A Light in the Window Read online

  "It was Michelangelo and his son, Leonardo! 'My goodness,' said Mama, 'You send for Italian artists and look who you get!'

  "Their last name was Francesca, and they were from Florence. I went around for weeks shouting, 'Michelangelo and Leonardo Francesca from Florence!' I had never heard such words in my life!

  "Papa introduced us and I curtsied and said, 'Tempo e denaro!' And Angelo laughed and laughed, so we had a wonderful startup, but they could hardly speak a word of English.

  "Mama took them to their room down the hall, and China Mae cooked them a wonderful meal, and they rolled up their pants and went right to work.

  "Wouldn't you think an artist would roll up his sleeves? But these two always rolled up their pants. I'll never forget it.

  "Angelo and Leon did fresco painting. It's like watercolor, but it's done on wet plaster. And you must paint very fast, because when the plaster dries, it won't take color. So they would mix what they might paint in a day, and if any plaster dried before they could paint it, they cut it away.

  "I remember they began with the border around the ceiling. They must have worked on that for eight or nine months, every single day except Sunday. On Sunday, they disappeared into their room or packed a knapsack and went walking in the country and sketched in their books.

  "I loved to peep into their room, for each had a beautiful cross over his bed, and they always left their room so neat, I could hardly believe my eyes.

  "That's where Leon did his studies every evening. Angelo was Leon's tutor, and he was very good at carrying through with his lessons. In the meantime, Mama was teaching Leon English every day after lunch.

  "It turned out Leon was sad because his mother had died, and Angelo was always laughing to try and cheer him up. Leon was only twelve years old, but he looked much older because of his sorrow. Dooley reminds me of Leon more than you know, Father.

  "Anyway, my mother's gentle way was good for him, and before you know it, he could say, 'I like garden peas!' Or, 'The day is very warm.'

  "I know my Mama didn't teach him this, but one day he said, 'Sadie, you are beautiful, bdlo.'

  "Can you imagine? I thought I was ugly as a mud fence. But I could tell he meant it. You should have seen his face when he said it."

  "Those Italians!" said the rector, grinning.

  "Aren't they something, Father? But good gracious, I was only ten and still playing with dolls!

  "When they were through with the border, Papa pronounced it excellent. That was high praise from Papa. You had to work like a beaver to get such laurels from him.

  "Then the work began on the ceiling itself. Oh, Papa was fussy. He would come home from the lumberyard and stand in the middle of the floor, looking up 'til his neck got a crick in it. He knew just where the angels were to be placed and how the roses were to spill from their hands.

  "Slowly but surely, the angels began to fly on the ceiling, and behind them, Leon made the rosecolored clouds appear and painted their robes and their hair. Only twelve years old, Father, and painting like an angel!

  "They worked so hard that Mama took it on herself to give them a special day off. 'Just go!' she said, 'and I'll deal with Mr. Baxter when he comes home.'

  " 'May I go?' I said.

  " 'No, they need their rest,' Mama told me, but Angelo said, 'Please!' and for a moment looked so mournful, himself, that I got permission and went!

  " 'Til my dying day I'll never forget the happiness of roaming over the fields and hills with Angelo and Leon. Why, it was one of the loveliest days of my life, until that awful thing happened.

  "You can't imagine what was in their knapsack! Colored pencils and sketch pads and a book of verse, not to mention olive oil from Italy and apples and cheese and bread and chicken—and a handful of new potatoes from our garden. They dug a hole in the meadow and built a fire and roasted those little potatoes to a turn, and we broke them open and put coarse salt inside and a bit of the olive oil and—oh, my goodness!"

  "Miss Sadie, I can't imagine how Swanson's Chicken Pie ever got to first base with you!"

  She laughed. "Nothing ever tastes as good as it did in childhood, does it, Father?"

  "Nothing!"

  "Even colors were more intense. I remember the purple and aquamarine Leon used to paint some of the robes. I've never seen anything like it again. But it wasn't the tubes of color, Father. It was my childhood eyes—how fresh it all was, what a gift!"

