The Language of Paradise: A Novel (23 page)

“Had he been a violinist, I would have had to refuse him,” Hedge said. “A fiddle wouldn’t do in church, you know. But a cello is majestic. It is deep. It inspires awe in the listener.”

“That’s fine for us, Papa, but what about the others? They aren’t used to change.” Sophy slipped the crutches under his armpits, and Micah and Gideon slowly stepped away.

The parson’s face contorted as his weight settled on the sticks, and he let out a breath through his lips. For a minute or two he stood in place, neither speaking nor moving, his eyes fixed in concentration. Gideon had observed this before. It was as if the pain were spreading throughout his body like mercury spilled from a vial, dispersing so he could bear it more equably. “All the more reason to jolt them out of their complacency!” he said at last, putting the force of his effort into the words.

Sophy opened the doors and the music swelled, rich and luscious. Hedge planted his crutches and swung toward it. Gideon and Micah fell in behind him, following so closely that Sophy had the impression they were levitating her father up the steps by will.

The source of the glory was not immediately apparent. It took them a moment to find the young man seated in the back balcony, all but obscured by the formidable instrument he was playing. The fellow looked more like a bank clerk than a musician, Gideon thought; yet his rapt intimacy with the cello could not be denied. He raised his bow when he saw them, but Hedge indicated with a grand gesture that he should continue.

The Reverend took a paper from his vest pocket. “The order of service,” he explained. “We will have to imagine the others—I could not ask them to come twice—but we can form a little mock procession ourselves. When the day comes, we can direct our visitors with more confidence.” He gazed at each of them in turn with stern fondness: the commander reviewing his loyal troops. “You know, children,” he said, “I thought I would need your assistance, but I feel so strong this morning that I might attempt the aisle myself. If one of you would get that chair? My spirit will not flag, but my body might. Mr. Birdsall, you will come after me—solitary today, sir, but soon to be girded by virtue before and behind. Micah, you will take James’s part and escort your sister—slowly, please, and don’t forget to give her your arm. Be serious, both of you. Remember, a week from now you will be taking this walk in earnest.”

The cellist, observing the scene from above, began to play Bach as Hedge started down the aisle. Of the three who waited, only Gideon knew enough about the music to identify it, but Micah and Sophy were no less lifted by its solemn joy. They stood together, constrained by a common tact from offering help as the Reverend made his laborious progress from one end of the church to the other, stopping after every few steps to gather his powers. The closer he got to the altar, the lower he slumped over his crutches, until, from the vantage point of the watchers, he resembled a suit of black clothes draped over an airing rack. Within feet of his goal he stumbled, and they started forward, but before they could go to him he righted himself. When at last he reached the chair, he stood with his back to them for long seconds before swiveling on his sticks and venturing a descent—bone by bone, it appeared—to the seat cushion. Hedge’s face as he looked out over the church was slack with fatigue, but peaceful—the emotion of a man who has taken a long route home. Lacking the breath to speak, he pointed a crutch at Gideon and nodded.

“The gallows march,” Gideon had described it to Sophy earlier, hoping to make her smile but also to quell his own dread. The source of his terror was not the union with Sophy but the falseness and finality of Hedge’s whole arrangement. He did his best, now, to walk with measured step, neither so slow as to look foolish, nor so fast as to appear disrespectful. This was not easy to accomplish alone, though the music helped. He wished he could feel the way the Bach sounded: stately and profound, summoned to a sacred calling. But the sight of the parson awaiting him with a bland smile confirmed that he was advancing toward a future that another man had ordained for him. How had he allowed himself to be maneuvered so? A gibbet would at least signify an end. He was looking at the rest of his life.

