A Fountain Filled With Blood

Clare bit back a smile. She thought Mrs. Marshall’s endearment was a slip of the tongue, but it was a sweet one. She had to confess that it didn’t throw her so much when the eighty-year-old lady treated her as a girl instead of a leader. It was the men she had to whip into shape.

“Nothing aggressive or in-your-face. But noticeable. Something that makes us and our support of our neighbors visible.”

“How about a one-eighth-page block ad in the Post-Star?” Sumner said.

She looked directly at him. “Sterling, what would you do if you wanted to tell your community that all people, regardless of their sexual orientation, were accepted and valued?”

“Huh.” Sumner jerked one end of his scarf. “The truth is, not all people are accepted and valued. Whether it’s because of their so-called sexual orientation or just because they’re unlettered idiots.” Mrs. Marshall murmured a reproving sound. “I can’t help it, Lacey,” Sumner said. “It goes against my grain. These men running around, doing whatever they want to, with no sense of discretion—”

“I rather think that’s the point,” Mrs. Marshall said. She laid a hand over Sumner’s arm. “That people can live their lives without having to fear that a slip of the tongue or being seen in the wrong place at the wrong time will make them pariahs.”

She knows. That was Clare’s first thought, and she realized there was something very old here between these two friends, old and buried, but not forgotten. She felt suddenly ashamed that she had been trying to maneuver Sumner into a corner.

Corlew looked at Terry Wright, discomfort and determination chasing each other on his face. “We’re not trying to make anyone a pariah. We’re simply looking out for our own.” Clare opened her mouth and he shot a hand up, waving the words away. “No, no, sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“I think, gentlemen and ladies, that Clare is right.” As always, Terry’s voice was easy, jovial—the dealmaker making a deal. “I think we could have easily sidestepped the whole issue, but now that our, ah, energetic young priest has brought it up, we’re not going to get away without some show of support. If for no other reason than if we don’t, we’ll feel like a bunch of bigots.”

Sumner made a noise.

“So we might as well come to an agreement on how we’re going to stand up and be counted. Clare?”

“I was thinking of a march from St. Alban’s to the town hall and—”

“No. No marches.” Corlew slugged back some of his beer. “The downtown merchant’s association would kill us.”

“He’s right,” Terry said.

“Maybe we could have a fund-raiser?” Mrs. Marshall suggested. “A dinner dance. It’s short notice, but we could probably get together a committee and be able to present it by mid-September.”

Clare shook her head. “I think that’s too removed in time from what’s happening now. Besides, a dinner dance is private by definition. We need something public. How about a rally in Riverside Park?”

“You mean like that damned antidevelopment group?” Corlew’s skin took on an alarming purple shade. “Those tree-huggers? Those backward, head-in-the-sand—”

“Well,” Clare said, “not exactly like them, no. I was thinking we would get a permit, for one….”

“I don’t think a rally is a good idea,” Mrs. Marshall said. “After all, they rather depend on a large crowd for their effectiveness, don’t they? Otherwise, all you have is a handful of malcontents talking to one another.”

“A candlelight vigil,” Sumner said.

They all looked at him. “What?” Clare said.

“What are we? A church. What do people think of when they think of a church? Quiet, hymns, candles. You want to draw attention to the church’s stance. Is this going to happen by marching through crowds of tourists in the middle of the day? No, it is not. You want contrast. People, at night. Light and darkness. Some music—not that dreadful guitar-strumming ‘Michael, Row the Boat Ashore’ protest stuff. Something that works as a counterpoint—a solo voice or a single wind instrument.”

They all looked at him.

“You’re thinking of this in terms of a military campaign. Think of it as a design problem. You have a message that may be uncomfortable or unpleasant to some. You have to create the appeal, the comfort.”

“Sterling,” Clare said. “I think you must be a remarkable architect.”

He snorted. “Mostly retired now. I do teach a bit, though, at Skidmore and down in Albany. One thing I tell my students is that there is always a solution to a design problem.”

“Sounds good to me,” Corlew said. “As long as you keep it nice and peaceful.”

“And don’t block any storefronts!” Terry added.

“In front of town hall,” Clare said. “Peaceful. And tasteful.”

The four vestry members and their priest looked at one another in wary agreement, as if not trusting the fragile accord to bear the weight of anything more enthusiastic.

“Maybe getting known as a more liberal parish won’t be so bad,” Corlew said.