daytime church discussion group would be kind of nice.” I held out my hands in a helpless gesture. “One day Zelda very unexpectedly broke down. You see, she had two sons. One is Bob Preston, who is a parishioner at the church. His wife’s name is Agatha.”
“Yeah, I want to talk to you about her,” Boyd said. “But go ahead.”
“Zelda’s other son, Mark, had leukemia. Mark was the swimming coach at Elk Park Prep, and he was married to Sarah Preston, who lives in Elk Park with their son Ian, who was twelve at the time.” I looked out my front window. But instead of seeing the cold night, I pictured Zelda’s gray braid wobbling on top of her head as her body shook with sobs. “On Ash Wednesday of that year, Mark, who was in his mid-twenties and had had the leukemia for about six months, went into a coma in a hospital in Denver. What kept him alive while he was comatose were the daily blood transfusions Sarah had to okay. After a couple of weeks of this, I guess Sarah just decided she’d had enough. So she refused the daily transfusion.”
I fell silent. Boyd and Helen were staring at me.
“Mark Preston died within hours.” I brushed unseen lint off my sweatsuit, feeling my eyes fill with tears. “Zelda wasn’t at the hospital. No one consulted her about stopping the transfusions. She didn’t get to say good-bye to Mark.”
“My Lord,” murmured Helen.
“That wasn’t the end of it,” I said softly. “At our book discussion group, Zelda blurted out that Sarah had killedher son. She would never forgive her for that. She said she wanted Sarah out of her life forever.”
Boyd and Helen Keene were silent. “And the grandson?” Helen finally asked. “Ian?”
“Zelda wrote off the grandson, too. She was just so angry …” I sighed. “Anyway, Sarah eventually remarried. I heard her new husband is a Catholic, and the three of them go to the Catholic church. From all the accounts around town, Zelda hasn’t seen or spoken to Sarah or Ian in, well, five years.”
Boyd tapped his notebook. “So how does this relate to Olson?”
“I’m getting to that. At the discussion group,” I said reluctantly, “no one knew how to react to Zelda’s outburst. Father Pinckney just shriveled up. I mean, the old fellow looked as if he could have crawled under a rock. And of course, the rest of the women were aghast. You have to understand, members of the Old Episcopal Guard never, ever,
ever
spill their guts in front of a group.”
“But you were there,” Helen prompted.
“Yes. I was there.” Indeed. “I almost didn’t go to the meeting that day. My head was throbbing from the whack John Richard—my ex-husband—had given me after he broke my thumb in three places the previous week. My hand was in a cast. When Zelda told her story and began to weep, I felt so bad, I cried with her. Despite the stupid cast, I put my arms around her and held her.” I took a deep breath and thought back. “I guess everyone else was embarrassed. They left. No one even said a word. Hours later, it was just Zelda and me, sitting next to each other in our folding chairs, sniffling. When it was almost time for Arch to come home on the schoolbus, I insisted she drink a cup of instant coffee that I fixed in the church kitchen. After Zelda took a few sips, Lucille Boatwright suddenly appeared to drive her back home.”
Boyd asked, “So did you and Zelda become friends?”
“Zelda spent the next two weeks sending me casseroles and discount swim coupons for Arch. But she and I never talked about what had happened again.”
“Not meaning to be rude, Goldy,” Boyd continued patiently, “but I’m still wondering what this has to do with
Olson,
since this happened during the time of the
other priest.”
“Zelda was the organist. After Mark died, playing the music, and doting on her other son, Bob, and his wife, Agatha, became Zelda’s whole life, even though Bob and Agatha are charismatics and supported having Olson as
“Yeah, I want to talk to you about her,” Boyd said. “But go ahead.”
“Zelda’s other son, Mark, had leukemia. Mark was the swimming coach at Elk Park Prep, and he was married to Sarah Preston, who lives in Elk Park with their son Ian, who was twelve at the time.” I looked out my front window. But instead of seeing the cold night, I pictured Zelda’s gray braid wobbling on top of her head as her body shook with sobs. “On Ash Wednesday of that year, Mark, who was in his mid-twenties and had had the leukemia for about six months, went into a coma in a hospital in Denver. What kept him alive while he was comatose were the daily blood transfusions Sarah had to okay. After a couple of weeks of this, I guess Sarah just decided she’d had enough. So she refused the daily transfusion.”
I fell silent. Boyd and Helen were staring at me.
“Mark Preston died within hours.” I brushed unseen lint off my sweatsuit, feeling my eyes fill with tears. “Zelda wasn’t at the hospital. No one consulted her about stopping the transfusions. She didn’t get to say good-bye to Mark.”
“My Lord,” murmured Helen.
“That wasn’t the end of it,” I said softly. “At our book discussion group, Zelda blurted out that Sarah had killedher son. She would never forgive her for that. She said she wanted Sarah out of her life forever.”
Boyd and Helen Keene were silent. “And the grandson?” Helen finally asked. “Ian?”
“Zelda wrote off the grandson, too. She was just so angry …” I sighed. “Anyway, Sarah eventually remarried. I heard her new husband is a Catholic, and the three of them go to the Catholic church. From all the accounts around town, Zelda hasn’t seen or spoken to Sarah or Ian in, well, five years.”
Boyd tapped his notebook. “So how does this relate to Olson?”
“I’m getting to that. At the discussion group,” I said reluctantly, “no one knew how to react to Zelda’s outburst. Father Pinckney just shriveled up. I mean, the old fellow looked as if he could have crawled under a rock. And of course, the rest of the women were aghast. You have to understand, members of the Old Episcopal Guard never, ever,
ever
spill their guts in front of a group.”
“But you were there,” Helen prompted.
“Yes. I was there.” Indeed. “I almost didn’t go to the meeting that day. My head was throbbing from the whack John Richard—my ex-husband—had given me after he broke my thumb in three places the previous week. My hand was in a cast. When Zelda told her story and began to weep, I felt so bad, I cried with her. Despite the stupid cast, I put my arms around her and held her.” I took a deep breath and thought back. “I guess everyone else was embarrassed. They left. No one even said a word. Hours later, it was just Zelda and me, sitting next to each other in our folding chairs, sniffling. When it was almost time for Arch to come home on the schoolbus, I insisted she drink a cup of instant coffee that I fixed in the church kitchen. After Zelda took a few sips, Lucille Boatwright suddenly appeared to drive her back home.”
Boyd asked, “So did you and Zelda become friends?”
“Zelda spent the next two weeks sending me casseroles and discount swim coupons for Arch. But she and I never talked about what had happened again.”
“Not meaning to be rude, Goldy,” Boyd continued patiently, “but I’m still wondering what this has to do with
Olson,
since this happened during the time of the
other priest.”
“Zelda was the organist. After Mark died, playing the music, and doting on her other son, Bob, and his wife, Agatha, became Zelda’s whole life, even though Bob and Agatha are charismatics and supported having Olson as
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