The Language of Paradise: A Novel (49 page)

Voices filter in. Sophy huddles in the shadow land between sleep and waking, eyes shut, clinging to her dream.

She hears the parson: “Right in here.” Then another voice: “Straight and steady, that’s the way, careful as you turn, mind the wall . . .” Dr. Craddock, unmistakable; she couldn’t forget his voice if she wanted to.

The baby is gone. No wonder, it’s half-past four, he must have awakened long ago. But who is taking care of him? She gets out of bed and splashes water on her swollen face. At the door, she stands for a moment, head bowed. If she tried to pray, the words would choke her worse than the brandy, but she tells the Lord that she has reached her limit.

The door opens before she turns the knob. Micah, black as a chimney sweep, and behind him the parson, with Aleph in his arms. Entwhistle is radiant. Sophy knows the expression. Any preacher’s daughter would. It is the look that true believers get when the world, for once, aligns with their hopes.

They’ve put Gideon in the room next door and laid him on a sheet until they can clean him. The doctor is listening to his chest through an ear trumpet. He stands when Sophy comes in. “Now, Mrs. Birdsall, miracle or no miracle, we are not free and clear. He’s inhaled a deal of smoke. His lungs don’t sound good, and you can see from the look of him, he’s halfway to the next world already. But I’ve treated this fellow before, and I’ll tell you something about him. He sinks very low, but he always comes back.”

After Craddock leaves, Sophy chases the rest of them out and bathes Gideon herself. The water in the basin is warm, the towels are thick, the parson has supplied a sponge. She washes the grit from his hair and face, cleans out his nose and ears, squeezes water on his neck and arms and takes pains with the fingers of each hand, not forgetting the nails. She washes his chest and belly and groin. They are whiter than the rest of him. She proceeds down to his toes, and turns him over, just as Mama taught her when they nursed him at home. The water is gray now, but she squeezes and scrubs and pats dry, and with each part of him that she cleans she feels a thrill of triumph because she has reclaimed it from the fire.

MICAH WAS READY
to quit. He had gotten as close as he could to the smoldering ruin, searched every inch of cleared land, up to the wall and beyond. He was sitting on the slope at a little distance from where the conservatory used to be, gazing out at the woodland and trying to collect his thoughts, when something snagged his eye. A shape that didn’t belong. He thought at first it was a piece of the roof. He willed himself to take a closer look; he didn’t have much strength left in him, and the day had held nothing but discouragement. Within a few feet he recognized the plaid of the blanket they had wrapped so carefully around the paintings and the twine he’d knotted himself. If he had not discovered the package, with its suggestion of having been dropped in flight, he never would have ventured into the woods. He didn’t have to go far. Perhaps fifty feet in, in a kind of cradle formed by the joined root systems of two ancient oaks, he found Gideon, “sleeping as peaceful as if he was in his own bed.”

“What regard Mr. Birdsall must have for you, that he put himself in peril to rescue your paintings,” the parson exults, still cresting on the froth of grace. “If only every husband loved his wife so well!”

Sophy smiles, but says nothing. She knows that Gideon would never have given a thought to her pictures. His journal, yes—he would have braved the flames twice over for his lifework. That the book hasn’t been found tells her someone else carried him to safety, and took time to stop for her paintings on the way out of the burning house. Was it only yesterday that she hid them behind the bush and looked up to see Leander on the road? She has resisted gratitude for so long that even now—her husband saved, her work preserved—it comes hard to her, disguised in questions.
What do you mean by it?
she wants to ask.
Why would you not stay and play the hero?
Gratification is easier. She is flattered—shamefully so—that a man of the world, a citizen of many cities, judged her efforts worth the risk. There are those who would call her prideful, and worse, for rejoicing in her trivial art at a time like this. She would be hard-pressed to defend herself, except to plead that she has no other skills. She is a terrible seamstress, a middling cook, an indifferent housekeeper. The paintings are what she has to offer. Her value in her own eyes is bound up in them.

