Corps or public-school teacher, it seemed to me, would have been a far better way to make a meaningful difference in the world. This was especially true sinceinitially I imagined that my studies in divinity school were most likely to result in my teaching religion someday at precisely the sort of college from which I had graduated. That, in a vague way, was my plan.
But I did believe that Christ had died on the cross and then risen. And with an increasingly warm feeling—not exactly ardor, but certainly absorption—I began to see the possibility of a life of service in the ministry. I envisioned a country parish in New England, a congregation not unlike the Baptist church that my grandparents had attended in Vermont. Toward the end of my third and final year, the expressed needs of the pulpit committee from a little church in Haverill, Vermont, were paired with my expressed desires. There was some concern from the committee that I was unmarried: Like many churches, they wanted their pastor to have a wife, if only because a minister’s spouse actually does a good deal of the heavy lifting when it comes to running a church. But their instinct was that I would not cause them public scandal or betray their trust, and soon enough I would find a wife. The church was a little more than an hour from my grandparents’, and the pastor there assured the deacons and stewards in Haverill that the Drews were good people, essentially vouching for my character though he knew me only in the most distant way: as the grandson of Foster and Amy Drew, both newly departed, and the son of Richard Drew, who had left Vermont some four and a half decades earlier.
Their instinct, of course, was wrong on both counts. But at the time it had looked like a reasonable match, and for fourteen years it had seemed to most of the world to have worked.
“WHERE IS KATIE now?” Heather Laurent asked me that Tuesday afternoon, as we sat on the porch. The sun was finally burning its way through the milky shroud above and was just starting its slow descentto the west. The shadows from the trees began spreading like moss across my backyard.
“She’s with Alice’s best friend, Ginny O’Brien. So are Alice’s parents—Katie’s grandparents. They drove here from Nashua on Monday morning as soon as they heard. They’ve been here ever since.”
“They’ll be in Haverill through the funeral?”
“Oh, most definitely. And probably beyond.”
“And George’s family?”
“They come from somewhere outside of Buffalo. They’re staying in Albany.”
“Keeping their distance.”
“Yes.”
“Have you spoken to the families?”
“I have: both families.”
“You know, Alice’s funeral service is going to be a circus,” she murmured, and she noticed for the first time the swallows that were nesting under a porch eave over my shoulder. The mother bird seemed content to allow me to share the space with her—she had, after all, built her nest right here—but only rarely did the male remain beside her when I wandered out onto the deck. A deacon who loved animals had nicknamed them Lil and Phil.
“It will be large,” I agreed. “But the worst will be the presence of Katie’s friends. All those teenagers and the Youth Group. Though Alice’s friends will be sobbing, it will be the tears of the teenagers that will be hardest for me to see from the pulpit. But I wouldn’t expect it to be a circus.”
“There will be media.”
“True.”
“It’s going to be a hard one for you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’d say it will be rather unpleasant.”
“When is it?”
“Thursday. Day after tomorrow.”
“I presume it will be at your church.”
“Of course.”
She took a breath and sighed. She rubbed her arms as if she were cold, but that wasn’t likely the reason on this particular afternoon. I noticed for the first time that she had a pianist’s fingers: slender and long, with impeccably manicured nails. She had coated them with a clear
But I did believe that Christ had died on the cross and then risen. And with an increasingly warm feeling—not exactly ardor, but certainly absorption—I began to see the possibility of a life of service in the ministry. I envisioned a country parish in New England, a congregation not unlike the Baptist church that my grandparents had attended in Vermont. Toward the end of my third and final year, the expressed needs of the pulpit committee from a little church in Haverill, Vermont, were paired with my expressed desires. There was some concern from the committee that I was unmarried: Like many churches, they wanted their pastor to have a wife, if only because a minister’s spouse actually does a good deal of the heavy lifting when it comes to running a church. But their instinct was that I would not cause them public scandal or betray their trust, and soon enough I would find a wife. The church was a little more than an hour from my grandparents’, and the pastor there assured the deacons and stewards in Haverill that the Drews were good people, essentially vouching for my character though he knew me only in the most distant way: as the grandson of Foster and Amy Drew, both newly departed, and the son of Richard Drew, who had left Vermont some four and a half decades earlier.
Their instinct, of course, was wrong on both counts. But at the time it had looked like a reasonable match, and for fourteen years it had seemed to most of the world to have worked.
“WHERE IS KATIE now?” Heather Laurent asked me that Tuesday afternoon, as we sat on the porch. The sun was finally burning its way through the milky shroud above and was just starting its slow descentto the west. The shadows from the trees began spreading like moss across my backyard.
“She’s with Alice’s best friend, Ginny O’Brien. So are Alice’s parents—Katie’s grandparents. They drove here from Nashua on Monday morning as soon as they heard. They’ve been here ever since.”
“They’ll be in Haverill through the funeral?”
“Oh, most definitely. And probably beyond.”
“And George’s family?”
“They come from somewhere outside of Buffalo. They’re staying in Albany.”
“Keeping their distance.”
“Yes.”
“Have you spoken to the families?”
“I have: both families.”
“You know, Alice’s funeral service is going to be a circus,” she murmured, and she noticed for the first time the swallows that were nesting under a porch eave over my shoulder. The mother bird seemed content to allow me to share the space with her—she had, after all, built her nest right here—but only rarely did the male remain beside her when I wandered out onto the deck. A deacon who loved animals had nicknamed them Lil and Phil.
“It will be large,” I agreed. “But the worst will be the presence of Katie’s friends. All those teenagers and the Youth Group. Though Alice’s friends will be sobbing, it will be the tears of the teenagers that will be hardest for me to see from the pulpit. But I wouldn’t expect it to be a circus.”
“There will be media.”
“True.”
“It’s going to be a hard one for you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’d say it will be rather unpleasant.”
“When is it?”
“Thursday. Day after tomorrow.”
“I presume it will be at your church.”
“Of course.”
She took a breath and sighed. She rubbed her arms as if she were cold, but that wasn’t likely the reason on this particular afternoon. I noticed for the first time that she had a pianist’s fingers: slender and long, with impeccably manicured nails. She had coated them with a clear
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