I Shall Not Want (3 page)

His eyes widened, giving him the appearance of a starving orphan. She kept stuffing food into him, but his jittery energy seemed to burn it all off before he could put any meat on his bones. The climate here was going to be hard on him.

“Why aren’t we at Grampy’s house?”

“I don’t have a key to get in. We’re here sooner than I thought, so Grampy’s going to be surprised. C’mon, pull on your sweater and let’s go say hi.”

He looked doubtfully at his sister. “Are we gonna wake Genny up?”

Hadley unbuckled herself and twisted around to get a better look at her six-year-old. Out like the proverbial lightbulb. In LA, she wouldn’t have even considered it—she never would have left one of the kids in the car. Here… she glanced at the ice-rimmed snowbanks framing the parking lot, the lead-colored snow-heavy clouds. Air weighted with chill slid in through her partly open window. “It’s too cold,” she said. “She’ll have to come with us.”

“Mo-om,” he protested. “You could leave the car running. Nobody’s going to steal it.”

Wasn’t that the truth. She opened her mouth. Transformed
I’ve been smelling something since we left Ohio, and I’m afraid we have another exhaust leak
into, “Fresh air will do her good.”

“Fresh air,” Hudson said, with all the scorn a nine-year-old could muster. “We’ve had two windows wide open since we got into New York.”

“They’re an inch open. Stop complaining.” She leaned over the seat and shook Geneva gently. “Wake up, baby girl.” Considered, as she wrestled her groggy daughter into her sweater, how much time and effort she took, every day, to avoid saying
We can’t afford that
. The bag of toys and books from Goodwill. The Styrofoam box of sandwich fixings and no-name sodas. The tote filled with books on CD—which she had to mail back to the Glendale Public Library. All so that when she heard
Can we go to Toys ‘R’ Us
?
Can I get a book
?
Can we stop at McDonalds? Can we rent a DVD player
? she had a plausible answer. Something that wasn’t
we can’t afford it
.

For a moment, the outside didn’t feel too cold. Then, as she waited for Hudson to finish saving his game, she could feel it against her bare skin and her hair, seeping in through her jeans and her sweater. She wondered if the frog-boiling analogy worked the other way. If you started out at normal temperature and it gradually got colder and colder, would you even notice when you froze to death? She shivered. This was where she had brought her children to, this cold place her own mother had abandoned at eighteen, never to return. Now she was doing the opposite, turning her back on the world and everyone who knew her.

Hudson spilled out of his door. Finally. “Close it!” she reminded him, then lifted Genny onto her hip. She hustled them across the street toward the church. Hadley had at least one parka stored in Granddad’s house that would still fit her, but the last time the kids had visited in the winter they had been one and four. She would have to get them coats. Hats. Gloves. Boots. She hoped there was a Goodwill around here somewhere.

The interior of St. Alban’s was marginally warmer than the outside. She had been here before, of course, over the ten years Granddad had been its caretaker, but the richness of the place, the stone pillars and the wood carvings and the elaborate stained-glass windows, always gave her goose bumps. Like walking into the Middle Ages.

Geneva lifted her head off Hadley’s shoulder. “Momma, is this a castle?”

Hadley laughed. “No, baby, it’s a church. C’mon, Hudson, this way.” She headed for the door leading to the offices.

“Can I help you?”

Hadley choked back a screech of surprise. Beneath a window where stained-glass children were forever led toward the Throne of God, a woman emerged out of shadow and stone. Black shirt. Black skirt. It took a second before Hadley realized she wasn’t wearing a turtleneck but a white clerical collar.

“I’m Clare Fergusson.” She moved close enough for Hadley to make out her face, cheekbones, chin, and nose, all points and angles. “I’m the rector here at St. Alban’s.” She smiled a welcome, but there was a bone-deep sadness about her that the smile couldn’t dissipate.

“I know,” Hadley said. “I mean, I’ve heard about you. My grandfather’s Glenn Hadley.”

Reverend Fergusson’s smile tried to brighten. “You must be Hadley Knox. Mr. Hadley’s been talking about your visit for two weeks now.” She glanced toward the church door. “Um, if you’re looking for him, I’m afraid he ran out to grab lunch and go to the hardware store. He’ll be another hour, I’m guessing.”