  He nodded. Miss Sadie was preaching him a fine sermon without even knowing it. It was splendid to have the shoe on the other foot for a change.

  "After we ate, Angelo wanted to lie down in the grass and sleep, and he told Leon to watch after Sadie. Leon always did what his father told him, and so we ran down the hill licketysplit and what did we find? An old orchard!

  "I had never seen an old orchard before. Our trees were very small and new, and our orchard floor was raked as clean as a parlor.

  "On this orchard floor, there were apples everywhere, a whole carpet of apples, and butterflies by the dozens—you could hardly see the grass! And the smell, Father! It was a perfume I've never forgotten."

  She shook her head slowly. "I forget what sweet memories come flooding out if only we open the tap."

  He kicked off his loafers, contented.

  "Leon chased after a butterfly, and a little further down the hill, I spied an old tree just hanging full of red apples. They were different from those in the orchard, and they looked much redder and sweeter.

  "I took off running toward that tree—then, all of a sudden, I started falling and everything went black as ink.

  "I had stepped into an old well—the boards over it were rotten and soft as marrow. One minute, I was in an orchard with the sun shining and my heart beating for joy, and the next minute..."

  "Very much like life in general," he said.

  "I was stuffed in there like pimiento in an olive. I fell with one leg down and one knee bent against my chest, and there was so much pain I thought I would die. I must have passed out, and when I came to, I was cold. Even though the sun was shining, I was freezing cold.

  "I tried to call Leon, but my knee was so tight against my chest, and the pain was so horrible, I could only whisper. Whisper! Who could hear a whisper in a great big orchard on a great big hill?

  "I heard Leon calling me. 'Sadie! Sadie!' There was real desperation in his voice because he couldn't find the English words he needed. He called for a long time and finally shouted, 'I like garden peas! Sadie, I like garden peas!'

  "Oh, Father, I was so miserable. I wanted to die and get it over with. In a while, I heard Angelo calling too. Their voices would come close, then go far away, and I couldn't move. My arms had gone numb, one leg was completely numb, and I felt like a cube of ice.

  "Then the voices stopped, and I felt so alone, and it started raining.

  "Believe me, The Book oj Common Prayer was just words on a page 'til I fell in that hole. You've heard of foxhole religion? I got wellhole religion, and I thank the Lord for it, to this day.

  "I'd said 'Now I lay me down to sleep' and 'Our Father who art in Heaven' and 'Give us this day our daily bread' a thousand times. But I'd never once prayed a prayer of my own until then.

  "I believe that's when God first started speaking to my heart—the very day I started speaking to his!

  "It rained and rained and rained some more. Over the years, the hole had filled with dirt and runoff, but it was still a long way to the bottom. I was stuck about six feet down, and if something didn't happen soon, I knew I'd be six feet under.

  "I remember hearing Papa call me, over and over. I would go to sleep, I think, and wake up crying. It was so hard to breathe. It was so horrible I can never express it to you.

  "I found out later that the rain had washed away my scent, and the dogs from town couldn't track me. They let them loose, but they just ran every which way and came back to where they started and lay down.

  "They searched into the night, Mama said. Leon went
to bed about two o'clock in the morning and he couldn't sleep. And he was staring out the window, praying to the Virgin Mother, when he saw a light.

  "It was in the air, he said, and it kept growing brighter, but it didn't hurt his eyes. It was a soft light, very soothing. When he told the story later, Mama was able to translate enough to know the light was gentle and loving and reminded him of his mother.

  "The light, he said, became an angel, a very beautiful angel like something from the Sistine ceiling. She was dressed in the most beautiful blue robes trimmed with gold, and she was smiling. She beckoned to him through the window, and very fast, he put on his pants and shoes and woke Angelo, and they ran out into the night.

  "Angelo never saw the angel, but he believed his son, and he ran with him. And Leon said the angel did not touch the ground but flew above them, slightly in front of them, and the light gleamed from her, showing the way.

