Julia Spencer-Fleming - I Shall Not Want

The congregation was standing to hear Elizabeth de Groot read the Gospel when the teenager walked into St. Alban's.

"And he called to him the twelve, and began to send them out two by two, and gave them authority over the unclean spirits."

The great double doors were open to a dazzling patch of sunshine, and just inside the sanctuary, a man-high industrial-strength fan oscillated north to south and back again. Clare, trying to focus on the reading, almost missed her in the movement and glare.

"He charged them to take nothing for their journey except a staff: no bread, no bag, no money in their belts."

The girl halted, glanced around, clearly unsure of what to do. Frank Williamson, one of today's two greeters, went over to her.

"But to wear sandals and not put on two tunics."

She said something to him. He nodded. Gestured toward one of the rear pews. The girl gazed about, wide-eyed, taking in the altar, the flowers, Clare, standing before the bishop's chair. She said something else to Frank, then turned and walked back into the square of light dividing St. Alban's from the outside world.

"And he said to them, 'Where you enter a house, stay there until you leave the place.' "

Frank Williamson walked up the north aisle in shining leather shoes that never made a sound. Clare watched him, dread squatting like a toad in the pit of her belly. It had been four and a half days since Russ came out of surgery, and he was still in a profoundly unconscious state no one wanted to call a coma.

" 'And if any place will not receive you, and they refuse to hear you, when you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet for a testimony against them.' "

Frank disappeared around the side of the organ. A moment later he reappeared, quiet, self-effacing, headed back to his post.

"So they went out, and preached that men should repent."

Betsy Young rose smoothly from her bench. She glided across the choir, crisp in red cassock and white surplice, bowing before the crucifix at the high altar. She stopped next to Clare.

"And they cast out many demons, and anointed with oil many that were sick, and healed them."

"Russ Van Alstyne's niece brought you a message," the music director said in a low voice. "He's woken up and he's responding to stimulus."

"The Gospel of the Lord," Elizabeth concluded.

"Praise to you, Lord Christ." Clare's whisper was lost in the congregation's response.

The CCU waiting room was wall-to-wall by the time Clare got there. She was trailed by Mrs. Marshall and Norm Madsen and Dr. Anne, who squeezed in with Janet and Mike, their three daughters and Roxanne Lunt-"You know we're both on the board of the Historical Society, don't you? I don't know what we'd do without him." Margy Van Alstyne's cousin Nane, several elderly Miss and Mrs. Bains, his high-school friends Wayne and Mindy Stoner. Jim Cameron and his wife, Lena-although Janet whispered, "He's just here to see if they're going to have to pay out on Russ's short-term disability insurance." Noble Entwhistle and Paul Urquhart, and Harlene Lendrum, escorting a potato-faced man with the biggest, hairiest ears Clare had ever seen. "Have you met my husband, Harold?"

Eventually, Margy Van Alstyne came into the waiting room, looking as if she, and not her son, had returned from the dead. People straightened, stood, smiled as she glanced from face to face, looking for the next visitor to be allowed in the CCU. Her eyes came to rest on Clare. "There you are," she said. "Don't just stand there. He's been asking for you."

"Wantin' to confess his sins, no doubt," Harlene said.

Clare could feel her face heating up as she threaded her way through the crowd, but the smiles around her were generous, wholehearted. If she was destined to play out her life center stage in a small town, at least she had a forgiving audience.

The room seemed larger without the ventilator apparatus. Russ still had an IV running into one arm, but his nasogastric tube was gone. He was pale, with deep purple shadows beneath tired eyes. Bits of adhesive stuck to his five-day beard, and his hair badly needed washing.

She stood at his bedside, so full she couldn't speak.

"Hi," he said. His voice was weak, raspy.

"Hi," she said. She smiled. Brushed his forehead. Touched his cheek. "I thought you'd left me."

"No."

"You scared the crap out of me."

He smiled faintly. "Turnabout… "

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for those horrible things I said to you. I didn't mean it. Not any of it."

"Liar."

She laughed a laugh that was very close to a sob. "All right, I meant some of it. But not that I hated you. I love you. I've loved you from the very start. I will always love you."

"I know." He inhaled slowly, as if it hurt to breathe. "I knew."

"Let's not ever fight again."

He closed his eyes, still smiling. "Fat chance." He shifted, a small movement, and his lips went white.

"You're in pain. Let me get the nurse."

"Not yet." He opened his eyes again. Held up one hand, taped and tubed and bruised.

She took it, gingerly. "Holding on." He squeezed.

"Not letting go."

Clare ran into Hadley Knox when she went for coffee. She had kept to her five-minute limit in Russ's room, turning her spot over to the Stoners, then huddled with Margy, who gave her the doctors' latest prognosis.

She didn't expect another chance to see him-that would be selfish, considering how many were waiting to go into the CCU-but she wanted to hang around, to talk with other people who cared for him, to see her relief and happiness reflected in other eyes.

But happy or not, she needed her caffeine fix. Apparently, Hadley did, too. She was standing in front of the lobby coffee-tea-hot chocolate dispenser as Clare walked by. "Don't do it," Clare said.

Hadley looked up. "What?"

"That stuff is to real coffee as Cheez Whiz is to good English cheddar. Come to the cafeteria with me, they have a couple of decent grinds down there."

Hadley fell into step with her. "Have you seen the chief yet?"

"Yep."

"How's he doing?"

"He looks like hell."

Hadley laughed. "Then why are you grinning like that?"

"Because it feels like Christmas and Easter rolled into one?" Clare pushed the cafeteria door open. "He is risen, he is risen," she sang. "Tell it out with joyful voice!" She dropped back into normal speech. "Actually, it'll be some time before he rises. The doctors say he's facing a long period of recovery and rehab. But," she stressed, "he shows no sign of brain damage. And the bullets missed his spine, so he should recover all normal physical functions."

"All normal physical functions."

"Yep."

Hadley's lips twitched. Clare led her to the coffee urns. She found herself humming, "The Day of Resurrection," as she loaded her Sumatran Dark with sugar.

"Can I ask you a question?" Hadley snapped a thermal top over her milkless, sugarless cup.

"You sure can."

"You're a-I'm not trying to get personal here, but there's a pretty big age difference between you and the chief, isn't there?"

"Thirteen or fourteen years. I guess some people would call that a pretty big difference." She blew across the top of her coffee. "My parents would." It hit her, then. Sooner or later, Mother and Daddy would have to meet Russ. Ugh.

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"What, that he remembers the Beatles and I don't? Not particularly."

Hadley frowned. Clare set her cup down next to the napkin dispenser. This wasn't just curiosity. For some reason, Clare's answer was important to Hadley. "Okay. Seriously." She thought for a moment. "I wish I could have known him when he was young. To see who he was then. And I wish I hadn't missed so many of the events that shaped his life. I turned five during his tour of duty in Vietnam. That's… a little daunting. But for the rest of it?" She smiled. "We have so many differences that have nothing to do with age that I don't spend much time thinking about it."