The Buried Church by Daniel Finneran

8/8/2019 The Buried Church by Daniel Finneran

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The Buried Church

by

Daniel Finneran

If the town of Heathersfield had decided to hire itself out for one of those oft-seen

aerial tracking shots, opening up a Hollywood movie, and placing said film amongst the

foliage, hillocks, and the neo-Classical buildings of Maine Street, it could not, at this

time, do so in good faith. For some time it had lacked that one critical hinge of

demarcation that said, to film crew, and audience alike, that this is New England. This is

why we are different from you. This is where your country began. (And when youre

done with your filming, we really think it best that you leave. Because we really didnt

know that this whole thing was going to be this involved. I mean, Dear God.)

Reason being, the largest church steeple, white and tall, and reaching up and out

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from aforementioned foliage -- or just verdure, depending on the season of this filming --

was on the ground. (There were other churches in town; and they had, certainly, steeple-

like extensions out and up from their respective buildings; but all were, in essence,

extended, or somewhat, elaborate cupolas; dignified, worthy of respect; but the largest,

and whitest, that which was most the embodiment of the sought after New England ethos,

was there on the ground.)

It sat there, Abyssinia Gilmartin thought, as she once again drove past, in her

faded, light blue VW Rabbit, something like the torch held by the Statue of Liberty at the

end of The Planet of the Apes. It appeared, as you rose to the top of the steep, quick hill

on Centre Street -- at the crest of which stood, white, steepleless, and, as large as any

church in town, the South Parish Church -- as if from nowhere. With a square chain-link

construction fence around it, and one of those mobile-home trailers, for the workers, or

management -- she wasnt really sure how it all worked -- tucked about 50 yards back on

the church property. Near kept secret by the branches and boughs that hung around it.

She drove past, gearing down, taking the ninety-degree right, one block further

up, and now stopped at the lights on Maine Street, waiting, one block up, then over, and

pulling into the two-story neo-Colonial office building, built just three years prior, and on

the side, in wooden, Olde English lettering, The Heathersfield Patriot. The building

having been built just forThe Patriot, which was owned by a larger, newspaper combine,

and some said it had been built just for a tax write-off. She really had no idea, and was

not particularly concerned.

(Much to the excitement of many involved, the paper had recently gone from

tabloid format, to broadsheet [in physical layout; no planned change in tone, and content].

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This was supposed to have been a monumental moment. And she had smiled very much

at the small office party that had celebrated the first broadsheet edition. But she would

stay enthusiastic. She would stay engaged, she would tell herself.)

Soon in Martin Solomons office. The early-60s Managing Editor, who had

recently taken over the job after the other one suddenly died of a heart attack. His still

dark, thinning hair, catching some of the morning sunlight, from the window behind. The

sun, now at that point, in his office, where it would shine in your eyes.

So -- anymore on the --swastika story. Anymore on that? he said. He was sitting

back, his arms on the arm rests of the curved plastic armrests of his office chair, and, as

was often the case, his legs, this morning in green gabardine pants, were sort of

spreading outward, and inward with a sort of semi-manic energy.

Its definitely the kids -- those three kids, were almost sure -- that did it. And

Im going to follow up with Brian ODwyer. Because they all have lawyers now. But he

might give me something of a heads-up. Theyre just trying to prevent this from

becoming a huge story. So I think he wants to talk to us. Knows they have to talk to us.

Or someone, in the press, said Abyssinia.

So these geniuses, of their own little volition, they just decided to burn a swastika

into the football field?

He says theyre not skinheads or anything. Says they wouldnt even be organized

enough for that. Two of them are from very rough families -- he wasnt even sure the

Cambodian boy was going to have money for a lawyer; but, obviously, they arranged

something -- and one, Gulka, is the baseball pitcher. A good baseball pitcher, they say,

but only so-so grades. But he thinks they were just being stupid. That their lives shouldnt

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be ruined.

Hmmm, said Solomon. Hmmm, he said, and his legs continued to bounce back

and forth. And our good friend -- ODwyer? Head of the Youth -- What is it again?

The Youth Action Committee, said Abyssinia.

The Youth Action Committee, said Solomon. And let out an elongated

exhalation. The YouthAction Committee. Where would we be without the likes of the

Youth Action Committee? he said, and looked slightly downward, nodding his head

back and forth. He had green eyes, and she notices he often wore green ties, or shirts with

green in them.

Abyssinia shrugged, not sure what to say. I dont know, she said.

Hmmm, said Solomon. Well -- If the world is going to end right here in our

beloved town, and with me as the ManagingEditor, then we might as well cover it,

wouldnt you say?

Abyssinia, the legs of her perfectly coifed jeans, slightly crossed. She smiled. She

was not sure, exactly, what to make of this somewhat strange man. How it had all come

about, him ending up as Editor. If he even wanted to be here.

I think so. Yes, I think so, she said.

Im sure you do -- Abyssinia. Im sure you do. -- Anyway, there might be one

of these vigil things, have you heard about that?

Theyre looking into getting a permit. For a candlelight vigil. On Maine Street.

For Saturday night, said Abyssinia. Her yellow legal pad held on the lap of her

dungarees. They almost looked like they had been ironed, and the blue seemed to have a

richness to the slight fade.

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Hmmm, said Solomon once again. His arms were spread out on the arm rests so

it was almost like he was on a throne. Im sure they are. -- Let me guess. Brillstein. Van

Wayne. Demmings

Ive heard Brillsteins name, yes. Im not sure about the others.

Dear God, said Solomon. Half out-loud, half to himself. Dear God. -- Okay,

well, see what you can find out about that. And theres a woman -- Abu Nali, I think.

Shes coming here, to speak. People, a few months ago, over in Beck, were lining up just

to touch her. Lined up around the block, I guess. So why dont you look into that? Sound

okay?

Sounds fine to me. Yes. They have signs up at the bookstore about her. About

her coming.

Well that sounds exciting enough. So you can help us with that? With the

mystery of MsNali, is it?

Yes. Abu Nali. Shes a Hindu, I think. But a spiritual person, of some sort.

Well, thats good. We can always use all the spiritual people we can get. And

thank you for helping out with all this, Abyssinia. But, I suppose, thats why we hired

you. Or why they hired you. Cant take credit for that.

Im not sure, Martin, about that. Why I was hired. But I think so.

I think so too, said Martin. Im pretty sure myself. Now I have to get back to,

you know, running the paper.

She rose, and found herself almost half-nodding toward him as she began to turn

and leave. Im going to try to meet with ODwyer again today. He can be sort of difficult

to track down

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Oh, Im sure he is.

She smiled, and shrugged, slightly. Im not sure. But it just seems that way, she

said.

She hesitated for one, slight, moment, and then was ready to be on her way,

though she was never really sure how to engage, or disengage, this man. He almost

seemed, with his throne-pose, the in-and-out legs, the plastic action figures of those

professional wrestler people on his desk, along with maybe ten Hot Wheels cars, and a

few Tonka bulldozers and trucks, like some sort of half-crazed man-child.

God, what did I do to deserve this, she would often think.

She returned to her cubicle, there in the large, shared center-space, on the second

floor, that was -- in theory -- the newsroom. She kept her head down, just not in the mood

for small talk with Suzy, or with Joan. Or, there, over wrestling with the copy machine,

with, once again when dealing with the copy machine, a look of complete perplexity,

Sam, the enormous girl, over 6, and gangly, that was the sort of half-photographer, half-

mascot ofThe Patriot.

She opened up her laptop.

Couple returns from Mission to Zambia, was the headline of one of the stories

she was working on. She thought about that comedian she once heard, talking about

newspapers like hers -- covering where people went on vacation, and Little League

games. She clicked over, looking at another of her, temporary -- for, certainly, Martin

would change it; he might be half-mad, but he did know how to write headlines; maybe

thatwas why he was hired -- headlines. Defeaters Remain United read the headline,

about a local organization, The Nicotine Defeaters, that gathered, at this point, after

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hours, in one of the rooms in the town hall building, in what seemed to be some sort of

cousin -- somewhat predictably enough -- to a twelve-step method, to quit smoking.

