I tugged lightly on the end of one of her ponytails. “Maybe we can keep it a secret for just a little while, Chloe. When Timmy comes home,
then
you can tell. Okay?”
“Is Timmy coming home today?” she asked as I helped her shoulder her backpack.
“I don't know, pumpkin, but I hope so.”
“Is he coming home tomorrow?”
Conversations with Chloe had a way of spiraling out of control. She was perfectly capable of trotting out every day of the week between now and the Fourth of July, so I quickly changed the subject to a trip we'd taken to Disney World the previous year, and we chattered about Pirates of the Caribbean and Thunder Mountain as we walked hand in hand down the sidewalk to the parking lot.
At Hillsmere Elementary five minutes later, Chloe's teacher was waiting for us in the school office. Again, no explanations were necessary. While Mrs. Rogers escorted Chloe to her classroom, the school principal urged me to allow my granddaughter to chat with the school psychologist, a plan I vaguely agreed to, thinking I should have asked Emily about it first.
By the time I got to St. Catherine's on the corner of Ridgley and Monterey, the caffeine had kicked in. I felt wired, every nerve in my body bristling with electricity. I hadn't been so juiced since Oberlin, when I pulled two all-nighters in a row writing a term paper on Stendahl. If I had run into Timmy's kidnapper at that moment, all the police would ever find of him would be bones and occasional pieces of skin.
I parked near the parish hall, cut the motor, and looked around. I was the only car in the lot.
I fiddled with the radio. I organized the glove compartment. I cleaned old Exxon receipts out of the console. Finally, I went looking for Eva, thinking that perhaps Roger had dropped her off on his way to work at the marina in Eastport.
Pastor Eva's office was in the parish hall, through a door and to the left, just off a Plantation-style breeze-way that joined the parish hall to the church proper. I jiggled the doorknob, but the parish hall was locked. A note taped to the window told me Eva'd been called to Anne Arundel Medical Center to pray with a patient about to undergo emergency surgery and I should wait for her in the garden.
Taking my time, I wandered back along the breeze-way and stepped into the garden, the soles of my boat shoes scrunching comfortably on the graveled path.
This is a
real
garden
, I thought. It was filled with lilac, sweet william, mint, and such an abundance of flowers that it invited butterflies and hummingbirds that wouldn't have been caught dead flitting about one of Ruth's sterile, sculptured creations. Later in the summer zinnias and milkweed would be in full bloom at St. Catherine's, and after that, sunflowers. In the fall, asters, phlox, purple cornflower, and goldenrod would turn the garden into a riot of Technicolor, a sight so beautiful that even parish asthma sufferers had not dared to complain.
I sat down heavily between two deep pink azaleas on a bench dedicated to a parishioner who had been killed in the explosion of Pan Am flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. With my back to the plaque, I tried to put all thoughts of death out of my mind.
The sun was just inching over the trees, touching the garden here and there, awakening the butterflies that clustered on fence posts and flat rocks, sluggishly stretching their wings, preparing for a busy day gathering nectar. On my right, a hedgerow of forsythia was a blaze of yellow, separating me from the traffic whizzing by on Ridgley Avenue.
Bathed in sunlight, I closed my eyes, wincing as the inside of my eyelids scraped over my eyeballs like dry sandpaper. In spite of all the caffeine I'd consumed in the previous twenty-four hours, I felt I could fall asleep on this bench, uncushioned hardwood and all. I could sleep here for days and days and days. Yet I had to keep going, do whatever it took, for Timmy's sake.
“Hannah?” Eva's voice spiraled down, as if through a tunnel, to wherever it was I had gone. “Hannah, it's Eva.”
I felt a hand on my shoulder and dragged myself into consciousness. “Eva, I'm sorry. I was somewhere in La-La Land.” I rubbed at a crick in the back of my neck.
“I hated to wake you.”
I managed a weak smile. “It's so peaceful here in the garden. Sitting here, a gal could almost pretend she didn't have a care in the world.”
