Unwed (Dovetail Cove, 1976) (Dovetail Cove Series) Read online

  Unwed

  a novel by

  Jason McIntyre

  Published by &

  Copyright © 2017 Jason McIntyre

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Fiction titles by Jason McIntyre

  On The Gathering Storm

  Thalo Blue

  Walkout

  Mercy and the Cat

  Black Light of Day: A Collection

  Nights Gone By: A Collection

  The Night Walk Men: A Novella

  The Devil’s Right Hand: A Night Walk Men Novel

  Corinthian: A Night Walk Men Story

  Kro: A Night Walk Men Story

  Dovetail Cove titles by Jason McIntyre

  1. Deathbed (Dovetail Cove, 1971)

  2. Bled (Dovetail Cove, 1972)

  3. Fled (Dovetail Cove, 1973)

  4. Redhead (Dovetail Cove, 1974)

  5. Zed (Dovetail Cove, 1975)

  6. Unwed (Dovetail Cove, 1976)

  7. Shed (Dovetail Cove, 1977)

  8. Dread (Dovetail Cove, 1978)

  - 9. [COMING SOON] (Dovetail Cove, 1979) -

  - 10. [COMING SOON] (Dovetail Cove, 1980) -

  Learn more about the author and his work at:

  www.theFarthestReaches.com

  Author’s note: This work of fiction deals with mature themes and subjects.

  Discretion is advised.

  Dovetail Cove

  Sunday, January 11, 1976

  Part I

  Bonnie and blithe

  Bless us, O Lord, and these,

  Thy gifts, which we are about

  To receive from Thy bounty

  Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.

  —Common Table Prayer

  1.

  Bexy McLeod peered over the side of her wheelchair at long grey slivers of melting slush on the new red carpet of St. Dominic’s Cathedral. Her face flushed at doing that—already, her re-entry into Dovetail Cove’s upper crust had hurt—boy, it had hurt.

  At Bexy’s age, the holy doors to St. Dom’s were a workout. Wedging her chair in the doorway, then a rest, then another tug on the brass handle, then reefing the rings to wheel all the way through—it was more than enough to make her give up, thank you very much.

  But she wouldn’t. Not today.

  Besides, there was nothing to be done about the ruined patch of rug now.

  Careful not to pinch her hand again, she had squeaked in and the heavy door fell on her hard, thumping her push handles. Boy, it had hurt. But she didn’t quit, couldn’t. And she didn’t dare call out for help. Not here, not after everything she’d gone through with the church-goers in this town.

  Now inside, January’s bitter breeze was blessedly gone. Alone in the gaping foyer on the wet rug, her pink hands went immediately to the scarf tied over her fresh permanent. She wanted it off before it could flatten her hair. She knew she wore more than a simple touch of grey up there, but there was no reason she still couldn’t look respectable for Mass.

  Her glasses fogged. Only points at the centre of each lens showed her the glossy, wooden world of St. Dom’s narthex. Empty. Not a single member of the congregation.

  A mental snapshot of her daughter’s face came to Bexy and that’s when the choir began. Dear, sweet Teeny. Why’d you have to abandon me? Why’d all you kids have to run away from this island—and your mother—? She cut those thoughts off at their waist. It wasn’t good to dwell. The doc had told her to leave baggage like that on the side of the road. Drive for the sunrise, he’d told her, not the sunset. Yesterday was a done deal.

  There was a new wheelchair ramp inside. For now, she’d drive for that. At the top were the generous landing and double-doors of the nave—and more of that beautiful red carpet with fresh vacuum tracks. Men’s rubber slip-ons piled up on a wide black mat, pooling there. A few women’s boots joined them in neat pairs. No doubt, the finest ladies in town had brought pumps to slip into and keep St. Dom’s floors looking fresh. This was certainly a group effort, something the whole town could get behind, maybe even a bullet point in the sermon’s weekly announcements. “A reminder: please help keep St. Dom’s new rug clean! Wear your rubbers!”

