Nine Lives To Die

St. Cyril’s was set back from Route 250. Quiet and beautiful, it invited congregants to worship by its peacefulness alone. The Victorian-style church, like all the churches and synagogues in Albemarle County, was a vital hub of community activity, and its priest, like his colleagues of different faiths, had insight into not just his congregants but to the community as a whole.

An alert member of the clergy would quickly know what was happening in the area, to whom and often why. The real question was: What does one do about it?

St. Cyril’s, with a very mixed congregation—rich, poor, white, Asian, Hispanic, African American—was no exception. Clothing, toys, kitchenwares poured in for the holiday gift giving. Western Route 250, a ribbon of privilege, had residents who could give more, and many did. The labels in the clothing would have brought money from local resale boutiques. One might say, “Well, they can afford it.” But how many who can, give?

Reverend Jones had been phoned by Father O’Connor, who assisted the aging parish priest. Father David O’Brien was slowing down, so these days Father O’Connor assumed more and more responsibility. The huge volume of donated goods this year was such that Susan Tucker arranged to begin distribution before December 20. Father O’Connor also told Reverend Jones that they had lost some valuable organizing time due to Pete’s shocking death.

Susan borrowed a Suburban, as it could carry more than either her or Harry’s station wagon, as goods continued to pour in. There was room in the vehicle for the animals, which the two ladies took along. In the past, they’d discovered that when they would call on houses with an elderly person living alone the animals made them so happy, often lowering their fear of who was at the door. Their cats and dogs also got the kids excited, and there were far more children in need than public officials realized. In rural areas, the poor are often invisible.

“Am I glad to see you.” Father O’Connor beamed when Harry and Susan walked into St. Cyril’s. “We’re working around the clock to get all these boxes packed.”

“Oh, my God,” Harry exclaimed, then realized where she was.

“Right place to say it.” The attractive priest smiled. “I’ve said worse.”

Neatly sorted and stacked, clothing filled every table, piled on the floor; even the walkways between the tables were clogged. There was even more here at St. Cyril’s than there had been at St. Luke’s.

Jan McGee had driven over from Manakin-Sabot to help. This lady could organize anything. Jessica and Arden had needed the help. Jan approached Susan and Harry, saying, “Isn’t this something?”

“Yes, it is.” Susan wormed her way through a narrow aisle to chat with Jan while Harry went over the delivery list with Father O’Connor.

“Susan, if the roads are treacherous off the main roads, put some bags of kitty litter in the back of the truck or SUV,” Jan advised.

“I’ll remember that. We will all start out with plenty of ballast. It’s later, after we drop everything off, that I worry about.”

“Kitty litter,” Jan repeated. “I didn’t grow up in Grundy, Virginia, for nothing.”

Susan laughed, then thanked Jan for pitching in at the last minute.

“You know, Susan, it’s not me. It’s everyone.” Jan was always happy to share praise. “In times like this we’ve got to pull together.”

While those two caught up, Harry unfolded her county map. “The Dybecks are here, right?”

“Don’t you have GPS?” asked Father O’Connor.

“Heavenly guidance of a technological sort?” Harry scoffed. “Why bother? Half the time, the directions take you miles out of your way. It’s not that I don’t know where these back roads are. I bet I know about every back road in this county, but I don’t always know which house is which or exactly where. Some are pretty well hidden.”

“I figure it depends on what they’re growing.” Father O’Connor chuckled.

“There is that,” Harry agreed.

“A lot of the mailboxes have no names or numbers, and some of these people don’t have mailboxes.”

“You know, you have to have your number on your mailbox,” Harry the ex-postmistress said. “But this is the country. If one is a federal employee you serve your people even if there are slight variations in the rules when doing so.”

“Too many rules. Beyond the Ten Commandments, it’s all just paperwork.” Father O’Connor ran his hand over his clean-shaven face. “Okay, after the Dybecks, continue down to the base of the mountains to Mrs. Killigan. She’s elderly and can’t hear too well, so you’ll have to make a racket.”

He marked each delivery spot on the map with colored pens. Father O’Connor used a red marker if someone was hard of hearing, blue if their eyes were bad, black if they had a vicious dog, black and red if they were vicious. Sometimes folks went on a mean drunk. Best to know who. Drunks were marked with a wavy red line. A wavy blue line meant the person was a touch odd.

Both Father O’Connor and Jan helped the girls load up the vehicles. Being animal people, too, they petted the cats and Tucker and Owen, Susan’s corgi, Tucker’s brother.