“Would you like some coffee? I just put on a fresh pot.”
“Thank you, yes. Although I'm pretty wired.”
“Come.”
Although Eva wore black slacks and a rose-colored short-sleeved silk blouse with a clerical collar, something about the way she stood there with her arms extended, palms up, reminded me of a picture in a book of Bible stories I'd had as a child.
Suffer the little children to come unto me
. My head swimming, I rose from the bench, staggered, and grabbed her hands for support. “He's just a little boy,” I sobbed. “He's only ten months old. How could anybodyâ¦?” Eva folded me into her arms, and I began to weep, refusing to be comforted. I threw back my head and screamed to the sky, “Why, God, why?”
Eva shook me gently, peering deep into my eyes as if searching there for my lost faith. “It's all right to be angry. Yell at God if you need to. God is not afraid of
you
, Hannah Ives.”
Quietly, holding me close, Pastor Eva waited me out.
“I don't think I have any more tears left.” I pulled a tissue out of a fresh packet in my handbag and blew my nose. “And damn, now I've got the hiccups.”
“Roger told me about Timmy,” Eva said. “And of course, we heard it on the news.”
“I kept the TV turned off.” I scrunched the tissue into a ball and stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans. “We watched
Finding Nemo
instead. My grandchildren are staying with me,” I added by way of explanation.
“You know,” I said as we strolled side by side down the path toward her office,
“Finding Nemo
used to be one of my favorite cheer-up flicks, but last night while I was watching it with the kids, every time I laughed, I was faking it.”
“Roger took me to see the movie when it first came out,” Eva said, smiling slightly. “And he bought the DVD when it came out, for St. Catherine's nursery, or so he said. Roger's particularly fond of the seagulls going âmine, mine, mine.' ”
“I used to think it was hysterical, too, until last night, and it hit me like a ton of bricks.
Finding Nemo
is all about a kidnapped child! Think about it. Marlin watches helplessly as a diver scoops up his son, Nemo, who ends up held captive in the aquarium of a sadistic dentist.”
“I never thought of it like that, but you're right.” Eva held the door open for me, and waited until I stepped inside. “But it has a happy ending, doesn't it? Marlin and his friends rescue Nemo. Perhaps we should focus on that.” She took a deep breath. “How's your daughter?”
“Not good. Dante said she'd taken a handful of pills from a bottle in the medicine cabinet, then when the police showed up to search Timmy's bedroom, she took a handful of something else. He thought he might have to take her to the emergency room to get her stomach pumped, but then she threw it all up.
“They couldn't stay in the house,” I continued, “and if they stayed with us, it would be too upsetting for the children. Paul got them situated in a room at the waterfront Marriott. Although I don't think they'll be appreciating the view.”
“If Timmy disappeared from the spa, why are the police searching his bedroom?”
“I don't know exactly. But they took away his hairbrush, and some of his toys in Ziploc bags.”
Eva nodded. “Scenting objects, I suspect. They must be bringing in the dogs.”
I nodded. “Sometime this morning. They're waiting for a bloodhound from Baltimore. They're the best at this kind of work.”
Eva fished a key ring out of her pocket, located a key, and unlocked the door to her office. “And how's Paul?”
“Hanging in. We've appointed him family spokesman. He's at the Academy now, making arrangements to be away.”
“Did he get any sleep?”
“Not much. The bags under his eyes are even darker than mine, if that's possible.”
Eva's office was a small but agreeable twelve by twelve. When she pulled aside the drapes, I saw that the window overlooked the garden. “Lovely,” I said. “If this were my office, I wouldn't get much work done.”
“That's why God invented draperies,” she said, indicating a chair at a round conference table in the corner.
