The Island of Heavenly Daze Page 5

  Hunched inside his jacket, Winslow stepped off his front porch and looked out into the night. Charles and Babette Graham, owners of the Tony Graham Gallery, lived directly across the street from the church and catty-cornered to the parsonage. As he walked into the wind, Winslow noticed that the lights in the gallery were dark, and only one dim lamp shone through the window of the Grahams’ front parlor. The upstairs windows, however, blazed with light. Apparently the boy hadn’t gone to sleep yet.

  As he drew nearer, voices floated out to him from a partially open upstairs window. Pausing by the swing in Babette’s flower garden at the side of the house, Winslow heard the tremulous whine of a little boy: “But how do you know the witch won’t get me?”

  The answering voice was strong and familiar, and Winslow smiled as he recognized it. The voice belonged to Zuriel Smith, the potter who lived in the Grahams’ detached garage. Zuriel was a quiet, artsy sort who kept to himself most of the time, but the clay pots he contributed to the art gallery’s inventory apparently covered his rent and then some.

  Winslow lifted his head and peered in the darkness through the nearest upstairs window, then spied Charles Graham standing against the wall, his arms folded. Charles wore a look of relief, and Winslow smiled as that same relief crept over him. If Zuriel could find a way to calm Georgie’s fears, they’d all be better off for it.

  Deciding to wait it out, Winslow sat in the garden swing and gripped the chain, relaxing in the gentle rhythm of the wind. “The movie you saw was only imagination,” Zuriel was saying, his voice rising and falling in a calming cadence. “Do you know the difference between things that are real and things that aren’t?”

  Winslow strained to hear an answer. Georgie must have nodded, for Zuriel laughed and continued. “Let me tell you, Georgie, about the four kinds of stories. The first kind is true—and if the writer has done his work well, you can trust the facts in a true story. The second kind of story is made up—it’s called fiction—but the things that happen in the story are things that could be true.”

  Georgie’s treble voice cut through the heavy stillness of the night. “Like Blueberries for Sal?”

  Zuriel laughed. “Yes. You could go out with your mother to pick blueberries, and you could meet a bear, just like Little Sal did. That is a made-up story that could be true. But there is a third kind of made-up story, Georgie, that cannot be true. The Wizard of Oz is one of those kinds of stories. A tornado could pick up your house, but it couldn’t plop you down in the middle of Munchkin Land because there is no such place. And a wicked witch could not send an army of winged monkeys to carry you off.”

  “I don’t like that kind of story.” Georgie whimpered like a lonely puppy, and Winslow’s heart contracted in pity at the sound.

  “Ah, but Georgie,” Zuriel answered, his voice husky and filled with awe, “it is in that kind of story that the wings of your imagination can take flight. Imagination and creativity are good gifts from God, and he wants us to use them.” He paused a moment, then asked, “Can men fly, Georgie?”

  Georgie was laughing now. “Not unless we’re in an airplane.”

  “You’re right. But Orville and Wilbur Wright used their imaginations to pretend that men could fly—and then they figured out how to make it work. They made the first airplane, and because they did, today men can fly from America to Europe in a matter of hours. We can fly to the moon . . . and who knows? Maybe you will go there one day.”

  “Maybe.” Georgie fell silent for a moment, then piped up again. “What’s the fourth kind, Zuriel?”

  “I hadn’t forgotten.” In a deep and reasonable voice, Zuriel continued. “The Bible is the fourth kind of story, Georgie. It’s so special it deserves its own category. For the words of your Bible are the words of God, written by men who listened to and obeyed the Spirit. And though many of the stories in the Bible do not seem possible, they are completely true. Men can walk on water, they can rise from the dead, they can feed five thousand with a little bread and a few fishes if God is willing to work a miracle. And because the Bible promises that God will never leave or forsake you, you should never worry about wicked witches. You are safe in the palm of God’s hand, Georgie, and he will not let you go.”

  Zuriel murmured something else and Georgie responded, but Winslow was no longer listening. His gaze was fastened to the front of the church, where a single spotlight illuminated the door and the spiraling steeple.

