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“Okay, good. It’s settled then.”
“It’s settled.”
1998
i
“I had a thought,” Thom said, sidestepping their orange cat, Trimalchio, who liked to sleep in doorways.
“You did, did you?”
“I did. You won’t like it, but I’ll ask anyway.”
“Okay,” Wendy said, suddenly on alert.
“I thought we could go to a Christmas Eve service tonight?”
It was the last thing she expected to hear, and for some reason it made her laugh.
“Why are you laughing?”
“I don’t know,” Wendy said. “Just unexpected. I thought you were going to suggest we open all our presents tonight.”
“We can do that too.”
“Why do you want to go to a service? Should I be concerned?”
“No, no. I was just out walking and there’s that church back at the corner across from that bar you like—”
“River Styx.”
“River Styx... and there was a sign out saying they are doing a candlelight service tonight, and I just thought...”
“You should go. I’m not sure I’m interested in joining you.”
“It’s not a religious thing, at all. I hated going to church as a kid, except for the Christmas Eve service. But the songs are nice, and I like the candlelight part...”
“What’s the candlelight part?”
Thom described the services he’d attended as a kid. She could picture him with his lovely New England family walking across the town green in parkas and scarves to a white church, a spotlit creche blanketed by snow. “Sure, I’ll attend,” she said, mostly because she could tell how much he really wanted her to come with him, and partly because she wondered if she should be worried about something.
After dinner—Thom insisted on oyster stew for Christmas Eve—they bundled up and walked out into the night, headed for the church. It was a clear, cold night, the weather report predicting snow squalls and high wind. Wendy’s cheekbones ached by the time they stepped inside the bustling church and found a pew strategically located toward the rear. Thom showed her the small white candle, skirted by a protective piece of cardboard, that was located in front of everyone’s seat, where the hymnbooks were. He was giddy, she thought, or maybe just nostalgic. Wendy, herself, just felt curious. All these neighbors living this secret life of religion right on her block. Ruth Flaherty, their upstairs neighbor, was sitting two rows in front of them, conversing with the couple next to her.
The organist finished playing “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” then moved on to that Christmas hymn that had the lines “Snow had fallen, snow on snow.” And then the minister stepped up to the podium. He looked like a hip bartender or maybe an aspiring folk singer, and he beamed out at the parishioners before beginning to talk.
All in all, it hadn’t been a terrible experience. Wendy listened to the sermon—really just the myth of Christ’s birth—and sang alongwith the hymns, all the while keeping an eye on Thom next to her. She didn’t exactly know what she was looking for, maybe some signs that he was having a genuine religious moment, or an epiphany, but while he seemed engaged, he didn’t seem particularly moved. He didn’t close his eyes during prayers, and he spent much of the service making faces at the young girl in the pew in front of them, who kept turning around. Toward the end of the service there was the candlelight portion, the lights dimmed, and a single candle at the front was lit, its flame traveling down the pews, from row to row, until everyone held a burning candle. Wendy admitted to herself that it was aesthetically pleasing, despite the fact that she got candlewax on her corduroys.
“It’s nice, right?” Thom whispered in her ear.
After the service she was surprised that Thom dug out a few bills to put into the donation plate toward the back of the church, and that he stopped and introduced Wendy and himself to the minister and assistant minister.
“Lovely to see new faces,” said the minister, named Andrew, who, now that she was seeing him up close, reminded Wendy of David Foster Wallace.
His assistant, wearing a black robe, and a very colorful scarf, was named Ariel, and Wendy thought she was far too young and pretty to be spending her time at this church filled with Baby Boomers and families with small children. Then she reminded herself that these weren’t priests, and were presumably allowed to have sex lives.
Back at home Thom mixed them two eggnogs, heavily laced with whiskey, and they sat in front of the television. They watched the very end ofIt’s a Wonderful Lifeand then it started up again. Neither reached for the remote. Wendy was trying to calculate the best way to ask Thom how he felt about going to church, mostly because he’d been unusually quiet since they returned. She knew that the last year had been hard on him. He’d lost his grandfather, whom he’d spokento every other day for years. He’d also applied to two writers’ workshops, Iowa and Provincetown, and been rejected by both. After that he’d seemed unmoored, quitting his job at Harvard Bookstore, briefly taking up watercolor painting, then deciding finally that he was going to apply for a PhD in English literature. Filling out the applications had consumed him, at least, and he had seemed less moody for a while. Her big worry was that he was depressed, and she thought the best thing for him would probably be therapy. But she couldn’t suggest it, couldn’t risk him talking to anyone about their past—even a person who was sworn to secrecy by doctor-patient confidentiality. For that reason, too, she worried about his drinking. She’d noticed that he always drank a beer, or two, before heading out to a social event, one while he was getting dressed, and usually one in the car if they were driving (“road sodas” he called them). When she’d asked him about it, he’d said, “You think I want to talk to any of our friends while sober?”
“So are you a parishioner now?”