A/N1: Still constructing our theater of action: the setting, and the currents and cross-currents.
Heaven and Hell
Book One:
Bring My Coffin Along
CHAPTER FOUR:
Preachments
Saturday, September 5, 1885
Idaho Falls, Idaho
Preaching is the communication of truth by man to men.
- Lectures on Preaching, Phillips Brooks
Chuck walked beside Sarah to the cemetery gate.
Neither had spoken after she named her fiancé. Chuck was too shaken to speak - for a panoply of reasons, his insides swirling.
Sarah's reaction to speaking it was hard for Chuck to understand. She had looked for a moment at the lifeless bouquet in her hands. Unmoving, she stood as if she were unaware of her position in the world. Just before Chuck would have forced himself to speak, she raised her head, and he saw a series of expressions, each restrained, small, unreadable, but culminating in a rueful smile, cascade across her remarkable face. She said nothing more; she started for the gate. Chuck spurred himself into motion, catching up with her and, at the fence, opening the gate for her.
She paused after she was through the gate - turning, she placed the bouquet down on a small pile Chuck had not noticed when he went through the gate: a pile of similar but still browner bouquets, each tied, like the one she had carried in, with a thin yellow ribbon.
After placing the bouquet there, she stood and reached up, her hands behind her head. Her hair was caught in a plain ponytail, tied with a thick, sky-blue ribbon. Her hair fell after she tugged on one end of the ribbon, fell long and straight around her face. Winding the ribbon in her hand, she reached across the fence and caught Chuck's forearm. Unsure what was happening, he raised his arm. She slid her hand down his sleeve to his hand and turned it palm-up. She put the ribbon in his hand.
"A thanks for your words, Chuck." Her tone was downcast despite her upturned lips. She said no more and walked down the hill.
Chuck watched her for a moment, then looked down at the ribbon, lovely, wound in his hand. His eyes sought her retreating form again; he almost called out. His tongue was heavy, unwieldy. He watched her go, confused and silent.
What had the whole encounter meant? What had happened? Maybe it was his earlier dreams, but the whole encounter with Sarah felt dreamlike, yet more real than real.
A vision. Or maybe not a vision. Just...really real.
Closing his hand around the blue ribbon, his strand of her sky, he walked, halting, back to the tree, lost in thought. The Emerson book rested on the encircling bench. He picked it up and returned it to his jacket pocket. He added the ribbon to it.
The dusty breeze kicked up again and he remembered his appointment. He pulled his watch from his pocket. He was already fifteen minutes late. Oh, no! He sprinted back to the gate, through it, down the hill to the schoolhouse.
Sarah was nowhere in sight but he had no time to think about her - or about her accursed fiancé. Later.
He climbed the front stairs two at a time. The red doors stood open.
Chuck slid to a stop, panting.
Three people, two women, and one man sat behind a large desk that stood on a raised section of the floor. The Judgment Seat. Behind them, taking up much of the back wall of the main room, was a long, slate board, green. Names were chalked on it: Diane Beckman, Langston Graham, Athaliah Justus.
The three people looked at Chuck with annoyed displeasure. On Chuck's left was a tall, thin, ageless woman, upright in her chair. Her long black hair was pulled back, a scrupulous bun. In the middle was an attractive, sharp-eyed woman, short, no longer young but not yet old, with red hair. On Chuck's right was a large man, black, his look of displeasure melting into one of slight amusement.
Chuck held up his hands. "Please, ladies, gentleman, please forgive me. I was reading and...I lost track of time."
"Well," the black man said, glancing at the two women, "he's absent-minded enough to be our teacher. You are Mr. Bartowski, correct?"
Chuck nodded. "Yes, sir."
"I'm Langston Graham. Mrs. Justus - that 'J' sounds like a 'Y' - went to the trouble of putting our names on the board. I fear she suspects you cannot read and intends it as a test." Graham gave Chuck a smile, and Chuck could tell the smile was half for him and half for Mrs. Justus. Mr. Graham gestured to a chair beside Chuck. "I believe that chair is for you. Please sit."
