The Testament

Thirty-nine

At six Sunday morning, Nate finished another hot shower, his third in twenty-four hours, and began making plans for a quick departure. One night in the city, and he was anxious to leave. The cottage on the bay was calling him. D.C. had been his home for twenty-six years, and since the decision to leave had been made, he was eager to move on.

With no address, moving was easy. He found Josh in the basement, at his desk, on the phone with a client in Thailand. As Nate listened to one-half of the conversation about natural gas deposits, he was quite happy to be leaving the practice of law. Josh was twelve years older, a very rich man, and his idea of fun was to be at his desk at six-thirty on a Sunday morning. Don’t let it happen to me, Nate said to himself, but he knew it wouldn’t. If he went back to the office, he would return to the grind. Four rehabs meant a fifth was somewhere down the road. He wasn’t as strong as Josh. He’d be dead in ten years.

There was an element of excitement in walking away. Suing doctors was a nasty business, one he could do without. Nor would he miss the stress of a high-powered office. He’d had his career, his triumphs. Success had brought him nothing but misery; he couldn’t handle it. Success had thrown him in the gutter.

Now that the horror of jail had been removed, he could enjoy a new life.

He left with a trunkload of clothes, leaving the rest in a box in Josh’s garage. The snow had stopped, but the plows were still catching up. The streets were slick, and after two blocks it occurred to Nate that he had not held the wheel of a car in over five months. There was no traffic, though, and he crept along Wisconsin into Chevy Chase, then onto the Beltway where the ice and snow had been cleared.

Alone, in his own fine car, he began to feel like an American again. He thought of Jevy in his loud, dangerous Ford truck, and wondered how long he would last on the Beltway. And he thought of Welly, a kid so poor his family owned no car. Nate planned to write letters in the days to come, and he would send one to his buddies in Corumbá.

The phone caught his attention. He picked it up; it appeared to be working. Of course Josh had made sure the bills were paid. He called Sergio at home, and they talked for twenty minutes. He got scolded for not calling sooner. Sergio had been worried. He explained the situation with telephone service in the Pantanal. Things were going in a different direction, there were some unknowns, but his adventure was continuing. He was leaving the profession and avoiding jail.

Sergio never asked about sobriety. Nate certainly sounded clean and strong. He gave him the number at the cottage, and they promised to have lunch soon.

He called his oldest son at Northwestern, in Evanston, and left a message on the recorder. Where would a twenty-three-year-old grad student be at 7 A.M. on a Sunday morning? Not at early mass. Nate didn’t want to know. Whatever his son was doing, he would never screw up as badly as his father. His daughter was twenty-one, an on-again off-again student at Pitt. Their last conversation had been about tuition, a day before Nate checked into the motel room with a bottle of rum and a sack full of pills.

He couldn’t find her phone number.

Their mother had remarried twice since leaving Nate. She was an unpleasant person whom he called only when absolutely necessary. He would wait a couple of days, then ask her for their daughter’s phone number.

He was determined to make the painful trip west, to Oregon, to at least see his two youngest children. Their mother had remarried too, remarkably to another lawyer, but one who evidently lived a clean life. He would ask them for forgiveness, and try to establish the frail beginnings of a relationship. He wasn’t sure how to do this, but he vowed to try.

In Annapolis, he stopped at a café and had breakfast. He listened to the weather predictions from a group of rowdy regulars in a booth, and he mindlessly scanned the Post. From the headlines and late-breaking stories, Nate saw nothing that interested him in the least. The news never changed: trouble in the Middle East, trouble in Ireland; scandals in Congress; the markets were up then down; an oil spill; another AIDS drug; guerrillas killing peasants in Latin America; turmoil in Russia.

His clothes hung loose on him, so he ate three eggs with bacon and biscuits. A shaky consensus emerged from the booth that more snow was on the way.

He crossed the Chesapeake on the Bay Bridge. The highways on the eastern shore had not been plowed well. The Jaguar skidded twice, and he slowed down. The car was a year old, and he couldn’t remember when the lease expired. His secretary had handled the paperwork. He’d picked the color. He decided to get rid of it as soon as possible and find an old four-wheel drive. The fancy lawyer’s car had once seemed so important. Now he had no need for it.

At Easton, he turned onto State Route 33, a road with two inches of loose snow still resting on the blacktop. Nate followed the tracks of other vehicles, and soon passed through sleepy little settlements with harbors filled with sailboats. The shores of the Chesapeake were covered with heavy snow; its waters were deep blue.

St. Michaels had a population of thirteen hundred. Route 33 became Main Street for a few blocks as it ran through the town. There were shops and stores on both sides, old buildings side by side, all well preserved and ready for the postcard.

Nate had heard of St. Michaels all his life. There was a maritime museum, an oyster festival, an active harbor, dozens of quaint little bed-and-breakfasts which attracted city folks for long weekends. He passed the post office and a small church, where the Rector was shoveling snow from the front steps.

