The Blameless Bystander Ch. 16

"Just remember what I said, Ethan."

Ethan turned to greet a few members who walked by. He watched the congregation file in, one by one. They had really come out for his big day.

"I want you to meet someone, Ethan," Jarrod spoke from behind him. Ethan was barely listening to him.

"This is Elvis Means. I asked him to come here.

"Yes, yes," Ethan answered absent-mindedly, more interested in the number of sheep in the flock.

"He's a Divinity School student—finishing in a few weeks," Jarrod continued. Ethan was watching them continue to pour in, wondering what to do in case of an overflow. He wanted to lay hands on them all.

"I asked him to come here to be Temporary Assistant Pastor to help you get a rest," Jarrod concluded.

"Huh!" Ethan snapped his head around and eyed the young man from head to toe. He was callow and lean, barely with whiskers. He wore glasses and cropped hair that made his ears appear to stick out even more than they did. He looked like Ethan might have years ago.

"I don't need a rest," Ethan insisted. "I've never had a rest. I told you that, Jarrod."

"It's my decision, Ethan. I can get the Board to approve it with or without you."

"I won't have it," Ethan declared. "Go away, young man. You're not needed here." He abruptly turned away from them and sped into the sanctuary to be with those who had come to see him.

"I've never heard of this kind of service," young Elvis said to Jarrod.

"I was afraid of that," Jarrod snapped. "It's too late to do anything about it now. Stick close to me." They went inside and Jarrod took his accustomed place in the front pew.

Ethan walked slowly to the center of the sanctuary. He stood confidently facing the congregation. Jarrod's entry of young Means had brought his headache back. Raising his eyes to heaven he cried out, "The Centurion's Servant shall be healed!" The organ began playing restful chords at half volume. Ethan stared out among the throng. He saw them waiting with eager eyes. When he was sure that their expectations were piqued, he raised both hands in a beckoning gesture and cried out once again, "Lazarus, I bid thee, come forth!"

Elvis Means turned to Jarrod, whispering in his ear, "This is not scripture," he said, "He's mixing it up. They are different miracles. He is way off-base."

"I know," Ethan answered. "We can't stop him now."

The infirm slowly approached Ethan who stood on a step at the head of the center aisle looking down at them. Those approaching were mostly old, but the first was a young boy who hobbled up to him wearing a cast on his leg. As each of the faithful approached, Ethan would place his hands on the head of the hopeful one, close his eyes and mumble a silent prayer. When Ethan removed his hands, the person would move away and a new pilgrim would step into place. There had been no practice or rehearsal for what took place. The faithful lined up out of instinct.

Ethan's headache pounded, so he sensed a revelation coming on. The pain throbbed so greatly that it hurt his eyes to open them to allow in light. He exulted, for in the light, he reasoned, must be that which was to come to him. So, he did open up his eyes to allow in the agony and the vision.

Mrs. Harper was third in line. As Ethan laid his hands on another afflicted soul, he thought about her. She never disclosed her age. It was rumored that she was eighty-eight, although a few thought her older. She was fifteen years a widow. She crept up the aisle behind her walker. As Ethan focused on her he could see a halo forming around her head.

When it was finally her turn to receive Ethan's hands, he hesitated for a second. The throbbing in his head accelerated. Mrs. Harper looked up at him, expecting Ethan's firm touch. She removed her hat to make easier for him.

Ethan reached out his hands to settle on the gray head, but sudden inspiration made him bend lower and grasp the handles of the old woman's walker. The pain was nearly blinding him as he bent from the waist. "Take up thy pallet and walk!" he roared.

Ethan seized the walker, ignoring the gasps of the people who saw what he'd done and the shocked expression in the old woman's face. He straightened up and flung the walker to the side. It flew through the air and landed in a pew as those seated there scattered to dodge it. Mrs. Harper stood speechless for a few seconds, balancing tentatively on unsure feet. She then fell unceremoniously on her knees, crying out in pain, and then fell prone, striking her face on the step at Ethan's feet.

"Grab him!" Jarrod commanded in a loud voice as he and Elvis Means rushed forward. Several other men had come forward, too. They held Ethan as he struggled to no avail. He was wild-eyed and in a rage. As the men restrained him he saw Jarrod standing before him with his new protégé.

"Thou art Judas!" Ethan bellowed at Jarrod and he struggled anew to loosen himself. "Judas!" Ethan repeated, and refused to stop struggling.

"Get him out of here," Jarrod ordered. The men dragged him from the sanctuary. Jarrod stepped to where Ethan had been standing and brought the assembly to his attention. "This is Reverend Elvis Means," Jarrod calmly said. "I've brought him here to..."

Ethan heard the introduction as he was being led out the door. "Judas!" the congregation heard him scream from afar. The young Reverend Means stepped before them as they carried Mrs. Harper away.

"Let's pray for the speedy recovery..."

*******************

It was nearly dark when Ethan woke up in his bed; all was quiet. His headache was gone, but not the memory of how he was dragged from his church hours ago by the men in his own congregation.