  Bexy headed up the ramp, chin high and heading for her sunrise. Her forearms burned with the incline, still not recovered from her awkward entry. She cocked her head, trying to identify the muffled intro of the hymn. The next set of heavy doors were even larger than the main entrance, and she fretted about them as she approached, hoping she’d leave most of her slush on the ramp—and not stain more pristine carpet.

  She got to the top and one of the big sanctuary doors squealed open, bringing a rush of the pipe organ. It was Walter Parson, pulling a cigarette from his pack, glancing back into the main hall, maybe to see who had caught him slipping out. When he saw Bexy easing off the ramp and onto the plush red pile at the top, his eyebrows went way up. The pack went back into his grey suit pocket and he made an effort to hightail it over to her. “M-Mrs. McLeod,” he said, surprise as evident in his quiet voice as it was in his face. No one had seen Bexy McLeod attend a Sunday service—of any denomination—in years.

  “Mr. Parson,” Bexy said in a pert salutation of her own. She didn’t realize how out-of-breath she was.

  She smoothed the wool blanket in the lap of her dress and looked past him as the door to the chamber drew closed, sealing most of the organ’s volume in again. Muddied out here, the choir began. “Victory in Jesus” was the hymn and they’d reached the part about buying us with His redeeming blood.

  “Going in, ma’am?” Parson said, using that term of respect reserved for elders, even though he might have only been five or six years younger than Bexy McLeod—if even that.

  “Certainly,” she said, still wearing her embarrassment. Embarrassment at something much greater than tracking in wheel marks of dirty road slush. “If’n you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” he said. He spun behind her and grabbed the push handles at her shoulders. “Not at all,” he repeated as he pushed her to the door. He reached out and yanked on the big door to pull it open. In the sudden rush of air, the door squawked much louder than it had when he’d eased it open for himself. Bexy was hit by the volume of “Victory in Jesus” again, but now the congregation in the back four or five pews all whirled around to have a look at who was coming in.

  “Shit,” Parson muttered under his breath, but he pushed Bexy forward onto the wood floor inside. Swearing in church, well done, Walt, Bexy thought. Even against the singing of the choir, the hard rubber wheels on the floor in the main chamber were a loud, sore thumb of a sound. Wow-wow-wow, they went. Bexy saw her friends and neighbours, some of whom she hadn’t laid eyes on in years. There was Gladys Troyer and her husband. Gladys glared but her hubby looked away, up at the choir. Rod Davies and his wife, Mavis, were a few rows up. Rod gave a flat, solemn smile but Mavis was wiping her nose with a tissue, more concerned about digging for treasure than the wow of Mrs. McLeod’s hard rubber tires. Bexy’s face wore a burning flush of heat. She could feel it but she didn’t dare touch her face. And she didn’t dare let a tear fall either. Not today—not on her first day back in a holy place after four long years. This was her sunrise. She’d earned it. And she wasn’t leaving.

  But she didn’t need
to make such an entrance.

  She reached a hand up to her shoulder and gently touched Parson’s on the handle bar back there. “At the back is fine,” she said, “Just fine.”

  “No space,” he said. “Father Frye said everyone in a...uh...wheelchair has room right up front.”

  He wheeled her down the main aisle and the wet rubber tires seemed to get louder and louder as they went. Everyone turned to watch them as if she was the crippled bride on her wedding day. No one threw anything—well, not today—not even rice.

  He parked her at the front on the right, next to the big round form of Doc Sawbones, who leaned around in his shortened pew. The big man made an effort to smile.

  The choir made no changes, just kept right on singing through her dramatic showing. The choirmaster up front led them to the part where Jesus made the lame walk again. And then about causing the blind to see. Bexy saw some people roll their eyes and look away from her in disgust. She wanted to do the same, but didn’t. Just kept her chin up and met everyone’s eyes she could.

  Walt Parson had paraded her down the aisle, as if she’d shown up for her own nuptials in only panties and black pumps. Finally parked and assuredly not impressed, Bexy McLeod reached down and put on her brake. Under her breath, she said, “Well, isn’t this just ducky.”

