The voice, then, was in the air, speaking, before she heard it. She stored its syllables in her despairing mind, then contemplated them. “Have you forgotten, Mrs. Collins, what the Bible says? ‘Do not regard lightly the discipline of the Lord,’ it warns, ‘nor lose courage when you are punished by Him. Consider Him Who endured from sinners such hostility against Himself, so that you may not grow weary or fainthearted.’” The woman stood in the open doorway between the living room and dining room, the light at her back, only a pale bluish flicker from the television playing on her face. Elaine crouched stricken near her against a wall, soft sobs barely audible breaking from her small chest like fitful punctuation. “Now, will you please come back? Giovanni has asked to show something to you.”
She lacked all strength to resist. Mechanically, walled in by her grief, Clara lifted herself from the couch, took Elaine’s frail shoulder, followed Mrs. Norton back, through the dining room, into the bedroom. It was empty, but the heat and odor of an anxious massing were still present. Giovanni lay, as before, on his bed, propped by pillows, but now a Bible — Clara’s own Bible — rested in his lap. With his finger, he was pointing to a passage. At Mrs. Norton’s urging, Clara approached him and read. It was the Gospel according to John, chapter one, verses ten and eleven: “He was in the world, and the world was made through him, and the world knew him not. He came unto his own, and they that were his own received him not.”
“Giovanni, to whom do you mean this to apply?” asked Mrs. Norton. “To Mrs. Collins?” Giovanni Bruno nodded solemnly. “Indeed perhaps, each in his own way, to all of us here?” Something in her voice of awe, a kind of God-fear sound, when she spoke to him. And again he nodded. Mrs. Norton turned to her, and Clara observed now a patience, a compassion, in her face, a face, she saw instantly, that had known hurt and suffering like herself. “As Jesus is said to have told His disciples, Mrs. Collins: ‘If the world hates you, know that it has hated me before it hated you.’ Marcella dear, is there any coffee?”
The girl smiled openly. “Yes, I’ll get some. Do you take cream or sugar, Mrs. Collins?”
“No, but Elaine—”
“We’ll bring everything.” The girl took Elaine’s hand, and together they went to the kitchen.
“I … I’m sorry,” Clara said, addressing no one in particular, except God Himself maybe. Her eyes were still full of tears, but she felt all cried out. “I don’t know. I don’t understand. I thought … but, well, you seen it. I jist don’t—”
“Giovanni Bruno, hear me!” The woman was again addressing the sick man, and again that hollow sound to it. Clara watched, not knowing quite what to make of it, yet fascinated just the same. “Is there any reason why … why nothing has happened tonight?” Again: the solemn affirmative nod. “Is it because … is it because there were perhaps hostile forces of darkness present?” Giovanni Bruno nodded. The woman relaxed, sighed, turned again to Clara. “It may be, Mrs. Collins,” she said, “that our night is not yet over.”
The two girls returned, smiling as though at something just said, Giovanni’s sister bringing the coffee, Clara’s daughter Elaine following with a tray of cups and cream and sugar. For the first time since the mass exodus, Clara was reminded of the other presence in the room: Mr. Norton, chubby and humble-spirited, stepped out of a corner and came over to accept a cup of coffee. He smiled cordially at Clara as he spooned three heaps of sugar into his coffee and added cream. “I hope you’re feeling better,” he said.
“I’m feelin’ a mite like a fool,” Clara confessed frankly.
He smiled again at that. “Well,” he acknowledged in a familiar drawl, “I don’t know anybody who has expressed himself more eloquently on being a fool for the truth than the apostle Paul himself.”
“Well said, Wylie!” avowed his wife, and Clara had to admit, too, that it was so. She sipped the hot black coffee, finding it good. The girl Marcella helped her brother, lifting a cup to his lips. He was apparently still very weak. It was a little curious how he had got ahold of her Bible, in fact. Elaine, sitting meekly by the Bruno girl, smiled over at her, and Clara smiled back. “Who is this Mr. Baxter?” Mrs. Norton asked. “Do I understand that he is the minister at your church?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Clara said. “Now he is.”
“But your husband was the minister before.”
“Yes.” She felt the tears returning, concentrated on the coffee.
“What does the Bible say, Mrs. Collins? I confess, I’m not very good at quoting it offhand. But doesn’t it say something about those who preach from envy and rivalry?”
“Yes, they’s something like that, I think. But you mean … you mean, you reckon Abner’s jealous of—? But Ely … he’s passed away, Abner ain’t got cause to—”
“True, Mrs. Collins, but you live still, and, through you, in spirit, lives your good husband yet. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes. Yes, I allow it is. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” For the first time, the vague hostile rumblings of the past month, especially those touching her leadership of Evening Circle, began to make sense to her. Why hadn’t it occurred to her before?
There was a silence, then, as they drank their coffee. Clara began contemplating the bitter walk home to their empty house. Mrs. Norton glanced over at Giovanni from time to time, and, absently, Clara soon found herself doing the same. What? Did she expect something? Marcella poured more coffee. And then the doorbell rang. Everybody started, looked wonderstruck at each other. Marcella went to answer … and returned with Betty Wilson!
Betty burst weeping into the room and came to take Clara’s hands. “Oh, I’m sorry, Clara! Lord, I jist don’t know whatever come over me! I was skeered is all! It was — oh, Clara, please, I’m—”
“That’s okay, Betty,” Clara said. “I almost felt like goin’ out on myself myself.” With that, everyone smiled a little, and Betty stopped her crying. “How about a cup of coffee?”
“Well, I …” Betty wiped her eyes, glanced around her now, uneasy in the presence of these strangers. “Ifn you think … ifn you think it’s all right …”
“Of course it’s all right, Mrs. Wilson,” Mrs. Norton said warmly. “We’re happy you have come back. It’s a very good sign.” Dr. Norton carried over a chair. Marcella brought coffee.
And then it happened.
Giovanni Bruno lifted his hand.
Mrs. Norton, with a gasp, flew to the foot of his bed.
Dr. Norton stood rigidly, expectant.
Marcella set the coffeepot down, slipped over by the bed.
Weak but yet resonant, Giovanni Bruno’s voice entered the still room for the first time: “The coming … of … light!”
Mrs. Norton drew a quick sharp breath. Clara stood, felt Betty and Elaine fearful at her side. “When?” asked Mrs. Norton.
There was a long pause. Giovanni’s eyes moved among them, returned to stare upon Mrs. Norton. “Sunday …” he said, “… week.” He dropped his hand.
Clara started to speak up, to ask what this was about, but Mrs. Norton held up her hand for silence. “The coming of light?” she repeated, and Giovanni nodded. “Sunday week?” Again, he nodded. “Giovanni Bruno, hear me! Is there anything … is there something more?” A pause. And then he shook his head no, the first time Clara had seen him do so. The movement made his hair splay out on the pillow, and Clara was astonished to see how really long it had grown. Mrs. Norton relaxed, but when she turned from the bed to face them, Clara saw tension and worry on her face still.