  "It hadn't occurred to them to bring a lantern, but you see, they didn't need one, for the angel hovered over us, giving light, and Angelo lay down near the hole and stationed his foot behind a big rock and held Leon by the ankles.

  "Leon crawled into the hole toward me, and very gently began prying my shoulders up and away from the sides of the well, and slowly but surely he was able to lift me a little.

  "The pain just flooded into me, but I remember what a relief it was to be in a different position.

  "I could hear Angelo praying very loudly the entire time. I felt we were covered with prayer and with light, just bathed in it.

  "Well, Father, somehow they got me up and out, and Angelo was weeping with joy, and he picked me up and they carried me home, and this lovely light covered us all the way."

  He was mesmerized.

  "I declare," she said, "I'm dry as a bone from that ham. Could you step in my bathroom and get me some water? There's a glass on the sink."

  His mind had gone so far away on this celestial ramble that his concerns seemed remote and his heart set free. He returned with the glass of water, proud to have been sent on a mission for Miss Sadie.

  She raised the glass with a steady hand and took a sip. "Good, pure well water! Thank you!

  "Just think, Father. From the age of four, Leon was taken to the museums and cathedrals of Florence where he saw the work of the Italian masters and was trained to go home and draw the images from memory!

  "Angelo said Leon drew and painted the face of the Madonna of the Rock nearly four hundred times before he came to Fernbank. So you see, it's hardly any wonder that he attracted an angel who was properly dressed. You hear a lot about angels these days, but have you noticed how they're usually wearing business suits?"

  "A sign of the times," he said, marveling.

  "I was awfully bruised and sore and scratched up, but not one thing was broken except two ribs where my knee had cracked against my chest so hard.

  "Papa wanted to be angry with Leon for letting me out of his sight and angry with Mama for letting me go off with them. But I preached Papa a sermon, and he changed his mind! I think he did something special for Angelo, but I don't know what.

  "Things went on as usual after that. Angelo painted angels and cherubim, and Leon painted clouds and robes and helped with the roses.

  "Then something wonderful happened.

  "Angelo came to Papa and said in his broken English, 'I know my son was to assist me only with borders and backgrounds and such, but I believe he's ready to paint an angel. Will you trust us, Mr. Baxter? If it doesn't work, we will cut it away and begin again and make up the time on Sunday.'

  "For Angelo to offer to work on the Sabbath was shocking. Anyway, what could Papa say? There was Angelo with his happy, expectant face and Leon with his sad, longing face. Papa spoke his first word of Italian. He said, 'Bellisimo!'

  "And so, on the day he turned thirteen, Leon began painting the angel I showed you. He painted the angel who led them to the well in the middle of the night—the only angel on the ceiling who's smiling.

  "He wanted to paint the rose in her hand as a tribute to me, but though I was only eleven then, I had enough sense to say he must paint the rose for his mother.

  "And so he did."

  He sat for a time, silent, as one sits in a movie theater after a film that has stunned the senses. "Words fail me, Miss Sadie."

  "That's not one of my handicaps, Father."

  They laughed gently, not wishing to break the spell.

  "Leon's sorrow went away as he painted the angel. He was done with grieving, somehow, and became the brightest, sweetest boy out of heaven. It broke my heart when they left. I grew to love them so. You don't know how many times I've thought of Leon and yearned to see him again. But he was two years older and must be ancient by now...ninetytwo, if he's a day."

  She closed her eyes and sighed. "Memories give a lot, but they take a lot, too. I'm limp as a dishrag."

  "I should have brought you a bag of donut holes from Winnie's."

  "You could go down to the kitchen for some tea. We've got plenty of unsweetened for you, but I want the sweet!"

  "Consider it done," he said happily.

  Back at the office, he called the operator and got information on how to do it—including what the time difference was and when the rates were cheaper.

  After all, he had never called Italy before.

  Tommy had laughed today. It wasn't downright hilarity, by any means, but it had been reviving to hear.

