banged through the screen door and ran down the porch steps.
Outside the air was huge and full of night. Sarah faltered and stopped. Cold drops of rain spattered against her face.
Nothing. No one.
She took a few halting steps down through the garden. No one waited for her there. No sad little face reproached her from the shadows beneath the boathouse eaves.
The wind sighed around, her, and the rain wept. Still Sarah walked, heart pounding and pounding in her chest. She did not let herself think. This was not a time for questions. She could only run; into the night, or away from it. Those were her choices. She had made the wrong choice once, eight years before. She knew she couldn't bear to live if she made the wrong choice again.
The clouds stretched on forever; the thin breeze gusted and fell. Down beyond the slowly creaking dock, the dark river rolled on.
"Sarah? Honey—are you all right?"
Her mother stood in the doorway, calling to her. Warm yellow kitchen light spilled across the porch, and it was Sarah, Sarah who now stood, forlorn, in the shadow of the boathouse. From here the house looked unimaginably remote, warm and friendly and utterly inaccessible, having nothing to do with the rain whispering off into eternity around her. Nothing to do with the river, and the rolling darkness that covered everything real.
Soaked and shivering, Sarah watched her mother pick her way down through the garden. "A rabbi, a Baptist preacher, and a Roman Catholic priest are out walking one day when they meet the angel Gabriel," Mrs. Ratkay said, as soon as she was close enough for Sarah to hear.
"The rabbi says, 'Oy! Just who I wanted to see! I have here a list of complaints for you to take to the Master of the Universe.' And he takes out a book about a thousand pages long and gives it to Gabriel, and Gabriel says, 'As you wish.'
"Then the preacher says, 'Hallelujah! Praise be! I need you to take this petition singing the praises of Christ Almighty down to Hell. We're going to shame the devil! As you can see, it's been signed by over a million viewers—uh, that is, members of the congregation.' And he too takes out a book about a thousand pages long, covered in signatures. And Gabriel says, 'Very well.'
Mrs. Ratkay put her arm through her daughter's arm and began to lead her gently up toward the house. "Well, that leaves the priest, who's looking kind of embarrassed. He hems and haws for a while, and shuffles his feet, and runs a finger around his clerical collar, and finally mumbles, 'Thanks for coming,' and stuffs a tiny slip of paper into Gabriel's hand. The angel picks it up and reads it, and a sudden change comes over him. His teeth start to chatter and his knees begin to knock. 'You're crazy!' he says, and dropping the slip of paper he flies shrieking into the night.
"Well, of course the rabbi and the preacher are amazed," Mother continued, guiding Sarah up the porch steps. "They stare at the priest so hard, he finally grins a feeble grin and says, 'A letter from me to the Pope, asking if we could ordain women.'"
Sarah almost smiled. "—And then the rabbi and the preacher also fly shrieking into the night," she whispered.
Gwen Ratkay led her daughter into the kitchen and sat her at the table while she put on a kettle. She took Sarah's hand. "Are you okay? I see little teapots behind your eyes, brewing tears."
Sarah couldn't laugh. It was too dark outside, too dark and cold; and the sad rain dripped and crept over all the earth. "Eight," she whispered.
Gwendolyn's eyes closed, her shoulders sagged, and for a brief moment she looked very old. "Shh," she murmured, softly stroking her daughter's hand. "It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay."
Sarah shook her head, furious. "She would have been eight years old," she cried. And wept and wept.
* * *
In the kitchen, Sarah cried while her mother gave her what comfort she could. In his study, Dr. Ratkay smoked and, sighing, painted a charm for the Gregson girl, who
Outside the air was huge and full of night. Sarah faltered and stopped. Cold drops of rain spattered against her face.
Nothing. No one.
She took a few halting steps down through the garden. No one waited for her there. No sad little face reproached her from the shadows beneath the boathouse eaves.
The wind sighed around, her, and the rain wept. Still Sarah walked, heart pounding and pounding in her chest. She did not let herself think. This was not a time for questions. She could only run; into the night, or away from it. Those were her choices. She had made the wrong choice once, eight years before. She knew she couldn't bear to live if she made the wrong choice again.
The clouds stretched on forever; the thin breeze gusted and fell. Down beyond the slowly creaking dock, the dark river rolled on.
"Sarah? Honey—are you all right?"
Her mother stood in the doorway, calling to her. Warm yellow kitchen light spilled across the porch, and it was Sarah, Sarah who now stood, forlorn, in the shadow of the boathouse. From here the house looked unimaginably remote, warm and friendly and utterly inaccessible, having nothing to do with the rain whispering off into eternity around her. Nothing to do with the river, and the rolling darkness that covered everything real.
Soaked and shivering, Sarah watched her mother pick her way down through the garden. "A rabbi, a Baptist preacher, and a Roman Catholic priest are out walking one day when they meet the angel Gabriel," Mrs. Ratkay said, as soon as she was close enough for Sarah to hear.
"The rabbi says, 'Oy! Just who I wanted to see! I have here a list of complaints for you to take to the Master of the Universe.' And he takes out a book about a thousand pages long and gives it to Gabriel, and Gabriel says, 'As you wish.'
"Then the preacher says, 'Hallelujah! Praise be! I need you to take this petition singing the praises of Christ Almighty down to Hell. We're going to shame the devil! As you can see, it's been signed by over a million viewers—uh, that is, members of the congregation.' And he too takes out a book about a thousand pages long, covered in signatures. And Gabriel says, 'Very well.'
Mrs. Ratkay put her arm through her daughter's arm and began to lead her gently up toward the house. "Well, that leaves the priest, who's looking kind of embarrassed. He hems and haws for a while, and shuffles his feet, and runs a finger around his clerical collar, and finally mumbles, 'Thanks for coming,' and stuffs a tiny slip of paper into Gabriel's hand. The angel picks it up and reads it, and a sudden change comes over him. His teeth start to chatter and his knees begin to knock. 'You're crazy!' he says, and dropping the slip of paper he flies shrieking into the night.
"Well, of course the rabbi and the preacher are amazed," Mother continued, guiding Sarah up the porch steps. "They stare at the priest so hard, he finally grins a feeble grin and says, 'A letter from me to the Pope, asking if we could ordain women.'"
Sarah almost smiled. "—And then the rabbi and the preacher also fly shrieking into the night," she whispered.
Gwen Ratkay led her daughter into the kitchen and sat her at the table while she put on a kettle. She took Sarah's hand. "Are you okay? I see little teapots behind your eyes, brewing tears."
Sarah couldn't laugh. It was too dark outside, too dark and cold; and the sad rain dripped and crept over all the earth. "Eight," she whispered.
Gwendolyn's eyes closed, her shoulders sagged, and for a brief moment she looked very old. "Shh," she murmured, softly stroking her daughter's hand. "It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay."
Sarah shook her head, furious. "She would have been eight years old," she cried. And wept and wept.
* * *
In the kitchen, Sarah cried while her mother gave her what comfort she could. In his study, Dr. Ratkay smoked and, sighing, painted a charm for the Gregson girl, who
Similar Books