  Why did they need the church? In the past three minutes, from a little boy’s bedroom window, he had heard a sermon as profound as anything he had ever preached. The Minor Prophets could add little to Zuriel’s simple message, and the fact that Georgie was no longer wailing proved its effectiveness.

  Why did this town need him? Charles and Babette hadn’t been able to calm their son, but Zuriel had. And there were others on the island with the same gift of quiet assurance, people who seemed to instinctively understand spiritual things. Just last winter, in fact, when Winslow had the flu, Yakov Smith, the graphic artist who lived on the second floor of the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center, had stepped in to fill the pulpit. Nearly every person in town, eager to assure Winslow that he needn’t worry about rushing to get well, had stopped by to tell him about Yakov’s wonderful, colorful sermon. Apparently the man had picked up some Yiddish before coming to Maine, and he had the entire congregation in stitches as he tried to explain why Jonah, the minor prophet of the month, was a shlump—a depressing wet blanket.

  A wave of self-pity rose and threatened to engulf Winslow, but he pushed it back. He would not entertain these dark thoughts. He knew he wasn’t colorful or entertaining, but he could learn. He had faithfully followed the Lord for most of his life, and he had learned a few spiritual lessons during that time. He had wisdom to share . . . he just had to find a more interesting way to share it.

  He glanced down at the soft paunch overhanging his belt. While he concentrated on improving the quality of his product, it wouldn’t hurt to improve the packaging as well. He could stand to lose a few pounds and engage in a little exercise. He could look through the Sears catalog and see about ordering a couple of new suits, maybe something double-breasted and in an autumnal color . . . after all, folks naturally warmed to bright earth colors.

  He rocked slowly on the swing, taking pleasure in the thought of a new and improved Winslow Wickam. Even Edith would be pleased by his transformation. She’d been after him to eat less and exercise more ever since his last physical. The doctor hadn’t found anything really alarming in Winslow’s lab results, but he’d pointed out the potential for problems if Winslow didn’t do something to burn calories and get his heart pumping more regularly.

  The slap of a slamming door broke into his reverie, and Winslow looked up to see Cleta Lansdown coming across the street. The Lansdowns’ bed-and-breakfast stood next door to the church and catty-cornered to the Grahams’, so maybe Babette had called Cleta to help with Georgie, too . . .

  Cleta moved across the street as if her feet were on fire, her arms swinging in a steady rhythm. Without glancing toward the side garden where Winslow sat in the swing, she mounted the steps and crossed the wide porch in three strides. “Babette!” she called, pulling open the screen door as she rang the bell. “You ready to hear the latest?”

  Winslow sat silently on the swing, huddled inside his jacket. A sharp stab of guilt rose to needle at his brain—he ought to call out and greet Cleta in order to announce his presence, and it was only fair that the Grahams know that he’d come to help their son. He shifted his weight forward, about to stand and call out a hello, but then Babette opened the front door.

  “I just called Olympia with the news,” Cleta said, her voice filling the night with a note of vibrancy. “The Maine Council of Independent Churches has agreed to send Rex Hartwell to us on the last Sunday of the month. He’s coming to look us over.”

  Winslow’s blood suddenly swam in adrenaline.

  “Really?” Honest pleasure filled Babette’s voice.
“Why, that’s wonderful! I know you had to work hard to get those people in Portland to listen. But my hat’s off to you, Cleta, for convincing them we need help out here.”

  “Ah, twern’t nothing, really.”

  Winslow sat silently, too stunned to breathe as the two women moved into the house and took seats by the parlor window. Their voices carried out to him as clearly as if he’d been sitting in the room.

  “Now comes the hard part, of course,” Cleta said. “We’ve got to make all the arrangements without Pastor knowing.”

  “Won’t he have to know sooner or later?”

  “Later is better than sooner, Babette, and we’ll all do well to remember that. In the meantime, what Winslow Wickam doesn’t know won’t hurt him a bit.”