She worked to late morning and left to get lunch.

She bought a Greek salad and a Sophias Water -- with the request for a few extra

rolls -- at Martelignis, the chain Italian restaurant, on Maine, and snuck back to her

apartment, two blocks up, on Maine, to eat.

After eating she returned to the aging, faded blue, with, on the passenger side, a

dented door, Rabbit, and headed out towards West Heathersfield, where there were still a

few actual farms left. She was beginning a story on a local mans Percherons. Draught

horses, originally bred in France, that could grow, it was said, as large, or larger, than

Clydesdales.

She arrived at the farm, with the mud and hay and the deep grass, and she looked

down at her black, ballet-like slippers, with the Chinese dragons stitched into them. They

were, somehow, completely impractical for much of what she did. For some reason, she

persisted with them.

She met the man breeding the Percherons. A Jehovahs Witness. He was a

pleasant, good looking man, with his rust-colored hair, slightly long, swept back, and

these horses were as large as any she had seen. Beautiful horses. Their coats perfect. One

grey. One black. Haunches as strong and muscular as she had ever seen. They seemed as

if giants from another land, and she had never seen such animals. Not even growing up.

Where horse culture still existed. Horse farms all over the periphery of her town.

She drove back, in the steamy, early-August heat. The cars lack of air

conditioning, its vinyl upholstery, no sunroof, combining to make the car something

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closer to a moving heat-womb.

As she drove she rose up to the crest of Centre Street, the enormous gold weather

vane -- an enormous, golden arrow -- appearing, and then, quickly, just below it, the

large, golden N,S,E,W of the wind directions, and then the steeple itself. Appearing, as

she drove, for a moment, as if it were just quickly rising -- or almost being pushed -- up

from the ground.

She drove past, looking, for a moment, as she passed it -- and wondered

It had been a long time. Well over a year. She remembered it coming down. All

the people gathered, some of the older people in folding chairs, watching it all.

And now it was Summer. Again. Still little, or nothing, being done about it.

Maybe there was something there. Because -- she could not admit it to anyone --

so much of what she covered -- It was just difficult.

Or maybe the fatigue -- was just the heat.

But she had grown up, initially at least, amongst the heat.

She finished up at work, arranging to see ODwyer in the morning, and putting a

few finishing touches on the story about the Hansons.

She went to her cycling class at El Dorado, the all-womens health club, on a

second floor on Maine, and on the bike, in her sports bra, and calf-length tights, hoping

the adrenaline of the workout, would help push her through the day, and seeing, in one of

the mirrors, she had lost most of her tan. The club in the same building as one of her

coffee shops. The Ultimate Blend.

It did feel good to sweat, and then she left. Sipping from, which was always

carried with her, a bottle of bottled, usually Eden, water.

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Then back in the Rabbit.

She returned home and showered. Taking the digestive medication for the

digestive problems she had been battling since high school. (Hence, the constant intake of

water.) With the shades down, walked nude across her studio apartment, feeling the hint

of a breeze. Taking out more water from the refrigerator, and drinking down more from a

bottle of Eden Water.

Walking towards the closet, to think about getting dressed. Seeing herself in the

full-length mirror.

She had not been working out as religiously as normal, and not as tan as normal.

But her body was still her body. And, she knew, few had been given -- well, shed been

given what shed been given.

She turned, looking at herself. She knew that when she returned home -- and

played tennis. How remarkable her hips became. She didnt, of course, say this to

anyone. But knew it. She looked at her hips. In okay shape. But not -- it was something

about tennis. The different movements. Having to move forward, then laterally. The

short stops-and-starts, thats why its so good for your hips, and thighs, an old boyfriend

had explained to her. Because he had noticed the same thing.

For a moment she looked at how full, and near perfectly formed, her breasts were.

She stood and stared. She thought about that summer -- the summer after high

school, when she and a girlfriend would lay out topless in her girlfriends yard, and when

they had both played a lot of tennis, and had done the push-ups and sit-ups, and hung

from a pull-up bar, and had done those other exercises, that her girlfriend had learned in

gymnastics. She looked at her body, and she thought about that night. Dating that older

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preppy boy, already out of Princeton. With his long hair. And she had taken off her

clothes, and was standing in front of his bed and, her entire torso tan, and strong, and her

hips hard from all the running, and tennis, and the other exercises, her body, she knew,

not just with curves where there should be curves and flat where it should be flat but the

right tones, and the right colors -- just the right colors -- just where there they should be,

and she stood before him, with only a bedside lamp on, and for the first time in her life

saw a man actually unable to speak. Mister casual, sophisticated preppy. Not even able to

speak. She knew, deep down -- as she looked at her figure in the mirror -- well,

everyones given something.

She moved, and opened the closet, looked for a moment, and then turned and lay

down on her futon. Nude, atop the blankets. She closed her eyes. Listening to cars on

Maine Street, out in front of her apartment, here, up towards the south end of Maine,

where the residential section began, just down from the Academy. Sometimes the breeze

seemed to come straight down the hill, as if out from the Academy. She turned to her

side, her eyes still closed, her hands underneath her head, and her thick brown hair, and

her hair falling onto her bare shoulders. Feeling this hint of a breeze pass through the

shades, and over her body. Passing over her shoulders, and the ribs of her torso, and the

dip at her waist, and the rise of her olive-skinned hips, as she kept her eyes closed.

Refreshed, for a moment, by the clean air. There was still daylight, but kept her eyes

closed. Saying, Ill just feel the breeze for a moment, and she felt it pass over her.

Keeping her eyes closed. Thinking, Ill just feel the breeze for a moment. And soon was

asleep. As early evening came, and the swelter of an August evening soon enveloping all

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over town. And very soon, she was sound asleep.

Reverend Randy Dayton had the thin, athletic bearing that Abyssinia had grown

accustomed to growing up. His black shirt, and white collar, held erect by thin, but square

shoulders. He was not slouched, and jowly.

They walked out from his office, in a two-story complex that extended out beyond

the rear of the church.

They walked across the green grass, that needed to be mowed, that lay in front of

the ancient cemetery. The parish old enough to have a cemetery on its grounds.

They walked towards the construction fence, and the traffic, here at roughly 11 in

the morning, was still steady.

As they walked Abyssinia looked up. The enormous steeple stretching up towards

the sky, and near being touched by a few of the long branches reaching in from the trees

at the edge of the churchs land.

At the base were cobalt, near-electric, blue tarpaulins, tied around the wooden

framework that formed the section that would, it seemed, logically enough, be inserted

back into the church. The tarpaulins tied with white, sailing-type rope laced through

metal grommets, and the wind would lift the tarpaulins, opening them where they were

tied, and you could see the crisscrossing of the beams.

Reverend Dayton opened the gate to the fence, and they entered. Soon standing

only a few feet from the steeple.

We began the work and -- well, I suppose it is somewhat embarrassing. But ran

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out of funds. We do things -- well, I guess you could say the old-fashioned way. And I,

dont know if this would need to be in your story --

Im not sure there will be a story, Reverend. Thats always up to Martin. And

God knows what he will think about me running around trying to find my own stories,

said Abyssinia.

Martin? said the Reverend, laughing a bit. Probably gets a kick out of seeing

the steeple here. On the ground. Thats Martin. Dont let Martin intimidate you. I think

thats what he enjoys most. But, relative to the funding, we try to never incur debt, so we

wont take out a loan. And some of the costs he said, stepping towards one of the blue

tarpaulins, were more than we expected.

The wind blew and a few of the tarpaulins opened up, and Abyssinia could get a

clear look in at the wooden framework. She knew nothing about wood, but could see

areas where the wood was worn, and maybe even rotted, a bit. You could just tell it

needed work, and as the wind blew, the tarpaulins would fill and expand out like sails.

Almost like the entire steeple would then lift, and you could just see where it needed

work.