"I was wrong," Ethan mumbled. "Mrs. Harper didn't have the faith to be healed. I should have chosen someone else." He wondered at the faultiness in his vision.

He swung his legs out of bed and his feet landed on the floor. He stood and dressed in the clothes that his captors had set in the chair after putting him in his bed and given him some pills to sleep. As his hand tried to turn the knob of the bedroom door it stuck. He jiggled it, but it refused to budge. He knew that he was locked in.

He spent a few moments in consternation, and then turned and stepped to the bedroom window. He raised it and slipped out onto the roof of the porch and then climbed down the trellis. It collapsed on his way down and the thorns of the climbing roses gouged his face and hands. He was dripping blood, but made no effort to stop it. He knew that the spare key to the house was beneath the mat, and soon he was roaming free inside the manse.

"Things need doing in the church. I'll do that little job in the choir loft." When stressed Ethan liked to putter about fixing little things.

He found the spare church key in his desk and walked deliberately there. There was no one on the street in the early evening.

"I've been wanting to take care of this for a while," he said to himself.

In the maintenance closet in the basement were the things he needed. He stumbled through the clutter: paints, two-by-fours from the manger scene, rope for hoisting, brooms, broomsticks without brooms, hand tools, cleaning supplies. He sorted through them, shaking his head at the mess. When he had what he needed he trod up the stairs to the main floor and up another stairway to the choir loft. He thought it amusing that he was in his Sunday-best suit carrying the items from the maintenance closet. His bleeding left a trail of blood on the floor.

When he got to the choir loft he took off his suit coat and slipped off his tie in noose like fashion and hung them on the crosspiece that he brought with him. He moved over a chair near the railing so he could fasten the rope to the rafter. It was quite a job. He was finally able to throw it over the beam and secure it, but not before nearly falling from the chair.

"I should have turned on the lights," he thought. No matter, he was nearly done. It was time to get in full dress again. He slipped the noose back over his head, and notched it up a little tighter. His headache was coming back—soon it would be at full strength. He had to hurry. He slipped his jacket back on with some difficulty.

He stepped back onto the chair. His head hurt so much that it was hard to balance, but he made himself rise to the occasion. He looked a last time to heaven.

"Into Thy hands I commend my spirit!" he cried, and fell forward into the unknown.

The next morning Jarrod took Elvis and Doc Barnes to the manse to look in on Ethan. They planned to take him for treatment somewhere. After a search they finally found him hanging silently in the noose attached to the beam over the choir loft. He was stiff with rigor mortis, a broomstick strung through the sleeves of his jacket to stretch out his arms in the form of a cross. Dried blood was in streaks on his face and hands.

***************

A week after Ethan's death the talk was lively at Harvey English's Barber Shop.

"The wife and I already decided to switch to Presbyterian," Harvey said as he chopped away at Bert Hodges.

"I put the blame on Jarrod," Brice Barlow declared. "After he was arrested it all became very clear. He put a lot of pressure on Ethan."

"Ethan brought a lot of it on himself," Bert said. "His battle against James O'Toole is what did it."

"So it was O'Toole's doing, too," Harvey concluded. "It was a sad day when he came into this valley. Don't forget that it was Nathan who brought him here. At least, none of us are to blame."

"You're wrong, Harvey," Bert said, "I got to know..."

"You've gone soft," Harvey scolded. "Ethan might have tried to move too fast, but..."

"What does it matter now?" Brice asked. "I heard that he's leaving soon."

"Not too soon for me," Harvey said.

"How did Mrs. Harper come out of it?" Bert asked.

"Cracked patellas and a broken tooth," Harvey answered.

"I think that we're going to change churches, too," Bert declared.

*************

Connie and Jamie stood side by side. Connie had his arm in a vise-like grip. She was beaming. Jamie endured it placidly enough. He had the look of a grateful sheep preparing to be shorn, fortunate to not be one of those led to the slaughter.

It was a fine spring afternoon—a Friday. The month of May would be arriving very soon. The balmy weather reminded Jamie of his walk with Father Brendan years ago and how he learned of the mystery of free will. As he stood with Connie, he realized how deep that mystery truly was.

Father Mark was at the bedside with them as witness, and held the book open for the old priest, propped up to a half sitting position. It had been accomplished with great effort for the sick man moved with great pain in those final days. But, he was still a priest and he knew that by enduring the pain he would learn a little bit of Truth—and Truth was still his stock in trade.

"Do ye, Concetta, take d'is man, James t' be yer lawful husban'?"

"I do," she answered.

"D'at bein' the case, I now pronounce ye man an' wife."

Jamie reached out to take Connie in his arms, but the old man feebly raised his arm to halt him.

"I'll 'ave the first kiss from the bride, if ye don't mind, boy"

Connie bent low and kissed Father Brendan's forehead.

"T'ank you, lass, an' now I got weddin' gifts fer ye both." Father Mark produced an envelope and a flat, rectangular box covered in gold foil. "The box is fer ye, child."

Connie took the box from Father Mark, tentatively looking at them all before opening it. She gasped as she lifted the lid.