  “Reverend Rex Hartwell.” A note of wonder filled Babette’s voice. “I’ve seen his picture. Such a handsome man.” She lowered her voice to a discreet tone. “I shouldn’t be saying this, being a married woman and all, but he just seems . . . well, too manly for the pulpit, if you know what I mean. Preachers shouldn’t be so good-looking—they might cause the ladies’ thoughts to drift away during the church service.”

  Cleta’s cackling laughter rippled through the air, followed by, “Babette Graham, I’m ashamed of you!”

  “Maybe I can’t help it,” Babette added, sounding as if she were choking on giggles, “because he’s just so different from Pastor Wickam!”

  Winslow tugged at his collar, feeling warmer than the temperature of the evening warranted. He could feel his cheeks flushing against the cool evening air, and his stomach soured at the thought of spending another minute in Babette’s fading garden. As the women’s laughter floated into the night, he rose from the swing and beat a hasty path back to his own porch, his thoughts swirling in circles of anger and humiliation and resentment.

  “Hon, is that you?” Edith’s face appeared around the corner of the kitchen. “Did you help Georgie get to sleep?”

  Turning from his wife, Winslow shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the hook behind the door, then bent to pull off his boots. “I never made it to the Grahams’,” he said, grateful to have something to do with his hands. “Got sidetracked, but it looked like they had the situation under control. Cleta Lansdown was over there, and so was Zuriel Smith.”

  “He’s a real help with that little boy.” Edith stepped out of the kitchen and leaned against the wall. “How’s Cleta?”

  “Didn’t speak to her.” Winslow dropped his boots into the space behind the door, then brought his hand to his temple. “I’m going upstairs to lie down, Edith. Not really feeling chipper. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She might have frowned or gazed at him with worried eyes, but at that moment Winslow didn’t care to know what his wife was thinking. His soul was still smarting from Cleta’s remarks, and from the obvious truth he’d gleaned: The Heavenly Daze Community Church had grown tired of him. After ten years, they wanted to send him away in order to welcome a younger, more handsome, more manly pastor.

  Winslow’s temple, which had been numb only a moment before, began to throb in earnest as he climbed the stairs.

  Looks just like you, Pastor, only younger.

  Time goes fast when you’re old . . . and boy, are you old.

  See how the light shines from your head? It’s almost like a halo!

  Honey, you could stand to lose a few pounds. For your health.

  “What!”

  Pulling himself out of the whirlwind of voices, Winslow sat up and clutched a loose puddle of sheet against his waist. He stared into the darkness, acclimating himself to the quiet reality of his bedroom, then glanced at Edith. Bathed in the faint green glow of the digital alarm clock, she slept beneath a lace-trimmed eye mask—a frippery she’d grown used to back in Winslow’s seminary days.

  Closing his eyes, Winslow drew a deep breath, then reached back and adjusted his pillows. He would not sleep again tonight. His brain was alert, his thoughts too troubled to rest. His heart pounded as if he had just run a fifty-yard dash.

  Smoothing the sheet over his lap, Winslow reached for the bedside lamp and switched it on. Behind her eye mask, Edith slept on, blissfully unaware of the lamp or Winslow’s unease.

  Winslow picked up the television remote and considered channel surfing, then tossed the clicker to the floor. Nothing decent aired after midnight in America—nothing a pastor should watch, anyway. And if one of the early morning lobstermen should walk past the window and hear an unsavory broadcast coming from the parsonage— well, the manly Rex Hartwell might be coming sooner than he had planned.

  His heart ached at the thought. How could his people be so disloyal? Over the last several hours the picture had become perfectly clear. They had waited until his tenth anniversary to give him a portrait they intended to keep as a memento of his time in Heavenly Daze. By the end of the month, after Rex Hartwell had come and decided that he liked the look of the place, they would regretfully tell Winslow that his tenure had come to an end. “God has closed the door on another chapter,” they might say, “and we know he has great things planned for you. So Godspeed, Pastor Wickam, and God bless you.”

  How would he break the news to Edith? She had made some good friends on the island. Her heart would break when she learned that Cleta, Olympia, and Babette had been plotting to remove her husband . . . and replace him with some hunk the women would find more appealing.

