Unsettled Spirits Read Free

in a space reserved for us on the chancel. We were served communion separately from the rest of the congregation, so I couldn't rush to see what had happened when I saw Mrs. Franbold keel over right in front of Mr. Grover Underhill. Rather than trying to help her or catch her, Mr. Underhill jumped out of the way, plowing into several other people and nearly felling a couple of them. I frowned, thinking this behavior was typical of him. He was a certified meany, as far as I was concerned. Not that I knew him well, but what I did know of him, I didn't like. Poor Mrs. Franbold. Just her luck to be standing next to Mr. Underhill.
    Squinting, I saw the folks around Mrs. Franbold steady themselves after being bumped by Mr. Underhill and gasp when they saw the reason for his ungentlemanly behavior. A few seconds later, I saw several people, including Sam Rotondo, who had taken going to church with us even though he'd grown up in the Roman Catholic Church, gather around the fallen woman. I lost Sam in the crowd when he knelt, probably to organize things and see what he could do for Mrs. Franbold.
    A general buzzing ensued. Mr. Underhill looked irritated, as if he didn't approve of people collapsing in church. Lucy Spinks, a soprano who was engaged to marry an older gentleman named Albert Zollinger, whispered in my ear, "What do you think is happening?"
    As much as I squinted, I couldn't see much because there were so many people in the way, so I said, "I'm not sure. It looks as though Mrs. Franbold fell down."
    "Oh, dear. Poor sweet thing. I hope she didn't break anything."
    "Me, too."
    A scream erupted, and I winced, as I'm sure the rest of the choir did, also. This time, I decided to heck with convention and stood in an effort to discover who'd screamed. It was then I saw Miss Betsy Powell, who had been assisting with communion, cover her face with her hands and give out short, sharp, piercing shrieks. Little communion cups littered the floor around her. The trustees would never get the grape juice out of that carpet. At that point I guess our minister, the Reverend Merle Negley Smith, decided to abandon his position behind the communion wafers and assist the afflicted, because he hurried down the chancel steps and rushed over to Miss Powell. She had by this time broken into noisy sobs, and Pastor Smith gently guided her out of the church via a side door. Another gentleman, Mr. Gerald Kingston, held out a hand as if to help Pastor Smith, but neither Pastor Smith nor Miss Powell seemed to notice his good intentions. Poor Mr. Kingston was left, looking unhappy, staring after the pair.
    "What's the matter with whoever that is?" whispered Lucy.
    On tiptoes, trying to see around the lectern used by our lay speakers, I said, "I'm not sure. Maybe Mrs. Franbold is dead or having a fit or something. It was Miss Powell who was screaming. There's grape juice all over the floor, because she dropped the tray of communion cups she was holding. I think Mr. Underhill bumped the tray out of her hands. He didn't even try to help Mrs. Franbold. Now it looks as if Miss Powell is crying hysterically. Pastor Smith is leading her away from the mess." Darn, but I wished people would get out of my line of vision!
    "Why would she scream?"
    "Maybe she's not used to seeing people fall over in front of her at communion?" I shrugged.
    "Maybe."
    Mr. Floy Hostetter, our choir director, also abandoned the chancel then, and rushed over to the crowd clustered around Mrs. Franbold. Lucy and I exchanged a speaking glance, but we both decided not to add our presence to what was already a chaotic scene.
    Suddenly Sam Rotondo stood, rocklike in his solidness. His voice rose over those of the masses. He didn't holler. He didn't have to. "Everyone, please take your seats. I'll handle this."
    Nobody moved.
    "Take your seats," said Sam in a voice I doubt anyone could ignore. He sounded like a general giving instructions to a firing squad.
    The well-behaved congregants of the