Diane Davidson - The Last Suppers

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 Schulz. 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

“Tom. 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 I 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 sitting on the floor? For crying out loud!”

She click-clacked over in her Italian leather heels and put her small hands with their polished red nails on my shoulders. An incongruously conservative navy suit hugged her wide body, which was usually far more outrageously clad. The tight French twist taming her thick, normally frizzed brown hair seemed somehow absurd. She had worn the suit and pinned up her hair for my wedding My wedding that now, suddenly, was not to be. I wondered how long it would take for the noisy news-sharing of the hallway to reach the people out in the pews.

“Hoohoo, Goldy!” she said brightly. “I know you’re in there. You want tot ell me what’s going on?”

I tried to reply twice before I could say, “Olson’s dead. Tom … “

She grasped my shoulders more tightly. “Dead? Dead?” Her voice shrilled in my ear.

“Yes.” I made a feeble gesture toward the hall. “That’s probably the cause of all the racket. I don’t know. Has anyone out there said anything about the wedding?”

“They can’t – “ Marla released me and pivoted on her heels. Her pumps gritted against the vinyl floor as she tiptoed back to peek down the hall. Again the noise roared in. After a few moments of observation, she quietly closed the door and turned back to me. “Looks like Lucille Boatwright passed out, but she’s conscious now. What happened to Father Olson? What do you mean, he’s dead”? Did he have a heart attack, or what?”

Tom’s advice: Give away nothing. Abruptly I remembered his green eyes and handsome face turning grimly serious one night as he wiped his floral-patterned Limoges dessert plates and spoke to me about his work. If I confide in you, Goldy, tell no details to anyone, not even to those you trust, because you don’t know where those details are going to end up. One did not divulge facts such as shot in the chest to Marla. I knew too well her large body and large spirit did not prevent her from being an even larger gossip, best friend or no.

Marla’s small hands moved frantically along the pearl choker at her neck, another one from the upcoming raffle. “I mean,” she was saying, “did he have some kind of medical problem we didn’t know about? Aneurysm? Stroke? I mean, him of all people. With all that talk about healing, you know. Oh, listen to me. I even went out with … “

I told her the minimal story as I knew it would soon become available: that Tom Schulz had gone to Father Olson’s place to pick him up. That an intruder, or someone had mortally wounded Olson before Tom arrived.

“Oh, my God, he was killed?” Marla’s plump cheeks went slack with disbelief. There was a knock at the choir door. Marla opened it, dispensed with the intruder, then turned back to me. Her voice turned fierce. “Oh, why did Olson insist on living way out Upper Cottonwood Creek?” She tensed up her plump hands, crablike, and gestured widely. “He thought all he’d need was a fancy four-wheel-drive vehicle. Didn’t he realize not having neighbors close by could hurt him? I just can’t believe it. He was only, what thirty-five?”

My mind reeled again, trying to compute. “I guess. But I do know that the … ceremony is off.” The deep breath I attempted to take didn’t alleviate a cold wave of shivers. “All the food … “

Marla tilted her head to consider. “Want me to get one of the folks tending Lucille in here for you? I heard someone say they were calling Mountain Rescue.”

“No, no. Thanks”

“I still don’t understand how Olson was killed.”

“Well, I guess that’s what the police team will find out.” I was suddenly deeply embarrassed by the thought that my parents, son, friends, and acquaintances were all sitting in the church pews, waiting for my wedding procession to begin. “Does everyone out there know what happened?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.” She hesitated, then minced tentatively back out the door. The din in the hall had shifted to a more pronounced tumult of raised voices and stamping feet out in the congregation. The pain in my chest made an unexpected twist. I was still having trouble breathing. Within minutes Marla returned to report. “Apparently, when Tom called, he wanted to talk to you but Lucille wouldn’t let him. They argued. You can imagine Lucille insisting the bride couldn’t be disturbed. Even if it was the groom calling. And the groom was a cop. So Schulz finally told her about Olson. He said to send someone for you immediately.”

Marla began to pull the pins out of the French twist. No ceremony, no fancy hair.