A Fountain Filled With Blood

Everyone looked at Clare. In the meadow beyond the overgrown lawn, cicadas were chirping their end-of-August call. The thick wineglass suddenly felt heavy in her hand. “New York State doesn’t recognize same-sex marriages,” she said, throwing out the first thing she could think of. “No ceremony is legally valid, no matter who officiates.”

“We know,” Paul said. “We can call it a commitment ceremony or a celebration of union. The important thing is, we want to stand up together and make promises in front of our friends and family. We want to say we’ll be together until we die.”

“The church I was raised in can’t do this for us,” Emil said. “But I have…reconnected to the fact that my belief in God is part of my life. I know that the Episcopal church is more liberal about these issues.”

“The church is in conflict about these issues,” Clare said, stressing the word conflict. “Some dioceses allow commitment ceremonies, or at least look the other way while individual priests perform them. But the bishop of Albany—my bishop—is a traditionalist.” Not wanting the bishop to come across as some sort of hide-bound old crank, she added, “I mean, he’s very much in favor of civil rights for gays and for including them—you—in the church community. Just…not…”

“Just not giving the stamp of approval to them actually living together,” Russ said.

She shot him a look. He should talk, Mr. I’m Uncomfortable Around Them. “Please try to understand,” she said. “I don’t have the authority to decide policy on my own. I’m part of a hierarchy, under the direction of my bishop, who’s under the direction of the General Convention. It’s not that I’m against it, but I…”

They were all watching her dig her own grave. Paul looked as if she had gotten up and kicked Bob and Gal. Emil’s face was sinking into lines of resignation. And Russ looked…disappointed in her.

You like to live on the edge, don’t you, Fergusson?

Make whole that which is broken.

“But I have to live as I believe Christ leads me. If that doesn’t sound too pompous.” She laid one hand on Paul’s arm and one on Emil’s. “Yes. Okay. I will celebrate your union.”

Dinner was a much more festive affair after that, although Clare had to work at ignoring what might happen to her if—when—her bishop found out what she had agreed to do.

Emil held up well throughout the meal and dessert, but by the time Paul poured them coffee, his face was gray and strained. “Paul,” he said, “I’m afraid I’ve overdone it a bit. Could you…”

Russ pushed his chair back. “We ought to be going.”

“No, no,” Emil insisted. “I need a little help, but Paul would love to visit some more.”

“Do me a favor,” Paul said, turning to Clare as he pulled Emil’s chair away from the table and guided him to his feet. “Take the dogs for a turn around the meadow. They haven’t had a chance to get much exercise since we’ve gotten home. I’ll be down as soon as I’ve gotten Emil all set.”

Russ glanced at Clare. “Sure,” she said. She looked around the glass-topped table at Margy and Hugh.

“Not me,” Margy said. “I’m going to sit here and digest that wonderful meal.”

Hugh smiled apologetically at Clare. “Can you manage without me, Vicar? I hate to sound like a weed, but I’ve got allergies on top of allergies. My medication’s holding them at bay, but if I go strolling through all that goldenrod, I’ll turn into a giant inflated sinus. I won’t bore you with the details. It would be too disgusting.”

Clare laughed. “That’s fine. You two save some coffee for us.”

The men scraped their chairs away from the table as she stood, and, as if they had been eavesdropping, Gal and Bob bounded over. Russ and Clare both called their good-nights to Emil, who was making his way with difficulty through the French doors.

“After you,” Russ said, sweeping his hand toward the edge of the patio. She stepped into the grass, the dogs dancing ahead. “So,” he said. “This Hugh seems like a nice guy.”

“Yeah.”

“You been seeing much of him?” He fell into step beside her.

“We met at Peggy’s party, that night I…the night you came to get me. He called me a few days later and asked if we could get together next time he was in Saratoga.” She shrugged. “So here he is. It’s our first time out together.”

“Oh.” He yanked a cluster of goldenrod off its stalk and flicked it, piece by piece, into the air. “You think this is going to go someplace?”

She looked him square in the face. “I thought,” she said, speaking deliberately, “that it would be a good idea for me to start dating. It doesn’t much matter with whom.”

He looked down, brushing the goldenrod fuzz off his hands. They walked on in silence. The dogs flushed a red-winged blackbird off its perch on a maple sapling and leaped about wildly, trying to catch it. “I understand you visited Leo Waxman before he went into rehab,” he said after awhile.