Chuck sat. The woman in the middle, frowning, put her hand down on a flat leather case on the desk. "Mr. Bartowski. I am Diane Beckman. My husband is Bernard Beckman, the mayor of Idaho Falls. The town has appointed me the President of the School Board, and Mr. Graham and Mrs. Justus are the other members. This board is a new creation; we have only been in place for a week. A letter informing you would have missed you. And you knew you would meet us, if not our formal title.
"We wanted to meet you today to welcome you to our town. We have heard about your...misfortune...traveling, and so we will overlook this morning's lack of punctuality. Please do not take that indulgence as permission for future tardiness It will not do to have a tardy teacher." A faint smile played on her face.
Chuck smiled and nodded. "Thank you. Again, I apologize. I appreciate the welcome very much and..."
"This is not just a welcome," Mrs. Justus interrupted, "we have some questions for you. Although we have hired you, we would still like for you to...put our minds at ease about...yourself. There has been some disagreement about you - no reason to conceal that fact..."
Graham shook his head slightly. "Mr. Bartowski, despite how that sounds, you are our teacher and we will not be letting you go without cause." Graham shot a look at Mrs. Justus, who worked hard to ignore it, failed. She did not return Graham's look but her taut frown tightened. "But it would be good to tackle these things head-on" - another look at Mrs. Justus - "so we can start the year with a clean," he paused and looked at the board, "or an almost clean slate."
"Right," Mrs. Beckman broke in, "if you don't mind, may we ask you some questions?"
"I am happy to answer any questions I may answer."
Mrs. Beckman's eyes narrowed at Chuck's phrasing, but she went on, opening the leather case and removing a stack of papers, smoothing them as she spoke. "We were most impressed by an applicant with your academic background, Mr. Bartowski. Early entrance to Harvard on scholarship, lifted into the Divinity School two years later. The recommendations from your Divinity School professors, particularly from Professor Abbot and Professor Toy, testify to your gifts and your character. But they both note that you left the Divinity School without completing your degree. Each man declines, as a gentleman, to discuss the circumstances. Yet each recommends you in the highest terms. According to Professor Abbot, the hope of the faculty was to enlist you among their number when you graduated - as a Professor of Homiletics. Is that correct?"
Chuck did not answer immediately. "Which part, ma'am?"
Her face, slackened to matter-of-factness, returned to displeasure. Chuck hurried into response. "Yes, ma'am. I got an early scholarship to Harvard. And I moved into the Divinity School early. And, yes, I left the Divinity School without graduating." Chuck stopped, extending his bottom lip to cover his upper, then went on. "I decline to discuss the circumstances. I am obliged to Professors Abbot and Toy for their discretion. As to my joining the faculty, I suppose I had heard talk of such, but I never presumed to believe that talk. I was just a student."
Graham leaned toward Chuck. "Not according to your letter writers, Mr. Bartowski. Mr. Abbot called you 'a once-in-a-lifetime student, brilliant, with a mind of powers capacious yet exact'," Graham smiled, self-satisfied, "...I memorized that part, it was so good." Mrs. Beckman laughed.
"And just what is...Homiletics...Mr. Bartowski?" Mrs. Justus asked, holding the word by its edges.
"It is the study of preaching. Perhaps you know Phillips Brooks great book, Lectures on Preaching?"
"No, Mr. Bartowski. I read only The Book, The Book of Books. It contains all other books."
"All?" Chuck asked without thinking, raising his brows, "How so?"
Mrs. Justus pinched her lips. "All truth is contained in the Bible, Mr. Bartowski. I would expect a young man of such distinction, and from such a distinguished school, to know that. I would expect that to be your First Principle."
Chuck took a moment. "Mrs. Justus, I have a deep respect for the Bible." He stopped there.
"And you have nothing to tell us about your reasons for leaving the Divinity School." Mrs. Justus pressed him.
"It's not that I have nothing to tell - it's rather that I have nothing I may tell." Chuck could not stifle the color he felt rise on his face. All three at the desk saw it. Chuck's hands started to tremble. He pressed them on his legs.
"Well, I still find it passing strange that a young man with your background would want to teach school children in Idaho Falls. There must be some...explanation."
"Mrs. Justus, I found my studies at the Divinity School wonderful, but I also found that my good intentions were becoming mere beliefs. I wanted to do good, not just have true beliefs about what is good. I wanted - I want to work directly on the problems of life. Coming here to teach is me doing good, acting on good intentions, working directly on the problems of life." Chuck's hands furled, fists. He saw them and unfurled them, an act of will. I'm telling the truth - just not the whole truth. I am here to teach. I will teach. Until...
