Katherine Page - Body in the Bog

His eyes were deep brown. He was tall and broad-shouldered and wore a flannel shirt over a T-shirt and jeans. He didn’t look like a stalker or like someone who might physically abuse his girlfriend. But then, the whole point was that such people seldom did. It was the boy next door, or the husband lying beside one in bed—not a crazed lunatic. She suddenly felt cold and realized someone had opened a window.

“Can we go now?”

Tom was getting restless. She tried to remember if there was a Celtics game on tonight. She had trouble keeping the sports seasons straight. Everything seemed to continue year-round.

“Wait, I don’t want to be the only ones leaving.” Millicent wasn’t finished. “The last two POW!

members I’d like you to meet are welcome for their dedication to the cause and also for their extensive knowledge of the area in question. Come on, Margaret and Nelson, stand up. Margaret and Nelson Batcheldor!” It crossed Faith’s mind that Millicent could have made a career for herself as a game-show hostess.

Margaret and Nelson, a childless middle-aged couple, were members of First Parish. Nelson worked as a reference librarian in Byford, and, as an amateur woodworker, he occasionally took small carpentry jobs. He’d spent the previous fall putting in shelves and cabinets for the preschool. Miss Lora was pushing for a playhouse next. Margaret devoted herself to birding, as well as a number of community activities.

But birding was her true avocation, and she often came to church with her binoculars slung around her neck the way other women wore pearls. The Batcheldors looked much alike, either because of many years spent together or due to the simple Prince Valiant hairstyle each sported. Faith had the uncomfortable feeling they probably cut each other’s hair—same bowl.

“To close our meeting, we have a real treat. Nelson and Margaret are going to show slides of the bog that they’ve taken over the years. When you see these, you will know exactly what we’re fighting for!” The Batcheldors and their neighbor, Ted Scott, struggled to the front, carrying a screen and several carousels filled with slides that Margaret started load-ing into the projector. The lights went off and a slightly out-of-focus frog face appeared. Tom nudged Faith and they ducked out.

As they left, they could hear Nelson’s voice droning on. Margaret provided a kind of counterpoint, breaking in with a somewhat-desperate cry, “Extinct is forever! These eastern spadefoot toads used to be as common as dirt. Now we’re lucky to see one at all.

Who will save them if we don’t!”

Walking hand in hand down Main Street toward the parsonage, the Fairchilds had the carefree, slightly hilarious feeling escape engenders. “Race you,” Tom challenged. Faith looked around. Aleford had taken its toll. If it had been Eighth Avenue, she wouldn’t have cared. But they were alone, so she took off, and they collapsed, laughing, in a heap next to the flagpole on the Common.

When Faith had caught her breath, she asked,

“What did you think of the meeting?”

“Millie was in fine form.” Tom was one of the few people allowed to use the diminutive. “It was pretty much as I expected, except for those old bylaws. I’d be pretty worried if I was Joey.”

“Yes, especially since he’s already spent so much money on surveys, lawyers. He almost has to keep fighting to try to recoup his loss.” Tom agreed. “And the Deanes still haven’t sold that big house on Whipple Hill Road. You know the one.” Faith did. It was around the corner, and she’d been watching it go up with the children. The construction company had been able to do a considerable amount of work during a freak February thaw, but the house was still nowhere near completion. It was a slightly scaled-down version of what Joey was going to put up in Alefordiana. The neighbors had been aghast at its size. “Something of a cross between Tara and the Flying Dutchman,” one had complained to Faith as they stood gazing at it silhouetted against the horizon. It was the house Lora had mentioned, and Faith was pretty sure that every abutter had been at tonight’s meeting. They hadn’t been able to do anything about the Whipple Hill house, but blocking Alefordiana was a way to get back at Joey.

“Tom, this does have the potential for becoming extremely ugly, doesn’t it?”

“I think it already is. Anything that polarizes the town like this is bad.”

“I feel a sermon coming on,” Faith remarked.

“Well then, I wish you’d write it.” The Reverend Fairchild tended to get a little testy on Friday nights.

Faith stood up and straightened her skirt. In deference to the event, she’d changed. Tom looked at her approvingly. “My father said he’d never thought short skirts would come back in his lifetime, which just goes to show . . .”

“It just goes to show you need to have faith,” she said, well aware of her atrocious pun, “and buy good clothes. If you wait long enough, everything comes back in style—even things that were awful the first time around, like go-go boots and fringed vests.”

“How much did that tiny little skirt cost, anyway?” Tom asked, eying the black wool Donna Karan swath Faith had now adjusted to her satisfaction.

“None of your business. Besides, Amy will probably be able to use it. Now, shall we go home?”

“Given that the sole place open in Aleford at this hour is Patriot Drug, and that only for fifteen minutes more, I’d say yes.”

Faith looped her arm through Tom’s. “It may not be the Stork Club, but I think I can find a nice bottle of something Chez Nous. And if we’re lucky, there won’t be any floor show.”

Saturday was always the most relaxed day of the week. No morning rush. True, Tom was usually putting the finishing touches on his sermon, but he tried hard to finish it early in the day.

It was cold but sunny. The only clouds in the bright blue sky were appropriately white and puffy. Faith decided she would take the kids for that walk through the bog. They weren’t into mud season yet, so she didn’t have to fear that someone’s tiny foot might get trapped in the ooze. The only terror the bog might hold today was prickly brush. By the time they got back, Tom would be done and they could do something.

Easter had been early this year. Somehow, holidays were always early or late, never on time. Tom had been flat-out since Fat Tuesday, the season culminat-ing in last weekend’s Easter marathon. She knew he was pretty drained and having trouble with this week’s sermon. As he put it, after the congregation has pushed the rafters almost through the roof with

“Christ the Lord Is Ris’n Today,” all else pales for the next few weeks.

Taking each child by the hand, she set off, Tom waving cheerfully from the window. Amy was wearing shiny yellow boots with duck-shaped toes; Ben’s were green with frogs. Faith felt like a greeting card.

“Now, let’s look for signs of spring,” she told the children.

“Signs of spring, check,” Ben said. He’d recently adopted this way of speaking from whom Faith knew not.

“Check,” said Amy, bringing the current word count to sixteen. Faith felt they’d made a good start.

Despite the cold wind that swept across them at intervals, the sun shone steadily and they did find some bright green growing things under last year’s dried grasses. Just before they were into the bog proper, Ben discovered a patch of snowdrops. “I want to pick them for you, Mom,” he cried.

“Thank you, sweetie,” his mother replied. Sons were so nice. “But we don’t pick wildflowers. We leave them to grow where they belong, and also so other people can enjoy them.”

Ben seemed satisfied, and they continued on in search of pussy willows. The approach to the bog passed through a densely wooded patch. Thick vines hung from the still-leafless deciduous trees. Small pines were struggling to compete. Amy pulled back, and Faith was surprised to see apprehension on her daughter’s face.