The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) (20 page)

“S
o… I thought
you’d like to know.”

Grace met
Paulie’s grin the next evening with a smile. He’d arrived at the Kinners’ house
before her, but he’d waited outside, despite the freezing temperatures.

Well, he is
dressed for the weather, unlike me,
thought Grace as she quickened her
steps. No thick woolen coat for her; instead, she’d donned a jacket that Ben
had left behind, thin as frost and not much cozier. But she was glad about one
thing: She’d discovered a way to make her floppy shoes a lot warmer. When Mama
had taken home their box of groceries that week, Grace thought of an idea.
She’d taken her shoes, traced the outline on the triple-thick cardboard, and
cut out the shoe-shapes with Mama’s sewing shears. My, but it had been
difficult to cut through that cardboard! Grace’s fingers had ached when she was
three-quarters of the way through the job, but she pressed on, certain that her
reward would be great.

And the result
proved Grace correct. After cutting out the shapes, she’d fitted them into her
shoes and snapped the rubber bands on as usual. Her feet fairly sighed in
relief at the cushioning and warmth that cardboard provided.

True, she’d have
to replace the inserts as the cardboard flattened and became wet from the snow.
But Grace figured that she would have a fresh supply of cardboard each week
from Mama’s grocery shopping. She only wondered that she’d not thought of this
before now!

“What would I
want to know?” Grace asked, stopping at the Kinners’ gate. She looked up at
Paulie, dimly lit by the few streetlights.

Paulie’s breath
came out in frosty puffs. “Cold tonight, isn’t it?” He shoved his hands deeper
into the pockets of his wool coat.
Bet that isn’t second-hand,
Grace
marveled. She always marveled at Paulie’s attire.

“Hey, you must
be freezing!” he exclaimed, jolting Grace from her state of icy admiration. “Here,”
he said, starting to unbutton his coat.

Grace knew what
he would do next, and she rushed through the gate, calling behind her, “What
did you say I would want to know?”

She’d made it
halfway up the snow-dusted porch steps by the time Paulie caught up with her.
He brushed past her to get the door.
He’s mad that I didn’t let him give me
his coat.

But the face
that showed under the porch light held no malice. “I was going to say,” Paulie
replied, opening the door and holding it for her, “that you would like to see
this.” He stepped into the toasty house behind her and withdrew a folded paper
from his coat pocket. He offered it to her, and she took it, slowly banging the
snow from her shoes on the doormat.

Opening it, she
saw a red “A+” circled at the top of the paper. “You got a perfect score on
this week’s math test,” she smiled, glancing up at him. “Good work.”

“Thanks, but I
know I wouldn’t have gotten it without your help, Grace. You know, you should
become a teacher,” Paulie encouraged.

Embarrassed but
happy at the praise, Grace shrugged and turned her attention to unbuttoning her
coat.

“I’ve got some cocoa
on the stove, kids,” Grace heard Mr. Kinner announce from the room beyond the
kitchen. Her heart lifted to hear that friendly, masculine voice hold a frank
welcome for her.

“Okay, thanks,
Mr. K.,” Paulie called back, wiping his feet on the mat. “Where’s Mrs. K.
tonight?”

Mr. Kinner
appeared in the doorway that joined the kitchen and parlor, spectacles on the
end of his nose, book in hand. “Went to a women’s prayer meeting at church,” he
explained, “but she should be home before you two leave. She said that you
should help yourself to the cookie jar,” he added with a smile.

“Thanks, Mr. K.,”
grinned Paulie. “That’s awfully kind of her. We sure will, won’t we, Grace?”

Blushing, Grace
shook her head. Would Paulie ever stop teasing her?

“Well,” said Mr.
Kinner, “I’ll let you two get to work. I have some lesson plans to do, but I’ll
be right in the parlor if you need me.”

Grace shook her
head once again as Paulie dashed for the cookie jar, pulled off the lid, and
bit right into a thick oatmeal cookie. “Didn’t you eat dinner?” she asked.

“Sure, but that
was an hour ago, Grace,” he replied, munching happily away on his third bite.

“Come on,” she
urged, putting her little stack of schoolbooks down on the freshly-scrubbed
table. “We have work to do, you know.” She frowned at him to prevent herself
from giving him a liberal grin instead. “Just because you got one A+ doesn’t
mean you should slack.”

“Yes, ma’am,”
Paulie obediently answered, placing the cookie jar in the center of the table,
“but couldn’t we have some cocoa first?”

S
he still had
some supper dishes to wash up, but Sarah remembered that the radio program to
which she’d been listening – that Protestant one – came on around eight
o’clock. So she turned on the radio to that station while she washed up the
rest of the forks and plates.

The program
seemed to mix in some preaching – a lot of it full of fire and brimstone – with
the singing some nights. When the preaching came on, Sarah felt tingles up her
spine when the minister talked about the fate of the wicked. Funny, he never
mentioned Purgatory. Sarah figured that he must not be as well-educated as Father
Frederick was. But that radio preacher sure could pack a powerful punch with
his words when he wanted to!