"That seems like a good answer to me," Graham offered, hoping to bring the conversation to an end.
"No, there is one more thing," Mrs. Justus insisted. Graham's shoulders slumped. "Mr. Bartowski. The railroad camp - the camp where the bridge repair is going on - has attracted an...undesirable...element to our town. Certain...women...have come to Idaho Falls and continue to come, women who...work...for Anna Wu. At the Bar None. A few of them have children, children of questionable origins. Two are school age. I have been told that the women intend to send their children to school here. How will you prevent that, Mr. Bartowski?"
"Mrs. Justus…" Graham growled.
"Why would I prevent it, Mrs. Justus," Chuck asked, jumping in, "surely the children, if they live in town, should be schooled here, by me?"
"Mr. Bartowski. They are the children of sinners."
"So will all my students be."
"What?" Mrs. Justus' face whitened. "What? I will have you know my daughter will be one of your students."
Chuck looked at her and nodded. "Just so."
Mrs. Justus' hands shook. She hid them in her lap. Sputtered. "Are you implying..?"
"Mrs. Justus," Chuck offered, his voice kind. "I am implying nothing untoward. But as I understand it, the category of sinner is misused if the person using it does not include himself or herself in it. It is a category that unites us, it doesn't divide us. It aggregates, not segregates. Doesn't The Book of Books say, 'All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God'?"
Mrs. Justus sputtered. "But...But...The Devil quoted Scripture, Mr. Bartowski."
"He quoted the words, Mrs. Justus. He did not understand what they meant. In his mouth, they meant nothing."
"You...You...So you will teach the children of whores?"
"Yes."
"And if we order you…"
"That will not happen, Athaliah," Beckman said, cutting Mrs. Justus off. "You know that. We are the school board and we have voted."
Mrs. Justus glared at Chuck, then at the others seated beside her. "We will see," she hissed, "once school starts, once the townsfolk understand the situation…"
"Enough, Athaliah, we have voted. We expected Mr. Bartowski to agree with our decision and he does." She returned Mrs. Justus' glare and at last Mrs. Justus looked away. "I think we have all we need from you, Mr. Bartowski," Beckman commented. She picked up the stack of papers and put them in the leather case. She gave Mrs. Justus another glare, warning, then she turned to Chuck. "We're glad you are here. More than glad, Mr. Bartowski. We're excited to have you here. This is a remarkable opportunity for the children of Idaho Falls."
Mrs. Justus got up, too angry to stay seated, and grabbed a rag. She began to wipe the names from the green board. Mr. Graham watched her, shaking his head. When she finished, she threw the rag on the desk and stomped around the desk, stumbling when she stepped down from the raised platform but, righting herself, she passed Chuck without acknowledging him.
Mrs. Beckman waited for Mrs. Justus to get out the door, then she followed. But she stopped by Chuck's chair. An apology was in her eyes. "We're sorry about this but we felt we had to do it. We had to allow her to have her moment, have her say; I hope it's done now."
She looked back to the front of the room. "Langston will stay behind to show you around. My husband, the mayor, has need of me, or I would stay too. I look forward to getting to know you better, Mr. Bartowski."
"Thank you, Mrs. Beckman."
Mr. Graham stood. "We hope the school suits you, Mr. Bartowski. Everything is new. On Sundays, this is the church, but we will make few changes for that, all temporary. A lectern is placed here on the desk, but other than that, we will not disturb the classroom. Well, hymnals get put out too, but we will see to replacing them after services. You won't have to contend with any of that, although, if you should want to attend, you would be welcome."
He walked around the desk and stepped down from the raised platform. Chuck stood. Mr. Graham was nearly as tall as Chuck. "Between us - Chuck, if I may, call me Langston - it might be a good idea to attend at first. I hate to be pragmatic about religious matters, but I have a feeling you have thought a great deal about such things. Anyway, it's up to you and I want you to know you have my support whatever you decide."
Chuck looked at the man, glad he was an ally, not an enemy. "You know what Samuel Johnson said…" Langston cocked his head, waiting. "He said something like: if I go to a place where they talk of runts, I shall learn to talk of runts."