  The psalmist had said, "Laughter doeth good like a medicine." Clearly, that was true for the one who heard it, as well as for the one doing the laughing.

  He wanted to hear Tommy laugh again and again and see Dooley Barlowe laughing with him.

  If he really put his mind to it, perhaps he could think of something funny to do.

  Cynthia! There was a brilliant thought. She was funny without even trying to be. He would ask her what to do.

  They had walked up the Grill side of Main Street in the balmy spring evening, come back down the post office side, then crossed the street and cut through his backyard to a bench in Baxter Park.

  "I think you should wear a gorilla suit," she said.

  "Now, Cynthia, be reasonable."

  "Timothy, being funny and being reasonable have nothing to do with each other."

  "A gorilla suit?"

  "I'm serious."

  He exploded with laughter. "I can't even imagine such a thing."

  "That's the problem," she said, looking cool. "I would do it. In fact, I've always wanted to do it."

  "Would you do it, then?"

  "Certainly not. You're the one who wants to be funny, and I won't be your henchwoman."

  He thought she had the most mischievous look in her eye.

  "Isn't there something else I could do?"

  "Oh, hundreds of things, I'm sure. But wearing a gorilla suit is the best thing of all, so why discuss the others?"

  "I wish I hadn't asked," he said, defeated.

  She smiled, looking a trifle superior.

  "Will you go with me to the reception at Fernbank for Hoppy and Olivia? In June?"

  "Ummm," she said.

  "Well?"

  "Well, then, yes. I'd love to go."

  He was suddenly aware they'd never been out together, officially. This would be something new and different, and it went without saying that everyone would talk.

  He felt reckless and expansive and put his arm around her.

  "If you were ever...," he began and paused. "That is to say, if you..." He thought for a moment. "To put it another way..."

  "Spit it out," she said.

  "Well, then, suppose you actually lived with a clergyman..." He thought the pounding of his heart might be heard all the way to the monument.

  "Lived with a clergyman?"

  "You know..."

  "In sin?"

  "Certainly not," he said.

  "Do you mean, what if I were married to a clergyman?"

  "Well, yes. If you were ever that, what would you d
o? That is, what sort of...how would you spend your time? Just asking, of course." He felt a light perspiration on his forehead. What had happened, anyway? He hadn't meant to stumble into such a conversation.

  "I already have a fulltime job, as you know. And a clergyman would be another."

  "Puny has said that very thing."

  "I can't play the piano or the organ."

  "Most churches pay someone to do that."

  "I can't carry a tune in a bucket."

  "Most churches have a full choir, already."

  She furrowed her brow and looked at him darkly. "I definitely wouldn't do spaghetti dinners or pancake suppers."

  "Good thinking!"

  "And I couldn't be bleaching and washing and ironing altar linens."

  "There's usually a horde signed up for Altar Guild."

  "But," she said, "I can teach Sunday school!"

  He saw the warm light in her eyes and the irrepressible hope in her smile.

  "...with a blackboard and colored chalk—the stories of the Bible, illustrated! In fact, I'd like nothing better."

  "You're hired!" he said, caught up in the excitement.

  "And I can give a tea once a year, with layer cakes and tarts and sorbets and all that. But only once a year, mind you, for it's killing to do it."

  "The entire parish will come running." He felt his heart fairly bursting with pride.

  "So, there," she said. "That's it. That's all I'm good for, save an occasional fillin at lay reading. Oh, and no banners and no needlepoint kneelers."

  "Deal," he said, putting his arms around her and kissing her cheek. He liked a woman who knew what she wanted—and didn't want.

  "Wait a minute," she said, pulling away, "we're talking what if, not real life, remember?"

  "Why, yes," he said, coloring. "Of course we were. I knew that."

  The phone rang as he was walking across his bedroom to turn off the light.

  "Hey," she said.

  "Hey, yourself."

  "I've been thinking."

  "Umm."

  "We were only playing when we talked about being a clergyman's wife...right?"

  "Oh, yes. Just...idle abstraction."