Reverend Dayton reached in and pressed on one of the beams, giving it a tug.

There are only a few people left that do this kind of work. That can fix these.

They are difficult to find. That are truly dedicated to their trade. And, well -- the market.

Supply and demand. And we need to have the funds ready, need to be ready, when it is

all done, lifted back into place. So, well, there have been a few more bake sales, and a

little -- some might even say a lot, he said, again laughing a bit, of tithing. Or,

technically, asked for tithing. But people, he said, stepping back, looking up, have

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been understanding. People want it fixed. They want it back up. They -- we -- well all

feel better when it is. And we, of course, want it done right.

Abyssinia also looked up. The tall white pyramid-structure, at the top, from this

view, piercing the bright blue sky, as a white cloud slowly passed over.

The wind blew, and the weather vane moved. Making a few sharp squeaks as it

moved.

Needs to be oiled, said Reverend Dayton. Needs to be oiled. -- Southwest.

Wind blowing Southwest. Funny thing, you keep it oiled, and its about as accurate as

any other piece of equipment you can find. And at least theres a breeze.

For a moment Abyssinia found herself looking at the weather vane. The wind

making it move back and forth ever so slightly.

I just hope, well -- that you dont think Im being rude. Asking about this. And

Im not really sure theres a story here at all, really. It was, well, almost my own

curiosity. Really. About the steeple, she said.

Its not rude at all. Its just something of a confluence of factors. There was the

downturn in the economy. Some consolidation -- this really couldnt, or shouldnt, be

used in print; if thats okay -- of things a few rungs up. Within the hierarchy of the

church. So -- we know this is not great, he said, stepping forward, then reaching up, and

pressing on some of the beams, below where the white of the steeple began. The wood, at

this section, seemed to be soft, and he gave her a raised-brow look. It just needs so much

work. We knew it was in tough shape. But it just needed a lot of work. But, he said,

pressing on the wood again. Then over a few steps. Pressing where it was harder. She

felt, as she watched him press on it, like she was watching a doctor press on it. She felt

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comfortable with it, as he seemed almost to be working on it. She was not uncomfortable.

Harder here. Its harder here. -- We will have it all fixed. Have it returned to where it

belongs. We have wonderful people in this parish. -- Though we have asked a lot of

them. -- But we will get it back up. Back where it belongs. And you write whatever you

want, but, within the next few months, we hope to be much further along. We will see.

There is, just something of a sequence to these things.

Abyssinia looked up, watching the wind again, with some accompanying

creaking, move the weather vane, and the arrow catching the sun in glints. The breeze

now carrying nothing but heat. Like the weather vane was there to just point out that

there was heat in every direction. But, also, as you looked, and as it moved, seemed to be

saying there was sky in every direction. Because, all around it, was the bright blue sky,

which she stared up at, in a squint, because she wasnt sure she should be wearing her

Wayfarers when talking with a minister. And it didnt seem to take much of a breeze to

make it move. To effect it. The gold, gleaming now, in the sun, and it seemed, as you

looked up, that it was just saying there was sky everywhere.

She felt exhilarated for a moment -- and then anxious. Standing there.

She just felt strange. It felt like, beneath her, was an entire congregation. A

church. Buried there, that she was stepping on. Just off Maine Street. It was a feeling --

she could not quite describe. Being this close to this steeple. A steeple so close, she could

touch it herself. She just felt strange. Like it was a feeling she had not felt in a long time,

and she even felt a little light headed. She then gathered herself.

I guess -- Im not sure. I guess there really might not be a story. Sorry, maybe it

was wrong of me to disturb you. I just thought there might be a story, said Abysssinia.

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Stumbling, somewhat, in terms of what to say. Trying to gather herself a bit more.

Glancing, for a moment, at, in many ways, though simple, how beautiful the steeple was.

Theres nothing wrong at all. Asking about this. Not wrong at all, he said. With

calmness and equanimity. Not wrong at all, he said, taking a last glance up at the

steeple. Thats why were here, right, to answer the tough questions, he said, and smiled

at her, giving the steeple one last, gentle, pressing upon. Abyssinia took one last look, as

the blue tarpaulins blew with the wind, at all the wood that needed all the work.

-- Here, let me show you, said the Reverend, turning towards the church. Ill

show you our church. How they took the steeple out. Just in case you want to write about

it. And, of course, would never lobby for such a thing, a story about when it, finally, does

go back up. -- And, of course, you can stop by anytime -- And you dont even have to

pray, he said, again with a wry grin.

He was the sort of minister that -- she decided -- enjoyed the company of women.

Not in a prurient manner. But -- some of the priests, clergy, she had dealt with -- at the

Catholic college she attended -- seemed, if not misogynistic, then at least uncomfortable

with women. They seemed, women, all in all, to be getting in the way. And most of them,

those clergy, seemed stout, and squat. She read a woman once talking about thin, athletic

Protestant clergy, and thought of this, for a moment, as they walked.

They exited out from the fence, walking back along the grass, and they entered

through the large, white double-doors at the churchs front and walked in a few steps.

The Reverend showing her where the steeple had been removed, and showing her

the rest of the church. Explaining, even, that taking out the steeple had changed the

acoustics. That had been something of a surprise really. But changed the acoustics. Our

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choir director picked up on it. Removing this one element -- it changed all the acoustics.

Interesting really.

Soon they said their good-byes, and she left.

She drove and returned back to work, listening to Suzy talk about something, and

listening to Joan take some orders for classified ads. She tried -- and made herself; telling

herself; I am a professional,-- and she tried to finish the story on the Hansons. She did, at

least, finish a first draft, and it was Tuesday, so had one more day, before deadline.

On Saturday she went to the beach, with Angelica, a girlfriend, who had finally

finalized a nasty divorce, and had one child. Angelica had gotten a sitter, and they drank

margaritas on the beach, and around 2:00 it had begun to rain, and they returned home.

Martin had asked her, during their Friday meeting, to stop by the candlelight

vigil, see what might be happening. Which meant, in one form or another, covering it.

Martin had his own way.

The vigil was to start at 7:30, and by the time she was making her way down

Maine Street, from her apartment, she was still with the disorienting, and enervating, late-

day effects of the afternoon margaritas. The quick rain that had hit them at the beach had

hit Heathersfield, and though now gone, it had left, with the wet, sweltering heat, what

seemed like a small fog, or a mist of steam, all around town.

She walked down the street, and, passing through the crowd, entered The

Ultimate Blend. Outside, and inside, people gathered.

While walking down the street -- now blocked off, for about three blocks, with

orange, wooden, sawhorse street barricades -- she had seen one police officer

accompanying each set of barricades, at either end of the blocked off area.

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She got her large, black Arabian mocca, turned to the condiments table, and she

poured in some cream and watched it swirl. She remembered, for some reason, that quote

by Hemingway, and coffee cream -- Just enough to change the color.

She was not sure if she had gotten any color, looking at herself, in the reflection

of the glass door, in her sandals, and near knee-length shorts, and her white tank-top. The

form-fitting top, which she had purchased on a whim, with a navy-blue double-circle, and

anchor in the middle, and some French words contained at the top and bottom of the

double-circle. And she knew that areas of the circle, and the French letters at the top,

expanded, and stretched some, because of the lines of her figure.

Shed been given what shed been given.

She saw, through the glass, across the street -- looking at the big plate-windows of

the bank, and Daniellas Shoes, and Grazarians Jewelers. Saw the flickering of all the

candles, held by all the people gathering.

She walked outside.

In front, and to the sides of her, all the people collected in small groups, and all

lighting their candles. She looked across the street, and on either side of the street were

puddles from the days rain. Candlelight flickering in the puddles -- and, there across the

street, in all the plate-glass.

In the puddles, and on the shop windows, the candles darkened the figures

holding the candles, so it looked as if just candles were floating, and moving, and

weaving all about. As if a giant horde of fireflies, or something like that, had landed, and

decided to congregate on Maine Street.