Langston smiled. "Meaning..?"
"Meaning I would like to be part of the life of Idaho Falls, not just a spectator." Until I kill a man.
Langston laughed. "What is a runt, Mr. Bartowski?"
Shrugging and laughing too, Chuck confessed: "I've never been sure."
Langston showed Chuck around the school building. It was as expected most of it, although he was happy to see that the books he had mentioned for students had been purchased and were in crates in the storage room.
As they finished up and reached the open doors, Chuck stopped. "May I ask you an awkward question, Langston?"
"We just asked you several. Turn-about is fair play."
Chuck took a moment, unsure of how to ask his question. Langston smiled. "You want to know how a black man ended up on the school board in Idaho Falls, in this Year of Our Lord, Eighteen Hundred and Eighty-five."
Chuck blushed and managed a self-conscious nod.
"My wife and I got out of South Carolina after the war. We headed west. We were lucky enough to make it here.
"As a boy, I had worked for an undertaker once in a while. He was the brother of the man who...owned...me. I knew the trade. No one here did. We settled. I won't say they have embraced us with open arms, not everyone, not by a long shot." He shook his head.
"But there are decent people here, people who do and believe the right things, at least when push comes to shove. We've made friends. It's not a bad life,. We've done well enough to send our son to college back east. My wife and I both believe in education. A candle in a dark room, eh, Chuck?"
Chuck felt the darkness inside him, stirring, knew it had been stirring on his long journey and that it had sped up when Sarah mentioned Daniel Shaw.
He was a teacher, not a killer. But he would kill Daniel Shaw.
"Yes…" he said, feeling like a liar though he believed the words, "a light in a dark room."
Chuck walked back to Mrs. Fitzsimmons'.
He needed time, quiet. So much had happened. So much was happening. The flowers around the front of the house seemed to mock him - They toil not, neither do they spin. Chuck was toiling, spinning inside.
In the kitchen, he called out Mrs. Fitzsimmons' name but got no answer. The house was quiet. He could hear the mantle clock in the living room ticking. Following the sound, he passed through the living room and down the hallway to his room. He opened the door.
Carina Miller sat in the armchair. Her red skirt was gathered up, revealing her delicate white leather boots and her bare ankles. Her boots were resting on his bed. She had Chuck's gun in her hand, and his Swedenborg book open in her lap, her head down, reading. Chuck froze. She looked up at him and grinned.
"Carina, what are you doing here?"
She shrugged and he went on, closing the door quietly behind him. "Aren't you the one who said we shouldn't be seen together?"
"Guilty as charged," she said, mimicking Chuck's whisper. "But I came in your window. Notice it's on the backside of the house, and one girl told me that Mrs. Fitzsimmons usually steps out with Sheriff Constance early on Saturday afternoons. I don't think we're in much danger…" She made her eyes big as if frightened, then she laughed.
"Besides, I needed to see you and I will be busy later. Railroad camp boys heading our way." She observed his face. Chuck glanced at her ankles. She picked up her gathered skirt and threw it out, over them, then put her feet on the floor. "And I thought my shoulders panicked you."
Ignoring her comment, Chuck walked between Carina and the bed. He sat perched on the window sill. She shook her head at him. "Boston, Boston, Boston, whatever am I going to do with you?" Her eyes seemed full of suggestions, so Chuck looked at the floor. The blue of Carina's eyes made Chuck very aware of the ribbon in his jacket pocket.
"I came to ask a favor. One girl, she's got a son. He's ten. Another has a daughter, eight. They want the kids to go to school here. They've mentioned it to a few people, I guess, and they were told it would be okay - but when they heard that you and I know each other, they pressed me to ask, since they are worried you'll say no. I told them you'll say yes. So which is it?"
Chuck shook his head. Carina looked worried for a second. "No, no. I'm not shaking my head in answer, just at the coincidence. And I don't mean no. No, I mean yes. Yes, yes, I mean yes. I just told the school board so, and they had voted to allow it."
Carina's worried look gave way to a thoughtful one. "Really? Well, you don't surprise me, Boston, but Idaho Falls does. I'm guessing the vote was not unanimous, though?"
"No, I take it that the vote was 2-1. There's a woman, a Mrs. Justus, the 'Y' is actually a 'J'," Carina lifted an eyebrow at that, "who is against it."