While Eva putteredâclosing the door, turning off the telephone so it wouldn't ring during our visitâI paced, studying her walls. The wall to my left was covered with photographs and framed diplomas. In addition to a B.A. from Wellesley, Eva had earned a Th.D. at the Church Divinity School of the Pacific, and was ordained from St. James Church in Los Angeles. The wall to my right was hung with wooden, brass, and ceramic crosses, several dozen of them. In addition to the familiar Latin cross, I recognized a Jerusalem cross, a Greek cross, the cross of St. Andrew, one Maltese, several Celtic.
“What's this one?” I asked, pointing to a cross that appeared to be an
X
superimposed over a
P
, or vice versa.
“It's called a Chi-Rho,” she said, pulling out one of the chairs. “Do you know the story?”
“Tell me,” I said, sitting down in the chair opposite her.
“Chi and rho are the first two letters of the Greek word for Christ. They're also similar to the pagan emblem used as a standard by the Roman cavalry. Constantine was the chief priest of the pagan Roman religion, so when he converted to Christianity, it's easy to see why he chose the Chi-Rho for his emblem.
“It's a warrior's cross,” she continued. “It urges us to follow Christ's example, to wage war on terror, persecution, oppression, and all forms of evil. And the surest thing to overcome evil is love.”
“How can I feel love toward Timmy's kidnapper?” I scoffed. “All I feel is a dark, gut-wrenching hate.”
“I can understand that.”
“And God's on my shit list, too. I'm falling seriously out of love with a God who could allow such a thing to happen to an innocent child.”
Eva smiled and patted my hand. “God is with us, Hannah, but he may not always be in control.”
I sat quietly for a while, mulling over what Eva had said, staring at her bookcase through a film of tears. Office bookshelves have personalities, I always thought, personalities defined by that curious mix of books needed for the job and those photographs and tchotchkes that remind workers that they actually have private lives. Eva's shelves contained Bibles in many versions, Greek and Hebrew lexicons, commentaries, concordances, and collections of sermons. On one shelf, the Quran was sandwiched between the Book of Mormon and the Egyptian Book of the Dead, and on the shelf below that, next to the Bhagavad Gita, stood a Barbie doll dressed in an alb, cincture, and pure white stole.
I had to smile. “Since when did Barbie become a priest?”
She chuckled. “My sister made it as a gift for my ordination. Liturgically correct, with stoles for every feast day and liturgical season. Barbie's usually wearing green, but we're coming up on the sixth Sunday in Easter, so the stole is white.”
“Think she'll ever be Bishop Barbie?” I mused, thinking about the stained-glass ceiling Eva, and female priests like her, kept bumping into.
“Your mouth to God's ears.” Eva reached across the table and slipped a business card out of a plain wooden holder. She scribbled something on the back of the card before handing it to me. “This is my home number, and my cell phone number. If you, or anyone in your family, needs anything, at any time, just call.”
I accepted it gratefully, finding comfort in the knowledge that I'd be able to reach my pastorâand friendâwhenever things started coming unglued.
“We haven't seen Emily for a long time, Hannah. Is she attending another church?”
“Emily's left her faith so far behind that only God knows where it is.”
“And her husband?”
“Dante, too. He believes that religion is simply a crutch.”
Eva raised an eyebrow. “I'd like to tell Dante that there's no shame to using a crutch if your leg has been broken.”
“I'm afraid for them, Eva. Aside from Paul and me, they only have each other, but instead of bringing them together, this terrible situation seems to be driving a wedge between them.”
Eva stared out the window thoughtfully, then asked me for Emily's address. Somehow I knew that in addition to a personal note of support from her former pastor, Eva was likely to sic the Daughters of the King on my wayward daughter, dedicated churchwomen all, who would serve up a nightly succession of hot casseroles along with their quiet evangelism.
“With your permission,” she continued, “I'll go ahead and e-mail our prayer chains, get them going on prayers for Timmy's safe return. And we'll add his name to the Prayers of the People on Sunday, of course.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, taking both her hands in mine and squeezing, hard. “But let's pray he'll be home long before that.”