The Sacrifice Read online

  Gwen settled into her work and went apartment hunting. She found a nice enough place in short order. Now she had to plan the rest of her life. What was she aiming for on a long-term basis? Admittedly, there were many opportunities for a person with her talents, not to mention her looks.

  One of the most memorable moments she had experienced in high school was career day, when successful adults visited the senior class and talked about their occupations. One of these visitors was an author who told the teens how difficult it was to make a living as a writer.

  The piece of blank paper, he explained, was “the enemy.” The young people discovered that just gazing out the window could constitute work; they wouldn’t be daydreaming, they would be creating. Then there was the infamous writer’s block. At such times, the professional does not put his or her work aside—not if he or she is truly a professional. The truly professional writer works through the “block.”

  Then there were questions. The author was asked to clarify his statement that the empty sheet of paper is “the enemy.”

  He confessed that he had never seriously or successfully written nonfiction. If he had, he said, then the paper would not have been a blank. In nonfiction there’s always something there … something that has dimensions. In a biography, for instance, the writer does not have to create Abraham Lincoln; Lincoln had actually lived. There was something: a person, a slice of history, a war, a dynasty, etc.

  It was fiction that was his subject. It was fiction that depended wholly on the imagination or the author’s experience.

  If that be the case, the visitor was asked, what advice would he give to the prospective writer of fiction or nonfiction—but especially fiction? He answered in one short sentence—a sentence that Gwen never forgot: Go with what you know.

  She had not put that maxim to work in her life so far. But now that she was searching for something that would constitute a vehicle for her life, she wondered if she might profit by testing this advice against her own existence.

  What had she learned from personal experience?

  First and foremost she had learned “religion.” On an organ or a piano, she could play nearly all the mainline religious music … hymns of almost all faiths.

  She knew the Bible, cover to cover, as well as or even better than her father did. From the time she was a tiny child, her father had read to her from the Good Book. And once she herself was able to read, her parents saw to it that she read every word in the Bible—again and again.

  This backgrounding so formed her maturation that it was overwhelmingly “what she knew.” If she were going to follow that author’s words to live by, she would have to learn just how she should “go with what she knew.”

  The bottom line: Somehow or other, she had to find a religious vehicle to carry her through life.

  Admittedly, her experience was a mixed bag. Her father’s was a hellfire-and-brimstone, pulpit-pounding faith. That he had read the entire Bible many times did not necessarily mean that he had profited spiritually from it.

  Indeed, take the Bible from his hands and he would have been as mean a person as anyone might encounter.

  “Go with what you know.” She knew how brutal, unforgiving, and selfish “religious” people could be. From that, she felt she could aspire to the opposite extreme. She would know how attractive, kind, forgiving, and unselfish truly religious people could at least strive to be.

  So she would shop around. She sensed that this might be the turning point for her. Her next decision could be crucial.

  She didn’t even bother investigating Roman Catholicism. No matter how good, how warm and welcoming, a specific parish or priest might be, there were all those rules. Besides, there was every possible reason to believe there was no future for women in the Roman Church.

  She tried Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Baptist, and a few other Protestant and even Orthodox Churches, but none seemed compelling.

  She was saving one for last. Underneath it all, the closest she could come to the ideal, for her, was the Roman Church … except that she could not tolerate Rome’s discrimination against women.

  Of equal consequence was their celibacy rule for priests. Gwen did not need to become a priest to achieve fulfillment in faith. Though it did appear vital for her plans that she have a priest for her husband. But not just any priest. She had to be attached to one who was, within his Church, going places.

  This final point was crucial and, she thought, was possible under the Anglican—or, in the United States, the Episcopal—Church.

  There was one final distinction. In the Episcopal Church there were three divisions: the Low Church, which everyone acknowledged as a Protestant Church; the Middle Church, which seemed to float between Low and High; and finally, the High Church.

  That, she concluded, was the one for her. Particularly after the changes that followed the Second Vatican Council, High Church Episcopal was considered more Catholic than the Roman Catholic Church.

  Having found the proper arena, she now had to find the proper priest.

  In her recently amassed circle of friends were several young female Episcopalians. Gwen, the silent guest at every possible gathering that included these women, plugged into them. As often as possible, she primed the pump to get a lead on any possible consort.

  It was bridge night at Gwen’s.

  Just as Gwen was disciplined in planning her life, she was disciplined in living her life: Her apartment—a place for everything and everything in its place—was always spotless. Gwen was not neurotic about it; she merely preferred to be ready for any eventuality; after all, you never could tell who was going to come to the door. Visitors, contrasting Gwen’s apartment with their own living quarters, always left feeling a whit second-rate, occasionally even downright intimidated: Each knew her own housekeeping would never measure up to Gwen’s.

  If truth be known, the girl who had once shoveled out cow barns and chicken coops now considered housekeeping beneath her. When, eventually, she married wealthily, all that would be seen to by housekeepers or maids, or at very least, a cleaning lady.

  Roughly half an hour ago Gwen’s three guests—Rose, Beth, Mary—had arrived within minutes of each other. Of this number, only Mary was actually there to play cards. Gwen could take or leave parlor games. Rose and Beth preferred conversation; cards merely provided a gathering point.