Gideon hovers for a couple of days. Sophy, mindful of the doctor’s assessment, fears that having advanced so far on the journey, he has decided to go on ahead after all. But on the third day he comes back to her, rasping and coughing, the smoke still trapped in his chest. When he can summon enough breath to speak, he has little to tell them. He went to bed that night as usual. He has no memory of the fire, no memory of the forest. For him, the disaster never happened, which is, perhaps, a mercy. He seems to rest in the present and what it contains: Sophy and Micah and the baby; Dr. Craddock, and the obliging parson, whose charity they’ve strained past the limit.

He doesn’t ask about Leander. Finally she says, as much for her sake as his, “We don’t know yet what became of our friend. They are looking for him.” Gideon bobs his head to show he’s heard, and turns his face to the wall. Sophy wonders if, during his long sleep, Leander vanished too, and the whole life they made in the house.

Mr. Leach, the sheriff, comes to the parsonage to see them. Instead of waiting in the hall, he follows the housekeeper to the sickroom, where Sophy is sitting at Gideon’s bedside, nursing the baby. He doesn’t trouble to look away as she adjusts her clothing. He asks Gideon a couple of perfunctory questions, nodding as if the scant response were anticipated, and requests to see Sophy alone. Leach is a lanky, shambling man whose joints lock together with alarming suddenness when called to action. In the sitting room he waits solicitously while Sophy settles on the couch, but declines to join her.

“Now, Mrs. Birdsall, ma’am, it falls to me to ask what others will be wondering. How did you happen to leave the house with your young one on the very night it burned? Some might surmise that you knew what would happen.”

No preamble. Not a soft word to spare.

“You were told about the . . . incidents,” Sophy says. “My husband had more courage than I did. He wanted to wait out the siege, but I was afraid for the baby, and I left when I could.” She looks down at her hands, twined in her lap. “I never thought they would go this far.”

“And Mr. Solloway—did he think of leaving too? He’s a man who’s moved around some.”

“Mr. Solloway was devoted to us,” she says low. “Dedicated.”

“It’s an unusual sort of household, if you’ll pardon me for being so frank. Two men, unrelated, and yourself and the baby. I’m not saying what happened to you is right—far from it—but there’s no keeping folks from speculating.” He sounds affable, rambling, like the old men spitting tobacco on the courthouse steps, but his eyes bore into her.

“I can’t help the ugliness in people. Why talk about it now? There’s nothing more they can do to us. I have my husband and my son, and I’m thankful for that.” Sophy is abashed to find that her cheeks are wet; she has prided herself on her control.

The sheriff offers his handkerchief and a pat on the shoulder, but that night he tells his wife, “I wouldn’t be surprised if that woman knows more than she’s letting on.”

“I’ve known Sophy Hedge since she was born,” says Mrs. Leach. “She always was an odd sort of girl, but there’s no malice in her. Not that I believe she’s capable, but if she had anything to do with that fire, you can be sure she was driven to it. Leave it be, Joseph.”

A DELEGATION FROM
the village searches the ruins, Micah in attendance to make sure it’s done right. Lem and his brother are members of the party. An atmosphere of grim festivity prevails. Several of Leander’s former pupils speculate on what state Mr. Solloway will likely be in, whether his remains are imbued with his fabled mysterious powers, what piece of him they will break off for a talisman. They rake ashes, look behind the burned carcasses of furniture, open wardrobe doors and bureau drawers on the chance he might be hiding inside. They pry open the trunk in his room and find, under a few books and well-worn garments, the globe that graced their schoolroom, all the places they have traveled intact. Of their teacher, not an atom of bone or bit of charred cloth is found. The sheriff says it is very rare for a body to leave no trace.

Rumors spring up immediately, as if to compensate for the lack of a corpse. Leander set the fire himself to cover the effects of a spell gone wrong, a botched experiment, a murderous plot. He levitated through the ceiling to escape the law, or took on the shape of a black bird to elude the Devil (this from the sexton’s wife, who should know better), or spoke the secret name of God and spontaneously combusted.

In Sophy’s opinion, Lem Quinn is the only one who approaches the truth. Lem says, simply, “He’ll be back.”

PASTOR ENTWHISTLE INSISTS
that some effort be made to contact Leander’s family and inform them of the possibility of his death. “Castle,” Sophy tells him. “In Germany.” “Ah,
Kassel
,” he says. “Homeland of the good Brothers Grimm. Very appropriate for Mr. Solloway.” She tells him about the mother and the father and the wife, but has no names to give him. With hesitation, she reveals what Gideon confided in her: that Leander was of the tribe of Israel. “Excellent!” Mr. Entwhistle says, brightening. “That is information I can use.”