Tonight,
however, he’d quieted his tone down. Sarah let the water fill the sink, added
some soap, and plunged her rag into the warm bubbly mixture, listening all the
while.

“I want to talk
to you tonight, dear people, about the birthday we are about to celebrate.
Whose birthday, you ask? The birthday of the Christ Child, whose advent into
this world heralded the peace on earth and good will toward men of which the
Scripture speaks,” the crackly voice spoke, filling the dim kitchen. Only the
soft splash of the dishwater accompanied it.

“And what peace
do we see? Certainly not peace in the world. Wars and rumors of wars we hear of
almost daily, almost hourly, friends. Hourly! Then, perhaps it is peace in our
homes, in our families?”

No,
thought Sarah,
her mind drifting to the busted-up family which she and Charlie had tried to
create. She shook her head as she picked up another chipped plate wiped it
clean of grease.

“No, my friends.
Almost daily, I receive letters from listeners to this little radio program,
detailing the heartbreak wreaked upon your homes by wild youth, by adulterous
hearts, by reckless behavior. No, this peace cannot be found in our families.
Where, then, is this peace?”

Where?
Sarah perked up
her ears. She hoped he’d give the answer and not just segue into the musical
portion, like he sometimes seemed to do.

“It is found in
the manger in Bethlehem, where the little Child lies asleep. It is found in the
carpenter’s shop, where the Lad learns at the hand of Joseph. It is found in
the temple, where the Youth answers the questions of the religious leaders of
His day. It is found at the well in Samaria, where the Teacher asks a woman for
a drink. It is found in Gethsemane where the Supplicant begs His Father to let
the cup of suffering pass by Him and yet resigns His will to His Father’s. It
is found at Golgotha, where the King refuses to call on His army of angels to
rescue Him. It is found in the empty tomb, where the Prince of Life shook off
the bonds of death… forever!”

The preacher’s
words drew Sarah like no words of any religious man had ever done. She felt
hungry and thirsty, but she didn’t know for what. It wasn’t a physical hunger,
but a spiritual and emotional one. As he’d spoken on and on, her mind pictured
that Jesus. Not Jesus as He hung week after week on the wall at church, but as
a Man who really lived and died and… rose again!

“This is where
peace is found, this peace of which the angels sang,” the preacher continued.
“Every man, every woman, every child can only find true peace
in Him!
”

Finished with
the dishes, Sarah blotted her wet hands on her skirt and went to the stove to
set the kettle on to brew her tea.
Peace in Him, peace in Him, peace in Him
swirled
around in her mind. She shook her head, feeling muddled. How could she have
peace in the Lord Christ? The minister seemed to be saying that peace from God
was the result of an
individual
choice, a decision.

But that didn’t
make sense, did it? After all, Sarah knew the rules of the Church. She’d been
baptized into it as an infant, celebrated her First Communion, and received the
Holy Spirit during her Confirmation. She and Charlie had married in the Church,
of course, and while Sarah had a lot of catching up to do – she’d been terribly
careless of late with prayer and Confession – she knew that she remained a good
Catholic.

Yet this radio
religious man seemed to believe that everyone – Sarah included – could have a
relationship
with God’s Son…

“Receive Him,
then, dear friends,” the radio man continued. “Receive Him not as the innkeepers
of Bethlehem, too busy making money to give Him room. Receive Him not as Herod,
too greedy for power to welcome the kingly Babe. Receive Him not as the
teachers of the Law, too fond of their own ideas to let Him overturn them.
Receive Him not as Pontius Pilate, too concerned with his own safety to stand
with the Savior. How, then, how shall we receive this King of Peace, you ask?”

How?
Sarah’s own
heart wondered as she poured her tea.

“Repent, my
friends. Turn from your sins and turn your face to Christ. ‘Come unto Me, all
ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest,’ the Lord Jesus
tells us. Believe that He suffered, that He died for you… for you, my friends.
Believe that He lives, yes, lives in Heaven for you, pleading on your behalf
before the Father.”

The voice
continued, but Sarah stood, not listening. What did he mean? The radio minister
couldn’t be preaching for Catholics, too; after all, Sarah already knew all of
that and had no peace.
Peace for Catholics must come in a different way,
she finally settled as she took her seat in the rocking chair. Tonight, the
radio choir sang a lovely Christmas hymn. Feet on the floor, Sarah rocked
back-and-forth, back-and-forth, letting her mind rest in the crackling music
coming from the radio.

G
race tiptoed up
the back steps.
Oh, Mama, please don’t get mad,
she begged silently as
she eased the screen door open and slowly turned the wooden door’s brass knob.
Maybe it wouldn’t squeak this time, and Grace could creep up the stairs
unnoticed, especially if Mama had already gone to bed.

She’d seen the
twinkle of lights in the cottage down at the property line.
Papa’s probably
with Gertrude,
she concluded. If he was home, Papa was almost always down
at Gertrude’s cottage; which made Mama more irritable than ever.

The door
squeaked, of course.

“That you, Grace?”
Mama’s question came from the dim kitchen.

