All Mortal Flesh by Julia Spencer-Fleming Page A

course.
    Those things had never scared her like a closed door. The door to her sister Grace’s hospital room, the first time she had to enter, knowing there was no hope. The door to her colonel’s office, the day she told him she was resigning her commission to enter the seminary. The door between the sacristy and the nave, stepping through to celebrate her first Eucharist as St. Alban’s rector.
    The door to Margy Van Alstyne’s house.
    Okay. She would give Margy her condolences and see if there was anything she could do. That was, if Margy didn’t slam the door in her face. She took a deep breath. The cold air burned her lungs, and she coughed.
    The door opened. “You gonna come in, or are you gonna stand out there until your feet freeze?”
    Well, when you put it like that…
Clare stomped up the low granite steps and kicked her boots against the doorjamb. Margy held the door wide to allow her to pass. The small kitchen was steamy, and Clare could hear the sloshing of the washing machine in the corner.
    “Take off your coat before you parboil,” Margy said. Clare shucked her parka and barely had time to drape it over one of the ladder-back chairs before she was caught in a fierce hug. “I’m glad you’re here, and that’s a fact,” Margy said. “Want some coffee? It’s shade-grown, fair-trade.”
    Clare almost laughed at the normalcy of it all. “That sounds good,” she said.
    “Help yourself to some of the coffee cake.” Margy waved at the table, where cellophane-and tinfoil-wrapped platters crowded against stacks of antiwar tracts. “The food started arriving this morning and hasn’t let up yet.”
    Clare’s grandmother Fergusson reared up out of her head.
I can’t believe you made a condolence call without so much as a store-bought pie
! “Uh,” she said, “I should’ve—”
    Margy finished scooping coffee into the machine and shook her head as she poured the water in. “Don’t worry. If I get any more casseroles, I’ll have to store ’em outside in a snowbank.”
    She took two mugs out of the dish drainer and gestured for Clare to take a seat. “I didn’t know if I’d get to see you,” she said, at the same moment Clare blurted, “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”
    They smiled uncertainly at each other.
    “I’m sorry, Margy. I’m so very sorry.”
    The older woman laid a cracked and mended sugar bowl on the table. Inside were brown crystals the size of fine gravel. “You may need to get a bit more specific with that.”
    “I’m sorry about Linda’s death. I’m sorry I… came between her and your son. I’m sorry—” Clare’s voice broke, and she tried to stop the tears rushing into her eyes. “I’m sorry I made her last days unhappy.” She covered her mouth, but she couldn’t silence her crying. Margy rested her hands on Clare’s shoulders and rubbed her back. “I’m sorry…” Clare hiccupped. “I came here to comfort you. Not to…” A noisy sob cut her off.
    “Seems like you’re sorry for an awful lot.”
    Clare, wet-faced and choking, nodded.
    “You let it all out.” Margy continued to rub her back. “Best thing for a body, to cry it all out.”
    So Clare blubbered and wept at Margy Van Alstyne’s kitchen table until her sobs settled to shuddering breaths and her tears dried up.
    Margy tipped her chin up. “That’s better, in’t it?”
    “I deed to blow my dose,” Clare said.
    Margy went to a basket next to the dryer and plucked a handkerchief from the mound of clean laundry. “You’re in luck,” she said, handing it to Clare. Clare blew lustily while Margy ran one of her dishcloths under the faucet. Then she mopped Clare’s face with cold water.
    “I feel like a seven-year-old.”
    “Everybody needs a little mothering now and again.” Margy poured two mugs of coffee and sat down kitty-corner from Clare. “I suppose you’d like to know how Russell is doing.”
    Clare nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
    “He’s taking it hard, like