Holly waited for a moment before speaking so she could choose her words carefully. "Mr. Harker, I don't mean to be nosy, but what Rachel just said a moment ago . . . I mean . . ."
"About my son, Abe?" He nodded sadly. "Yes, that was true. He killed a man in the Midwest, and they hanged him for it." The old man sighed and shook his head. "The poor boy. He was lost to us, lost to God. Just lost, period."
She felt simultaneously sad and uncomfortable. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Harker."
"Ah, well"—he shrugged—"it wasn't his fault, not really. He just couldn't control himself."
"His temper, you mean?"
He ignored the question. "Malcolm never knew his father. Abe died when Malcolm was only about four, I think, four or five, and his father hadn't been living here at home for a good long while before that. Over a year, I think."
"Was he a salesman or something?
"No." Old Quincy shook his head. "Just a ne'er-do-well, a drifter. He and Cynthia never really got along too well. She was as straight as an arrow, and just about as much fun, and Abe was . . . well, at times Abe was a lively fellow. Oil and water, those two."
"What happened to Malcolm's mother?"
"She died." Quincy sat down heavily in the easy chair. "Cancer, a few years later. You know, Holly, you have to understand that Rachel sort of raised the boy. I know it doesn't excuse her behavior, but it does explain it to some degree."
"I understand." Holly smiled. "I'll try to get along with her."
"Yes, well, now," he said, suddenly all businesslike. "I think you're a charming young lady, and I'm pleased to see that Malcolm is keeping company with you, but there is one thing you must understand: This is a religious family, a very religious family. I don't know what your own beliefs are, and I certainly would not presume to question you about them, but I sincerely hope that a full participation in the life of the church will be part of whatever life you and Malcolm make with each other." He noticed that she was beginning to blush and he hastened to add, "Please don't take offense at what I'm saying, Holly. I know that some people seem to think that when a man hits ninety he is entitled to say anything that comes into his head, but—despite my teasing
you just now—I've never agreed with that. I certainly don't want to offend you."
"Oh, no, Mr. Harker, it isn't that at all," she replied. "It's just that . . . well, Malcolm and I have only been seeing each other for a few months. I think it would be a little premature to begin talking about . . . well, about our life together."
"Of course, of course, I understand," he said. "But I was not really speaking about that. I was speaking about religious devotion. Now I know that Rachel sounds a bit daft with her gibberish about hereditary insanity and all that, but I can't help but feel that a bit more Bible and a bit less booze might have saved my son, Abraham, from his sorry end."
Holly felt so warmly toward the old man that she decided to reassure him. "Well, I'm not really a regular churchgoer or anything, but I believe in God and all that. I mean, I wouldn't have any objection to going to church with Mal, if we . . . well, if we . . . well, you know."
"Marry?" he finished for her, his eyes twinkling once again. "You can say it, my dear. It isn't foul language, you know."
She laughed. "No, I know it isn't."
"Malcolm and I are going to mass tomorrow afternoon. I'm sure he would like it if you were to come with us. Are you Episcopalian?"
"No," she said. "I'm a Methodist. Sort of, I guess."
"Well, that's fine. My mother was a Methodist, until she married my father, that is." He smiled at her. "Please don't think me pushy, but it would make my old heart glad."
She returned his smile. "Oh, I'd love to come along. I've never been to an Episcopal service before"—
I haven't been to any church in years, as a matter of fact
, she thought—"but I've heard that they're very beautiful."
"I think they are," he said, nodding, "but of course I've grown up with them. Well, we'll see you at twelve noon, then?" He began to struggle to rise from the chair.
"I'll be here," she said, "and please don't trouble yourself to get up, Mr. Harker. I can let myself out." On an impulse she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
"My, my!" He laughed. "That was the most fun I've had in years!"
She laughed along with him, finding him utterly charm
ing and delightful as only the serene elderly can be. "I'll see you tomorrow. Good-bye, Mr. Harker."
"Good-bye, my dear," he said, watching as she walked out into the foyer and left the house.
Rachel Rowland was in the room in an instant. "I heard that, Grandfather! What on earth is the matter with you? That girl isn't acceptable, not acceptable at all!"
"Oh, hush up, Rachel," he grumbled. "I know what I'm doing."
"But she isn't right for him! She isn't what he needs!"
Quincy shook his head. "I don't agree. I think I made a mistake with Abraham, forcing him to marry that prune of a woman. I think it was that more than . . . more than the other thing which led to his downfall. I think Malcolm needs someone lively and in love with life."
"Oh, Grandfather, for pity's sake!"
"Rachel, leave me be!" he snapped. "I've had crosses enough to bear in my life. I don't need you adding to the weight with your constant harping!"
She drew herself up, a portrait of affronted dignity. "As you say, Grandfather. But believe me, it will take more than a pretty smile and a 'love for life' to counterbalance 'the other thing,' as you call it!" She spun around on her heel and marched from the room.
"I know, Rachel," he muttered. "I know that full well." And then he began to pray.
H
olly Larsen knocked on the Harker door at five minutes to twelve the next day, a clear and beautiful Sunday in May. She had taken care to dress in an attractive but not flashy manner, even to the extent of wearing a hat that matched her purse and shoes. She rarely wore hats but had fished around in her closet until she found an appropriate ensemble. She knew that no matter what she wore, it would make a bad impression upon Rachel and Daniel, but she did not care. She wanted old Quincy Harker to like her, and she reasoned that proper attire for church was a step in that direction.