The cottage was on Green Street, two blocks off Main, facing north with a view of the harbor. It was Victorian, with twin gables, and a long front porch that wrapped around to the sides. Painted slate blue, with white and yellow trim, the house had snow drifts almost to the front door. The front lawn was small, the driveway under two feet of snow. Nate parked at the curb and fought his way to the porch. He flipped on lights inside as he walked to the rear. In a closet by the back door, he found a plastic shovel.

He spent a wonderful hour cleaning the porch, clearing the drive and sidewalk, working his way back to his car.

Not surprisingly, the house was richly decorated with period pieces, and it was tidy and organized. Josh said a maid came every Wednesday to dust and clean. Mrs. Stafford stayed there for two weeks in the spring and one in the fall. Josh had slept there three nights in the past eighteen months. There were four bedrooms and four baths. Some cottage.

But there was no coffee to be found, and this presented the first emergency of the day. Nate locked the doors and headed for town. The sidewalks were clear and wet from melting snow. According to the thermometer in the window of the barbershop, the temperature was thirty-five degrees. The shops and stores were closed. Nate studied their windows as he ambled along. Ahead, the church bells began.

According to the bulletin handed to Nate by the elderly usher, the Rector was Father Phil Lancaster, a short, wiry little man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and curly hair that was red and gray. He could’ve been thirty-five or fifty. His flock for the eleven o’clock service was old and thin, no doubt hampered by the weather. Nate counted twenty-one people in the small sanctuary, and that included Phil and the organist. There were many gray heads.

It was a handsome church, with a vaulted ceiling, pews and floors of dark wood, four windows of stained glass. When the lone usher took his seat in the back pew, Phil rose in his black robe and welcomed them to Trinity Church, where everyone was at home. His voice was high and nasal, and he needed no microphone. In his prayer he thanked God for snow and winter, for the seasons given as reminders that He was always in control.

They struggled through the hymns and prayers. When Father Phil preached he noticed Nate, the sole visitor, sitting in the next to last row. They exchanged smiles, and for one scary moment Nate was afraid he was about to be introduced to the small crowd.

His sermon was on the subject of enthusiasm, an odd choice given the average age of his congregation. Nate struggled hard to pay attention, but began to drift. His thoughts returned to the little chapel in Corumbá, with the front doors open, the windows up, the heat drifting through, the dying Christ suffering on the cross, the young man with the guitar.

Careful not to offend Phil, he managed to keep his eyes fixed on the globe of a dim light on the wall behind and above the pulpit. Given the thickness of the preacher’s eyeglasses, he figured his disinterest would go unnoticed.

Sitting in the warm little church, finally safe from the uncertainties of his great adventure, safe from fevers and storms, safe from the dangers of D.C., safe from his addictions, safe from spiritual extinction, Nate realized that for the first time in memory he was at peace. He feared nothing. God was pulling him in some direction. He wasn’t certain where, but he wasn’t afraid either. Be patient, he told himself.

Then he whispered a prayer. He thanked God for sparing his life, and he prayed for Rachel, because he knew she was praying for him.

The serenity made him smile. When the prayer was over, he opened his eyes and saw that Phil was smiling at him.

After the benediction, they filed past Phil at the front door, each complimenting him on the sermon and mentioning some brief bit of church news. The line moved slowly; it was a ritual. “How’s your aunt?” Phil asked one of his flock, then listened carefully as the aunt’s latest affliction was described. “How’s that hip?” he asked another. “How was Germany?” He clutched their hands and bent forward to hear every word. He knew what was on their minds.

Nate waited patiently at the end of the line. There was no hurry. He had nothing else to do. “Welcome,” Father Phil said as he grabbed Nate by the hand and arm. “Welcome to Trinity.” He squeezed so tightly Nate wondered if he were the first guest in years.

“I’m Nate O’Riley,” he said, then added, “From Washington,” as if that would help define him.

“So nice to have you with us this morning,” Phil said, his big eyes dancing behind the glasses. Up close, the wrinkles revealed that he was at least fifty. His head had more gray curls than red.

“I’m staying in the Stafford cottage for a few days,” Nate said.

“Yes, yes, a lovely home. When did you arrive?”

“This morning.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then you must join us for lunch.”

The aggressive hospitality made Nate laugh. “Well, uh, thanks, but—”

Phil was all smiles too. “No, I insist. My wife makes a lamb stew every time it snows. It’s on the stove now. We have so few guests in the wintertime. Please, the parsonage is just behind the church.”

Nate was in the hands of a man who’d shared his Sunday table with hundreds. “Really, I was just stopping by, and I—”

“It’s our pleasure,” Phil said, already tugging at Nate’s arm and leading him back toward the pulpit. “What do you do in Washington?”

“I’m a lawyer,” Nate said. A complete answer would get complicated.