  Gwen set out finger food she had picked up at the deli. Her guests sat around the small coffee table chatting. Which was what Gwen wanted them to do. Mary eyed the card table eagerly. She wanted to play. But what else was new?

  Gwen had recently picked up a Book of Common Prayer, and placed it on the lower shelf of the coffee table. Since the table’s top was glass, the book could be easily seen.

  “Oh,” Rose exclaimed, during a lull in conversation, “you’ve got the Book!”

  “Thinking of coming over to our side?” Beth kidded.

  “Really, Beth,” Rose said, “before we get to proselytizing … we’ve never talked religion. For all we know, Gwen may be Episcopalian.”

  “We have, too, talked religion,” Mary replied. “We’ve just never gotten deeply into it.” Mary could testify to the truth of this statement; the talk had too often interrupted their bridge hands—even on occasion interfering with bidding.

  “As a matter of fact,” Gwen said, “I have been getting interested in the Episcopal Church. I just got the Book to see how you pray.”

  “Come to any conclusions?” Rose asked.

  “What I’ve read I’ve liked, I can tell you that,” Gwen said.

  “This is a swell snack,” Mary said. “Maybe we can bring it over to the card table,” she segued hopefully.

  “They tell you,” Beth said, “that it’s a good idea to steer clear of talking about religion. But since you introduced the Book into this evening, just what religion are you? I mean, we’re all Episcopalians. But you know that.”

  Gwen smiled. “That’s a tough one. I guess I belonged to t
he ‘Church of Where It’s at Now.’ My daddy was the preacher man. And I’ll give him this: He did know his Bible. And he made sure I did, too.”

  “So, you’re a Bible thumper.” Rose laughed lightly.

  “I guess. But what I’m interested in is finding a church that makes me feel at home.”

  “There are any number of those,” Beth said. “The only way I can think of doing this is to shop around.”

  “I’ve done that. With every other religion but the Episcopal.”

  “Well,” Rose said brightly, “that’s right up our alley. We should be able to help you … even suggest a shortcut or two.”

  Mary picked up the snack tray and moved it to the card table.

  The others grinned. They knew when it came to cards, especially bridge, Mary was a no-nonsense player. Without further comment, they relocated, placing their chairs around the card table. Gwen got a tray table for the hors d’oeuvres.

  It was Beth’s turn to be Mary’s partner. Mary flipped cards to all four players. She dealt herself the first ace. She would deal the first hand. And so she did, after a quick shuffle.

  “We might just start right at the top,” Rose said, returning to the subject at hand. “The best of the Episcopal parishes.”

  “And that would be …?”

  “St. John’s in Ferndale,” Rose replied.

  “It’s not far from here,” Beth added.

  “One thing about St. John’s,” Rose said. “It’s crowded … especially the Masses and services that the rector conducts.”

  “He’s that good?” Gwen wondered.

  “Every bit as good and better than any other priest you could find.”

  “His name?”

  “Wheatley. George Wheatley,” Beth identified.

  “Oh …” Gwen tapped the tabletop. “… that name is familiar. Where have I heard it?”

  “He has a radio program,” Rose said “A call-in talk show. It’s very popular. And he’s got a column in the paper every Sunday.”

  “That’s it,” Gwen said. “I haven’t heard the radio show, but I do remember reading his column. It’s really quite good, isn’t it?”

  “I think so,” Rose agreed. “I like it that before he reminds you that you’re a sinner in need of forgiveness and repentance, he tells you funny little stories, anecdotes, some of his experiences—”

  “One club,” Mary bid.

  “Is he married?” Gwen asked.

  “Oho … o … o,” Rose and Beth exclaimed simultaneously.

  “So that’s what you’re looking for,” Beth said.

  “You should’ve told us that in the beginning,” Rose said.

  “One club!” Mary drove home her point.

  “You’re not looking for the father.” Beth giggled. “You want the son.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “George Wheatley is very much married,” Beth explained. “Mrs. Wheatley—Bernadette—is very much his wife. They have a teenage daughter who plans to attend seminary herself. And a younger boy, the Last of the Mohicans … I think he’s in middle school—”

  “But the one you want,” Rose interrupted, “is Ron Wheatley, a priest.”

  “He’s George Wheatley’s son?” Gwen asked.

  “George’s and Bernadette’s. Yes,” Beth said.

  “Are we playing bridge or not? I bid one club!” Mary was definitely serious about her game.

  Rose studied her hand for a few moments. “Pass.”

  “It took all this time for you to pass?”

  “Anyway,” Beth said, ignoring Mary’s sarcasm, “Ron is not married.”

  “What a waste!” Rose said.

  “A waste?” Gwen asked.

  “He’s a hunk!” Beth enthused. “Oh, don’t get me wrong: He doesn’t belong on Muscle Beach. But …” She grinned like a cat considering a plump canary. “Nice broad shoulders. Million-dollar smile. Lots of dark wavy hair. A six-footer. And”—the cat advanced on the canary—“a nice, tight bottom.”

  “And the profile”—Rose caught the fervor—“don’t forget the profile.”