It was Malcolm who opened the door and admitted her, smiling at her warmly, kissing her lightly, and saying, "Holly, I'm so sorry about this. I had no idea Gramps was gonna pressure you into going to church with us."
"He didn't pressure me at all, Mal," she said cheerfully. "He just invited me along, that's all. And I thought it was a sweet thing for him to do."
"Well, that's good," he said, unconvinced.
"You look a lot better than yesterday," she observed, noting that the neck brace was off and the swelling on his face was somewhat reduced. "Your color's better, too."
"Yeah, I feel better," he agreed.
She frowned at him with mock austerity. "Maybe this will teach you to behave yourself!"
"Oh, it has," he said, laughing. "It has. Let me gather up Gramps and then we can go. The mass starts at twelve-fifteen."
"Aren't your sister and brother-in-law going?"
Say no
, she wished.
"No," he complied to her great relief. "They go to the nine-o'clock service." He led her into the sitting room and said, "Holly's here, Gramps. You ready to go? You sure you feel up to it?"
"Certainly, certainly," the old man said. He was standing in the dining room, helping himself to a glass of sherry. "Just fortifying myself for one of Father Henley's sermons," he said, grinning at Holly.
"Father Henley tends to be rather long-winded," Malcolm confided to her. "Nice fellow, though."
"I'm sure he is," she said. Quincy walked over to them, offered her his arm, and they departed.
Fortunately, the church was just around the corner on Ascan Avenue. It was abundantly clear that the old man could not have managed a longer walk. As it was, this short distance taxed him considerably. He was flushed and winded by the time they reached the church and seated themselves in the front pew, Quincy sliding in first, Holly following, and Malcolm sitting beside her. Quincy Harker always sat in the front pew when he attended church. As the oldest member of the parish, he had an unspoken right to it, so that the priest could come down to him and administer the sacrament rather than having him struggle up the steps to the altar rail and then kneel down upon stiff knees.
He made quiet conversation with Holly until the organist began the prelude, and then they and the other people in attendance fell into a contemplative silence. Holly paged through the
Book
of
Common Prayer
and then gazed up at the stained-glass windows.
And Malcolm was becoming terribly, terribly uncomfortable.
It's almost summertime
, he thought.
Why the hell don't they turn on the air-conditioning? It's hot as a blast furnace in here
. He looked around and noticed that some of the women in the pews were pulling their scarves and stoles around their necks, and then in a brief silence between the end of the postlude and the priest's invocation he heard the faint hum of the air-conditioning unit. Maybe I'm getting feverish, he thought.
Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to get out today
.
"In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit," the priest chanted, making the sign of the cross.
"Amen," the congregation sang.
Malcolm began to feel dizzy, slightly nauseated.
The air conditioner must be broke
, he thought.
I feel as if I'm sitting in a steam bath
. Beads of perspiration welled up on his forehead and trickled down his cheeks.
He found that by closing his eyes and breathing deeply he could master the growing nausea. The sounds of the service became blurred and indistinct in his ears, and he rose and sat mechanically as he heard other people doing it. Only on occasion did some familiar sound or phrase penetrate his self-imposed isolation.
"Kyrie eleison, Christos eleison, kyrie eleison . . ."
Better go back to the doctor
, he thought.
I really don't feel at all well
. He opened his eyes for a moment and a wave of nausea swept over him. He struggled to repress it but felt the telltale pressure of sour air beginning to force its way up from his stomach.
No, no!
he ordered himself.
Not here, not in church, not with Holly here, not when it means so much to Gramps for me to have come today
. He managed to press down the threatening flow.
"Praise God from Whom all blessings flow . . ."
"Malcolm," he heard a voice whisper, and he snapped his eyes open. Father Henley's smiling face was close to his own, and the priest said, "Your sister told me that you've had an accident. Are you all right?"
Malcolm looked around, noting that the collection plates were being passed and that Henley had taken advantage of the brief hiatus in the service to step down from the altar and speak with him. He looked back at the priest and tried to smile. "Yes. Well, no, not really. I feel a bit feverish, actually."
"Well, don't bother coming up to the railing. When I bring the elements down to your grandfather, I'll administer them to you also. No need to tax yourself."
Malcolm was enormously relieved. "Thank you, Father, thank you very much. I don't know if . . ." Henley noted that the collection plates were being carried forward, and he winked at Malcolm and returned to his place at the altar.
Malcolm looked over at the wall and saw to his chagrin that the top of one of the windows was open and that sunlight was streaming in upon him, bathing him in its unpleasant warmth. No wonder I'm so dizzy and sick to my stomach, he thought.
I've been getting a damned tan, sitting here
. He looked ahead of him and saw that Henley was consecrating the elements.
Not much longer now
, he thought,
and I can get out of here
. He wiped his brow and tried not to feel sick.
"The same night in which our Lord Jesus was betrayed, He took bread and brake it, and gave it to His disciples . . ."
Must be my imagination
, Malcolm thought,
but the people in here today don't seem to have bathed very well
. The smell of unwashed body odor was beginning to reach his nostrils, and it was a few moments before he realized that he was the source of the smell.
Oh, great
, he thought,
just great. Holly'll love this!
He was sweating so profusely that his trousers were damp against his legs
. Hurry up, Father, will you?
he thought desperately.