By the last carry out, Father O’Connor was huffing and puffing. “Whew,” he said to Harry and Susan. “Thank you for this, for being at the Silver Linings fund-raiser, and for taking on so many extra deliveries while we pray for Charlene and her sons, as well as console the boys in Silver Linings.”

“Father,” Harry replied, “we all do what we can.”

“How long is this going to take?” Pewter, leaning toward peevish, asked, as Harry and Susan shut the Suburban doors.

“Who knows?” Owen replied, always smiling.

“Long enough to get you crabby,” Tucker teased the gray cannonball.

“Two seconds. You have two seconds to amend your attitude.” Pewter unleashed the claws of her right paw.

Realizing the back of the SUV now allowed little room to hide or run around, Owen soothed the cat’s feelings. “Oh, Pewter, all Tucker wants is to be the center of your attention.”

After one hour, Harry and Susan had dropped off one quarter of the goods. The back roads—some plowed, some not—made for heavy going.

Harry checked the map. “We’ve got one delivery on that dirt road that runs east and west from Route 240 all the way back past Beaver Dam. No colors by this name. That’s good.”

“Jeez, I don’t want to get stuck back there if there’s ice on the road,” said Susan.

“Know what you mean.” Harry concentrated as Susan turned left, for they were heading north. “It doesn’t always get plowed out and it’s so darn twisty and narrow.”

Susan drove slowly. The bare trees did improve vision back into the various hollows and meadows. “Coming up on Mr. Thompson,” she said. “Haven’t seen him in a long time.”

As they swung round a tight twist, a small, once painted wooden dwelling sat between two majestic oaks, their dry brown leaves still attached.

Many oaks do not drop their old leaves, which are instead pushed off by the swelling buds in spring. So the oaks rustle from late fall until spring, creating a mournful sound, the sound of winter.

“Susan, just stop here,” ordered Harry, sometimes bossy. “There’s no way you can drive in there. Snow’s too deep. It’s not dug out. ’Course, Mr. Thompson’s old and it’s hard work.”

“I can’t leave the car in the middle of this road.”

“Why not? You see any other traffic? You stay here. I’ll carry in the box.”

“It’s heavy,” Susan fretted.

“I’m a strong farm girl. If a car beeps at you, you just go on and turn around and come back for me when you can.”

“All right, but I don’t like this.”

“I didn’t say you’d like it.” Harry opened the door, glad she had on snow boots. Opening the back of the big vehicle, she wiggled out a big box.

With a grunt, she hoisted it up, leaned it against her chest, and pushed through the snow. No path had been dug out to the door either. Tucker, ever mindful of her duties as Harry’s dog, jumped out and followed. By the time Harry reached the screened door, hanging on one hinge, sweat rolled down her back. Once at the door, she put down the package and knocked. No response. Knocked again, harder.

At last, the door creaked open. A once handsome old man, now unshaven, smiled at her. “Harry Haristeen.”

“Mr. Thompson. Merry Christmas from St. Cyril’s.”

“Come on in. It’s cold out there,” said her former eleventh-grade math teacher.

“Only for a minute, sir. Susan and I are making deliveries.”

“Susan Bixby?”

“Tucker.”

“She’ll always be Bixby to me.” He smiled at Harry. “Esther Mercier and I always said you two were good math students. So many girls weren’t.”

“That’s kind of you to say. I liked solid geometry and trig. Once I got to college, I didn’t like calculus.”

“Calculus is the dividing line. Basic mathematics is practical, measurements, weight. But calculus opens the door to theory and, once mastered, that theory allows us to build guided missiles. What you can do with higher math, well, I don’t think we even know the possibilities.” He looked down at Tucker. “I have dog biscuits. My old dog, The Terminator, is sound asleep. Can’t hear or see too good anymore, so he sleeps. He’s in the kitchen by the wood-burning stove.”

“Thank you. Tucker doesn’t need treats. She’s getting a little thick around the middle.” Harry paused. “It was good to see you, Mr. Thompson. I’d better go.”

“You tell Susan hello.”

“I will, sir.”

As Harry trudged back she considered the ravages of alcohol. Mr. Thompson had been such a good-looking man, and so bright.

Each year he drank a little more until he started to sneak a drink at work and then two. Sometimes he didn’t show up for class. Once fired, he worked at manual labor, but he became too unreliable. Good as his mind was, nice as he was, he couldn’t stop with the booze.

“Mr. Thompson says hello,” said Harry, climbing back in the vehicle.

“How’s he look?”

“Like you’d expect. When’s the last time you saw him?” Harry inquired.

“At the convenience store. I was coming the back way from Boonesville. Got thirsty. I was shocked when I saw him.”