  “Carved out of stone. Perfect. Definitely his mother’s son.”

  “Well now,” Gwen said, “I’ve never met or even seen Father Ron Wheatley. But they run a head shot of Father George Wheatley alongside his newspaper column. Judging from that, the father doesn’t hold a candle to his son … if what you say is true.”

  “Granted,” Rose admitted. “But when you asked for the best, we told you the truth. George is head and shoulders over his son when it comes to voice, delivery, piety, magnetism, the whole shebang—”

  “But then,” Beth cut in, “George Wheatley is head and shoulders over just about any member of the clergy you can think of … whatever the denomination.”

  “A question then,” Gwen said. “How come such a treasure is only a simple parish priest?”

  “You mean,” Rose said, “how come he’s not where he ought to be? Well, the story is that George Wheatley turned down a bishopric.”

  “He even turned down the position of canon,” Beth added.

  “Rose passed!” Mary was looking daggers at her partner, Beth.

  Beth made sure her cards were in order, studied them a few moments. “Pass.”

  Mary shook her head.

  Without waiting to be prodded, Gwen looked at her cards briefly. “Pass.”

  “He just wants to be a parish priest, I guess,” Rose said. “I can’t think of any other reason why he would turn down such honors, such power.”

  “That,” Beth said, “brings us back to Father Ronald Wheatley. Unmarried—and quite a catch.”

  “Matter of fact …” Rose looked at Gwen. “You two would make an ideal pair.” Rose, Beth and even Mary were well aware that no matter how desirable Ron Wheatley might be, Gwen was the more physically flawless of the two.

  For a moment, all four women sat lost in an envisioning of the wedding of Ron Wheatley and Gwen Ridder.

  Father George would undoubtedly officiate. The newspaper photos of Ron and Gwen, he heartstopping in his handsomeness, she a study of perfection in white—would be clipped and saved, to be treasured by young ladies each of whom wished her own nuptials to be just like that.

  Back to reality. This wedding hadn’t happened. The couple hadn’t even met. It might never happen. But if it didn’t Gwen’s guests would miss their guess!

  “One club is the bid,” Mary reminded. “Everyone else has passed. Want to play it? Or give it to us and move on?”

  “One bids are tough to make,” Gwen said.

  “Oh, let’s give it to them and move on,” Rose said.

  “Okay,” Mary said. She gave her team twenty points and breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t really think she could have pulled in the minimum seven tricks.

  Rose gathered the cards, and began in leisurely fashion to shuffle them.

  Gwen removed the tray holding the remains of the tea sandwiches. As she did so, she thought about what she’d learned this evening.

  If George Wheatley had turned down advancement, what effect might that have on his son’s advancement? She would have to launch her crusade slowly and carefully. She would begin by making an appointment to see Ron: She would take instructions in the Anglican religion.

  She smiled to herself. Her beauty would stun him. But she would play it cool. To this point in her life she actually remained a virgin. Losing that would have been a terrible price to pay to jump-start a relationship.

  No, Gwen Ridder would offer herself purely and intact to whomever she eventually would marry.

  This opportunity seemed heaven-sent. If Ronald Wheatley was all these girls made him out to be, she, his wife, would make sure he became a bishop—just in case he himself had missed the point and the boat.

  He would be astonished at her biblical knowledge. Why, he himself might not have actually read the entire Bible all the way through. Of course it was hard to tell, when one read scattered passages, some from one or anot
her of the books, and others in no particular logical or chronological order.

  How could she miss? With her looks and her germane knowledge—dare she term it erudition?—she was tailor-made to become his wife. After which she would begin the campaign to raise him to the eminence ordained for him.

  He would be a bishop and she would be the bishop’s worthy consort.

  Go with what you know. She was very sure that she was doing just that.

  Nothing would stop such an eminently qualified couple.

  ELEVEN

  Ron and Gwen Wheatley continued to sit in silence.

  It was the familiar conclusion to angry, bitter words.

  This capped the end of a most frustrating and ill-fated evening. If anything, Gwen was angrier than Ron had ever seen her.

  Staring holes in the kitchen table, Ron’s mind returned to happier times. The times at the very beginning.

  A phone call had started it all.

  She was interested in the Episcopal Church. Could she perhaps begin instructions?

  Of course she could. They made an appointment.

  As he hung up the phone, he reflected on her voice. It was the most charming and feminine sound he’d ever heard. He was eager to discover what frame and what personality comprised that voice.

  He certainly was not disappointed.

  It was a Thursday night in the dead of winter. He hurried to answer the door.

  There she stood. She almost sparkled. She wore a white coat with artificial fur at the collar, sleeves, and hem. The coat curled around her form in an attractive swirl. Her pillbox might have been a tiara, so well did it set off her face and hair.

  She had never been in his church. Of that he was certain. At least not while he was officiating. He couldn’t possibly have overlooked her.

  They sat across from each other in the rector’s study. She had been directed to this parish and to him by a friend. And, no, she didn’t think he knew her friend. The friend, in turn, had heard of him from a Mrs. Rogers, a parishioner. It finally came together. He knew Mrs. Rogers.