  2.

  Father Frye did Mass differently. Bexy remembered that he added more flavour, not just to his homilies, but to the entire layout of his Sunday Mass service. And, honestly, the full house was testament to his appeal. On an island that swells to triple or quadruple its tiny winter population in the summer tourist season, Bexy thought Father Frye’s draw on a brisk January Sunday was impressive. The nave wasn’t full, but she’d bet the Presbyterian church across town—and even the Pentecostal—wasn’t seeing numbers like this. Thinking in these terms calmed Bexy’s racing heart. For the moment, it felt like her colour was fading. And so was the attention she’d received during her ceremonial delivery down the aisle.

  She took a breath, feeling fewer sets of eyes on the back of her head. She pressed the back of one hand against her cheeks and then her forehead. Still hot, but cooling. She took another breath. The sound of the choir returned to her, as if someone had momentarily turned the volume down on them and drowned them away while she dealt with the spectacle of her re-entry into Dovetail Cove’s gentry class.

  Beside her, Ol’ Doc Sawbones panted, as though his big form laboured to simply sit. Their short front pew had been cut down to make room for wheelchair-ridden members of the congregation—Bexy was the only one today. On Doc’s other side was an empty section where his wife Agnes would be if she was having a good day. Clearly, today wasn’t one for Agnes. Maybe that was the reason for Doc’s heavy breath. Maybe it was indeed labour for the big man to sit here without her.

  Bexy would make an effort to ask after Aggie when Mass finished.

  But now, she turned her attention back to the choir. She closed her eyes against the vision of St. Dominic’s, nearly unchanged in all her years on the island. Father Frye had changed the configuration of the service, but not of the church. That would have been harder for him to manage, given the traditions of this town. And even if “Victory in Jesus” wasn’t part of the eighty-year sacrament of St. Dominic’s, it was a damn fine song as far as St. Bexy was concerned.

  In the dark, she listened. They were not as good as when Bexy had sung in the choir. The seasoned—and now retired—Choirmaster Dorian had whipped Bexy McLeod’s contemporaries into a formidable vocal group. Dorian’s replacement, however, was younger and less adept at tuning the group to their strengths. And—?

  What was that?

  One singer was terribly out of key. Lost from the rest and floundering. Bexy’s eyes burst open at the sound of it, interlaced with the passable voices of everyone else in the choir. In the third row, second from the gospel side in the north transept, she pinpointed where the noise came from. It was an abomination in matching red robe, standing a little taller than the others around her, her head pointed at the dome and mouth open in a gaping leak of modulating sound. She grinned despite her o of a mouth. But the sounds coming from her were inexplicable. It was not harmony with the others. It was its own, unimaginable waver. Bexy cringed and clutched at the wool blanket in her lap. When the note fell, the woman under her mop of messy black hair started smiling and grinning out at the mass of the congregation, as if she’d achieved pure, orgasmic greatness. When Bexy saw her eyes, she knew it as plain as day. The young woman was mentally retarded. Had to be.

  Beside Bexy, Doc reached out his hand and gently patted the blanket in her lap. Bexy realized she must have been advertising the shock right on her face.

  Silence faded in as the choir took to their cracking wooden seats and Father Frye rose and moved to the pulpit. In that lull, Doc leaned in and whispered to Bexy. “Mary Smithson,” he said as Frye sorted his papers on the podium and flicked on his microphone. “Mental case. Sweet girl. My latest...problem.”

  Bexy raised an eyebrow to that and looked over at the doc who seemed genuinely...pained...by even speaking about this Mary girl.

  “New to town?” Bexy whispered back.

  “In a manner,” Doc said. “I need your help with her.”

  Another gentle pat from the man Bexy had become a friend to in the last year or so. “If you can,” he added. And at that, Father Frye commenced with Communion.

  3.