"Of course, there is. And I know her. I don't mean your Mrs. Justus in particular, just her type. They're strewn thickly in the Western dust, I fear. Their Bibles should come with holsters."
Chuck started to say something but stopped. He went a different direction, pointed at the book on Carina's lap. "I thought you didn't read Swedenborg?"
"No, Chuck, I said I hadn't read Swedenborg. Can't say I've missed much. This tome is damn heavy - and damn wordy. Can't believe you lugged it all the way out here. And this," she leafed to the front of the book with her one free hand, to a black and white portrait of Swedenborg, "this...what's it called? Frontispiece? It's just disturbing. Why do you have this?" She nodded at the book. "And why do you have this?" She held up Chuck's gun. "I remember that Two mentioned a gun when he looked in your pillowcase, but I didn't...believe it." Her eyes were big again, but she was not pretending. "Who travels with these two things together, Chuck?"
"I guess I do." He didn't continue, although Carina waited.
"Okay, Boston, if you don't want to talk today, maybe you will another day."
"Why are you rifling through my drawers, Carina?"
She gave him a wide, wicked smile. "If I were rifling through your drawers, you would not have to ask why. I didn't rifle any drawers. I rummaged through a pillowcase. You ought to unpack, you know."
"You were just curious?"
Her smile left her face and her eyes took on the concerned look they had when she woke him from his dream in the night. "I was wondering. That fever dream of yours. You said it was terrible. I can see how traveling with Heaven and Hell and a loaded pistol might contribute to, or might have something to do with such dreams." Again, she waited.
"Nothing to tell, Carina. I got interested in Swedenborg in college. I brought the gun for self-protection."
Carina's look sharpened at that final word. "You don't strike me as the self-protective type, Boston." She shook her head. "But I will let it go. Let. It. Go. One girl, the one with the son, she says her boy has some peculiar troubles with reading. She's hoping she might pay you for some extra tutoring?"
"No need. Let me settle in, then I can talk to her about her son."
Carina stood, placing the book and gun on the bed. Since she was standing, Chuck could better see the bright red dress. It hugged her body. Noticing his look, she held up her arms, bent, turning side to side. "You think the railroad boys will like it?"
"Yes, Carina, I do."
Now, she started to say something but stopped. She walked to him. "See you around, teacher."
Chuck stood up. She squeezed past him, the squeezing deliberate, and opened the window. She cupped his cheek, kissed him, gathered up her skirt and - a final flash of her ankles - she vanished.
Touching his lips, Chuck shook his head. Confusion.
Carina.
Sarah.
The school board.
The Number Gang.
Boston.
Sarah.
Daniel Shaw.
Chuck stepped to the bed and picked up the book in one hand, the gun in the other. He spoke aloud to himself: "For it is written Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord." Chuck saw himself in the dresser mirror, standing there. He shook his head, spoke aloud again. "The Devil quoting Scripture."
Chuck was in his room, restless. He had unloaded his gun, cleaned it, and reloaded it. The Emerson book back on the shelf. Hamlet was in his lap. It was not the focus of his attention. The blue ribbon in his hand was.
It was dusk and noise from the Bar None had gone up. Music carried to Chuck's room. Riders entered the town, riding past Mrs. Fitzsimmons'. The pulse of Idaho Falls had quickened. Revelry was about to break out. It all added to Chuck's restlessness. He caressed the ribbon between his thumb and forefinger. His mind would not stay focused. He heard shouts, laughter.
In his mind, he pictured his earlier parting with Sarah. He, inside the cemetery fence, she outside it. Her gloved hand placing the ribbon in his. Casey had told him that there was no future in thinking of Carina Miller. There was less in thinking of Sarah Walker.
A knock on the door brought him out of his dismal spiral. "Yes?"
"Mr. Bartowski, I have a letter for you."
"Please, come in."
Mrs. Fitzsimmons entered. She had on an attractive apricot dress. Her hair was up. As she stepped in, Chuck stood, putting the ribbon in his pocket, Shakespeare on the bed. "Mrs. Fitzsimmons, that is a handsome dress."
She blushed and tried to hide it by holding out an envelope. "Penelope, at the Post Office, said this came for you yesterday but she held it until today. She gave it to me earlier, while I was out...walking."
