Amy drops her knitting so she can gesture with her hands. “Oh, the dress is beautiful, although it is a little too revealing in the neckline, I feel. I spoke to Lisa about that. I said, ‘Honey, it’s best to leave the treasure out of sight until the wedding night,’ and she laughed at me. Laughed! I’m worried about what the two of them are already up to.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a premature baby weighed eight pounds,” Annie murmurs, and Amy bristles.
“How dare you imply—”
“You implied. I was just being comforting.”
“She’s young.” Earlene’s needles click nearly as fast as her tongue. “And she’s a bride. I’m sure the dress is beautiful. That groom of hers, now . . .” She shakes her head, indicating that she could say things if she wanted to but is holding her tongue.
“What about him?” Amy demands.
“Well, there was that incident with alcohol . . .”
“He was sixteen! A lot of kids experiment as teenagers. He’s got that great job now, at Vaagen’s.”
“Easy now,” Earlene says. “I didn’t mean to start a war.”
She did, of course. Earlene thrives on teapot tempests. Bored as I am, spats and hurt feelings are not diversions I am fond of.
This time, Felicity changes the subject. “Do you think next time we might try a pattern for the blankets? Or maybe some prettier yarn?”
She’s the new youth pastor’s wife, a pretty little thing, all big eyes and enthusiasm. She’s not yet indoctrinated in the unwritten bylaws under which the knitting circle operates, but she’s about to be educated. Amy and Earlene drop their feud and turn on her, instant allies in the face of this threat to the status quo.
“Fancy yarns are more expensive,” Earlene says. “The idea is to make these blankets as cheaply as possible so that the babies of drug-addicted mothers will have one special thing.”
“If some are nicer than others, some babies will feel left out,” Amy chimes in.
“And the idea of just making all of the blankets cute is preposterous, of course.” Annie’s voice holds an edge, half humor and half something darker that connects with my own mutinous soul. If I weren’t the pastor’s wife, Annie and I might be friends.
I glance at the clock. Four twenty. I’ve accomplished two more rows. At this rate, I’ll still be knitting this blanket when I’m eighty. How many minutes, how many seconds, is that?
Felicity’s blunder has opened the door to a hazing.
Amy, mother of the young and hopefully still-virginal bride-to-be, leads the charge. “So, Felicity—Lisa tells me that your husband has a . . . different way with the young people.”
“How do you mean?” Felicity asks, walking right into the trap.
“More contemporary. Less . . . biblical.”
“The music they’ve been playing!” Earlene adds. “Drums and guitars and such. No offense, but I’m not entirely sure it’s appropriate within the house of God.”
“God is probably grateful for the change.” Annie keeps her eyes on her knitting, not looking at me this time. “Think about it. All of the congregations, year after year, singing the same old songs. He’s probably bored to tears.”
“You are entirely too flippant about the Almighty,” Earlene snaps.
Felicity huddles deeper into her chair, bending her head so that her long chestnut hair hides her face, but not before I catch a sheen of tears in her eyes and a flush of embarrassment on her cheeks.
Church gossip has it that Annie is part of a growing faction agitating to replace Thomas with a pastor who is a little less repressive and a lot more open minded. Felicity’s husband is a step in that direction. It’s easier to bring new blood into the youth group than the general congregation, half of which is old and set in their ways.
Laying aside my knitting, I get to my feet. “Anybody ready for tea and cookies?”
It’s way too early for refreshments, but these are dangerous waters we’ve strayed into. I’ve got to stop this now before the tension escalates further, and I can’t think of any topic of conversation that will serve the purpose.
“Not for me. It’s not even five o’clock.” Leave it to Earlene to point out the obvious.
A loud crash cuts across my reply.
“What in heaven’s name?” Earlene exclaims, the clacking of her needles pausing as she listens for more.
We’re suspended in an oasis of silence. No clicking of tongues or needles. No rustling of knitting bags or unrolling of yarn. We all wait for Thomas to step out of his study. To say, “All is well, ladies. I caught a book with my elbow. I hope nobody was alarmed.”
Seconds tick by.
The silence continues. Thomas does not appear.
No footsteps. No indication of Thomas tidying up. He would never just leave a fallen item to its fate, any more than he would overlook the opportunity to save an erring soul.
After what seems like a small eternity, Earlene’s needles resume clicking and the rest follow her lead. A strange sensation coils in my throat, right above my collarbones. It’s difficult to breathe past it.
“Excuse me,” I murmur. “Let me just make sure Thomas doesn’t need any help.”
My shoes whish over the carpet of the living room. Tap-tap on the hardwood in the hall.
The study door is closed, and I hesitate, listening.
I know better than to disturb him when he’s behind a closed door. He’ll be preparing a sermon. Engaged in prayer. Maybe on the phone with a troubled parishioner.
But I hear nothing.
Lightly, I tap on the door, braving his displeasure. Whisper, “Thomas?”
No answer.
I tap louder, say his name out loud, even though I know all ears in the living room are tuned in this direction. Even though they will all hear his patient reprimand.
But he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t say, “Elizabeth. Can it wait?”
The doorknob feels cold and dangerous in my palm. I turn it, then stare in confusion, trying to make sense of what I see.
Thomas lies on the floor of the study, eyes closed.
For one confused instant, I think he’s decided to take a nap.
My eyes take in the details. The office chair tipped over on its side. The cup of chamomile tea I’d fixed before the circle, spilled, little rivulets of greenish liquid spreading toward the computer keyboard. Thomas’s legs bent at an awkward angle, his arms flung wide.
His Bible is splayed open on his chest, the pages bent. It’s this disrespect for the Word of God, more than the fact that he doesn’t seem to be breathing, that finally wakes me up and tears a scream from my throat.
I hear a stampede of feet in the hallway, feel bodies jostling in the doorway behind me.
“CPR,” Earlene commands. “Who knows CPR?”
I wait for one of them to run forward, drop to her knees, start resuscitating their fallen shepherd.
Their faces are shocked, stricken. Nobody moves.
“Always skipped those classes,” Annie moans. “Didn’t think I’d need it.”
“Me, too,” Kimber admits. “Somebody do something!”
“I’ll call nine-one-one,” Felicity says. “Oh my God. What’s the address here? I can’t even think.”