church herself until just a few hours ago, when she shot up in bed with a creak of the old oak bedstead, having passed the second night after the accident as she had passed the first: awake, watching the shadows cast by the tangled fringes of her bedside lamp play across the walls, noting the progress of a brownish water stain creeping across the ceiling. Last week she had asked John to take down a bit of the sheetrock to see if he could find the source of the leak, and he had promised to get to it as soon as he and Becca returned from their honeymoon. She was going to have to do the job herself now, and she would need a ladder. It was when she thought of the folding aluminum ladder they had used to light the tapers in the church’s sconces that she remembered the mess and the burden that awaited her.
The nave looked forlorn, the candles burned down to stubs, the flowers wilted and brown at the edges. The aisle was littered with shriveled rose petals, and someone had torn loose one of the hydrangea garlands looped between the pews. Beneath the pulpit, a galvanized bucket of flowers had toppled over onto its side, leaving a white-rimmed water stain on the pale blue carpet. The rest of the carpet was spotted with smudged footprints and the tiny pockmarks left by stiletto heels. Jane shook her head. All those ladies from New York teetering around in their impractical shoes.
Armed with a bucket of cleaning supplies, Jane made her way down the aisle, ripping down the loops of garland and bundling them into a black leaf bag that she tied to her belt loop. The physical effort involved in jamming the garlands and the drooping and withered floral arrangements into the bag, of bending over to pick up bits of trash, of leaning into the pews to return the hymnals to their racks, did her good. Since losing her temper with the sheriff at Jacob’s Cove, Jane had felt weighted down, numb, and lethargic, as though her blood had stopped flowing in her veins. But now the repetitive motion, the comforting, familiar exertion of cleaning, seemed to unbottle and roil all her stagnated feelings: Jane cleaned the church in a perfect fury. She was furious with Becca’s spoiled-brat friends for having hired an out-of-town limousine when a car would have done; furious with the photographer for being so slow, so dawdling and methodical; furious with the Copakens for planning such an elaborate wedding; furious with John for having entangled himself with that useless, pretentious, hapless family in the first place. And, most of all, she was furious with her son, her good, strong, beautiful son, for dying.
She filled bag after bag with dead and dying flowers, and dragged the bulging sacks down the aisle behind her. She jabbed at the sconces with a penknife, prying loose the candle stubs, then scraping out the last bits of wax. She jerked the vacuum along behind her like a foolish, recalcitrant child, banging the brush loudly against the sides of the pews. She took care only when emptying the glass vases of their blown and rotting treasure: she could reuse the vases at the wake.
She had arrived at the church planning only to throw away the trash and vacuum up the rose petals. But by the time Iris showed up, Jane hadpolished the brass sconces, oiled the leather cushions on the seats behind the altar, and climbed the ladder to take a Q-tip to the seams in the wood of the window casings, scraping out years, generations, of dust. Jane was on the ladder, hands black with grime, strands of limp brown hair pasted to the sweat on her face, stinking of hard work and spray cleaner, when Iris walked in.
Iris hesitated in the doorway of the church, looking around with an expression of dull wonderment at the thoroughness, Jane supposed, with which Jane had erased all evidence of the wedding. The woman seemed to be looking for some trace—a flower arrangement, a candle, a card-stock program—but it was all gone, bagged and stacked and ready for a trip to the
The nave looked forlorn, the candles burned down to stubs, the flowers wilted and brown at the edges. The aisle was littered with shriveled rose petals, and someone had torn loose one of the hydrangea garlands looped between the pews. Beneath the pulpit, a galvanized bucket of flowers had toppled over onto its side, leaving a white-rimmed water stain on the pale blue carpet. The rest of the carpet was spotted with smudged footprints and the tiny pockmarks left by stiletto heels. Jane shook her head. All those ladies from New York teetering around in their impractical shoes.
Armed with a bucket of cleaning supplies, Jane made her way down the aisle, ripping down the loops of garland and bundling them into a black leaf bag that she tied to her belt loop. The physical effort involved in jamming the garlands and the drooping and withered floral arrangements into the bag, of bending over to pick up bits of trash, of leaning into the pews to return the hymnals to their racks, did her good. Since losing her temper with the sheriff at Jacob’s Cove, Jane had felt weighted down, numb, and lethargic, as though her blood had stopped flowing in her veins. But now the repetitive motion, the comforting, familiar exertion of cleaning, seemed to unbottle and roil all her stagnated feelings: Jane cleaned the church in a perfect fury. She was furious with Becca’s spoiled-brat friends for having hired an out-of-town limousine when a car would have done; furious with the photographer for being so slow, so dawdling and methodical; furious with the Copakens for planning such an elaborate wedding; furious with John for having entangled himself with that useless, pretentious, hapless family in the first place. And, most of all, she was furious with her son, her good, strong, beautiful son, for dying.
She filled bag after bag with dead and dying flowers, and dragged the bulging sacks down the aisle behind her. She jabbed at the sconces with a penknife, prying loose the candle stubs, then scraping out the last bits of wax. She jerked the vacuum along behind her like a foolish, recalcitrant child, banging the brush loudly against the sides of the pews. She took care only when emptying the glass vases of their blown and rotting treasure: she could reuse the vases at the wake.
She had arrived at the church planning only to throw away the trash and vacuum up the rose petals. But by the time Iris showed up, Jane hadpolished the brass sconces, oiled the leather cushions on the seats behind the altar, and climbed the ladder to take a Q-tip to the seams in the wood of the window casings, scraping out years, generations, of dust. Jane was on the ladder, hands black with grime, strands of limp brown hair pasted to the sweat on her face, stinking of hard work and spray cleaner, when Iris walked in.
Iris hesitated in the doorway of the church, looking around with an expression of dull wonderment at the thoroughness, Jane supposed, with which Jane had erased all evidence of the wedding. The woman seemed to be looking for some trace—a flower arrangement, a candle, a card-stock program—but it was all gone, bagged and stacked and ready for a trip to the
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