At the end of the aisle Gideon stood before the throne, consciously holding his shoulders back and his head erect, as Hedge waved him to his right. The Reverend nodded again, and Micah and Sophy began to walk. Gideon’s heart twisted as he watched them. They were like a couple of children, shuffling awkwardly as they strove to match their unequal strides and keep in step. Micah had folded Sophy’s arm into his own and placed his big hand over her small one, as if to protect her for as long as he could. She leaned into his side, looking alternately down at her feet and ahead to her fiancé. Gideon thought he might be tempted to violence if Hedge dared to offer improving remarks, but out of the corner of his eye he could see that the Reverend was as moved as he was. Hedge beckoned the two to come closer. He leaned forward. “I promised your mother that no vows would be spoken today,” he said, “but I don’t think she would object if I gave you a blessing.” He placed a hand on their bowed heads and spoke the benediction of Aaron, invoking the Lord’s face to shine upon them and lifting up his own countenance in the Deity’s stead. Then Micah stepped to the side, and Gideon took his place beside Sophy before the altar.

It was not real—not yet—but his chest was so tight that he struggled to breathe. The music had stopped in mid-phrase, and the silence gaped like physical space: an emptiness in which the two of them were marooned. He took Sophy’s hands in his and stared intently into her face, repeating to himself: the pearl of great price, the pearl of great price . . .

The Reverend gripped his crutches. He pulled himself to a standing position in a single heroic contraction of muscles—the first time he had accomplished the feat on his own. “I have prepared a brief homily,” he told them. His voice was thin, all his power spent on the struggle. “Pray God my memory is as durable as my legs.”

He cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved friends, we are gathered here today at the peak of this burgeoning season, when nature exults all around us and abundance is bestowed without our asking, to celebrate two joyous events: the formal calling to the Lord’s service of my student and amanuensis, Gideon Birdsall, and his joining in marriage with my beloved only daughter, Sophia. Little did I imagine when first I set eyes on Mr. Birdsall, a green shoot (if you will permit me to indulge the botanical metaphor), untutored in the world’s ways, yet endowed with a seasoned scholar’s gifts, that he would become an essential part of my work and a member of my household. Strange and wonderful are the workings of the Lord! But before I expound further on our braided history, I would ask you to consider what we mean when we speak of
celebration
. The Latin root describes ‘a place much frequented,’ even as our festive sanctuary is today. Look around you, my friends, and see—”

The doors swung open, disgorging not the multitudes they might have expected but Cephas Mills at full steam, followed by an ashen James.

“A wedding!” Mills exclaimed. “Well, well, well, nuptials are in the air these days. There’s no getting away from ’em, Pastor.” He spoke with an effusive pleasantness that might have been taken for good humor if he hadn’t been shaking with rage. He was fair and short like Caroline, sanguine of complexion, his slight frame long given over to the fat she was fending off—dollops of it, seeming to vibrate with the emotion he strove to contain. The only firmness in him was his stance. His feet were planted a half-yard’s width apart in the center of the aisle, his hands were on his hips, his chins were lifted to the pulpit at an angle so aggressive that his eyes retreated behind his cheeks. He was dressed like a gentleman, but looked, Gideon thought, like an Irish pugilist made daring by drink.

“Not a wedding, Cephas,” Hedge protested meekly. All of them were struck by the fact that he had called Mills by his Christian name. “A practice only. We have a week to go before the happy occasion.”

“Is that the new fashion then? To do a bit of drill before taking the big step? My girl’s a great one for keeping up with fashion. It’s a pity she wasn’t informed before running off with your worthless, scheming speculator of a son. If they had only thought to
practice
first, we could have stepped in and talked some sense to her, snatched her out of ruination’s way. But they’ve gone and made it official, Pastor, and there’s not a damned thing I can do to make it right. Not that I won’t try—I’m off to my lawyer when I leave here. A man with but one daughter does what he can.” Something seemed to break in him then, a crack in the armor of his bluster. He swiped at his face with one fist.

Hedge looked at James, and James looked back at him. The line of sight between them was so clear and straight that Cephas Mills seemed no more than an aberration.

