The Sacrifice (18 page)

“You mean,” Rose said, “how come he's not where he ought to be? Well, the story is that George Wheatley turned down a bishopric.”

“He even turned down the position of canon,” Beth added.

“Rose passed!”
Mary was looking daggers at her partner, Beth.

Beth made sure her cards were in order, studied them a few moments. “Pass.”

Mary shook her head.

Without waiting to be prodded, Gwen looked at her cards briefly. “Pass.”

“He just wants to be a parish priest, I guess,” Rose said. “I can't think of any other reason why he would turn down such honors, such power.”

“That,” Beth said, “brings us back to Father Ronald Wheatley. Unmarried—and quite a catch.”

“Matter of fact …” Rose looked at Gwen. “You two would make an ideal pair.” Rose, Beth and even Mary were well aware that no matter how desirable Ron Wheatley might be, Gwen was the more physically flawless of the two.

For a moment, all four women sat lost in an envisioning of the wedding of Ron Wheatley and Gwen Ridder.

Father George would undoubtedly officiate. The newspaper photos of Ron and Gwen, he heartstopping in his handsomeness, she a study of perfection in white—would be clipped and saved, to be treasured by young ladies each of whom wished her own nuptials to be just like that.

Back to reality. This wedding hadn't happened. The couple hadn't even met. It might never happen. But if it didn't Gwen's guests would miss their guess!

“One club is the bid,” Mary reminded. “Everyone else has passed. Want to play it? Or give it to us and move on?”

“One bids are tough to make,” Gwen said.

“Oh, let's give it to them and move on,” Rose said.

“Okay,” Mary said. She gave her team twenty points and breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't really think she could have pulled in the minimum seven tricks.

Rose gathered the cards, and began in leisurely fashion to shuffle them.

Gwen removed the tray holding the remains of the tea sandwiches. As she did so, she thought about what she'd learned this evening.

If George Wheatley had turned down advancement, what effect might that have on his son's advancement? She would have to launch her crusade slowly and carefully. She would begin by making an appointment to see Ron: She would take instructions in the Anglican religion.

She smiled to herself. Her beauty would stun him. But she would play it cool. To this point in her life she actually remained a virgin. Losing that would have been a terrible price to pay to jump-start a relationship.

No, Gwen Ridder would offer herself purely and intact to whomever she eventually would marry.

This opportunity seemed heaven-sent. If Ronald Wheatley was all these girls made him out to be, she, his wife, would make sure he became a bishop—just in case he himself had missed the point and the boat.

He would be astonished at her biblical knowledge. Why, he himself might not have actually read the entire Bible all the way through. Of course it was hard to tell, when one read scattered passages, some from one or another of the books, and others in no particular logical or chronological order.

How could she miss? With her looks and her germane knowledge—dare she term it erudition?—she was tailor-made to become his wife. After which she would begin the campaign to raise him to the eminence ordained for him.

He would be a bishop and she would be the bishop's worthy consort.

Go with what you know.
She was very sure that she was doing just that.

Nothing would stop such an eminently qualified couple.

E
LEVEN

Ron and Gwen Wheatley continued to sit in silence.

It was the familiar conclusion to angry, bitter words.

This capped the end of a most frustrating and ill-fated evening. If anything, Gwen was angrier than Ron had ever seen her.

Staring holes in the kitchen table, Ron's mind returned to happier times. The times at the very beginning.

A phone call had started it all.

She was interested in the Episcopal Church. Could she perhaps begin instructions?

Of course she could. They made an appointment.

As he hung up the phone, he reflected on her voice. It was the most charming and feminine sound he'd ever heard. He was eager to discover what frame and what personality comprised that voice.

He certainly was not disappointed.

It was a Thursday night in the dead of winter. He hurried to answer the door.

There she stood. She almost sparkled. She wore a white coat with artificial fur at the collar, sleeves, and hem. The coat curled around her form in an attractive swirl. Her pillbox might have been a tiara, so well did it set off her face and hair.

She had never been in his church. Of that he was certain. At least not while he was officiating. He couldn't possibly have overlooked her.

They sat across from each other in the rector's study. She had been directed to this parish and to him by a friend. And, no, she didn't think he knew her friend. The friend, in turn, had heard of him from a Mrs. Rogers, a parishioner. It finally came together. He knew Mrs. Rogers.

They set up a series of appointments so that she could understand what the Episcopal Church was all about.

He had no idea what brand of perfume she wore, but the delicate fragrance lingered after her departure. He sat there a long time, alone, enchanted by the scent.

In subsequent visits, she gradually explained her upbringing, her very superficial religious upbringing. He learned that, while she was not E. Power Biggs, she did play the organ and the piano.

He could see how useful that accomplishment might prove in his parish. And—need he confess it to himself—in his life.

She overwhelmed him with her grasp and knowledge of Scripture.

She was perfect. At least as perfect as he could imagine.

In due time she was ready to become an Episcopalian. Actually, she was ready far in advance of her formal qualification. Ron prolonged the instruction period because he enjoyed her company so much. He needn't have worried; she was in no hurry to leave his presence.

So she was accepted into the Church, but kept seeing the pastor. In time they began a serious courtship. He was much more open in revealing himself to her than she was to him. He didn't learn until much later in their marriage that she had layers which only time would reveal.

