The Last Suppers Read Free Page B

haven’t seen him since I was healed …
A long-ago church friend’s voice:
Goldy, what a stunning suit! So much better than that froufrou gown you wore last time, dear.
As politely as possible, I brushed the well-intentioned questions and fingers aside. Now my hair, my suit,
everything
was going to be a mess, I thought uncharitably. Why weren’t these people out in the pews listening to the organist make approved music? Reaching the end of the hall, I saw a priest and a female parishioner ministering to Lucille Boatwright, who had slumped to the floor. Clearlyshe took the customary procedures more seriously than I ever imagined.
    I said, “I was only in the kitchen—”
    “We’re going to have to call an ambulance,” said the woman. “I think she’s having a heart attack.”
    “But I just stepped down the hall for a
moment—”
    The cleric looked up at me. His face was very flushed. “I think your fiancé is on the phone,” he said. “There’s some kind of problem—”
    I rushed past them into the choir room. The white telephone wire lay coiled on the floor. Bewildered and slightly panicked, I snatched up the receiver.
    “Yes?”
    “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” said Tom. His voice sounded flat, infinitely dejected. In the background I could hear a faint tinkling, like windchimes.
    “Sorry about what? Where are you?”
    “Just a sec.” The phone clacked down on something hard. He came back to the line after a moment. “Miss G.” He sighed deeply. “Tell everybody to go home.”
    “What?” This wasn’t happening. “Why? Tom, what’s wrong?”
    “I’m out at Olson’s house. He called with car trouble, asked me to come get him. And I found him.”
    “You—?”
    My fiancé’s voice cracked. “Goldy, he’s dead.”

2
    “T om. I don’t understand. Please. Tell me this isn’t real.”
    “He just died a few minutes ago. When I got here, he’d been shot. Shot in the chest,” Tom Schulz added in the distant, flat tone he used when discussing his work. “I’ve called in a team. Look, I have to go. You know the drill. I need to go stay by the body.”
    “But, how …? Are we going to get married? I mean, today?”
    “Oh, Goldy.” Despair thickened his voice. “Probably not. The team will be here for hours.” He paused. “Want to try to do a civil ceremony tonight?”
    “Do I—” I did not. Not a hurry-up ritual. Like it or not, I was an Episcopalian, what they call a
cradle
Episcopalian, the Anglican equivalent of the American Kennel Club. If I was going to get married again, then it was going to be in front of God, the church, and everybody, and the wedding was going to be performed by an Episcopal priest.
    Oh, Lord.
My hands were suddenly clammy.
Father Olson.
    I ripped the hat off my head. A knot formed in my chest. This was a mistake. This phone call was some awful nightmare. Any moment I was going to wake up.
    I stammered, “Tom, what happened to Father Olson?”
    “I don’t know. That’s what we have to find out. Do you want to go back to your place and wait for me?”
    “Just come to the church. Please. I’ll wait.” I cursed the tremble in my voice. “Take care.”
    I hung up. The air in the choir room suddenly felt thin. Father Olson’s absence loomed. I tried to erase images of a gun being raised menacingly in his direction. Of shots. Beside me, the silver bar holding the burgundy choir robes glimmered too brightly from the neon light overhead. In the hallway, shouts, squawks, and cries of disbelief rose to a din that rivaled the hammering in my ears. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe.
    “Goldy, what the—”
    Slowly, I turned. Marla Korman’s large presence filled the door to the choir room. The noise from the hallway roared louder.
    “Goldy, you look like hell! Hey! Why’d you toss your hat? I went to four stores to find that thing.” Marla closed the door behind her. “What’s all the commotion out there about? And look at your suit. Have you been