Cringing, Grace
stepped inside, much as she wished she could stay out in the barn tonight and
avoid a big blowout with Mama. “Yeah, Mama,” she answered, pulling the door
closed behind her. She saw Mama sitting in her old rocking chair, moving
back-and-forth, back-and-forth as she usually did after she’d done the evening
chores.

“Make sure that
door’s shut tight. It’s cold tonight,” Mama advised without opening her eyes.

“Yes, Mama,” Grace
replied, shuffling her shoes a little to remove some of the snow.
Mama’s not
upset,
she realized, in her surprise stealing more than one glance over at
her mother. “Sorry I’m late,” she offered hesitantly. “I had to take it slow
through the woods because of the snow and ice.”

But Mama still
didn’t rebuke her. Keeping her eyes shut, leaning against the rocking chair’s
back, she only shook her head slightly, evidently dismissing Grace’s tardiness.
“You got homework?” she asked.

“No,” Grace
answered, shocked that Mama wasn’t boiling over. Maybe the advancing pregnancy
just tired her out too much? “Today’s the start of Christmas vacation.”

“Oh, that’s
right,” Mama murmured. “I forgot.”

Grace stared at
her for a good long moment, but she couldn’t figure out the reason for Mama’s
forbearance. Finally, she just turned toward the stairway. It
was
late,
and she was tired. It’d be nice to get a few hours of good sleep before waking
up with the chickens.

As she passed
Mama, Grace’s ear caught the strains of a song. It was peaceful, clear, and
sweet. Odd, because Mama usually turned on a loud comedic show when she wanted
to relax. Turned her mind off, she said. Grace paused and listened:

Come, Thou
long-expected Jesus,

Born to set Thy
people free,

From our fears
and sins release us,

Let us find our
rest in Thee…

The sound of the
choir filled Grace with longing – the wish that Mr. Kinner’s choir could have
continued; that her own voice, and not that soprano’s, could sing a high note
and receive applause; that she could use music to drown out the drab bitterness
of her life…

And yet, hidden
beneath all of that, behind all those open doors of desire, Grace sensed a
pull, a drawing toward the words of the song itself. She had the uncanny
feeling that something – Someone? – looked into her soul… or perhaps that she
peered into the windows of Someone Else’s heart.

A mist rose in
her eyes, unbidden and incomprehensible. Shifting the schoolbooks tucked into
the crook of her arms, Grace tried to shake off this strange, new emotion. It
was a more intimate drawing than the affectionate attraction she felt toward
Paulie. But a pull toward what? Or toward Whom?

She did not
know. “Goodnight, Mama,” she said softly. She turned to the staircase and made
her way up the long, dark flight.

T
he pencil
twirled, spun, and fell for the twelfth time in less than five minutes.

Come on, Grace.
Concentrate!

She’d spoken the
truth to Mama; she had no real homework, except for this literature essay, not
due for a few weeks. But Grace had already read the required book, and since
she had tossed and turned sleeplessly for well over an hour, she figured that
she might as well sit up and accomplish something.

But, despite her
best efforts, she found her mind pitching back and forth between two different
trains of thought, neither of which had anything to do with her literature
essay.

Can I really be
considering this?
Grace wondered as she pondered afresh Paulie’s – oh, and Mrs. Kinner’s –
suggestion that she join them for the Christmas service at First Baptist Church.

She almost
laughed out loud in her nervousness. What would Mama say if she knew? What
would Father Fredrick say if he ever found out that one of his flock had strayed
so far as to be caught sitting in a Protestant church? And only two days before
Christmas, too!

Yet, I want to
go…

Stiffening at
her own boldness, Grace turned to the other thought that seemed to have
instigated her sleeplessness: that song – hymn? – that the radio had played.
Mama had long since turned off the music and gone to bed; sitting at her desk,
all alone in the bedroom she’d once shared with three sisters, Grace had heard
the cessation of the crackling sound and Mama’s slow shuffle toward her
bedroom.

But the memory
of the song remained with Grace. And with it, the desire, the longing toward…
what?

Certainly not
for the “long-expected Jesus,” sung by the choir. Grace knew this Jesus; He
dangled, cold and lifeless at the end of Mama’s rosary. He hung, eternally
grief-stricken, behind the altar at church. His aloof stone countenance had
peered down at her from Grace’s grandmother’s elaborate gravemarker. Grace
worshipped that Jesus, yes, just as Mama and Papa worshipped Him: with fear and
gratitude. She knew that He’d carried the sins of the world, and she was part
of that world. Grace understood that, somehow, God forgave her and that Jesus’
death on the Cross had something to do with it – some kind of holy swap. But to
long for this Jesus?

No, I don’t long
for Him.

She
half-shuddered, thinking of the morose statue on her grandmother’s grave.
Actually, a thrill of relief coursed through her heart, a terrible gladness
that she could recognize that
that
Jesus had no place in her desires. No
connection to her hunger.

What, then? Why
did I have that feeling of such yearning with the song?
A feeling of
intense craving that had come and fled and left her coveting more. Again, Grace
shook her head to break the cobwebby thoughts. She pursed her lips and forced
herself by sheer willpower to concentrate on her essay.