Hadley let out an, “Oh, no,” before she could catch herself.

Reverend Fergusson looked at her. Then at the children. “You’ve been traveling a long way.” It wasn’t a question. “How ‘bout you come with me. You can wait for your grandfather in the Sunday school room. We’ve got a comfy sofa and some squishy chairs—and,” she said to Hudson, “a TV with a VCR.”

“Do you have movies?” Hudson asked, as they entered the hallway leading to the church offices.

“Yep. But I have to warn you, they’re all religious. We’ve got
Veggie Tales
, and
The Prince of Egypt
, and
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
, and the
Star Wars
movies.”

“
Star Wars
isn’t religious!” Hudson said.

“It’s not?” Reverend Fergusson paused at the head of the stairs, her mouth open. “Darn it, why doesn’t anyone ever tell me this stuff?”

It did Hadley’s heart good to see her son’s tentative smile. Divorce, disruption, relocation—these past months had been brutally hard on her little boy. She followed him down the stairs to the undercroft, watching him stick close to the rector.

“Next you’re going to tell me
Power Rangers
aren’t religious.”

Hudson giggled. “They’re not.”

“Dang it, somebody is going to have to answer for this. Who bought these unsuitable movies?” Her eyes widened, and she pressed her fingers against her mouth. “Uh-oh.”

Hudson laughed openly, guessing the joke. “You did! You did!”

The Reverend Fergusson’s whole body sagged as she plodded down the dimly lit hall. “I’m so ashamed,” she said. Hudson giggled again. “And here we are.” She opened a door. She switched on the light to reveal a room that had been made as cheerful as a windowless fluorescent-lit space could be. Hudson ran to check out the low bookcase filled with toys, and even Genny wiggled out of her mother’s arms to explore the play kitchen set in the corner.

Reverend Fergusson rolled the television, on its stand, away from the wall and plugged it in. “We don’t get any reception down here, so it’s already set to play videos,” she explained. “You just turn it on and press the PLAY button.” She straightened. Looked at Hadley again, the same way she had upstairs, as if she could see beneath her skin. “What can I do for you?” she said, half asking, half musing to herself.

The answer popped out before Hadley could help it. “Tell me where I can get a job around here.” She wanted to call it back as soon as she had said it. The rector had meant something like
Can I show you the bathroom
or
Can I get you a drink of water
. Acting the hostess. Cripes, she thought Hadley was here for a
visit
with Granddad, not to repackage her life.

Except her eyes narrowed and she got an abstracted look, as if she was thinking hard. “What are you looking for?”

Something where I don’t have to speak to another human being
. Yeah, that sounded great. “Anything that doesn’t require college. I only have a GED.”

Reverend Fergusson, who probably had degrees up the wazoo, didn’t blink. “There’s a lot of seasonal work come summer. Agricultural work, construction. All the places in Lake George hire waitresses and chambermaids. But right now?” She frowned. “Shape’s not hiring. The Reid-Gruyn mill is letting people go, now they’ve been bought out. Let me ask around and see if anyone I know has a position open. What did you do in… where are you from again?”

“California. LA.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

The Reverend pinked up. Embarrassed. “I was thinking you don’t look as if you come from around here. Your tan, for one thing. And your hair.”

Hadley ruffled her short hair. “What about it?”

“Well, it’s… trendy. We don’t have a lot of trendy here in Millers Kill.”

Hadley almost laughed. “It’s a cosmetology school special. Fifteen bucks. Twenty if you want the shampoo and blow-dry. Which I didn’t.”

“Were you”—the rector paused, as if she were searching for the tactful word—“an actress? Or a model?”

Hadley thought for a moment before answering. “I wanted to be when I first went to California. I discovered when I got out there that gorgeous girls are literally a dime a dozen.” There wasn’t any bitterness in her tone anymore. It had been so long ago, it seemed as if those days were something she had seen in a movie rather than something she had lived. “The past few years I worked for a company that took inventories, I waited tables, stuff like that. Before that, I worked for the state department of corrections.”

“As a secretary?”

“As a guard.”

The reverend’s eyebrows shot up. “Well.” Her mouth stretched, as if she was smiling about something not very funny. “I know one place in town that has an opening. One of their officers has left for the state police in Latham. The police department’s hiring.”

