The Winds of Marble Arch and Other Stories (63 page)

Sharon bit her lip,
wondering if there was time to put it back, if she dared leave them here on the stairs while she sneaked in and put it in the display case, but it was too late. The police were here. She could see their red and blue lights flashing purely through the stained-glass door panels. In another minute they’d be at the door, knocking, and Reverend Farrison would come out of the Fellowship Hall, and there’d
be no time for anything.

She’d have
to hide them in the sanctuary until Reverend Farrison took the police downstairs and then move them—where? The furnace room? It was still too close to the door. The Fellowship Hall?

She waved them upward, like John Wayne in one of his war movies, along the hall and into the sanctuary. Reverend Farrison had turned off the lights, but there was still enough
light from the chancel cross to see by. She laid the chalice in the back pew and led them along the back row to the shadowed side aisle, and then pushed them ahead of her to the front, listening intently for the sound of knocking.

Joseph went ahead with his eyes on the ground, as if he expected more sudden stairs, but Mary had her head up, looking toward the chancel, toward the cross.

Don’t
look at it, Sharon thought. Don’t look at it. She hurried ahead to the flower room.

There was a muffled sound like thunder, and the bang of a door shutting.

“In here,” she whispered, and opened the flower-room door.

She’d been on the other side of the sanctuary when Reverend Farrison checked the flower room. Sharon understood now why she had given it only the most cursory of glances. It had
been full before. Now it was crammed with the palm trees and the manger. They’d heaped the rest of the props in it—the innkeeper’s lantern and the baby blanket. She pushed the manger back, and one of its crossed legs caught on a music stand and tipped it over. She lunged for it, steadied it, and then stopped, listening.

Knocking out in the hall. And the sound of a door shutting. Voices. She let
go of the music stand and pushed them into the flower room, shoving Mary into the corner against the spray of roses and nearly knocking over another music stand.

She motioned to Joseph to stand on the other side and flattened herself against a palm tree, shut the door, and realized the moment she did that it was a mistake.

They couldn’t stand here in the dark like this—the slightest movement
by any of them would bring everything clattering down, and Mary couldn’t stay squashed uncomfortably into the corner like that for long.

She should
have left the door slightly open, so there was enough light from the cross to see by so she could hear where the police were. She couldn’t hear anything with the door shut except the sound of their own light breathing and the clank of the lantern
when she tried to shift her weight, and she couldn’t risk opening the door again, not when they might already be in the sanctuary, looking for her. She should have shut Mary and Joseph in here and gone back into the hall to head the police off. Reverend Farrison would be looking for her, and if she didn’t find her, she’d take it as one more proof that there was a dangerous homeless person in the church
and insist on the police searching every nook and cranny.

Maybe she could go out through the choir loft, Sharon thought, if she could move the music stands out of the way, or at least shift things around so they could hide behind them, but she couldn’t do either in the dark.

She knelt carefully, slowly, keeping her back perfectly straight, and put her hand out behind her, feeling for the top
of the manger. She patted spiky straw till she found the baby blanket and pulled it out. They must have put the wise men’s perfume bottles in the manger, too. They clinked wildly as she pulled the blanket out.

She knelt farther, feeling for the narrow space under the door, and jammed the blanket into it. It didn’t quite reach the whole length of the door, but it was the best she could do. She
straightened, still slowly, and patted the wall for the light switch.

Her hand brushed it. Please, she prayed, don’t let this turn on some other light, and flicked it on.

Neither of them had moved, not even to shift their hands. Mary, pressed against the roses, took a caught breath, and then released it slowly, as if she had been holding it the whole time.

They watched Sharon as she knelt again
to tuck in a corner of the blanket and then turned slowly around so she was facing into the room. She reached across the manger for one of the music stands and stacked it against the one behind it, working as gingerly, as slowly, as if she were defusing a bomb. She reached across the manger again, lifted one of the music stands and set it on the straw so she could push the manger back far enough
to give her space to move. The stand tipped and Joseph steadied it.

