T
WENTY
-F
OUR
T
HREE MONTHS LATER
.
Maura sat in the second row of pews in St. Anthony’s church,
and
the sound of the organ stirred memories from her childhood. She remembered
Sunday
Mass with her parents, and how hard and unforgiving the church benches had felt,
after sitting on them for half an hour. How she had fidgeted, trying to get
comfortable,
and how her father had swept her up into his lap, the best perch of all, for it
came
with a pair of protective arms. She would look up at the stained-glass windows,
at
images that frightened her. Joan of Arc, tied to the stake. Jesus on the cross.
Saints,
bowed down before their executioners. And blood, so much blood, spilled in the
name
of faith.
Today, church did not seem forbidding. The organ music was joyful.
Garlands of pink flowers festooned the aisles. She saw children happily bouncing
on parents’ knees, children untroubled by images of suffering etched into
stained
glass.
The organ began to play Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.”
Down the aisle came two bridesmaids wearing light gray pantsuits.
Maura
recognized both of them as Boston PD cops. The pews were filled with cops today.
Glancing back, she spotted Barry Frost and Detective Sleeper in the row just
behind
her, both of them relaxed and happy. Too often, when cops and their families
gathered
together in church, it was to mourn one of their own. Today, she saw smiles and
bright
dresses.
Now Jane appeared, on her father’s arm. For once her dark
hair
had been tamed into a stylish knot. Her white satin pantsuit, with its oversize
jacket,
could not quite disguise the swelling abdomen. As she reached Maura’s row
of
pews, their gazes briefly met, and Maura saw Jane roll her eyes with a look of
can
you believe I’m doing this?
Then Jane’s gaze turned toward the
altar.
Toward Gabriel.
Sometimes, thought Maura, the stars line up, the gods smile, and
love
gets a fighting chance. Just a chance—that’s all it can really hope
for.
No guarantees, no certainties. She watched Gabriel take Jane’s hand. Then
they
turned and stood facing the altar. Today they were united, but surely
there’d
be other days when angry words would fly, or silence would freeze the household.
Days when love would barely stay aloft, like a bird fluttering on one wing. Days
when Jane’s quick temper and Gabriel’s cooler nature would send them
spinning
to their own corners, and they would both question the wisdom of this match.
Then there would be days like today. Perfect days.
It was late afternoon when Maura stepped out of St.
Anthony’s.
The sun was shining, and for the first time she felt a breath of warmth in the
air.
The first whisper of spring. She drove with her window down, the scents of the
city
blowing in, heading not toward home, but toward the neighborhood of Jamaica
Plain.
To the church in the parish of Our Lady of Divine Light.
Stepping through the massive front door, she found it dim and
silent
inside, the stained-glass windows catching the day’s last sunlight. She saw
only two women, seated together in the front pew, their heads bent in prayer.
Maura moved quietly to the alcove. There she lit three candles for
three women. One for Sister Ursula. One for Sister Camille. And one for a
faceless
leper whose name she would never know. She did not believe in heaven or hell;
she
was not even sure she believed in the eternal soul. Yet she stood in that house
of
worship and lit three flames and took comfort from it, because what she did
believe
in was the power of remembrance. Only the forgotten are truly dead.
She emerged from the alcove and saw that Father Brophy was now
standing
beside the two women, murmuring words of comfort. He looked up. As the last
jewel
tones of sunlight glowed through the windows, their gazes met. For just a moment
in time, they both forgot where they were. Who they were.
She raised her hand in a farewell salute.
Then she walked out of his church, and back into her own world.