The crowd gathered and Mitch Brillstein said a few words and Joan Van Wayne,

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obviously in charge, to some degree, explained some things, and then a woman named

Starhawk talked about the effectiveness of peaceful protest -- most were looking at their

candles, hoping they wouldnt be blown out -- and then a black woman, Deborah

Johnson, was introduced, and would be leading them in singing.

They began. Abyssinia thinking about joining them, but then supposed, at some

level, she was covering the event. So shouldnt actually participate -- though, more than

anything, really didnt feel like joining in. She could not say exactly why, but just did not

feel like joining.

She watched them as they began to move away, moving awkwardly, most

worried, as another gust of air came down the street, down from the Academy, that their

candle would not be extinguished.

After Deborah Johnson had been introduced, it had been explained that sheets,

with the words to the songs they were going to be singing, were supposed to have been

run-off, but that there had been some kind of glitch.

She watched. Up past them, spread across one of the big trees lining Maine Street

some toilet paper, or a banner, or some such thing that had been thrown up, or had blown

up, onto a tree.

It was long, and hung low at the middle, and one piece hung straight down, and it

reminded her of the Spanish moss that hung all over the trees on the outskirts of town

when she was small. Old men, in short-sleeve white shirts, and thin ties, and straw

fedoras, walking the Main Street. The entire world, in July, and August, permanently

enveloped in heat. Like everything, in that area, had been embalmed in heat. Sometimes

it was difficult to even breathe.

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She could hear them singing as they walked up the street, and heard them trying

to change songs. It seemed, as she sat, like some distant soundtrack, from a place

faraway, as she looked out at the near abandoned street, with this distant singing, echoing

amongst the buildings.

Sam, and her enormous body, then arriving. Her safari camera-vest on -- with all

its different film canisters. Abyssinia wondering if most actually contained anything.

Sam getting some herbal tea, but, as usual, making a commotion of it all.

Abyssinia then looking out at the plate-glass, thinking, that the whole thing was

silly, really. This vigil. Really, more about posing, she thought. The heat. The humid

remnants of rain. The haze of the margaritas. The entire world seemed moist.

Abyssinia wondering if Sam would notice, when the people returned, the flames

in the windows, but didnt feel like bringing it up. Though could take a picture of that.

But wasnt sure. Wasnt sure she was really all that concerned. But swore to herself she

would not let it effect her professionalism.

The vigil ended and she arrived home. Undressing, and after watching some late-

night TV, fell asleep.

Monday, back to work, and on Tuesday, not exactly sure why, she drove over to

Bracebridge, to Blueberries, the music store, and she bought two Mozart CDs and then,

seeing her there in the stacks -- aisles, whatever one would call them now -- bought a

Mahalia Jackson CD. For some reason she thought of her mother. Sometimes her mother,

when no one was around, would put on Mahalia Jackson, or the gospel recordings of

Elvis Presley. Her mother probably not completely comfortable listening, in her own

house, to a black woman, or a white rock n roll singer singing black-style gospel music.

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At night, while she prepared dinner -- salad, boiled chicken -- playing her CD-

player/tape-player/radio-alarm-clock thing. Just this silver thing, shaped like a silver,

oblong pea, and she put on some Mozart.

Two weeks later, and when she arose a thick fog all over town, and to work a

little early, to pick up Sam.

They drove out to see the Percherons, to put the finishing touches on the story.

Let Sam get her photographs.

The entire farm covered in mist, and Andy, the Jehovahs Witness who owned the

horses, a former local -- a long time ago -- high school jock, coming out from the barn

with them, and they seemed to just appear. Appearing out from the fog. The enormity --

their legs seemed to begin above the mans head, their haunches far above his head -- of

them. Their brilliant coats. The dark, shiny one. The other a stately grey. They seemed as

if something not of this earth. Their eyes were dark and healthy, and had that strange

wisdom -- that so many horses seemed to have.

They were led to the corral, where they began to run. Running in and out of the

mist, and the only thing Abyssinia could think of was unicorns. Maybe it was just

because the heads were so large, and with their clear eyes, it seemed they had to possess

some wisdom. These magnificent animals, appearing, and disappearing, in the mist, and

the sound of their hooves, even when covered in the fog, still there, digging up huge

divots, like explosions of earth, every time they ran. And as they ran, the earth really did

shake, even when lost in the fog. What a thing.

Sam, at the edge of, and then in, the corral, getting her pictures.

Abyssinia finished up her interview at the mans kitchen table, while his wife

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made them coffee and put out homemade muffins.

They drove back, the fog still not burning off.

She traveled down Heathersfield Street, listening to Sam, and her short-cropped

hair, that looked like she had cut it herself, adjust herself continuously (film canisters;

light meters; lenses; cameras; shoes) and made it to Centre and turned right.

She traveled across the small river -- that would stagnate, and cause quite an odor,

for a few weeks in August; and large, expensive houses just up the street; Abyssinia

always fascinated that this had not become a story -- and kept on. The fog still strangely

thick. Something about different fronts colliding -- Abyssinia never too terribly interested

in the genesis of weather conditions.

She followed the curve of the road to the left, Sam, and the rattling of her vest,

leaning a little inward, and all the rattling as if someone had decided it would be best if

the world had a warning if Sam were approaching. Or, Sam herself, had decided the

world should know.

They began to ascend the steep-graded hill, rising up through the fog, Abyssinia

getting ready to, soon, slow, because of the right coming up. Look, said Sam. As they

got to the top of the hill, and the road, for a moment, began to flatten. Look at that, said

Sam. Pointing to the steeple, which was now immersed in the fog.

You really cant even see the base. The fence. Only slightly, said Sam. Twisting

back, as they traveled. Here -- Why dont you stop for a minute. Can you stop? said

Sam.

Abyssinia was slowing, anyway, for the upcoming right, but said Why? Why do

you want me to stop?

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I want to take a picture. Of the steeple. In the fog. I think its a good picture.

Thats all. Dont worry. If you pull over -- at the corner -- thats fine. I can walk from

here. You dont have to wait. I just want to take this picture.

Abyssinia took the right, and she slowed. There really wasnt much she could say.

She knew Sam, and if she didnt drop her off, she would just get out at The Patriot, and

walk right back down.

Okay. Fine, she said. Attempting to conceal her exasperation. She pulled over,

next to Mary Immaculate. The small brick building housing the Catholic grade school.

Sam opened the door, and with fits and starts retracted outward her huge limbs,

oversized torso, and camera equipment.

If you want I can -- said Abyssinia.

No. Really. I might be a few minutes. You can just head back. That way I can

concentrate. Really, Ill see you back there, said Sam. Closing the door. Ill see you

back there. No problem.

With that, rose, tapped on the roof, and turned and walked, and Abyssinia could

still hear the clamoring of Sam.

Abyssinia then reaching down into her black bag, and taking out a liter bottle of

Eden Water and drinking from it. She began driving, saw Dippin and Sippin Donuts

down to the right, and decided she still needed another shot -- she had only had about half

a cup of coffee, and a muffin, at the farm -- of caffeine, took a right on Maine, and got a

large black, along with a cranberry muffin. She rarely got a large, but felt she needed it.

Remnants of the fog still there, but things getting a little cooler. And the strangeness of

being with Sam. So she allowed herself to get a large.

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The next week, on Tuesday, she returned to The Patriotat around 3:00, after

meeting with a couple on Iroquois Road that was using all organic materials for their

lawn care, and how they did this when putting the lawn to bed for the winter. Abyssinia

walked up the stairs, and into the communal space, and saw, as she turned, off to the far-

left, the gathering of what was, she was sure, the photo-editors meeting. Which,

usually, consisted of Martin meeting with Sam, and, basically, whoever else felt like

putting their not too numerable -- if you caught the general vibe from Martin -- cents in.

She placed her black bag on the chair in her cubicle.

She saw George, and Sam, and behind them, Suzy. Dear God, Suzy. Heard Suzy

saying I like this one of Mrs. Tabor crossing the finish line. And shes also quoted in the

story. And, with the student, behind her.