The beginning, when they first met, was like a fairy tale. He knew nothing of those layers. He wanted to open himself to her, to let her see his ambition.

He recalled particularly a conversation they'd had just before they announced their engagement.

Almost as if confessing a sin, he told her of his goal: to become a bishop. For Gwen, that was the cake under the frosting.

Because he had been so hesitant to speak of this seemingly secular goal of climbing the ladder of success, he now remembered that conversation almost verbatim.

It had been a warm summer evening. They were sitting on a park bench.

“There's something you ought to know about me,” Ron began. “I mean, before we get so committed to each other that there is no turning back.”

“We're not there yet?” she asked coyly.

“Not quite, I think. It's about my calling.”

“I've got no problem with your being a priest. You know that.”

“It's more than that. Let me give you a little background—”

“If this is too difficult for you, you don't have to go into it.” Actually, it was of supreme concern to her. The sine qua non.

She could help him over any obstacles that might stand between him and the office of bishop. She was sure of that. But he had to have the drive and the desire to go the full way. She sensed that he was about to tell her how he aspired to be a bishop.

She was certain his drive was genuine. That was why she had persevered with him this far. What he was about to say was of supreme consequence to her. No way would she countenance his postponing letting her in on his ambition. For it was hers as much as his.

“Ever since I was a kid,” Ron said, “I've identified with my father. That's why I followed in his footsteps. I wanted to go to seminary. He encouraged me. I was pretty successful. The grades were good. The personality development was good. I never had a doubt that I could make it into the priesthood. Everything was A-okay. I had the world on a string.” He paused. “Except for one thing: I could never measure up to Dad's accomplishments.

“Take that voice, for instance: It's like an organ played by angels. Now my voice is not at all bad. But people don't come from miles around just to listen to me—”

“You are incredibly handsome,” Gwen interrupted. “He is not.”

“He's not a gargoyle by any means. As a matter of fact, he is the embodiment of what your country parson should look like. He is comfortable. Like an upholstered chair. His genuine concern for people is consistently evident.”

“He's not a saint.”

“Close.”

Gwen turned slightly toward Ron, relishing his impressive profile. “What does all this have to do with your priesthood?”

“It came to me in my final year in seminary …” Ron paused again. “I was in competition with my father. Not that rare in a father-and-son relationship … but a bit uncommon when both become priests.”

“How so?”

“I've seen a few fathers and sons who are Fathers with an uppercase ‘
F
.' Usually they are clearly pleased that they are in the same religious profession. They help each other. Defer to each other. Are better friends than in the run-of-the-mill parent-child relationship.

“But that is not the case with George and Ronald Wheatley. And I don't know how the divergence came about. When I was a kid we were really close …” He fell silent, in recollection. “Alice did a piece on my father and me. It wasn't her fault. She was the daughter that, it turned out, my father eagerly awaited.

“But I must say, it didn't much bother me. I didn't mind it at bedtime when Dad told her stories and sang her songs. I think we avoided trouble on that level because ours was not a dysfunctional family. Dad, but especially Mother, loved us differently but equally.

“This was also the case when Richard came along. Somehow, Alice and I knew Richard would be the last child in the family. But he didn't get any special treatment because he was the baby. No more than did Alice turn out badly because she was the middle child.”

Gwen shook her head slightly. “What a family! Especially compared with mine. From time to time I wonder at what my life would have been if I hadn't been an only child. In the same school of thought that you've been using, I should have been pampered, spoiled.” She gave a ladylike snort. “The way things turned out, I was lucky to get out of there in one piece. “Do you know how lucky you are to have the family you have?”

“Of course I do. But no family … no one but God … is perfect.”

“Agreed. But I still don't understand what this has to do with your priesthood?”

“I was coming to that.” He picked up his retrospection. “All that time, when I was a kid, admiring my father, everything was fine. If anything, I was extremely proud of him, his natural attributes, his talent, his accomplishments. That attitude remained all through my years in seminary.

“But after I was ordained, it was as if he threw down the gauntlet. ‘Outdistance me if you can,' he seemed to be saying.

“Well, I tried. I gave it my best shot. And I found some measure of success. In all fairness, I accomplished more than just about any other priest—excepting only George Wheatley.

“He's the one who had the column in a large metropolitan newspaper. He's the one who had the radio program on a powerful station serving a good part of southwestern Ontario as well as a large section of southeastern Michigan.

“My father had talent to burn. He had only one way to go: to become a bishop. He never mentioned the high office. But it was his for the asking. He didn't even have to acknowledge it.

“Now, you see, I've been flirting with the same goal. But I've known all along that my quest was futile.”

“Futile? Why? You would've been the next best thing to your father. There is more than one diocese that needs a bishop.”

“I know. But I—discreetly, of course—talked it over with some influential members of the Church. In effect, they told me to cool my engine … that I didn't stand a chance.”

“But why not?”

“A dynasty. They were afraid of establishing a dynasty. Which could happen if my father were made bishop and then I were to become a bishop, too. And then what about little Alice? Suppose she were to become a priest—and a very competent one, too? There would always be the chance that the electors might eventually turn to her.

“They referred to the Kennedy clan. Joe, the oldest son, was being groomed to be President. He died a war hero. But Jack stepped right in. When he was assassinated, Bob ran, and might well have made it.