Born in Syn. Beth Kander
muted syllable barely escaping from his lips before he stumbled, pitched forward, and smacked his head hard on the wide edge of the heavy wooden crib. Without making another cry, he thudded dully to the floor.
Nathan didn’t mean for his father to die. He wanted him to hurt his foot, not smash his head. His goal was a fall, not a fatality. It was Nathan’s first lesson in accidental outcomes; in the collateral damage that can come when trying something new.
It was also a lesson in how quickly things can change. When Ernest Fell walked into Nathan’s room, he was one thing: a person. When he hit his head and stopped breathing, stopped moving, stopped being, he was no longer a someone, but a something: a body, empty and vacant.
That was what they buried. Just an empty body.
Why would he miss that?
Everyone assumed Ernest Fell died of a heart attack. There was no reason to suspect foul play, and autopsies weren’t really done in situations like that. Not back then. So Nathan’s crime went entirely undetected. Even he didn’t think about it much. Only at moments like this one, when an entirely unsuspecting party asked him about his father’s death.
“Okay, Nathan, let’s go home,” his mother said, shifting him from her left hip to her right hip. Her eyes were far away. He could tell she was already planning her next nap. “Your brother will be home from the neighbor’s soon. I’ll make us all TV dinners and maybe we’ll watch a show tonight. There’s a show I think you and Howie will like. It’s called ‘I’ve Got a Secret.’”
The title of the show intrigued two-year-old Nathan. After all, young as he was, the little boy already had a massive secret he’d never share with anyone.
8
Chapter 7: LILA
On the second anniversary of her husband’s death, Lila Golden Fell went to his grave. Going to the cemetery was what she was supposed to do; everyone said so. But no one told her what to do once she got there. So Lila just stood and stared at the stone monument, flanked by both of her small sons. Nathan was silent. Howie was unabashedly sobbing.
I should comfort him, she thought dully. But she didn’t know how.
She was thirty and a widow. The very word seemed to age her. Widow. It hung on her like a thick-linked chain, weighing her down, limiting her ability to move. She stood there reading and re-reading the name of the man she married, carved letter by letter into unforgiving granite. Staring at the grave of the man who promised to grow old with her, she felt her own aging process lurch forward; felt her skin wrinkle, her heart harden, each strand of dark hair inch its way toward dull gray resignation.
“I miss Daddy,” wailed Howie. Five years old, having lived fully half his life without his father, he still asked about Ernest daily. What would he be doing if he was here right now? What new word would he teach me today? What would he have bought you for your birthday this year? Those questions from Howie used to cause Lila physical pain, but eventually she numbed to them. But his keening that morning was harder to ignore. He raised the volume: “I…. missssss Dadddyyyyyyy!”
“Howie! Hush your mouth. You’re yelling loud enough to wake the dead!”
“Dangerous place to do that. All these folks wake up, place might get a little crowded.”
Lila jumped, startled by the voice behind her. Turning around, her alarm quickly dissipated. She hadn’t seen those blue eyes since they were looking down from the lectern at her husband’s funeral, but they remained unmistakable.
“Reverend James?”
“I’m sorry. That was a terrible joke, inappropriate—”
“It’s fine,” Lila said. “No need to apologize. You remember my boys, Howie, Nathan—”
Nathan kicked at the dirt and did not acknowledge the preacher. Howie looked up at him, still huffing with grief. Reverend James handed Howie a handkerchief, which Howie quickly smeared with tears and boogers. When Howie politely tried to return it, the man of the cloth gestured for Howie to keep the filthy rag.
“Two years today?”
“Yes, Reverend.”
“James, please,” the minister urged.
“James,” Lila repeated. “Are you here for a funeral, or…?”
“Not today,” he said. “I’m just—visiting. At least once a week I come to the cemetery and pick a row, and visit that whole row, grave by grave. Offer prayers. Reflect on the next stage of our journey. Death is a master teacher. We’re all scared of the final exam, of course, but I find that—as with all subjects—studying can help take away some of the fear.”
This sentimental confession seemed odd to Lila. She assumed all Christian clergymen were like her father-in-law: men of scripture who worshipped the letter of the law and enforced God’s will with rigid, unforgiving rigor. She didn’t expect gentler philosophy, let alone humor. She looked a little more closely at James, his thin buttery hair, his warm blue eyes. He looked more interesting than she remembered. Not more handsome, but more—yes, interesting.
“Well,” she said. “I guess when it comes to death, I’m like most students. I put off studying. Figure I’ll just cram, right at the end. Of course, our family got an unexpected pop quiz…”
“Some teachers aren’t fair,” the minister nodded. Ah yes, Death really was quite the cantankerous old so-and-so. Or maybe he meant God, not Death, was the unjust instructor.
“I’m hungry,” Nathan said out of nowhere, loud and demanding.
“Right, okay, we can go,” Lila said. Then, impulsively, she said to the reverend: “Would you like to join us for dinner?”
“I’d love to,” he said, triggering an instant panic in Lila.
The house is a shambles. All I have in the kitchen is peanut butter and Wonder Bread. Nathan will say something cruel. Howie will wail the whole time. I’ll come apart at the seams. This is the worst idea I have ever had.
Lila realized she was staring at the reverend, as if he had just invited himself. She knew all too well that she had one of those faces that required careful monitoring; her default expression was dour, particularly in widowhood.
“We’ll have to stop at the grocery on the way home,” Lila said quickly, forcing a smile to sweeten any sour look she accidentally gave the poor man. “And you’ll have to forgive the house. It looks like sh—sure is messy, is what I mean, but if that doesn’t bother you, well, then…”
“Fortunately, I’m in the forgiveness business,” smiled the minister.
He walked with Lila and her sons to the A&P. They picked up some vegetables, a chicken, and cereal for Nathan (who would currently eat nothing else). Then they went home. Nathan went to his room to do whatever it was he did, alone in there. Howie hunkered down with a handful of Cheerios and the book he was reading (Felix Salten’s Bambi: A Life in the Woods).
James unloaded the groceries, then asked for a paring knife. Lila had no idea what a paring knife was, so she just slid open the cutlery drawer and gestured for the preacher to take what he needed. He did, and then expertly sliced the vegetables; cleaned, patted dry, and seasoned the chicken; turned on the oven. He kept a running chatter the whole time, as he rattled pots and pans, sprinkled salt, and generally gave the appearance of knowing what he was doing in the kitchen.
Lila simply watched and listened for the first five minutes, before excusing herself to set the table. Before setting it, she had to clear it of the debris of their past week—pieces of cereal, abandoned crayon drawings, unopened mail. She then hastily tidied the dining and living areas