All for a Story (26 page)

“Technically, the groom doesn’t walk the bride up the aisle.”

“Who said anything about bride and groom? It looks like you’re about ready to give me away.”

“Two problems with that.” By now they were nearly to the altar. With the emptiness of the room capable of carrying his words to the far corners, he dropped both his head and his voice. “One, I’m not old enough to give you to anybody. Two, you’re too much of a brat for anyone to take you.”

She looked up at him with a playful pout. “Oh, Daddy, how you tease.”

He guided her into a row and they sat, assuming an identical posture, with their elbows propped on the seats in front of them. For a full minute, Max’s eyes scanned the scene carved into the white stone behind the altar —Mary and the Christ child, a manger behind them, angels looking on.

“It was carved from a single piece of stone,” he said as both an expression of awe and an attempt to inform.

“How do you know so much?”

“Uncle Edward. I was working with Sister Aimee and, in case you haven’t heard, she’s built an enormous . . . temple —” there was no other word for it —“in Los Angeles. We traded postcards and photographs.” He chuckled at the memory. “It was almost like a competition. Who could build a bigger, better church.”

“Who won?”

Her interest seemed genuine, and while he hadn’t given the Angelus Temple much of a second thought since leaving California, his mind suddenly filled with memories of the place from the laying of its cornerstone to the final service he’d attended.

“Hard to say. It doesn’t have the grandeur of this place. The windows and the carvings. It’s huge —”

“This place is huge.”

“Not in comparison. Sister Aimee’s is like a theater. Five thousand seats. Modern in every way. I think you’d like it.”

Monica narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Why are you spending so much time trying to analyze me? Who I am ‘deep inside’ and what kind of church I would or wouldn’t like? Because there’s nothing wrong with me here.” She tapped a dark-tipped finger to her hat.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hoping the calming tone of his voice would halt her increasing volume.

“I don’t need psychoanalysis —”

“I was just making conversation —”

“Or religion.”

“I wasn’t . . .” But her glare made it clear he would not be able to pass this off as merely an informal observation of architecture. Deep down, he wanted to know —needed to know —what Monica felt about faith and God and all those elements that would make her . . . what? Eligible? Worthy? And now it was clear that he’d hurt her. The facade she worked so hard to maintain was threatening to crumble before his very eyes, and her blustering did nothing to reinforce it. She perched on the very edge of her seat, looking close to panicked, and might have flown away if it weren’t for the fact that she’d have to scramble over his legs in order to escape.

His first instinct was to soothe what feathers he’d ruffled, but something told him that doing so would only result in another snap. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, sending echoes of creaking wood bouncing throughout the sanctuary, and stared ahead, taking in every detail of the Nativity carving while effectively leaving Monica alone. After a minute or so, he heard her chair creak a little too.

“Those four guys?” he said after a time, pointing to the figures flanking the centerpiece behind the altar. “They’re the writers of the four Gospels. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John.” He pointed to each in turn.

“They all look alike,” she said, but with no sense of malice.

“When I think about what we do —what I’m trying to do with this paper —I think about them. Their job, as it were, was to just write the story. To be accurate and truthful. They don’t judge or editorialize or try to compel you to believe or not believe. They disappear behind the words and let Jesus speak for himself.”

“So you want to create the Gospel of Max Moore?”

He chose not to see her comment as blasphemy. “I don’t want
to tell anybody how to live or what to do, if that’s what you mean. I just want our paper to tell good stories about good people. And then, maybe, our readers will want to be good people too.”

“I don’t want to disappear behind my words. Everything I say is truth, too, you know.” He felt her clutch at his sleeve and turned. “You need to understand that, Max. What I write is who I am. I’m not some created character. I go to those places; I do those things. It’s who I am, and I don’t care.”

“That isn’t really true, is it?”

“Of course it is,” she said, neither convinced nor convincing.

“So why isn’t your name at the top of your column?”

She didn’t recoil —not completely, anyway. Her hand remained on his sleeve, though her grip receded, and her face relaxed from its wide-eyed intensity.

“That was Edward’s idea.”

“Oh,” Max said, holding back the wash of relief at his uncle’s foresight.

“He told me it would be in my best interest, for now. In case, I suppose, in the future, I ever wanted to do something a little more substantial.”

“He was a wise man.”

“He was a good man, Max. Really, truly good. I don’t know why he didn’t show that side of him more.”

“I don’t either.” He covered her hand with his, and the sound of a subtle clearing of a throat came from the cleaning woman who now pushed the dust mop up the center aisle. “I think it’s time for us to go.”

“That’s it?” Monica didn’t budge. “Aren’t we supposed to pray or something? Light a candle? Or is that reserved for Catholics too?”

“Sure. We could pray, if you like.” Suddenly, though, he felt
uncomfortable. Should they hold hands? Go up to the altar? Kneel? The opulence of the sanctuary seemed to call for more than whatever simple, humble words he could say —if he should say any at all. Perhaps she wanted to pray alone, silently. Or for both of them? How was it that the mention of a prayer called up the same squeamish discomfort he’d felt locked in a bank vault with a bottle of whiskey?

To his relief, she’d taken the
Book of Common Prayer
from the back of the seat in front of them and was running her hand over the dark-blue cover embossed in gold.

“Do you use the prayers in here? I mean, if you can’t think of any of your own?”

