the sky now had the impenetrable, cottony look that often precedes a snowfall. Beth made her way down the steps of the church, helping her aunt along, and watched impassively as the coffin was loaded into Sullivan’s ancient hearse. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the others exiting the church and gathering behind them in a ragged horseshoe formation as the church bell tolled its doleful notes.
The undertaker sidled up beside Beth, causing her to jump, and pressed the long stem of a red carnation into her hands. “For the grave,” he whispered, in answer to her questioning look. “To place on the casket.”
“Oh,” said Beth. Having tucked the carnation
She smiled ruefully. There is no one out there, she reminded herself. No one at all. You couldn’t be more alone.
Rubbing her sore hand, she turned back to the ironing board. The rain spit at the windowpanes, and the storm, which had died down for a moment, resumed its restless prowling around the house.
Chapter 4
“COME ON, DEAR,” AUNT MAY WHISPERED, NUDGING BETH, as the sounds of the closing hymn swelled from the organ and filled the church. “We go first.”
Beth felt drowsy and heavy-limbed, as if someone had just awakened her from a drugged sleep. She dragged herself to her feet and blinked at her aunt. May was adjusting her black hat and prodding Francie to her feet as the shining coffin, accompanied by a group of men from the church, passed by the entrance to the pew.
Somehow Beth had managed to tune it out, not to hear more than a smattering of the words of Uncle James’s tribute from the pulpit to Martin Pearson. She had spent the time studying the familiar altar, thinking about Mike, and wondering if everything was all right at home. She knew what he had been saying. Something about the good Christian, loving father and husband, but she was able to muffle the words with her thoughts of things outside the church, far from this place. Still, the service had seemed interminable, as if she were to spend the rest of her life rooted to the cold wooden bench, captive to the sounds of her uncle’s halting voice, the isolated whimpers, the loud, harsh notes of the organ. She had thought about people in prisons and how they must cope with confinement. She had escaped through her thoughts to other places, but the tension had never left her body.
Now, to her amazement, it was over. It was as if someone had opened the door to her cell and walked away. She felt dazed and not certain that it wasn’t a grim prank, that if she stood up and started out, she would be rudely pushed back in her place. She could see Francie waiting in the aisle. Aunt May reached for Beth’s arm as she slid out of the pew and then took Francie’s arm and walked slowly between them behind the coffin toward the back of the church.
Beth kept her gaze focused on the church doors in the back, never once glancing down at the coffin. She could feel the curious gazes of the mourners trained on her. She was a stranger in this town now, and she could imagine their gossip. She was not weeping. Her expression was completely blank. She knew they would talk about that. How life in the city had made her cold and indifferent, taken out her heart and replaced it with a lump of coal.
Numbly she put one foot in front of the other. She could feel May shaking beside her, and she knew without looking that she was weeping. But there was no way that Beth could accommodate the onlookers. They might be able to point her out to their children, in a way they deemed subtle, as an example of what happened when a young person went away. For a few of those young ones, Beth knew, this would serve only to pique their curiosity. There were always those who wanted to escape.
True to Uncle James’s prediction, the rain had stopped, although the sky now had the impenetrable, cottony look that often precedes a snowfall. Beth made her way down the steps of the church, helping her aunt along, and watched impassively as the coffin was loaded into Sullivan’s ancient hearse. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the others exiting the church and gathering behind them in a ragged horseshoe formation as the church bell tolled its doleful notes.
The undertaker sidled up beside Beth, causing her to jump, and pressed the long stem of a red carnation into her hands. “For the grave,” he whispered, in answer to her questioning look. “To place on the casket.”
“Oh,” said Beth. Having tucked the carnation
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