Abyssinia knowing they must be talking about the article on the Senior

Olympics competition, that had just been held at the High School field house, and had

been covered by Suzy.

Abyssinia, with a The Ultimate Blend cup of coffee in hand, walked over towards

the little kitchenette, where she was thinking about getting a little more cream, and passed

by the mockup table, the long table, with a top that was at forty-five degrees. The three

gathered towards the right end of the table, and at the left end, there were some pages that

had already been placed together.

Hi, guys, said Abyssinia.

Hi, Abyssinia, Ms. Gilmartin, Hey, Ab, came from the three. All three

immersed, it seemed, in the task before them.

Abyssinia moved into the kitchenette, poured in a hint more cream, walked out,

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and then nonchalantly peering in towards what they were all looking over, and then

stepping lightly towards the back of them, looking at the photo of the handsome, grey-

haired old lady excitedly crossing the finish line of one of the wheelchair competitions.

She then couldnt help glancing left, at the other mockups, and something caught

her eye.

She saw the picture of the steeple appearing up through the fog. One that,

obviously, Sam had taken last week.

She was almost involuntarily drawn to it. Stepping back, but then leaning in,

towards the layout. Suzy now near her, so Abyssinia had to stand a bit upward, to see it.

She looked down again. It was to be on the upper right-hand side -- above the fold

-- on the front page.

She felt aghast. Not sure why. But was just -- aghast.

What --? she began. Then looked back down at the picture again. Why? What

was the need of such a picture being in the paper?

Why is this -- picture? Is that picture going to be in the paper? said Abyssinia.

Suzy lifted herself from her full lean-in towards the table. Maybe. Maybe on the

front page. Why, whats the matter, Abyssinia?

I just said Abyssinia. I just dont understand why this picture is here? I

just As people moved, Abyssinia had to step more forward, in past them, or back a bit,

and she stepped backward a few steps. Everything had happened quickly.

Why, is there something wrong, Abyssinia? said Suzy. As if sensing, by

Abyssnias tone, and body language, elements of reticence -- Suzy looking at Abyssnia,

Abyssinia now standing, at the mockup table, cup of coffee in one hand, and other hand,

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slightly, out towards a photo she now was, it seemed, displeased with.

This said Abyssinia. As now both Martin, and Sam -- Sams rising complete

with the clacking and clamor -- rose up from the table. Sam, it seemed, even slightly

taller than even Martin. All three were now looking at her.

This -- picture of the steeple. Coming up through the fog. I dont understand.

Were not doing a story about that. About that steeple being on the ground. So why that

picture?

Martin looked at her, then hesitated for a moment. Suzy, calm, but, really, having

a hard time concealing her glee at the, sure to be, coming awkwardness of it all.

And there was a moments continuation of the awkwardness of it all.

We know that, Abyssinia. That were not doing an article. On the steeple. Its

just -- said Martin. He hesitated, and extended his hand right hand out a bit. It was at

about a 45 degree angle. -- a, you might say, as Im sure you know, a general interest

picture. A sort of shot-about-town picture. Some just seemed to think it was somewhat

interesting. Why? Abyssinia? Something bothering you? Is something the matter?

I just she said. Looking, slightly, down to her right, then across at the picture.

I just -- she said. Hesitating. She didnt want to look up. See the sure-to-be-present

ironic grin on Suzys face. She looked at the picture, there of the steeple. Saw it on the

ground, could see, even in the fog, the blue of the tarpaulin. All its flaws. Could see it all,

right there. Right there, it seemed, for everyone to see. So why? Why a picture. I just -- I

think it could embarrass them. Thats all. I -- Its a nice picture. A wonderful picture,

really. I just think it could embarrass them. Their steeple -- there still on the ground.

You mean? said Martin.

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The -- parish. The people of that parish, said Abyssinia.

All stood, while silence held for a moment.

And, for Reverend DaytonHas anyone asked them. About it? The people of the

parish. said Abyssinia.

Martin looked at her, his head just slightly to the right.

Why? You know Reverend Dayton? said George.

I didnt know you knew any reverends, Abyssinia, said Suzy.

Or ministers. You can also call them ministers, said Abyssinia.

Thats fine. Thats just fine, girls. But -- are you part of? said Martin. No

NoIm not part of that parish. But -- I do know -- well, not really know. But Ive met

Reverend Dayton. Met with him, I guess. I spoke with him. Only a little. But I have met

with him. And -- I just think this would be embarrassing. For them. Such a thing, she

said, and her head went down for a moment.

Why? Because its not back up yet? This will embarrass them? said Martin.

I did speak with him. And theyre all doing the best they can. The people there,

she said, her head still slightly down. To get the steeple back up. I asked him about it.

And the circumstances. Some of it is extenuating. Its just sort of difficult. It just cost

more than -- they just -- I dont know. Than they were expecting. I just dont think it

would be -- I just dont see the point, really. And I just -- she said -- her right hand going

out to the mockup table, at about 45 degrees. I just think it would be great if we didnt

run it. Its a nice picture. Its another wonderful picture from Sam. Her head rising

slightly. But I dont think theres any need to run it. I think the people there are good

people. The Reverend said how hard they work. Things just became -- difficult. And

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there were some other, like I said, some complications. Her eyes, cast downward, her

head, and eyes, after a moment, coming back up, then slightly right. Thats -- I guess --

thats just what I think. Thats all. I was just wondering if it would be okay. Not to run it?

Ill do some extra stories, or something, Martin. Because of the inconvenience. But

Its okay, said Martin, stepping to the side, out from between the other two girls.

Its okay. Well get it figured out. Martin now stepping towards her. He extended his

right hand out again, and though he was about four or five feet from her, like he was

almost going to rest it on her arm. To calm her. He had big, strong hands, actually. She

didnt think a drama teacher would have those. His hand in that posture -- though he was

still a few feet away -- where someone, to reassure you, very lightly, presses on your arm.

But he didnt walk any closer. Its all right, Abyssinia. Well get it all figured out. Itll

be no problem. Why dont you just sit down. And you dont need to get upset. Even

though I have no idea how to run this place, well get it figured out.

She couldnt help smile a bit, and she almost felt like he was holding her arm,

though his hand was still a few feet away.

No. Im fine. Im fine, she said. Im fine. I just --

Well get it all straightened out, Abyssinia. Why dont we all calm down for bit.

And after that, well get it all straightened out and, at least for awhile, Ill keep saying,

Well get it all straightened out. Hows that, said Martin.

Abyssinia hesitated -- she did not want to be seen acquiescing. Rescinding her,

near, demands.

But knew how Martin -- she thought anyway -- handled things, letting things play

out. And then, in the end, things, often, it seemed at least, were settled in such a way, that

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those involved, believed -- at least sort of believed -- that they had gotten, or at least had

come close to getting, what they wanted. He had only been here awhile, but she suspected

it would not be good to grandstand with Martin, she told herself, as she stood. Her past-

shoulder length, long, thick, wavy, black-and-chestnut, but mostly black, hair hanging in

front of her face. She knew she had beautiful, thick hair. It was the type of hair people

commented on. Even teachers, in high school.

Its okay, she said. Its fine. I just -- said Abyssinia.

Itll all be fine, said Martin.

She raised her right arm, and hand, slightly, towards Martin, then angled it away

from him a bit, and then looked up, and smiled somewhat. Youre right, Martin. Itll be

fine, she said, and turned. Then walking back towards her desk.

Sitting back down.

Then looking at a story. Some sort of story. Staring in at her laptop.

About an hour later, she was in Martins office.

I know -- the way I brought it up, it was probably inappropriate. It just caught me

by surprise, she said. She took a quick glance at the pictures to his left. One of him, and

a softball team, with him in the photo -- and it really was odd, the drama teacher, that

played softball. And there was a picture of him with some male friends, snorkeling, down

on some tropical Island. Looked like on of the Bahamian Islands.

His calendar was from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and pictured for this

month was a picture of a large room, with glass ceiling, with the Egyptian exhibit being

exhibited. He also had a framed print of HoppersNighthawks.