Clare sat mesmerized by the falling snow. With her sermon outline cooling on the desk in front of her, she watched the flakes float past the diamond-paned window, each one a spot of brilliance against the soot-gray sky.
Flick. Flick. Flick
. She had been like this all morning. Unable to focus on her tasks. Unable to care about them—or about much of anything.

Mr. Hadley stuck his head in the door, bringing with him the odor of furniture polish and cigarette smoke. “Mornin‘, Father.” His usual address for her. She figured he thought of it as a gender-neutral honorific—like Captain, her other newly resumed title. “Thanks fer takin’ care of my granddaughter yesterday.” Mr. Hadley’s North Country accent made the word come out
yestiddy
.

“How’re they doing?”

He grunted. “They’ll all be better now she’s left that turd of a husband floatin‘ in the bowl. Sorry, Father.”

“Mmm.” She squelched her smile. “It must be good to have her back home.”

“‘Tain’t really her home, though mebbe it comes as close as never no mind. My daughter, God love her, dragged the girl all over the country. Never was able to settle, my Sarah. The only place Honey ever came to twice was here. Sarah used to send her to me an’ my wife every summer.”

Clare had lost track of the players. “Honey?”

“That’s her christened name. She changed it to Hadley when she was in her teens.”

I can see why
.

“Anyhow, I was just checkin‘ to see if you wanted me to get you a fire goin’.”

Clare looked at her hearth, the best thing about her mid-nineteenth-century office. On cold winter days, she could warm herself in front of its brick and iron surround. Now it lay dark and ashy. There was a metaphor there for her life, but she was too flat to pursue it. “I don’t think so, Mr. Hadley. I’m leaving for an ecumenical lunch in Saratoga soon.”

“ ‘Kay. I’ll stock your wood up some, though. S’posed to be colder’n a Norwegian well digger’s you-know-what the rest of this week.” He withdrew, leaving the scent of lemon and tobacco to mark his passing. She heard him addressing someone in the hall—“ ’Lo, Father”—and was therefore unsurprised when her lunch date appeared in her doorway a half hour early, tall and gaunt and hunched forward like a fastidious vulture.

“Father Aberforth.” She got up from her desk to greet the elderly deacon, best known as the bishop’s hatchet man.

“Ms. Fergusson.” He surprised her by trapping her hand within his much larger ones. He studied her with his penetrating black eyes. “How are you?” he asked. It was not a pleasantry.

“I’m sorry. Were we doing a session today?” The diocesan deacon had fallen into the role of her counselor and confessor. It was not a comfortable relationship. Their talks were like scalding showers: cleansing but painful.

“Sarcasm ill becomes you. How are you?”

She let her eyes slide away to the vine-and-fruit pattern of her carpet. “Okay. Good enough.”

He let her tug her hand free. “Good enough, hmm?” He lowered his towering frame into one of the two admiral’s chairs fronting the empty fireplace. “I suppose it’s always a relief to know one isn’t about to be dragged off and tried for manslaughter.” Willard Aberforth was nothing if not blunt.

She turned to her desk. The letter from the District Attorney for the state of New York, Washington County, was still there, half covered by the sermon draft.

Upon hearing evidence in the matter of the death of Aaron MacEntyre, the grand jury has declined to indict. Therefore, in accordance with the Medical Examiner’s testimony, the state of New York rules your participation in the events leading to said death is consistent with self-defense as defined in N.Y.S.C Sec. II, p. 1–12.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I dodged the bullet on that one.” She could hear the bitterness in her voice.

“You were justified, girl. I know it and the bishop knows it and the state of New York in its magisterial wisdom knows it. Let it go. You saved three lives. Perhaps more.” He paused. “Have you heard anything from this police chief of yours?”

“No.” Her tone would have warned off a lesser man, but the deacon, a survivor of the Battle of Cho-San Reservoir, wasn’t deterred.

“He is newly widowed,” he said reasonably.

“Yes.”

“Grief takes time.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you might approach him in a month or two.”

She folded her hands over her chair back and watched her knuckles whiten. “He isn’t going to want me to approach him in a month or two—or four. I’m the reason his wife is dead.”

There was another pause. “Would you do me the courtesy of turning around so I can talk to your face instead of your scapulae?”