Chuck took the letter. He recognized his sister's handwriting, her small neat pen. "Thank you, Mrs. Fitzsimmons."
She nodded and left the room. Chuck, staring at the letter, walked back to his armchair. Seated, he opened it.
Dear Brother,
I don't have time for a long letter. It is a fine day and Molly wants to go to the park. But I wanted you to have something from home when you arrived in that distant place. Idaho Falls. I still don't understand why you have gone. You could have taught here, if teaching is to be your vocation. I connect your leaving with whatever has changed you in the past months.
I thought you had gotten past blaming yourself for mother and father. But you have reverted, become as a man much as you were when a nine-year-old boy. Haunted. Staring too often into space. What happened to you, Chuck, to mother and father - what did not happen to me - it was all happenstance, chance, or the will of God. You are not to blame. You were never to blame. Be happy in that new place, brother. Stop accusing yourself, stop despairing you have caused - or must correct - all the world's evils.
Please write to me. I miss you so already and you have just left. Molly does too, and she sends her love. Morgan as well.
Start over, Chuck. Be happy. Shake off the memories. Find someone there to love.
I love you.
Your Sister
Chuck read the letter several times. He paced in his room. The noise from the Bar None rose. Chuck got ready for bed. Squeezing the pillow around his head, he eventually found sleep.
Sunday, September 6, 1885
With a small Bible from Miss Reynold's shelf of books in his hand, blue ribbon in the pocket of his black Boston suit, Chuck walked to the schoolhouse. The Bar None was dark and empty in the full Sunday sunlight as he passed it. His mind flicked to Carina; he forced himself to refocus.
Carriages and wagons gathered around the schoolhouse. People were milling about, talking in low voices, laughing softly. Silence fell as Chuck arrived. He climbed the stairs and went into the schoolhouse. As Langston had said, a lectern had been placed on the desk. A list of numbers was on the board - the hymns for the day, Chuck reckoned. Below the numbers was a scriptural reference: John 10: 1-9.
Chuck sat down on a bench. He heard a low murmur of voices as he did. He looked around at the people. He saw Langston Graham and his wife. Both smiled. He saw Diane Beckman and a short, energetic-looking man, the mayor, beside her. She waved; he nodded. He did not see Mrs. Justus.
Then he saw her. Not Mrs. Justus. Sarah Walker. She had on a plain white frock and a plain white hat. She seemed to be aglow with light, to be a light. Chuck blinked and then noticed the man beside her, her hand grasped in his. Daniel Shaw. It was him. The black hair, the black eyes, the resting smirk on his face. He noticed Chuck. For a second, Chuck felt the world in the balance. Shaw nodded politely and looked away. Chuck let his breath escape. There was no reason Daniel Shaw should know Chuck. They had never met. But Chuck knew him, knew what he was. Shaw was wearing a black jacket over a white shirt. He seemed completely and utterly at ease, masterful. The Crowned Prince.
Chuck realized that Sarah was looking at him. He looked at her and she gave him a kind smile. At that moment, Shaw leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She turned to him, laughing softly.
The mayor, Mr. Beckman, stood up and announced a number, the first one listed on the board. A general rustle of pages followed. Chuck added to the sound, picking up a hymnal and turning to the hymn. The Lord's My Shepherd, I'll Not Want. Chuck knew the hymn and knew the Psalm. The congregation sang together, then Mr. Beckman closed his songbook.
"We will now have our sermon. Our minister, Jack Walker."
A man seated behind Daniel and Sarah stood and walked to the front, up onto the platform and then behind the lectern. He looked out at everyone. "Brothers and Sisters, I want to speak to you today about the Good Shepherd and The Only Door to Pasture…" He glanced toward Daniel Shaw and his daughter. "All of you know that sheep are near and dear to my heart…"
Sarah's father was the preacher?
Chuck glanced back at Sarah and glimpsed her turn away from him, her cheeks flushed. Chuck turned back around. Jack Walker seemed to have noticed both Chuck's glance and Sarah's reddened turn.
And the man Chuck planned to kill was listening to the sermon too.
A/N2: Thoughts on my little revenge Western about a gifted Harvard Divinity School dropout? I would love to hear from you.