Thats no problem. We just dont want to see you and Suzy come to blows.

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Cause Im not sure how to break that up.

She smiled, her head hanging forward a bit. Her legs were crossed, slightly, and

she brushed, very lightly, at the thigh of her jeans.

You sort of took me by surprise -- but, said Martin, looking at the photo, there in

front of him, on his desk of various paperweights, and some of the wresters, and a large,

plastic fly. Maybe he said, and she waited. She was not sure why she felt so much

anxiety, waiting for what he was going to say. It seemed very important somehow, and

she waited. She really couldnt figure out why this man was here -- well, actually she

knew, to some degree. But it just seemed to add to the whole thing. I mean, now she was

working for a drama teacher. He looked down at the photo again. It is a nice

photograph.

Oh, theres no doubt about that. None. Sam does a great job. Its not that. Its just

that --

There was again silence. She could hear the young people, across the street,

bursting out from Four Aces, one of the local sub shops.

If it means that much -- why dont you want to go to -- speak with Reverend

Dayton about it? he said, and then looked up at her. He looked at her, in the eyes. They

were green-blue, somehow, and an intense green-blue. She could almost see why he was

-- she suspected -- somewhat vein about them. The vanity of -- a drama teacher --- what

must be a failed actor, she somewhat harshly assessed. The harshness not making her feel

great. But it was there more and more, as of late. In this weird little town.

Speak with -- she said, and stopped. Reverend Dayton?

Sure -- See what Randy -- those of us that know him well, we can call him

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Randy, he said, with a slight grin, and a glint in his eye, --see what Randy has to say. I

think you might have a legitimate point. Just, he said, off another glance at the photo,

maybe you should have permission. Showing a picture, of someones -- steeple, when

its still there on the ground. Maybe Im getting too old -- losing my fastball. I dont

know. Anyway -- if youd like, like I said, you can speak with Reverend Dayton. Let him

decide. That way -- maybe we can keep peace in the office. Amongst you girls. And then

no matter what happens -- of course -- Im not to blame, and then sat back, with that

almost sixteen-year-old boy grin on his face.

She was not sure why, and again there was this anxiety, and for some reason,

ended up waiting until Thursday afternoon to call Reverend Dayton, and arranged to meet

him Monday morning.

Monday should be good. Its one of my six days off. Just a little tied up on

Sunday, he had said, and laughed.

She arrived about ten minutes early, and was offered tea by his secretary. She

politely declined.

10:25, five minutes early, he opened the door to his office, which looked down on

the edge of the ancient cemetery. His office on the second-floor of this building that

extended out from the churchs nave.

She sat in one of the two ancient, worn leather chairs that sat before his desk, and

behind him, in the at least ten-foot high room, were two windows that traveled almost to

the ceiling. Outside the sky was almost filled with white clouds, so the sun was

constantly coming in and out, and on the wall were diplomas from Yale, and from

Andover Theological Seminary. There was a picture of him when he was young, in a

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white Naval uniform.

I am glad -- I thought you might think it an odd thing to talk about. So I

appreciate your understanding.

She took the photo out from a manila folder and handed it to him.

Oh, no problem, he said, reaching for the photo. I think you might be surprised

at what we deal with around here. Now -- He looked over the photo, settling back into

his high-backed old and worn office chair. She suspected it only had four casters, not five

like the new ones. She thought that Martin would probably be jealous. Martin, after

dealing with an office chair that was nearly falling apart, had been faced with one of

these new ones, with five casters -- for safety -- which he viewed as ridiculous.

Well, this is a nice photo. And Sam does a good job, doesnt she, said the

Reverend.

Yes -- she does. I just wasnt sure -- it just seemed like we might be

embarrassing you. Putting up a picture. Thats all. And just thought we should ask.

The Reverend nodded his head. It is not great that it is not back up, but I dont

think it is my place to ask it not be run. I really dont. Its down here, near Maine Street. I

think -- if that was in the works, so be it. Well survive. We can take it.

Abyssinia nodded. Okay. Thats fine. Thats great. I guess I just --

The Reverend looked up, just slightly, when she said I. He smiled just a bit.

We appreciate, Abyssinia, anyone that has our best interests at heart. Whoever

that may be. But -- you tell Martin he can run his picture. And that I willfind some way

of getting back at him. -- Do you need this? he said, lifting the picture.

Oh, Im sure theres another. Thats okay.

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Thats all right. Ill see it when it comes out. I think -- here, why dont you keep

it, Abyssinia.

She nodded, her thick, beautiful hair falling before her as it so often did. Okay --

sure.

The Reverend put his hands on the desk for a moment, then returned them to his

lap. Could I ask you something -- a few things, Abyssinia?

Yes, sure, she said, putting the photo back in the folder.

Are you -- youre not from around here, are you?

No -- I grew up in New Jersey. Just outside Summitfield, New Jersey. And, well,

actually, the first few -- seven or eight, years, down South. Im -- she began, and then

caught herself. She rarely told anyone this, unless she had known them a long time. Im

adopted. So, lived down South, with my adopted parents.

Oh, I see -- Do you -- is it okay to ask?

Oh, sure. You can ask anything you want. Sure.

Do you know the biological parents?

The mother, yes. She lives outside New York. Near the City. The father only

once. Hes from Greece. So only once. But I see my mother, and am in touch with her.

Yes. My biological mother.

Well, thats very nice, Abyssinia. Thats very nice. We can all use all the parents

we can get, right? he said. She smiled and nodded. He had said it, she decided, with just

the right tone. Saying what needed to be said.

Can I ask you one more thing, Abyssinia?

Yes. Sure,

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Are you sure you are okay? Is anything bothering you? Is there anything else

youd like to talk about?

Abyssinia looked at the Reverend, and glanced above him, out through the tall

windows, and the bright sky. The size of the windows, and the brightness, made your

blood run faster. They looked like windows that had been there a long, long time.

No -- Im fine. Just this and that, if you know what I mean. Just this and that.

I understand. -- Anytime you would like to come by, you know the doors are

open. We always appreciate someone being the one to deal with Martin for us. Martin

was the head of the Drama Department over at Saint Vincents, you know.

Yes, they said something about that. Just, guess it all happened quickly. Robert

dying, and guess they wanted someone from the outside. I guess -- she began, and

wasnt sure it was somewhere she should be going.

Oh, no, theyre very upfront about it. How it all came about. Chip Frederickson

-- as you know -- owns The Bracebridge Daily Sentinel, and a lot of the small-town

weeklies. He and Martin went to college together, out at Greylock College, in the

Berkshires. Chip told me, just need someone to keep things in order, and I know Martin,

one way or another, would figure it out. Martin was quite an actor, and ready to move to

New York -- doing a lot of commercial work, I think -- but then his wife was expecting,

and a child, then started teaching. And now, hes your boss. Lifes adventures.

Id heard some of that, but I thank you. It all seemed, well, they kind of just

foisted it on us.

Well, you dont let Martin intimidate you. Though I am sure you can handle

yourself, Abyssinia.

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Abyssinia smiled, just slightly, and shrugged a bit, with a female sort of slight

embarrassment. And as if, she wasnt quite sure anymore.

Soon she was then on her way, backing the Rabbit out from the small parking lot,

the lot in front of the cemetery, where there was also, now, a fenced in area with one of

those new-style jungle gyms made of wood and with plastic slides and ropes to climb on.

She knew they had a daycare center at the Church.

Next week, the picture appeared. It was on the third page.

October arrived, and then, Dear God, November. Knowing, soon, she would have

to decide on where to go for Thanksgiving -- either to her parents, or her older, adoptive

sister, down in D.C., and her husband and kids.

In early November the Harlem City Boys Choir was singing at the Bowerhill

Academy Chapel and she decided she would go. She told Martin she was going, and so,

in essence, was going because of work.

She had never been in the Bowerhill Chapel, and was surprised at how crowded it

soon became.

