Jessica Hexham directed people. Since Pete’s death, a lady from St. Cyril’s was there from breakfast to the end of the day, to assist, offer comfort, be a friend. Jessica had organized the shifts. One woman was in charge of the door, another the telephone, another the kitchen, and three were in charge of cleanup.
Charlene stood in the living room, talking to everyone. Her two sons flanked her. It was obvious that mother and sons drew comfort from one another.
Harry, Susan, BoomBoom and Alicia, Miranda Hogendobber, the Sanburnes, the social powers in Crozet, all helped, too. Jessica also organized the St. Luke’s ladies. Everything that could be done was done.
Harry and Susan carried out dishes and carried back clean ones laden with more food. BoomBoom ran the dishwasher and Alicia wiped down the glasses so they sparkled. Miranda cleaned coffee cups.
Arden stuck her head into the kitchen. “Need a hand?”
“We’re running out of cups. People are guzzling the coffee and tea, I guess because it’s cold outside.”
“I’ll run home and bring twelve more. Won’t take me a minute. I’m close by.”
Susan gratefully looked up as she had the refrigerator open. “Arden, that would be a godsend.”
The old friends in the kitchen took a short breather.
“Any word from the pathologist?” BoomBoom asked.
“Not yet,” Susan answered. “Ned said everyone in hospitals are on overload because so many people die during the holidays.”
“Really?” Miranda knelt down, looking under the sink for more dishwasher detergent. “Found it.”
“Let me put that on a list,” said Alicia. “Detergent lasts a day at the rate this is going.” She scribbled on a pad affixed to the wall next to a large blackboard.
“That and suicides,” said Susan. “Christmas pushes people right over the edge.”
“Not Pete,” Alicia piped up.
“No. Heart attack or stroke, I would think,” BoomBoom said to her.
“Christmas would be a great time to get away with murder,” Harry idly mentioned. “Just thinking. It would, you know.” Harry shut up as Karen Turner, a St. Cyril’s stalwart, tottered in carrying an enormous vase bursting with white lilies and red roses.
“Water.”
Alicia took the heavy vase from the small woman. “You or the flowers.”
Karen smiled. “Flowers! More just delivered. An interesting arrangement.”
Jessica popped in. “Need reinforcements?” She noted the flowers and smiled. “What do you think, girls?”
“Gorgeous,” came the unanimous response.
Jessica beamed, then hurried back out. She stuck her head in for one second. “Motrin?”
“I’ve got some.” Alicia plucked her purse off a kitchen chair. “Be right out.”
“Jessica sent those flowers, bet you.” Harry was piling hot tiny cinnamon rolls onto a tray. “She has that incredible way of putting disparate things together.”
As the friends talked and worked, Susan silently calculated how they would make up for lost time regarding St. Luke’s food drive deliveries. So many people from both churches were here doing what they could.
What no one knew other than Charlene, law enforcement, and the funeral home was that two fingers were missing from Pete’s hand. Sheriff Shaw had asked Charlene to keep the news to herself for now, not even to tell her sons.
For Charlene, all of this hoopla was surreal. Any minute, Pete would walk back through the door. But instead, Father O’Connor walked through the front door, and that’s when it really hit her.
St. Cyril’s was set back from Route 250. Quiet and beautiful, it invited congregants to worship by its peacefulness alone. The Victorian-style church, like all the churches and synagogues in Albemarle County, was a vital hub of community activity, and its priest, like his colleagues of different faiths, had insight into not just his congregants but to the community as a whole.
An alert member of the clergy would quickly know what was happening in the area, to whom and often why. The real question was: What does one do about it?
St. Cyril’s, with a very mixed congregation—rich, poor, white, Asian, Hispanic, African American—was no exception. Clothing, toys, kitchenwares poured in for the holiday gift giving. Western Route 250, a ribbon of privilege, had residents who could give more, and many did. The labels in the clothing would have brought money from local resale boutiques. One might say, “Well, they can afford it.” But how many who can, give?
Reverend Jones had been phoned by Father O’Connor, who assisted the aging parish priest. Father David O’Brien was slowing down, so these days Father O’Connor assumed more and more responsibility. The huge volume of donated goods this year was such that Susan Tucker arranged to begin distribution before December 20. Father O’Connor also told Reverend Jones that they had lost some valuable organizing time due to Pete’s shocking death.
Susan borrowed a Suburban, as it could carry more than either her or Harry’s station wagon, as goods continued to pour in. There was room in the vehicle for the animals, which the two ladies took along. In the past, they’d discovered that when they would call on houses with an elderly person living alone the animals made them so happy, often lowering their fear of who was at the door. Their cats and dogs also got the kids excited, and there were far more children in need than public officials realized. In rural areas, the poor are often invisible.
“Am I glad to see you.” Father O’Connor beamed when Harry and Susan walked into St. Cyril’s. “We’re working around the clock to get all these boxes packed.”
“Oh, my God,” Harry exclaimed, then realized where she was.
“Right place to say it.” The attractive priest smiled. “I’ve said worse.”
Neatly sorted and stacked, clothing filled every table, piled on the floor; even the walkways between the tables were clogged. There was even more here at St. Cyril’s than there had been at St. Luke’s.
Jan McGee had driven over from Manakin-Sabot to help. This lady could organize anything. Jessica and Arden had needed the help. Jan approached Susan and Harry, saying, “Isn’t this something?”
“Yes, it is.” Susan wormed her way through a narrow aisle to chat with Jan while Harry went over the delivery list with Father O’Connor.
“Susan, if the roads are treacherous off the main roads, put some bags of kitty litter in the back of the truck or SUV,” Jan advised.
“I’ll remember that. We will all start out with plenty of ballast. It’s later, after we drop everything off, that I worry about.”
“Kitty litter,” Jan repeated. “I didn’t grow up in Grundy, Virginia, for nothing.”
Susan laughed, then thanked Jan for pitching in at the last minute.
“You know, Susan, it’s not me. It’s everyone.” Jan was always happy to share praise. “In times like this we’ve got to pull together.”
While those two caught up, Harry unfolded her county map. “The Dybecks are here, right?”
“Don’t you have GPS?” asked Father O’Connor.
“Heavenly guidance of a technological sort?” Harry scoffed. “Why bother? Half the time, the directions take you miles out of your way. It’s not that I don’t know where these back roads are. I bet I know about every back road in this county, but I don’t always know which house is which or exactly where. Some are pretty well hidden.”
“I figure it depends on what they’re growing.” Father O’Connor chuckled.
“There is that,” Harry agreed.
“A lot of the mailboxes have no names or numbers, and some of these people don’t have mailboxes.”
“You know, you have to have your number on your mailbox,” Harry the ex-postmistress said. “But this is the country. If one is a federal employee you serve your people even if there are slight variations in the rules when doing so.”