Sharon picked up one of the cardboard palm trees. She worked the plywood base free, set it in the manger, and slid the palm tree flat along the wall next to Mary, and then did the other one.

That
gave them some space. There was nothing Sharon could do about the rest of the music stands. Their metal frames were tangled together,
and against the outside wall was a tall metal cabinet, with pots of Easter lilies in front of it. She could move the lilies to the top of the cabinet at least.

She listened carefully with her ear to the door for a minute, and then stepped carefully over the manger between two lilies. She bent and picked up one of them and set it on top of the cabinet and then stopped, frowning at the wall. She
bent down again, moving her hand along the floor in a slow semicircle.

Cold air, and it was coming from behind the cabinet. She stood on tiptoe and looked behind it. “There’s a door,” she whispered. “To the outside.”

“Sharon!” a muffled voice called from the sanctuary.

Mary froze, and Joseph moved so he was between her and the door. Sharon put her hand on the light switch and waited, listening.

“Mrs. Englert?” a man’s voice called. Another one, farther off, “Her car’s still here,” and then Reverend Farrison’s voice again, “Maybe she went downstairs.”

Silence. Sharon put her ear against the door and listened, and then edged past Joseph to the side of the cabinet and peered behind it. The door opened outward. They wouldn’t have to move the cabinet out very far, just enough for her to
squeeze through and open the door, and then there’d be enough space for all of them to get through, even Mary. There were bushes on this side of the church. They could hide underneath them until after the police left.

She motioned Joseph to help her, and together they pushed the cabinet a few inches out from the wall. It knocked one of the Easter lilies over, and Mary stooped awkwardly and picked
it up, cradling it in her arms.

They pushed again. This time it made a jangling noise, as if there were coat hangers inside, and Sharon thought she heard voices again, but there was no help for it. She squeezed into the narrow space, thinking, What if it’s locked? and opened the door.

Onto warmth. Onto a clear sky, black and pebbled with stars.

“How—” she said stupidly, looking down at the
ground in front of the door. It was rocky, with bare dirt in between. There was a faint breeze, and she could smell dust and something sweet. Oranges?

She turned to say, “I found it. I found the door,” but Joseph was already leading Mary through it, pushing at the cabinet to make the space wider. Mary was still carrying the Easter lily, and Sharon took it from her and set it against the base
of the door to prop it open and went out into the darkness.

The light
from the open door lit the ground in front of them and at its edge was a stretch of pale dirt. The path, she thought, but when she got closer, she saw it was the dried bed of a narrow stream. Beyond it the rocky ground rose up steeply. They must be at the bottom of a draw, and she wondered if this was where they had gotten
lost.

“Bott lom?”
Joseph said behind her.

She turned around.
“Bott lom?”
he said again, gesturing in front and to the sides, the way he’d done in the nursery. Which way?

She had no idea. The door faced west, and if the direction held true, and if this was the Judean Desert it should lie to the southwest. “That direction,” she said, and pointed up the steepest part of the slope. “You go that
way, I think.”

They didn’t move. They stood watching her, Joseph standing slightly in front of Mary, waiting for her to lead them.

“I’m not—” she said, and stopped. Leaving them here was no better than leaving them in the furnace room. Or out in the snow. She looked back at the door, almost wishing for Reverend Farrison and the police, and then set off toward what she hoped was the southwest,
clambering awkwardly up the slope, her shoes slipping on the rocks.

How did they do this, she thought, grabbing at a dry clump of weed for a handhold, even with a donkey? There was no way Mary could make it up this slope. She looked back, worried.

They were following easily, sturdily, as certain of themselves as she had been on the stairs.

But what if at the top of this draw there was another
one, or a drop-off? And no path. She dug in her toes and scrambled up.

There was a sudden sound, and Sharon whirled around and looked back at the door, but it still stood half-open, with the lily at its foot and the manger behind.