The choir arrived, all in red cassocks, and white surplices, and an enormous black

man, obviously their leader, or, Abyssinia assumed, choirmaster, sitting to the side.

She saw the breeze make the candlelight flicker, and the candles there on black-

metal sconces, held by curved wrought iron, attached to the wide, thick, fluted, ceiling-

high stone-columns that lined each side of the church, to the sides of the wide main-aisle.

The candlelight flickering against the columns, and overhead, in from the columns, near

the aisle, incandescent lights, and their steady light, hanging down in lantern-type

ensconcements.

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The headmaster, a female, talked about how happy, and proud, the Academy was

to have such visitors.

The choirmaster came to the front of the altar, and the boys, in near perfect

symmetry, behind him.

Thank you, Headmistress Rane. I thank you for this wonderful invitation. This

wonderful opportunity. And I know the boys appreciate it. And I know they especially

appreciated the wonderful dinner they just had, he said. And all laughed. One thing I

have learned over the years, is that a choir travels on its stomach. And again, there was

more laughter.

The theme, as posted on the flyer outside the Asquith Bookstore, had been

Handel -- and American Hymns, American Songs, and the program started with The

Messiah. Then what Abyssinia assumed, was some traditional hymns. Abyssinia almost

sure she recognized the second hymn, but, really was not too terribly familiar with

hymns.

As you can see, we have included, in your program, the words to some gospel

songs, some -- we hope -- classic favorites. And a few folk-songs. So in keeping with the

Southern Gospel tradition, it would be a great honor, if the congregation would join in,

he said. The boys sometimes think, when the congregation starts, they can take a little

break. But, I promise, well stay on them.

Abyssynia had not heard Old Landmark for a long time, and certainly not sung

by a choir, but it was one she did know. Then they sang Peace in the Valley.

She began singing with the songs. Feeling awkward at first.

Then they got to Amazing Grace, which so many people thought a clich, but,

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which, she had never really formed much of an opinion about.

She began singing with everyone else. With the choir. With all the people

gathered. Keeping her head down. Singing a little louder. Surrounded by all these other

people, with the beautiful voices of these boys, and she kept singing. Felt emotional,

almost, as she sang. Like something was coming up from within her. That, it seemed, had

been deep down, somewhere. It was -- she had to pull back some, because, as she sang

louder, it was almost as if -- she couldnt really control herself. She felt moisture on the

edges of her eyes, and she felt silly, stupid, but was towards the back, so, surely, no one

would notice.

The choir then returned to singing on its own, to a few more gospel songs, and a

few more hymns, and then ended with My Country tis of Thee, and then a beautiful

rendition of America the Beautiful, the way, she knew -- she didnt know if this was

prejudiced or not, or something she wasnt supposed to think -- only a black choir could

sing it.

She left, and decided to drive by Angelicas, house, and the light was still on, and

she thought about going in and she felt like talking to someone. Talking to someone

about something, but then headed home. It was probably too late to just pop in.

She stayed in the area for Thanksgiving, eating at Angelicas, and went to her

sisters, in D.C, for Christmas, her parents also coming up to visit so things were easier.

A few days after Christmas, in the evening, she was walking down Main Street,

and passing Martelignis, with murals of people in the fields, and carrying bushels, on the

wall, and saw Martin at one of the tables. He saw a woman with him, and she could tell,

by the way they were talking that that was Linda, his wife. She was surprised at how

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beautiful she was. With clear, olive skin, and brown hair with red-golden highlights.

Strange, a man like that -- how he ended up her boss. She watched a moment more, just

back from the extended, glassed-in walkway leading to the restaurant, and they reminded

her of theNighthawks, except, she really was beautiful, and she had to admit she was

surprised -- she watched them talking, and their was still an intensity to their

conversation. She was leaning in towards him -- and she was surprised, because they

seemed happy. She had taken him for something of a bitter, semi-failure, grasping at

something new.

Then, Oh yes, onto January -- and onto winter.

Another Saturday night came and she had stayed late at Angelicas, drinking

wine, and sleeping in again, on Sunday. Today, her head heavy, and went to the Dippin

and Sippin at the corner for coffee and a muffin.

After dinner of some pre-made soup, bought at The Organic Peck, she opened up

her laptop, and briefly looked over a few stories for the upcoming week. She, usually,

could not help but touch up a few spots. A few sentences. Rearrange paragraphs. But,

within a few minutes, the laptop was closed, and put there, on the floor, beside her floor-

level futon.

She watched some bad TV. With only the basic, $12.00-a-month or so, cable,

there was virtually nothing to watch.

Around 10:00 she switched over to the news. Watching the beginning of it, but

was soon preparing for bed.

She turned down the thermometer, wanting to continue to save on the heat, and

she undressed herself completely, and arranged herself under the extra blankets, thinking

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-- though not yet sure -- that Angelica was right, that sleeping in the nude, with more

blankets, was more effective than sweatpants and old turtlenecks, and feeling the thick

blankets on top of her.

She lay with her eyes open for a bit, looking at the beam of light from the

streetlight coming in through the window, as a surprisingly steady stream of cars made

their way up, and down, Maine Street.

She moved her body under the blankets, carving out another cocoon.

She kept staring for a bit.

She did not know why, but she felt like crying. She almost began to cry, and then

pulled the blankets up further towards her chin, as if this would help prevent it.

She fell asleep, initially, with the bedside light still on, and she awoke, according

to the digital clock, at 11:48. She woke from one of those involuntary, near un-

recoverable sleeps, where, for a few beats, and a few beats more, as it becomes almost

alarming, you can not even lift your head, but then just lifted her head, making sure she

could, and then reached up, groped for a moment, and then turned off the lamp.

She closed her eyes again, fading in and out of sleep, feeling the cool air out and

about her head, but felt warm, underneath the blankets.

She fell asleep in her cocoon of blankets and slept and slept and then, from

nowhere, she awoke. Everything dark. Not sure where she was. Just the beam of the

streetlight beside her. Sitting up. Blankets falling before her, her nude body now in the

cold air, and shocked at how cold it was. Breathing, in near gasps.

Because, all around her, she heard music. No idea where from. But right next to

her, and all around her, loud music. Just appearing in the darkness. She opened and

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closed her eyes. She was completely disoriented. She felt the cold air, and she realized --

nude -- she put her hands to her breasts. Covering, and for a moment, holding, herself.

Loud music. And she listened, and it was Amazing Grace. It was the song

Amazing Grace.

She could not believe it. That -- It was like it was coming from somewhere. From

somewhere she could not see.

She was frightened, and for a moment she closed her eyes, and she kept her hands

to her chest, holding herself tight for a moment, but then raised them a little. Almost like

she was feeling her heartbeat. Breathing in.

Only the gleam of the streetlight, to her left.

And for a moment -- she listened. She held herself. Felt the chill of the cold air

and felt herself shudder, and thought she felt goose-bumps. Still holding herself tight. The

music still there.

And then -- it occurred to her. As the song continued, the soaring vocals, filling

her entire room.

Then realized, looking to her left, at the dim strip of light, there next to her closet,

on the floor. The thin strip of light in the slight glow coming in from the streetlight.

The tunebox. CD player thing. Barely large enough to even be called a tunebox.

The illuminated strip that told you things -- which station on the radio; if using tape, or

CD -- flickering, it seemed, ever so faintly.

She realized. Trying to think.

She had moved the tunebox, and she had plugged it in, a few days ago, or weeks

ago. Or at some point.

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So as she heard the music fill the room -- realized, it was just the tunebox. It was

just the Mahalia Jackson CD, that she had put in, and she had forgotten. The clock-radio

thing must have turned it on. That must be what happened. She could never figure that

clock-radio thing out.

She was tired, but knew she had to turn it off, and she breathed in, ready for even

more cold.

She brushed the blankets away from her, then leaned forward, and, on her hands

and knees, crawled to the tunebox, fumbling with it in the darkness.

