them the globe of her belly stretched, blue veins wending over the surface. Something, a hand or a foot, thrust outward from the skin.
“Clara,” he said. “The curtains are open.”
The world outside gauzy with rain. “I don’t care.” She guided Logan’s hand to her stomach, closing her own over the top. They didn’t have to wait more than a minute.Feeling Logan’s cold hand, the baby thumped once more and then sank back into the depths within her.
“Weird, huh?” she said to fill the silence. Clara knew he was studying the curve of her breasts. She had seen the longing and loneliness in him from the very first time she met him. Now, she wanted him to stay. She wanted him to keep touching her. And shouldn’t he want her even more, since she almost died? Shouldn’t he affirm this life, hers, his, the mystery inside her? They hadn’t made love since finding out about the baby.
Clara’s conversion to Lutheranism was inextricably bound up in the physicality of her husband. Logan had been her father’s pastor. A few weeks after her father died, Clara attended services at Logan’s church one gray Sunday and was surprised when Logan asked her to brunch at the café down the street. They would meet again for coffee in a few days, then dinner out, followed by dinner at his place. He needed her, she saw, just as much as she needed him. In his quietness she read depth; in his shy touch, innocence. The first time she undressed for him, undid the buttons on her blouse, she had watched the pupils in his light blue eyes darken with desire. “I knew I would love you before I ever met you,” he told her later in her bedroom that night. “It was the sound of your name in the stories your father told about you. Clara, clear as running water. Clara, like clarity. Clean like the sky. I knew you before I ever saw you.”
Behind them the phone jostled on the receiver.
Logan’s hand was still on her stomach, tracing slow circles. Her hand on his.
Don’t.
Stay
.
Logan went to get the phone.
W AS IT ONLY A few months earlier she had spread out the map on the kitchen table, her index finger tracing the black road that raveled along the river? She remembered tasting the name silently with her tongue against her teeth: Lone Mountain. The pull of something dark and sweet wafted inside her, a scent like burning sugar. Childhood whispers.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Logan said.
She touched the tiny dot, measuring. It looked to be about two hundred miles west of the Twin Cities. She imagined endless cornfields, a flat prairie expanse, and then that cleft in the land where the road vanished into the valley. The big woods, sudden escape, shade. Her voice sounded tinny when she responded. “I think we should go.”
Logan sipped from his tea. His cheeks were ruddy from a fever, the steam of his drink. “After two months of dead-end interviews in this synod, it comes down to this.”
Clara sat down so they were at eye level. The sky outside held pewter-colored clouds, and a few fat raindrops rinsed down the window. “Ever since you told me the name of that town, I’ve known we should go there.”
Logan shifted in his seat. “It’s a dying church, Clara. Every year three times more funerals than baptisms. Thewhole region is dying, that way of life. They can barely afford to pay me synod guidelines.”
“We have each other,” Clara assured him. Baptisms and deaths and the numbers of baptized members versus the average worship attendance on Sunday. Numbers and facts and figures as he debated each open position in the synod. For a spiritual man, Logan obsessed over such things. And she knew why else he was afraid. In his last year at seminary, Logan had suffered a severe series of anxiety attacks during finals week. Clara had been the one to find him, rigid on his bed, paralyzed with some nameless terror. She had been the one to talk him out of the spell. He had gone to see a private therapist, afraid that
“Clara,” he said. “The curtains are open.”
The world outside gauzy with rain. “I don’t care.” She guided Logan’s hand to her stomach, closing her own over the top. They didn’t have to wait more than a minute.Feeling Logan’s cold hand, the baby thumped once more and then sank back into the depths within her.
“Weird, huh?” she said to fill the silence. Clara knew he was studying the curve of her breasts. She had seen the longing and loneliness in him from the very first time she met him. Now, she wanted him to stay. She wanted him to keep touching her. And shouldn’t he want her even more, since she almost died? Shouldn’t he affirm this life, hers, his, the mystery inside her? They hadn’t made love since finding out about the baby.
Clara’s conversion to Lutheranism was inextricably bound up in the physicality of her husband. Logan had been her father’s pastor. A few weeks after her father died, Clara attended services at Logan’s church one gray Sunday and was surprised when Logan asked her to brunch at the café down the street. They would meet again for coffee in a few days, then dinner out, followed by dinner at his place. He needed her, she saw, just as much as she needed him. In his quietness she read depth; in his shy touch, innocence. The first time she undressed for him, undid the buttons on her blouse, she had watched the pupils in his light blue eyes darken with desire. “I knew I would love you before I ever met you,” he told her later in her bedroom that night. “It was the sound of your name in the stories your father told about you. Clara, clear as running water. Clara, like clarity. Clean like the sky. I knew you before I ever saw you.”
Behind them the phone jostled on the receiver.
Logan’s hand was still on her stomach, tracing slow circles. Her hand on his.
Don’t.
Stay
.
Logan went to get the phone.
W AS IT ONLY A few months earlier she had spread out the map on the kitchen table, her index finger tracing the black road that raveled along the river? She remembered tasting the name silently with her tongue against her teeth: Lone Mountain. The pull of something dark and sweet wafted inside her, a scent like burning sugar. Childhood whispers.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Logan said.
She touched the tiny dot, measuring. It looked to be about two hundred miles west of the Twin Cities. She imagined endless cornfields, a flat prairie expanse, and then that cleft in the land where the road vanished into the valley. The big woods, sudden escape, shade. Her voice sounded tinny when she responded. “I think we should go.”
Logan sipped from his tea. His cheeks were ruddy from a fever, the steam of his drink. “After two months of dead-end interviews in this synod, it comes down to this.”
Clara sat down so they were at eye level. The sky outside held pewter-colored clouds, and a few fat raindrops rinsed down the window. “Ever since you told me the name of that town, I’ve known we should go there.”
Logan shifted in his seat. “It’s a dying church, Clara. Every year three times more funerals than baptisms. Thewhole region is dying, that way of life. They can barely afford to pay me synod guidelines.”
“We have each other,” Clara assured him. Baptisms and deaths and the numbers of baptized members versus the average worship attendance on Sunday. Numbers and facts and figures as he debated each open position in the synod. For a spiritual man, Logan obsessed over such things. And she knew why else he was afraid. In his last year at seminary, Logan had suffered a severe series of anxiety attacks during finals week. Clara had been the one to find him, rigid on his bed, paralyzed with some nameless terror. She had been the one to talk him out of the spell. He had gone to see a private therapist, afraid that
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