“Don’t take it out on this one, Pastor,” Mills said. “He’s a decent enough fellow. He came to me direct from Boston and told me what he’d found out, and you can see for yourself what a state he is in. I do believe he loves my daughter truly, and that’s to his credit. I never was in favor of the match, though. I told Caroline she could do better. ‘If you want to see your life in ten years, look at the father,’ I said. ‘Pieties dropping from his mouth while his poor wife does all the work. It’s no wonder half his congregation’s gone over to the Baptists. And who’s to know what’s lurking under all the high and holy talk? One son a gambler, another can’t get a word out, the hope and heir packed off to godforsaken Lowell in disgrace. ‘Blood will tell,’ I told her. ‘The apple don’t fall too far from the tree!’”

The Reverend had received this outpouring with stoic impassivity. Now that Mills had ceased fulminating, it appeared that he would speak. Hedge inclined toward the intruder as far as he was able, and gazed at him with the same mildness he’d shown earlier. Indeed, it struck Gideon that his glance was broad and generous, embracing Cephas Mills’s trouble along with his own, and reaching beyond them both to the woes men are born to. He sighed and sank down into the chair, descending with a loose-limbed grace that seemed purposeful, his crutches falling inward as he let them go.

CHAPTER 19

____

WEDLOCK

T
HE REVEREND HAD HIS FESTIVAL OF CONVERGING EVENTS
after all, Gideon reflected afterward, though not precisely as he had planned. Hedge was present only for the first of the milestones, laid out in his best black vestments on a table in the parlor. Micah worked through the night to build him a coffin of oak for his last habitation, sturdy enough to withstand the elements for many years, whatever one’s view of mortal remains. He seemed comfortable in his new home, his features composed in the expression of spacious understanding that he had worn when he died. There was some discussion about whether he should be buried with his hat, or even with the crutches that had aided in his ascent to meet his Maker. Micah was the chief advocate for the crutches, and threw an uncharacteristic fit when the doctor suggested they be given to a patient of his who was crippled from rheumatism. “I m-m-made ’em for Pa,” he said, clutching the sticks to his chest, “and n-n-no one else will have ’em.” In the end, neither of these artifacts of worldly life accompanied the parson to his grave. His elegant fingers were folded over his Bible, with a spray of violets that Sophy had entwined to remind him of their walks in the woods.

On the day of the funeral, so many came to pay their last respects that not enough chairs could be found. Neighbors and friends, townsfolk, parishioners (including some who had left the church), seminary colleagues and fellow ministers filled the parlor to the walls and spilled into the hall. The doleful Satterfield was wedged into a corner, exuding consummated gloom like the Angel of Death, but restrained by lack of space from flapping his wings. Gideon read the Twenty-Third Psalm in Hebrew. He had thought he would be a pallbearer, along with Sam and James and Micah, but it was decided, without being overtly stated, that the absence of the fourth Hedge son would be too glaring. The Reverend was carried from his front stoop through a meadow spangled with wildflowers by a delegation of those same dignitaries who would have paraded down the aisle to celebrate his return to his pulpit.

At the churchyard, Reuben and his new bride stood apart from the mourners. Fanny refused to let them in the house. The doctor might claim that Hedge’s exertions had overtaxed his heart, but the woman who knew him best had no doubt that he had died of shame. Reuben looked the same to Gideon: a dark, sardonic figure, self-possessed. Even on this occasion, he observed the gathering from a cool distance, a corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. He kept a firm hand on his wife’s elbow—a restrictive measure, perhaps, because Caroline was weeping soundlessly, great, gulping sobs that racked her like a consumptive’s coughs. Gideon pitied her. He couldn’t help it. She was a fatuous deceiver who had betrayed a decent man for a bad one, but he was certain that until this moment she had never counted the cost of her actions. In a sense, he thought, she knew not what she did. It wasn’t innocence, exactly, but a flaw of nature. She was drowning in her own shallows.