"It's the crucifix d'at hung over m' head all m' years in the priesthood." Jamie looked into the box and recognized the cross from Father Brendan's office. It was simple, yet powerful. It was made of brass, so that its truth would never splinter or fade; the polish of it would be the duty of the owner.

"Father, thank you, but I could never accept this," Connie pleaded.

"Ye will accept it with m' blessin'," Father Brendan insisted. "If ye're to spend yer days lookin' after d'is lout, ye'll need all o' the help ye can get." He patted her on the hand, as she wiped a tear that had run down her cheek.

"The env'lope is fer ye, Jamie. Open it another day when the time is right—ye'll know when." A nurse arrived at the foot of the bed, waiting patiently to check the Father's intravenous lines. "I'll give ye all m' blessin'," he said, "and when Fadder Mark takes ye back t' the residence, he'll give ye a dram o' whiskey from m' private stock." He summoned all his strength to raise his right hand. "After I bless ye, I'm goin' t' sleep fer a while. I'm so tired." He cleaved the air with a tiny cross. "In nómine Patris, et Fili, et Spirítus Sancti," he whispered.

************

After the blessing Father Brendan drifted to sleep. He slept for two more days, never fully waking. Jamie and Connie had planned a trip to Boston to visit Jamie's parents, but postponed it because they knew that his end was near. The funeral wasn't sad. All there agreed that the old priest's wisdom lived inside them and there was certainty among some that he was at that moment putting the Almighty into a state of consternation with his riddles and questions filled with Truth and vexation.

"Maybe the Almighty will send him back," Father Mark said, and all present had a final laugh with the old man.

After the funeral Jamie and Connie drove down to Bates. Jamie's days in the town were ending. He still tutored Raymond each week and worked at the Feed Mill. He was finishing up the remedial Trig classes and still worried about those half-dozen borderline students.

They were temporarily living at Connie's house and looking for a new place closer to Jamie's new job at the Reservation School. He still had a few things to clean out of his trailer and he wanted to introduce Connie to a few people.

On the drive into the Village they stopped on the ridge. They parked the car at the same spot that he had nearly a year ago on that late August afternoon. He looked back over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Becky and Brad covertly eying him from their lair in the glade of trees, but there was only fresh, green grass waving in the breeze.

The town looked different than it did the first time. Some of the lines weren't quite as defined and the large buildings were far less fearsome. He could see Mrs. Wilkinson's boarding house. Tracey's little ranch house was not far from it. It was where he tutored Raymond all those weeks and Shirley brought him cookies. Tracey was seeing Hal in earnest and would soon move away.

Ethan's Church stood in the distance. The gray granite edifice resembled a shadow. Reverend Means was the new pastor. He was struggling to keep the congregation together, which had begun to filter away after Ethan's demise and Jarrod's arrest.

In the distance Jamie imagined he could hear Bubba's truck. He and Abby were inside laughing and Vicki was calling after them. Of course, there was the school sprawling out on the edge of town and all that it meant, and could have meant.

The year had brought suffering to Jamie, but he regretted none of what he endured. He had done good things and bad, and understanding had settled on him. Sitting beside him, Connie watched him silently sort out the past.

"When are you going to open Father Brendan's envelope?"

"Right now would be a good time," he answered. Connie always knew the right timing for such things, just like the old priest.

Jamie carefully opened the small, square envelope in the heavy-bonded cream stationery. Inside were a handwritten note and another smaller envelope. Jamie set the little envelope aside and read what Father Brendan had to say to him from the grave. He finished and opened the small envelope. Inside it was a small card. Jamie looked quickly at it. He smiled and nodded, and then handed them over to Connie to read, too.

The note was dated on the same day that Jamie signed his exit papers in Father Brendan's office. Though written, he heard Father Brendan's voice echo from it:

Dear Jamie,

If ye're reading d'is, it will mean d'at I've gone to m' reward, an' I look forward to the day d'at we'll meet ag'in.

Boy, I promised to tell ye the name o' the "Eighth Deadly Sin"—an' now I'll reveal it to ye. Ye must defeat this sin or ye'll ne'er know Truth er see yerself er anyone, as the human bein's d'at we all are.

T'is the true Orig'nal Sin, boy, an' ye'll wash 't from yer soul by livin' life, itself. If you wish t' see its name, ye'll find it writ on the card in the small env'lope.

God bless ye and keep ye,

Father Brendan

Connie turned the card over and read the single word printed on it in bold letters, the name of the Eighth Deadly Sin.

"If he had told me when I wanted him to, I would never have understood," Jamie attested.

Connie looked at Jamie and smiled, too. She set the card on the dashboard, the name of the sin looking back at them.

INNOCENCE

"I'll miss him, and his wisdom," Jamie said.

Connie took a deep breath as she looked out over the ridge. "Jamie, you better get down there."

********************

THE END

*

Dear Readers,

This story ends with the beginning of Jamie's and Connie's life together. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did bringing it to you. I look forward to receiving your questions and comments.

Good reading and best regards,

Autumn Writer