THE PARSON DEVOTES
his Sunday sermon to the effects of gossip, the noxious waste of breath that has inflicted substantial damage on a family with deep roots in the parish. The daughter of their beloved pastor. The scholarly young man who led their congregation a few months past. Mr. Solloway, a stranger among them but one who taught their children with ardor and imagination. The shame of it! Micah, the only member of the offended family in attendance, reports that Mr. Entwhistle, though not a natural thunderer like Papa, seized the pulpit as the Reverend used to and whipped his mild voice to a shrill pitch. “We will not tolerate vipers in our midst! If any of you has a weight on his conscience, let him have the courage to come forward. For the health of this congregation! For the sake of his own soul!”

To no one’s surprise but the parson’s, not a single soul confesses, either at meeting or in the privacy of his study. There is talk of an investigation, but without a proven fatality to drive it, a decision is made to wait until the property owner returns. James arrives home a few days after the fire. As Sheriff Leach recounts the conversation, he is indifferent to the house’s fate and the loss of income it represents.

“Unclean profits,” he told the sheriff. “The schoolmaster turned my head with his talk of a school for the poor. I should have known no good could come out of bad.”

“But in the interest of justice—” Leach persisted. Ormsby is a small town; the last hanging was five years ago. This makes a change from the usual run of drunken carousing and petty theft.

“Whoever burned the place down did the Lord’s work. And that’s an end to it.” He spun on his heels and left without a thank-you or good-bye.

The sheriff has his suspicions. Popular opinion may vilify an outsider like Solloway, but Leach is convinced that the blame lies closer to home. The Hedges haven’t been right since the Reverend passed, the girl disappearing into that strange household and James gone peculiar; for all the God talk, he wouldn’t be the first to twist his religion to unholy ends. Stone-throwers and glass houses, a story older than time. Leach makes it known that he is keeping his ears open, but can’t generate much interest in the destruction of a property that no one cares about. A colleague he brings in to sniff out signs of mischief is of the opinion that the trouble started with the stove in the conservatory. Installed all wrong, he says—the work of amateurs who took a bright idea too far—but even well-constructed greenhouses are a folly. “Firetraps, the lot of them. Some damned fool decides he wants oranges in December and ends up burning down his house.” Presented with this blessedly sound logic, the sheriff decides to take his wife’s advice and let the matter rest until further evidence presents itself. Soon enough, the whispers die down. Arson or no, the townsfolk have moved on to fresher scandals.

SOPHY EMBRACES HER
brother and holds him for as long as he lets her. She rests against him, remembering how his solidity once gave her comfort. Somewhere in this fortress is the James she knew. The yielding she waits for never comes. She can feel in the tightness of his body how he barricades himself, as if the merest expression of feeling would collapse the temple of sanctity that he has built with such care—built to last, as he built his house. He mumbles that he is glad to find her well, and backs away.

The parson lingers in the hall, his head poked forward in confessional mode. Under the sad circumstances, they’ve had to postpone the baptism, but how fortuitous that the proud uncle will now be able to attend the blessed event. James looks blank for a second, then gives a curt nod. He thanks the parson stiffly for his kindness to his family and offers to reimburse him for any expenses incurred. It is well known in the parish that he considers Entwhistle too lax, an improvement over his brother-in-law but not fit to occupy the pulpit of Reverend Hedge.

“Where is Micah?” James asks Sophy.

“In the sitting room, with someone you will want to meet.”

Aleph is riding on Micah’s shoulder. When James comes in, Micah swings the baby down and holds him against his chest with one arm.

“Well,” James says. “He’s a big fellow, isn’t he?” The sort of thing, Sophy thinks, that childless men always say in the presence of infants. James approaches, cautious, and pats the baby’s head. Meets him stare for stare. His face softens, and for a tremulous moment it seems that he will smile. He meant to have children once, she reminds herself: lots of them, and not so long ago. But the face he turns to Sophy is stern. “He is all Hedge,” he pronounces solemnly. “He looks like Pa around the eyes.”