Harry, checking her map, said, “If you can find a turnaround, take it. Otherwise, we’ll come out near Batesville.”

“Used to be a covered bridge down there. That’s what Dad said,” Susan mused. “Tore so many down.”

“Ever wonder what things will look like in one hundred years?” Harry pointed to a plowed-out private road. “Bet you can turn this big boat around there.”

“If not, I hope you can push.” Susan carefully began to negotiate the plowed private drive while backing partway into the narrow state road. “No, I haven’t thought a century ahead. I’m not ready yet for tomorrow.”

They bantered more as Susan, out now, headed toward a high ridge behind The Miller School.

Two hours later, they had just one delivery left, to a small tidy cottage near the Nelson County line. Pewter and Mrs. Murphy slept in the plush bed with sides that Susan had thoughtfully put in the car for Owen. The two dogs stared out the closed windows, observing everything.

The small cottage came into view as they slid around a bend in the old side road. The front walkway, framed by huge boxwoods covered in snow, was inviting. The door was painted bright red and drew one’s eye right to it through the boxwoods.

They checked the list. There was a blue wavy line and neither remembered what that had meant.

Harry carried a box of foodstuffs while Susan carried a box of clothing.

Reaching the door, Harry put down the heavy carton, lifted the brass knocker, and gave two loud raps.

The door was flung open so quickly it took them all aback, even the dogs.

“Don’t I know you? I’m Miss Rice.”

Harry stared into bright blue eyes, an older woman of average height, wearing jeans and a clean sweater. With one arm she held a small dog, who also regarded the visitors suspiciously.

“We’re from St. Cyril’s.”

“That tells me where you’re from, not who you are,” the woman correctly pointed out. “Sometimes my memory fogs up, but you all look familiar.”

Harry introduced herself and Susan, as well as the dogs. The door opened, they stepped inside and set down the cartons.

“Of course.” Flo Rice nodded.

“Ma’am, this one is heavy. Would you like me to carry it to the kitchen?” Harry asked.

“That would be nice.” Miss Rice pointed Harry to the kitchen.

The house’s interior was tidy but quite chilly. A fire in a fireplace tried to heat the front rooms. When Harry placed the carton on the kitchen table she smelled a strong odor, felt some warmth, then noticed a small kerosene heater tucked into an old fireplace.

Susan stood back in the living room, trying to make conversation.

“I’m not Catholic,” said Miss Rice. “I was, once. I remember you all used to come to the stables,” she said to Susan. “Mrs. Valencia’s stables. I was a practicing Catholic then.” She set down her dog and folded her arms across her chest. “I thank you and the church. Once they took Latin out of the church, I lost interest, really.”

“Yes, ma’am,” both women replied, although neither one really knew what to say.

“Gas is too expensive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Everything is too expensive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Harry noticed a crucifix on one wall. That was it for anything that might be considered décor. Plain walls, plain floors, old furniture, but a bookcase filled with books, many with beautiful bindings.

“You two don’t read Latin, do you? Took it out of the schools, too.”

“Miss Rice, we both took four years of Latin in high school.” Susan hoped this was a pleasing answer.

“Good. But no Latin in schools now.”

“Miss Rice, I think private schools may offer it, but the state schools, maybe none.”

“Enforced stupidity!” Flo clamped her lips together.

“You’re right,” said Susan. Agreeing with the old lady was the only route to take, but she did think it was unwise to remove Latin. “Some schools don’t offer German either,” she added.

Harry had her hand on the doorknob as the dogs barked outside. “Ma’am, we wish you a Merry Christmas.”

“Are they wishing me a Merry Christmas, too?” A slight smile crossed her lips as the old lady regarded the menagerie. She picked up her little dog again.

“Miss Rice, I’m sure of it.” Harry smiled big.

As the old lady opened the door, she said, “Quo vadis?”

This means “Where do you go?” or in more elegant form, “Wither thou goest?”

“Vale.” The two said goodbye in Latin.

Before she closed her door, Flo said with some fierceness, “I know things.”

On the way home, Susan sighed. “How terrible to live alone like Mr. Thompson or Miss Rice. I guess the blue wavy line meant oddball.”

“Or worse. At least she has her dog. For some people it’s the choices they made or the turn they missed in the road. They wind up weird and alone.”

“I think some people are just too hard to get along with,” said Susan. “Sends others running in the opposite direction.” She paused. “I vaguely remember her when she worked for Mrs. Valencia at the stables. She didn’t seem odd then.”

“Time changes people.” Harry simply shrugged.