Nine Lives To Die

Sunday, December 8, celebrated the Feast of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The Very Reverend Herbert Jones preached one of his famously rousing sermons. St. Luke’s somewhat strayed from the Lutheran dogma that avoided saint’s days. Reverend Jones felt those who had come before—leading exemplary lives, often lives of great sacrifice—should be remembered, whether Lutheran or Episcopalian, Baptist or Hindu. Anyway, so many saints suffered so exquisitely before the Catholic Church cracked open, it seemed churlish to Reverend Jones not to remember their holy devotion.

Harry, next to Fair, sat in a front pew in front of the lectern. She loved her pastor as a man, and she loved him as a servant of the Church.

His words on this day about the struggle of religion to honor and respect women struck a chord with her. Wisely, Reverend Jones did not dwell on the Immaculate Conception itself, for December 8 was the celebration of the conception of Mary, not the baby Jesus. How many Immaculate Conceptions can one have?

This thought occurred to Harry, followed by another in which she wondered how powerful men in the past wrote off outside children by a twist of logic—maybe not going so far as to claim an Immaculate Conception but some other twist of logic to wiggle out of an embarrassing situation.

As far as organized religion, Harry was devout in her own way, though she could never quite buy the whole bag of beans. For that matter, neither did many of her generation, among them her dear friends. They drew comfort and strength from their churches but shied away from dogma.

After the service, Reverend Jones stood at the rear of one wide church aisle to shake hands with the departing congregation. Waiting in the last pew and observing the passersby in all their Sunday finery were his Lutheran cats, Elocution, Cazenovia, and Lucy Fur.

“Good sermon. Poppy’s voice just fills the church.” Cazenovia had nestled next to Reverend Jones as he’d struggled to write the sermon. She felt a big compliment was deserved.

“Poppy always tries to find a good balance. He was one of the first in the county to welcome female reverends. ’Course, the Episcopalians sent an ordained woman here as soon as they were accepted and Poppy personally greeted her. He thinks we all stand before God, even animals,” said Lucy Fur.

“Yes,” Elocution agreed, and while she loved Reverend Jones, Elo harbored feline suspicion about organized religions. She kept them to herself.

“Should, but he’s talking to humans. They only want to hear about themselves, not the cat who kept mice away from the cradle or about any of us, really,” Cazenovia shrewdly commented.

“He slips something in about animals now and then.” Lucy Fur loved the Reverend.

Unaware of the kitty commentary, Harry and Fair shook Reverend Jones’s hand, thanked him for his thoughts, and then walked into the foyer. Light from the huge floor-to-ceiling handblown windows flooded the room.

Slipping her arms into her coat held by her husband, Harry glanced out one of the windows. “They’re early.” There was still unloading to be done. “ ’Tis the season of charitable projects.”

Fair, seeing the few cars that he recognized, said, “You go to the meeting room, honey. I’ll round up some of the boys and we’ll knock this out in no time.”

Harry stepped outside, the cold air bracing. She hurried down the beautiful stone arcade built right after the Revolutionary War to a two-story stone building at the end of this arcade. St. Luke’s was built around a quad, with the back part open. Three sides had arcades, the church smack in the middle of the longest arcade. Two-story buildings anchored each end. The rear of all buildings looked into the quad. Front windows viewed the slightly rolling lawn at the front. The windows looking directly out the rear had an unbroken view down to the lovely old graveyard bound by a stone wall, which was the same stone as the buildings.

The trees, bushes, and plantings made over the centuries added to this spot’s tranquility. Even with everything covered in snow, St. Luke’s beckoned in the pale winter light.

Harry reached Jessica Hexham’s car. Following Harry on foot were Susan, BoomBoom, and Alicia. A bit farther back came Fair, with Ned and two other younger male parishioners.

The driveway to the rear of the meeting room building had been plowed. As Harry was in charge of the buildings and grounds, she always made sure everything was properly plowed in the winter. In spring she planted, she mowed in summer, and she raked in the fall. She knew the grounds and the condition of the buildings almost as intimately as the men who’d built St. Luke’s more than two hundred years ago.

Brian Hexham drove their SUV. As everyone wore their church clothes, they stepped gingerly on the plowed macadam. Ice could be invisible.

Fair motioned for the two other cars and one truck to park next to the Hexhams, then he and the men began unloading box after box. Harry, Susan, BoomBoom, and Alicia carried the lighter ones, not because they couldn’t handle the heavy ones—three of the four women did farm chores—but because all were in heels.

Once inside the church’s meeting room, the tables were labeled: clothes, shoes, outerwear, scarves and mittens, china and glassware, canned food, toys and video games, pet treats, and miscellaneous.