  Bexy couldn’t shake the odd feeling she’d had when Father Frye had leaned down to place the wafer on her tongue. He’d only offered a blank stare, as if he’d been looking through her. Of course, everyone else had been standing as he and the designates moved through the hall, from pew to pew, and placed similar wafers on similar tongues. Only Bexy McLeod had remained seated, just as she had in that chair most days and nights since she’d been put there by that awful accident.

  In the foyer, after the service, Doc approached her as she sat in her chair, alone on the red rug. He parted the crowd with his big round form. His grey suit made Bexy think of the pictures of the Titanic she’d seen. He seemed perpetually out of breath. With him was Mary, changed into a girlish blue frock from the red and gold choir robe. She carried a big, dark coat with a fuzzy frill of fur rounding the hood. They were holding hands like young lovers, but probably because the doc didn’t want to lose track of her as the congregation milled about, sipping coffee and waiting for their turn to talk to the Father before heading home to watch sports and eat lunch.

  Mary wore a look of apprehension. Doc said, “Mary Smithson, may I present Rebekah McLeod.”

  Bexy reached her hand up to the girl. Mary did not make eye contact, just stared at her feet on the red carpet. Slowly, she put out her own hand.

  “So pleased to meet you, sweetheart,” Bexy said. It was a lie. She knew nothing of the girl except that she wasn’t a talented vocalist. And she seemed, at the very least, a bit slow. Special, is the word Bexy would have used, trying to be thoughtful about others’ feelings. Isn’t that what the good Lord taught us all? To spare feelings and think of others before ourselves?

  In a tiny voice, and still without eyes meeting, Mary said, “Pleasedtomeetyouma’am.”

  “Mrs. McLeod is going to come with us to the clinic,” Doc said, channelling a fatherly voice. Though he’d been a father-figure to many as the town doctor for decades and decades, Bexy knew he had no children of his own. When the time came, it would be awfully sad for the doc’s wife to pass, leaving no one for him to lean on—especially as he aged. Bexy found herself in that spot and to call it lonely was a grave understatement.

  “Okay,” Mary said, shrugging on her coat, and having trouble getting her second arm into the sleeve without some help from the doc. The three of them headed down the ramp. The doc pushed them through the throng growing at the door where Father Frye stood and clasped hands, made small talk, and breathed in the icy air and cigarette smoke in equal measure.

  The trio bypassed a handshake and a far
ewell. No one else made eye contact with Bexy but they silently parted for her chair as she headed into the slush, which was now mostly dark water on the uneven sidewalk. She looked up at Father Frye but he just kept palming hands and looking deeply into parishioners’ eyes to see how they were making out with their particular hardships. Bexy still couldn’t forget that vacant stare she’d gotten from Frye when he’d leaned down to put the wafer on her tongue. If he’d truly been looking through her, what had he hoped to see on the other side?

  4.

  Doc had crayons and a colouring book for Mary. Excited, she clapped her red mittens the way children do when they get a treat. She pulled off her mittens, rubbed her hands and then busied herself with colouring in the back seat of Doc’s old Plymouth. No one in Dovetail Cove much bothered with buckling up. The speed limit was rarely broken and Chief Birkhead reported yearly that speeding violations brought in as few dollars to the city coffers as did jaywalking and loitering.

  Doc hoisted Bexy into his passenger seat, then squawked the big door shut. He did up her belt beforehand, mostly to help keep her from unintentionally moving around. As Bexy often did now when she had to accept help, she smiled politely and said nothing. Now, in the spotted sideview mirror she watched Doc move around the back of his car in clouds of his own breath that formed and dissolved, formed and dissolved. He was shuffling in slow motion on the slick sidewalk. He pulled a little pill vial from his trouser pocket and uncapped it. He clapped it shut and swallowed a pill, took another white breath, then set about folding the wheelchair. In another formation of his own smog, he lifted the folded metal, leather, and rubber into the open mouth of the trunk. The whole car shuddered and sank on its shocks, as if Doc himself had landed in there. But in a moment, Bexy saw him retreat. He stood there a moment, staring at the open trunk. Behind him, parishioners moved off to their own vehicles where they were warming for the short jaunt home.