The sound scraped again, closer, and she caught the crunch of footsteps and then a sharp wheeze.

“It’s the donkey,” she said, and it plodded up to her as if it were
glad to see her.

She reached under it for its reins, which were nothing but a ragged rope, and it took a step toward her and blared in her ear, “Haw!” and then a wheeze that was practically a laugh.

She laughed
, too, and patted his neck. “Don’t wander off again,” she said, leading him over to Joseph, who was waiting where she’d left them. “Stay on the path.” She scrambled on up to the top of
the slope, suddenly certain the path would be there, too.

It wasn’t, but it didn’t matter. Because there to the southwest was Jerusalem, distant and white in the starlight, lit by a hundred hearthfires, a thousand oil lamps, and beyond it, slightly to the west, three stars low in the sky, so close they were almost touching.

They came up beside her, leading the donkey.
“Bott lom,”
she said, pointing.
“There, where the star is.”

Joseph was fumbling in his sash again, holding out the little leather bag.

“No,” she said, pushing it back to him. “You’ll need it for the inn in Bethlehem.”

He put the bag back reluctantly, and she wished suddenly she had something to give them. Frankincense. Or myrrh.

“Hunh-haw,”
the donkey brayed, and started down the hill. Joseph lunged after him, grabbing for
the rope, and Mary followed them, her head ducked.

“Be careful,” Sharon said. “Watch out for King Herod.” She raised her hand in a wave, the sleeve of her choir robe billowing out in the warm breeze like a wing, but they didn’t see her. They went on down the hill, Mary with her hand on the donkey for steadiness, Joseph a little ahead. When they were nearly at the bottom, Joseph stopped and pointed
at the ground and led the donkey off at an angle out of her sight, and Sharon knew they’d found the path.

She stood there for a minute, enjoying the scented breeze, looking at the almost-star, and then went back down the slope, skidding on the rocks and loose dirt, and took the Easter lily out of the door and shut it. She pushed the cabinet back into position, took the blanket out from under the door, switched off the light, and went out into the darkened sanctuary.

There was no one there. She went
and got the chalice, stuck it into the wide sleeve of her robe, and looked out into the hall. There was no one there either. She went into the adult Sunday school room and put the chalice back into the display case and then went downstairs.

“
Where
have you been?” Reverend Farrison said. Two uniformed policemen came out of the nursery, carrying flashlights.

Sharon unzipped
her choir robe and
took it off. “I checked the Communion silver,” she said. “None of it’s missing.” She went into the choir room and hung up her robe.

“We looked in there,” Reverend Farrison said, following her in. “You weren’t there.”

“I thought I heard somebody at the door,” she said.

By the end of the second verse of
“
O Little Town of Bethlehem,” Mary and Joseph were only three fourths of the way to the front
of the sanctuary.

“At this rate, they won’t make it to Bethlehem by Easter,” Dee whispered. “Can’t they get a move on?”

“They’ll get there,” Sharon whispered, watching them. They paced slowly, unperturbedly, up the aisle, their eyes on the chancel. “‘How silently, how silently,’” Sharon sang, “‘the wondrous gift is given.’”

They, went past the second pew from the front and out of the choir’s
sight. The innkeeper came to the top of the chancel steps with his lantern, determinedly solemn.

“Where did they go?” Virginia whispered, craning her neck to try and see them. “Did they sneak out the back way or something?”

Mary and Joseph reappeared, walking slowly, sedately, toward the palm trees
and the manger. The innkeeper came down the steps, trying hard to look like he wasn’t waiting for then, like he wasn’t overjoyed to see them.

At the back of the sanctuary; the shepherds assembled, clanking their staffs, and Miriam handed the wise men their jewelry box and perfume bottles. Elizabeth adjusted
her tinsel halo.

Joseph
and Mary came to the center and stopped. Joseph stepped in front of Mary and knocked on an imaginary door, and the innkeeper came forward, grinning from ear to ear, to open it.