“You can,” he said, treading carefully. “Or during the formal service everybody might read them together. But even alone, sometimes, it helps to read someone else’s words and feel a little less . . . alone.” He took the book from her and thumbed through its pages. “The psalms of David are in here. Imagine, the prayers he wrote thousands of years ago, and they can be my own.”

“Choose one.” She hunkered close to share the book. “I’ll read it with you.”

He continued flipping pages. “I don’t know how to choose.”

“The first one.” Like always, she sounded decisive, sure. He quickly found the Psalter, and together they read:

“‘Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful. But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night.’”

By the time he finished the second sentence, Max realized he was reading alone. Monica had let go of her side of the book. Her hands sat listless in her lap, her face downcast with a gaze that threatened to burn a hole through the page. Still, he read on about
the righteous man being like a tree planted near water while the ungodly blow away as chaff, clear to the final verse proclaiming that the way of the ungodly shall perish.

“It’s us,” Monica said once he’d stopped. “You’re this big, righteous tree, and I’m just a bit of blossom that’ll blow away.”

“I don’t see it that way,” he said, though he desperately wished he’d gone with the traditional twenty-third. “You’re no more a sinner than I am.”

“Really.” She took the book from him, closed it, and ran her fingers along the gold-embossed title. “There’s not a person alive who would believe that.”

“Monica —” He moved to take the book from her, to settle it back in its spot so he could take her away from this place, but she would not loosen her grip, so he chose to seal her hand to the book with his own.

“My mother, of course, thought I was a terrible person. Not so much when I was little, of course, but later. I’ll bet there were times she wished I would run away with gypsies, you know?”

He hated her sadness, especially as it blossomed in this place designed for worship, but he knew he had nothing to add. Nothing of his power could heal the wounds that seemed to be opening just below the surface of her bravado.

“But then,” she continued, “my mother was a horrible person too. Just a different kind. And I ended up surrounding myself with these boys and parties, and part of me wanted to think that I was better than them. Better than
that
. But I meet you now, and I wonder —”

“Stop.” He slid the prayer book from her, replaced it, and touched her chin to bring her gaze fully to his. “I don’t like to hear you talk about yourself that way.”

“Why?”

The question was a challenge, one he was not quite ready to meet. Not here, anyway, where only one of them felt safe.

“Because it isn’t true.”

“Or lovely? Or of good report?”

He smiled, somehow finding the strength to restrain his joy at her remembrance, frightened he’d startle her right back into hiding. “Exactly.”

The late-afternoon light had nearly exhausted itself by the time Max arrived at his own familiar front door. He opened it to find the day’s mail scattered on the floor, including an official-looking envelope containing his final paycheck from his job with the
Bridal Call
along with a short, personal note from Sister Aimee herself.

Max —

While your talent and insight here are greatly missed, I am amazed at God’s provision in filling the void your absence created. I find myself rising to editorial challenges for which he alone can equip me, aided by those he has brought alongside to be my Aaron and Hur as I attempt to hold up the vision set forth in our publication.

I pray that the God we strive to serve will bless your endeavors as well. Seek always to bring him glory, and he will make your path smooth.

I shall be more than happy to provide a glowing letter of reference to any establishment with which you seek future employment.

Your sister in Christ and co-inheritor of his Kingdom,

Aimee

And so went any thought he might have of returning. The amount written on the check would make a hefty down payment on a new automobile or purchase a used one outright. Given the orchestrations of streetcars, cabs, buses, and shoe leather, such a purchase was seeming more and more attractive.

He wandered into the tiny kitchen, opened a can of soup, dumped it in a copper-bottomed pot, and stacked a small plate with slices of bread and cheese. A ring of blue gas flames leapt to life at the touch of a match and would have the soup bubbly and warm by the time the sky grew completely dark. In the meantime, he bit into a slice of bread, chewing thoughtfully, realizing that Sister Aimee’s letter had nothing to do with closing off a path back to California. That decision was made the minute he sat in a church next to Monica Bisbaine. Or maybe the minute he sat down to corned-beef sandwiches with her after his uncle’s funeral. Either way, at this moment she was integral to any decision he might make. He wanted to stay in Washington because she lived in Washington. He wanted to keep
Capitol Chatter
alive so she would have a place of employment. A place for her voice. And if that meant a place next to him, all the better.

The clock on the wall read quarter to six, still office hours in Los Angeles. After lowering the flame underneath his soup, he went into the living room, stuffed the last of the bread slice into his mouth, and tried valiantly to speak around it when the long-distance operator came on the line.

“Los Angeles,” he choked, then gave the number of his former office.

“Mr. Moore!” Ida’s voice held all the warmth of the West Coast. He would miss her more than anybody. “How marvelous to hear from you.”

“Good to hear you as well,” he said, though he was already
anxious to sever the final tie. “Ida, I’m calling about that final piece of business you offered to handle for me.”

“Oh no. I don’t like the sound of that. Final business.”

He glossed over her statement. “I settled up with my landlord before I left, but my books are still there. Are you still willing to pack them up and ship them to me?”

“Of course, Mr. Moore,” Ida said, her voice now bustling with business.

“See if you can send them with a promise of cash on delivery.”

“Nonsense. I’ll charge the shipping to Mrs. McPherson. It’s the least she can do.”

That was Ida, always his greatest champion. Another responsibility he would have to assume. He gave her the address and asked her to repeat it back to him, and with a final expression of gratitude, wished her well.

He returned the phone’s earpiece to its cradle and went back into the kitchen to find his soup nicely thickened and steaming. With a towel wrapped around the pot handle, he poured it into a bowl and moved to the table.