“What brings you here?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Oh wonderful! Laura and I love stories. Let’s have a long lunch and tell stories. We’ll have a grand time.” His enthusiasm was irresistible. Poor guy was starved for fresh conversation. Why not? thought Nate. There was no food in the cottage. All stores appeared to be closed.

They passed the pulpit and went through a door leading to the rear of the church. Laura was turning off lights. “This is Mr. O’Riley, from Washington,” Phil said loudly to his wife. “He’s agreed to join us for lunch.”

Laura smiled and shook Nate’s hand. She had short gray hair and looked at least ten years older than her husband. If a sudden guest at the table surprised her, it wasn’t evident. Nate got the impression it happened all the time. “Please call me Nate,” he said.

“Nate it is,” Phil announced, peeling off his robe.

The parsonage was adjacent to the church lot, facing a side street. They carefully stepped through the snow. “How was my sermon?” Phil asked her as they stepped onto the porch.

“Excellent, dear,” she said without a trace of enthusiasm. Nate listened and smiled, certain that every Sunday for years Phil had asked the same question, at the same place and time, and received the same answer.

Any hesitation about staying for lunch vanished when he stepped into the house. The rich, heavy aroma of the lamb stew wafted through the den. Phil poked at the orange coals in the fireplace while Laura prepared the meal.

In the narrow dining room between the kitchen and the den, a table had been set for four. Nate was pleased that he had accepted their invitation, not that he’d had the chance to decline it.

“We’re so glad you’re here,” Phil said as they took their seats. “I had a hunch we might have a guest today.”

“Whose place is that?” Nate asked, nodding to the empty setting.

“We always set four places on Sunday,” Laura said, and let the explanation go at that. They held hands as Phil thanked God again for the snow and the seasons, and for the food. He concluded with, “And keep us ever mindful of the needs and wants of others.” Those words triggered something in Nate’s memory. He’d heard them before, many, many years before.

As the food was passed around, there was the usual talk about the morning. They averaged forty at the eleven o’clock service. The snow had indeed kept people away. And there was a flu bug on the peninsula. Nate complimented them on the simple beauty of the sanctuary. They had been in St. Michaels for six years. Not long into the lunch, Laura said, “You have a nice tan for January. You didn’t get that in Washington?”

“No. I just returned from Brazil.” They both stopped eating and leaned closer. The adventure was on again. Nate took a large spoonful of stew, which was thick and delicious, then began the story.

“Please eat,” Laura said every five minutes or so. Nate took a bite, chewed slowly, then proceeded. He referred to Rachel only as “the daughter of a client.” The storms grew fiercer, the snakes longer, the boat smaller, the Indians less friendly. Phil’s eyes danced with amazement as Nate went from chapter to chapter.

It was the second time Nate had told the story since his return. Other than a slight exaggeration here and there, he kept to the facts. And it amazed even him. It was a remarkable story to tell, and his hosts got a long, rich version of it. They wedged in questions whenever they could.

When Laura cleared the table and served brownies for dessert, Nate and Jevy had just arrived at the first Ipica settlement.

“Was she surprised to see you?” Phil asked when Nate described the scene with the band of Indians leading the woman out of the village to meet them.

“Not really,” Nate said. “She seemed to know we were coming.”

Nate did his best to describe the Indians and their Stone Age culture, but words failed to deliver the right images. He ate two brownies, clearing his plate with large bites during brief gaps in the narrative.

They pushed their plates away and had coffee. Sunday lunch for Phil and Laura was more about conversation than eating. Nate wondered who’d been the last guest lucky enough to be invited in for stories and food.

It was hard to downplay the horrors of dengue, but Nate tried gamely. A couple of days in the hospital, some medication, and he was back on his feet. When he finished, the questions began. Phil wanted to know everything about the missionary — her denomination, her faith, her work with the Indians. Laura’s sister had lived in China for fifteen years, working in a church hospital, and this became the source of more stories.

It was almost three o’clock when Nate made it to the door. His hosts would have gladly sat at the table or in the den and talked until dark, but Nate needed a walk. He thanked them for their hospitality, and when he left them waving on the porch he felt as though he’d known them for years.

It took an hour to walk St. Michaels. The streets were narrow and lined with homes a hundred years old. Nothing was out of place, no stray dogs, vacant lots, abandoned buildings. Even the snow was neat — carefully shoveled so that the streets and sidewalks were clear and no neighbor was offended. Nate stopped at the pier and admired the sailboats. He had never set foot on one.

He decided he wouldn’t leave St. Michaels until he was forced. He would live in the cottage, and remain there until Josh politely evicted him. He would save his money, and when the Phelan matter was over he would find some way to hang on.

Near the harbor he stumbled on to a small grocery about to close for the day. He bought coffee, canned soup, saltines, and oatmeal for breakfast. There was a display of bottled beer by the counter. He smiled at it, happy those days were behind him.