She pressed down on the top, the top popping up, and in the haze of the

streetlight, could still see the CD spinning, but the music had ended. Just the faint,

scratchy sound of the CD spinning.

For a moment she stared at it, listening to this almost subtle scraping sound, as it

spun.

Then a shudder again shook her body, and she looked down at her nude body,

there in the glow of the streetlight.

For a moment unsure what to do. Felt, for a moment, frozen.

She would straighten it all out in the morning.

She turned and crawled back over to her bed, untangled the covers, and then

crawled back into the bed, and pulled the covers over her.

She lay, with her head on the already cool pillow, and she realized she had not

unplugged the tunebox, so the strip, which wavered and flickered some, in the steady

light of the streetlight, on the front, was still illuminated, and she didnt want the tunebox

to somehow pop on during the night again, but doubted it would happen. She was too

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street they were riding their bikes on.

And it would sound so beautiful. Thats all she remembered. That it sounded very

beautiful. In that strange little town. Sometimes you couldnt even tell which church it

came from. But it sounded different. Their voices. It was like, sort of, the air didnt carry

the voices, but their voices carried the air. It was just different. And it sounded, somehow,

like it came from a long time ago. One lonely car travelling up Maine Street. Up towards

the Academy. She pulled the blankets a little further up and, slowly, as she felt warmer

and warmer beneath the blankets, began to fade off to sleep. Thinking, just on the cusp of

sleep, how beautiful things used to sound. It seemed to have, somehow, just popped in

her head. How it sounded, a long time ago.

She fell asleep, and back to work, thinking, more and more, I have to start

looking, really looking for a job in L.A. I have to move on. But for now, this is where I

am.

February came, and at least the days were a bit longer. But here today, at mid-

week, another snow storm. So much for Global Warming, she thought, in her black

leather, mid-thigh length coat, cobalt blue turtleneck and black V-neck cashmere sweater,

and well-fitted, immaculate jeans.

She was walking through the snow, with shoes more suited for Fall, through the

slush, walking to make a hair appointment, when through the snow she saw Reverend

Dayton.

He was walking, head down a bit in the snow, but walking calmly. The snow did

not seem to be bothering him a great deal.

She saw him across the parking lot, turning in towards the parking lot, and

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probably heading to get his car. She was not sure if she should bother him. She saw him

-- and there were a lot of things she wanted to say to him, and she felt a rush of

adrenaline.

She was held still for a moment, and this seemed to catch his attention. He looked

up, and through the snow, squinted slightly, his right hand holding his black Chesterfield

coat tight. All in black, in the snow -- she knew he was at least 6 3 -- he seemed stark,

but also, somehow, like the best, and most appropriately dressed person shed seen in a

long time.

Abyssinia -- is that you?

Hello, Reverend. Hello, she said, and began walking. She began down the

sidewalk, stopping to let a car pass her and pull onto Maine, then continue on. She

walked to him, a green glen-plaid scarf the only hint of color in what he was wearing, but

it seemed to be just the right amount. The small silver patches of grey on the sides, at the

temples, of his dark hair also seeming to be just the right touch.

How are you, Abyssinia. Enjoying our weather?

I try not to complain. A New England friend said you can only complain about

the winter when its over.

True -- though now and then we cheat. Things going well?

Yes, she said, and she wanted to tell him. Well enough, she said, but just felt

like telling him things. Telling him she went to see a choir, a boys choir, and when she

was there, she sang. Thats all, tell him that she sang. And tell him -- though she couldnt

tell him that, he might think she was crazy -- but tell him, not long after that, her CD

player thingy came on, and Mahalia Jackson was on. In the middle of the night.

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And then she thought, Did you know about these horses? These horses out in the

West section of town. Thought about telling him about these horses. And theyre not just

huge -- enormous really; Ive never seen such horses -- but beautiful. Their muscle, and

their sinew. Their legs, high, and so wide, and she almost found herself lifting her hand,

to indicate how high. How beautiful, and high. And when they run, and gallop, their

hooves, the sound they make, and you can hear them breathe. And the sound, it is

magnificent, and as they run, as they move over the Earth, with each gallop, you can feel

the Earth move a bit, like theyre tearing up the earth, it really does move, sort of, I guess

like that song said, or Hemingway, or someone, but, well, when youre leaning on the

corral, you really feel it, beneath your feet, the ground shaking, and it is just -- well, its

just magnificent, their strength, such strength, and you just watch them and you can

almost feel them breathing and you feel a little lightheaded and yourbreathing changes,

and you almost have to catch it, and its just from that. Just from these horses, and how

beautiful, and magnificent they are, and did you know that theyre even there, she

thought, right here in town, right here, not far from us, this, such a thing, right near us,

and her thoughts felt as clear as they had in a long time, but then caught herself. They

seemed less sluggish, though probably getting carried away. Just carried away with stupid

little things.

Though she wanted, yes, to tell him about these things. Maybe even ask him

about these things. Such things. But more than anything, she just she was not sure why,

she just wanted to thank him. There were just things, that seemed buried deep down, that

she wanted to say. But, she supposed, they had to stay there. But she could feel her chest

lift, and fall, as she thought about all of these things, coming together, and her blood run

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fast, through her shoulders, and arms, and her thighs, and it felt all around her, and it felt

like it would almost make her shudder, and maybe it was just the cold.

Just -- well enough, she said, calmly.

Well, Abyssinia, youll be happy to know, said the Reverend, as a car horn

honked, a blue SUV passed, and a woman, with children in the car, called out, Hello,

Reverend.

He turned, waved, said Hi, Jean, and turned back to Abyssinia, and Abyssinia

was glad she had a moment, veiled by the snow, to catch herself. I think, Abyssinia,

youll be happy to know, it will be on its way back up. May, June at the latest. Just have

to wait for the weather to break, tie our good friends that do such work, down, and it will

be on its way. And, Abyssinia -- just so you know, if youd like to write the story, I know

Id be delighted.

She was not sure she would still be here then. She was not sure where she would

be. She wanted to give the proper answer. No disingenuousness.

If theres any way I can, Reverend, I will. You never know -- she said,

hesitating a bit.

I understand, Abyssinia. Its some time off. I understand. I just want you to

know, that if you want to write the story, about it being put back, being put back in place,

Id be delighted if youd write it. I think youd do a great job. Thats all.

Thank you, Reverend. That means a lot to me.

Her dark brown eyes were close set, and her face was longer than wider, giving

her face a feeling of length. She wore makeup, and though not excessive, was placed it

would seem perfectly, augmenting what she had. Her lipstick was not a gaudy, candy-

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apple red, but a lush, dark red, that gave a small shadow, just, it seemed, where it should.

He knew of her Mediterranean heritage, and knew she had the curves that so many

women of that heritage seemed to have, and her black sweater contained these lines. All

of it, in the aggregate, amongst the thick snow, presented her beauty as something of an

exotic. Something that seemed to have come from somewhere else. It reminded him of

the flower petals of purple and yellow and blue, you saw appearing, somehow, amongst

the rocky moonscape of Western Ireland.

He gave her a last look, and then looked slightly right, and moved ever so slightly

right.

And thank you, Abyssinia. For watching out -- for us.

The snow was coming down hard, and she looked into his kind eyes, that had

hints of mirth in them, and in the shape of the crows feet. The snow now so hard they

both had to squint, and they probably looked silly, standing on the edge of the parking

lot, snow pouring down, both in a lot of black, just talking.

She looked at him, her heavy hair wet, and now decorated with snow flakes, and

falling a bit before her eyes, and she moved it back, away from her face, and, as the

Reverend looked right, and began searching amongst the veil of white, in amongst the

strange, but somehow welcome silence that comes with a snow storm, for his car, heard

what was at times the currency of his vocation, heard what he never said to anyone, about

being glad to hear such, but heard, amongst the silence of the snow and the cars moving

steadily up and down Maine Street, heard, -- Thank you, Reverend. Thank you.

-- END --

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The Buried Church by Daniel Finneran

Documents

Transcript of The Buried Church by Daniel Finneran