  Winslow closed his hand into a fist, then brought it to his chest. How much time did he have left? Cleta had said Rex Hartwell would come at the end of the month, so Winslow still had a few weeks. The discreet art of moving one pastor out and another in could not be accomplished overnight. They’d want to hear this Hartwell fellow preach, and then, if they liked what they heard, Cleta and her committee would have to think of some way to tell Winslow to move on.

  But maybe . . . he wouldn’t have to. Like a thousand other independent congregations, Heavenly Daze Community Church enacted major decisions by church vote. That meant a majority of people would have to be in favor of asking Winslow to leave before Cleta and her committee could officially invite Rex Hartwell to fill the pulpit.

  Winslow quickly did the math. With twenty-six people on the island, minus Georgie, who was, unfortunately, still too young to have a say in such matters, twenty-five people were eligible to vote. Of course Russell Higgs hadn’t been inside the church since Christmas and Old Man Gribbon hadn’t darkened the door in years, but they certainly couldn’t complain about Winslow’s preaching if they never heard him. If he could get them to church, he could get them to vote in his place. Edmund de Cuvier wasn’t well enough to attend a church business meeting, but Olympia would insist on voting in his place. And in Olympia’s opinion, Winslow had not done enough for her husband—the woman expected him to practically live in Edmund’s sickroom.

  Two for, two against . . . Winslow would need at least thirteen votes to remain in Heavenly Daze, and he only knew of two he could count on: his and Edith’s.

  Sadness pooled in his heart, a dark despondency he’d never felt before. In every other unfortunate church situation he’d had a clear sense that something had gone wrong, but this had come from out of the blue. Of course, today he’d been slammed with that Dorian Gray portrait, but he had not been aware of any bickering or complaints or dissatisfaction with his ministry. He had taken care to lead a righteous life, not indulging in drink or dance or disputation.

  So what had he done wrong? Had they simply tired of him? Had all the females gone soft in the head? And what had motivated mature women like Cleta Lansdown and Babette Graham, a mother, to giggle like schoolgirls at the prospect of meeting a handsome and manly stranger?

  A heaviness centered in his chest, and Winslow knew only one way to rid himself of it. His worn Bible sat on the nightstand under a half-empty glass of milk, so he moved the glass and lifted the Bible, then reached for his glasses. After settling them on the ridge of his nose, he opened the Scripture to a random
passage and began to read in 2 Kings 2:

  Elisha left Jericho and went up to Bethel. As he was walking along the road, a group of boys from the town began mocking and making fun of him. “Go away, you baldhead!” they chanted. “Go away, you baldhead!” Elisha turned around and looked at them, and he cursed them in the name of the Lord. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of them. From there Elisha went to Mount Carmel and finally returned to Samaria.

  Winslow stared at the passage as a host of emotions swept through him: astonishment, glee, anger, and a touch of guilt—a by-product of the glee, he supposed.

  What was God trying to tell him? Were those who mocked him in store for some awful retribution? Were people mocking him to this extent? And the number forty-two—did it mean something? Half of forty-two was twenty-one, and a vote of twenty-one in favor of Winslow would certainly keep Rex Hartwell out of the pulpit. Unless God was saying that twenty-one people would vote for Hartwell.

  His thoughts shifted in a more pleasant direction. Maybe the Lord wasn’t saying anything about a vote. Maybe he just wanted Winslow to see that he wasn’t the only one afflicted with premature hair loss. After all, Elisha had been a major prophet, one of the greats, and apparently he had also been as bald as an egg.

  But Elisha had lived in a technological dark age, while Winslow lived in an age of technological wonders. And in this day and age no one had to suffer under the slings of a name like “old baldhead . . .”

  After glancing at Edith to be sure she still slept, Winslow leaned over and carefully slid open the drawer on his nightstand. Beneath a stack of cards and letters he found a note he had scribbled one night last summer while he battled insomnia by watching an infomercial.

  A single number filled the page: 1-800-GET-HAIR.

  Moving with the quiet stealth of a church mouse, Winslow lifted the telephone receiver and dialed the number.