Harry directed indoor traffic. Reverend Jones was still in his robe and vestments when he walked in, accompanied as usual by his cats.

“Look at all this.” He thanked Jessica, who was head of the fund-raising drive for St. Cyril’s. “Jessica, this is wonderful.”

“Everyone pitched in,” Jessica replied.

“Anything that brings our various congregations closer is a blessing.” Reverend Jones smiled.

Each Christmas, the churches in Crozet gathered necessities and gifts for those less fortunate. The various churches took turns storing the goods, sorting them, and wrapping them. On December 20, the boxes were delivered.

Over the last four years the drives had become so successful that the churches had to divvy up storage. The Episcopal and Methodist churches linked together, as did the Lutheran church and the Catholic church. Presbyterian, various Baptist churches, and the evangelical ones, too, all pitched in.

Apart from actual deliveries, the hardest task was determining to whom to give the gifts. The secretaries from each church’s guild went to the county offices, sat with the people there to identify those in need. Also a big help was the sheriff’s department. They saw what many other citizens did not. This year it was Deputy Cynthia Cooper who headed that effort.

Each year, more and more people slid onto the list for help. Rich as Albemarle County was and always will be, it, too, has people struggling.

“Look at that,” Harry exclaimed when Brian tottered into the meeting room struggling under the weight of a huge carton.

Fair quickly grabbed the other end. “What’s in here?”

“Wait until you see it.” Brian and Fair edged the box onto the toy table, which was filling up.

Brian pulled open the cardboard top, plucking out a shiny model of an F-150 truck.

Ever excited by anything with wheels, including a toy, Harry hurried over to the box. “Wow! Who donated these?”

The box was filled with toy trucks, all Ford models from various years. It was a history lesson in Ford products.

“Peter and Charlene Vavilov,” Jessica answered.

At the mention of Peter’s name, a hush fell over the room. Reverend Jones walked over, lifted up a perfect truck, 1954. He opened a door on the toy.

“These are collector’s items.” He looked into the box again. “Beautiful, just beautiful. We haven’t had time to talk about the terrible news about Cynthia finding poor Peter last night. That makes this gift even more special.”

The cats, now on the table, also peered into the box. Being less impressed, they leapt over to the table with sweaters, each snuggling into one. As the humans were mesmerized by the toy trucks, they didn’t notice.

“Charlene had mentioned she and Peter had put this together last week,” Brian informed them. “Of course, she thought they’d deliver this together. This is so sad. I can’t quite believe it.”

Susan, voice low, said, “How can we ever thank her?”

“By handing out the toy trucks,” Brian simply replied. “That’s all I know to do.”

Arden Higham walked over. “Somehow we’ve all got to focus on the task. After all, Peter was so happy last night.”

Everyone seemed to talk at once. A few of the people had still not heard the horrible news of Pete’s death, since it had just happened.

Leaving St. Luke’s, Fair, in his vet truck, headed east toward Garth Road.

“Honey, I just need to check the de Jarnettes’ gelding. Won’t take a minute. We’re halfway to their farm.”

“Okay. I keep thinking about Pete. How terrible for Charlene. Christmas will always be a reminder.”

“Yes, it will. You never know, do you?”

They drove on twisting roads, alongside fields glistening with fresh snow. Snow piled onto branches, the conifers bending under the weight, dark green peeping out against the white.

Ten minutes later, they entered through a tall, open, tremendously expensive wrought-iron gate. They drove up to a large new barn, also expensive looking. Lots of money was spent on show. The barn was functional, though, a relief to Fair, who dreaded working in barns with chandeliers, brass polished everywhere, yet the horses’ stall floors were uneven. Things like that drove him crazy.

Fair returned to Harry waiting in the truck ten minutes later. He slid behind the wheel. “Doing fine.”

Before he could drive around the circle, Max de Jarnette appeared on the house’s porch, waving them over.

“Fair. Hello, Harry.” After a brief acknowledgment of Pete’s accident, the buff middle-aged man asked, “Fair, would you donate a free vet check for the youth riding program?”

“Sure. Max, go back inside. You’ll freeze to death out here.”

“Yeah. Well, I apologize for not asking at the Silver Linings event. Too much going on. I’m glad it was a great event. I’m glad Pete drove off happy.”

“He surely did. The night was the most successful fund-raiser ever.”

At last headed home, Harry sighed. “How do we get roped into these things?”

“I don’t mind donating a vet check.”

“I know, but I mean all the fund-raisers and parties we have to attend between now and New Year’s.”

“Honey, the only way I know to get out of them is death.” Right away, he realized he’d said the wrong thing at the wrong time.

“Bite your tongue.”

“You’re right.” He paused, hoping to lighten the mood. “How about a dread disease? Is that better?”