In the Bleak Midwinter

It was out of the way to his mother’s, but he drove by the rectory just to make sure everything was all right. The lights were all off. Had he left her his number at home so she could reach him? Yeah, he had. His dashboard clock glowed. Geez, he’d better hurry, or he’d miss another dinner.

Clare folded her hands together and bowed her head. “Lord God,” she said, “for the blessings of food and fellowship we are about to receive, make us truly thankful. Open our hearts so that in the midst of plenty, we are aware of those who hunger, and in the midst of friends, we remember those who are friendless. Give us a hunger to do your will, and an appetite to see your kingdom, here and in the world to come. We ask this in Jesus’ name, Amen.”

“Amen,” the rest of the room said. The silence was broken by the clatter and ring of utensils and glasses, the scrape of chairs and the sound of eleven voices, all asking to pass this and that at the same time.

The first Monday of the month was the Foyers dinner, an informal gathering of members of the parish, offering a chance to eat and get to know each other outside of the confines of Sunday service or a committee meeting. Tonight’s meal was at the home of Chris Ellis and his wife, Anne Vining-Ellis. Anne was a physician practicing in Glens Falls, and everyone, including her own husband, referred to her as Doctor Anne. The Ellises were practically neighbors of Clare’s, only three blocks away on Washington Avenue. Their huge Victorian house would have been imposing if it weren’t for the obvious wear and tear on the place from their three teenage boys. The formal dining room, where two round tables held tonight’s guests, was decorated with a chandelier, a Boaz Persian carpet, several sets of skis propped up in the corner, and a deep gash in the wall, approximately hockey-helmet high. One of the boys, pressed into service as a waiter for the evening, shambled back and forth from the kitchen to the tables on overlarge feet.

Doctor Anne, sitting on her right, passed Clare a bowl of rice. “I recommend starting with this if you plan on having Phoebe’s green chile stew,” she said. “Hot? I can’t begin to describe it. I think she brings it to these things in order to hear people gasping and crying out for water.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Clare said. “Maybe I should go for that casserole over there instead?”

“Judy Morrison’s tuna hot dish,” Doctor Anne said. “Judy converted from Lutheranism.” She looked meaningfully at the casserole. “After she learned to cook.”

“This is a veritable culinary minefield, isn’t it? Just waiting for a wrong step. Tell me, am I supposed to take at least a taste of everyone’s offering?”

“Only if you want to gain thirty pounds in the next year. I keep trying to get people to bring light dishes to these dinners, but do they listen? Look at Sterling’s Swedish meatballs. I happen to know he uses the fattiest ground chuck he can get and then lards it with several eggs before cooking it in a butter-based sauce. Is it a miracle that man’s not dead of a heart attack? You be the judge.”

Clare laughed. She could feel the tension that had caught in her shoulders dissipating under Doctor Anne’s acidic humor. It had been a difficult day all the way around, first in the morgue and the police station, then helping Kristen at Ruyter’s Funeral Home. Ignoring the ache of old pain while Kristen ricocheted between anger and bewilderment and grief with the speed of someone fast forwarding through cable channels.

It was good to lean back and listen to the stream of culinary critiques and gossip, and have nothing more taxing to look forward to than a walk home and an early bedtime. “The only thing that could make this any better would be a cold beer,” she murmured.

“That’s definitely the missing element, isn’t it? It would certainly help wash down Phoebe’s chili.” Doctor Anne passed Clare a basket of rolls. “Sometimes there will be wine at one of these dinners. No one bothers when Chris and I play host, because I’m such a fanatic about drinking and driving I practically give Breathalyzer tests at the door.”

“We had sangria at the Foyers dinner I went to in August,” Clare said. “A barbecue.”

“This was when? During the selection process?”

“Uh huh. And it was about as comfortable a meal as one can get, when you’re eating with your prospective employers. I dreaded spilling something and making a horrible stain on myself, so I stuck to smoked turkey on a dry roll.” She made a face. “I’m surprised no one concluded I was anorexic.”

Doctor Anne laughed. “Where was this?”

“The Fowlers.”