Gratitude

By Roger Arsht

December 23, 2020

Bridget McClaine walked the streets of Reflection, Ohio seven days a week. The clothes she took from charity bins looked nothing like the fancy suits and dresses she saw in the display windows on Main Street. The day-old bread she received for free from the supermarket never tasted like the food she saw consumed in Reflection’s popular cafes, and she would never own one of the shiny new cars at Cleary’s Chevrolet. She didn’t need any of those things since the bread sustained her and her legs took her where she wanted to go.

By ten o’clock she could be found reading on a park bench. She would stay there for the better part of the day before disappearing into the night - except on Sundays. On Sundays, Bridget sat without fail on the left side of the church, in the sixth row of the oak pews, in the third seat from the center aisle. Without fail, her invisible sister, Lizzy, sat in the fourth seat. Since Bridget had been talking to Lizzy since she died fifty years earlier, everyone at The Crossroads Church was used to seeing her whispering to the empty space on her left. The children found it amusing. The adults simply ignored her. 

The Reverend Bertram James had been watching Bridget’s odd behaviors since he assumed his post ten years earlier. To the chagrin of the church’s board and president, the Reverend was her chief defender. No one in his flock was more Christian in behavior than Bridget. She only saw the best in people and on the rare occasion she had a few dollars, it would end up going to one of the church’s programs for the poor. Her appearance reflected her ascetic lifestyle. Most people ridiculed, shunned, and shielded their children from what they thought was a delusional woman. Dressed in the most basic clothing, Bridget showed no evidence of owning any worldly possessions. She was homeless, ate at food kitchens, and bathed infrequently. This lack of hygiene caused the other worshippers to give her a wide berth. No one giggled more than Bridget when Reverend Bertram preached about embracing one’s neighbors and lifting the poor and the downtrodden. When the service ended, Bridget with her invisible sister in tow would move to the rear of the ancient building to shake hands with Reverend James. 

This day, however, Mrs. Leonard Harper was waiting next to Reverend James. The woman’s demeanor was worse than usual. “I’m leaving for Europe in a few hours. We need to do this quickly,” she said edgily.

                Bridget approached and whispered quietly, “I enjoyed your service and sermon.” 

                “I’m glad you did,” the reverend responded with an outstretched arm. “May the Lord protect and guide you.”

Mrs. Harper jumped in quickly. “Our congregation is…concerned…about you.” 

The reverend turned to face Mrs. Harper. “Please don’t do this. This conversation will not go as you expect.”

                “Mrs. Harper, you’re concerned about me?” Bridget interrupted.

                Mrs. Harper was not one for tact. “Not me, specifically. Some members of this congregation are refusing to come to services.”

“Because of me? Because I talk to my late sister?" Bridget questioned?

Nodding, Mrs. Harper began, "Yes and…" 

However, Bridget continued unabated, "I've been buttressed all these years by my sister’s company. I've certainly not been sustained by the members of this town or this church. I don’t ever remember being greeted by you on a Sunday morning.”

                “Of course you are welcome. Everyone is.” Mrs. Harpers’ demeanor darkened.

“Everyone?” Bridget asked with her normal complacent manner.

“The problem is…it’s your unkempt appearance. You diminish all of us and the quality of this institution with your presence,” the well-dressed woman said emphatically.

                “Truly, I was born to be an example of misfortune and a target at which the arrows of adversity are aimed,” was Bridget's solemn response. 

“What does that mean?” Mrs. Harper asked, indignantly. 

“It means that I am the target of scorn. It’s a quote from Don Quixote. It was written by Miguel de Cervantes.”

“I know who wrote it.” Mrs. Harper said curtly.

Bridget turned her head and whispered in Lizzy’s ear before returning her attention to Mrs. Harper. “Conveniently, for you and many in the congregation, this is my last Sunday,” Bridget said solemnly. “Fifty years ago I lost everything except my madness. Today I depart with almost as little as I came into this world with.”

                “What are you saying Bridget? Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?” Reverend James’ brow furrowed as he asked.

                “None of those things. It’s simply my time.”

                “I’ve heard enough,” Mrs. Harper said with a huff. “No one can predict their own death. I won’t be manipulated into feeling sorry for this woman.”

                “Based on my appearance and because I talk to my sister, you assume that I live in some sort of distorted reality. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

                “I don’t have to listen to this.”

                “Actually, you do.” Bridget pulled a small penknife from her bag and pointed it at Mrs. Harper. “Let’s go back in the church where we can talk quietly.”

                “You’re seeing this reverend. I am being assaulted.”

                “It does appear that way,” Reverend James said in a serious tone while winking at Bridget. He knew she was incapable of hurting anyone.

                Mrs. Harper fished in her purse for her cell phone. Seeing this, the Reverend placed his hand on her wrist. “You’re perfectly safe. This would be a good time to listen.”

                “To her?”

                “To her,” The reverend said with complete calmness.

                When they were seated near the rear of the chapel, Bridget reached into her bag and gave Mrs. Harper her copy of Don Quixote. “I have worshipped at this church my entire life. At one time with my whole family,” Bridget began.

                “I didn’t know you had a family,” Mrs. Harper said in a voice meant more to calm herself than to empathize with whatever tragedies had befallen Bridget.

                “Please don’t interrupt her. I think time is of the essence,” the reverend whispered.

                “My sister and I attended this church every week until she was attacked by a young man whose family belonged to this congregation. My father, a soldier, hunted him down and killed him. My sister, who thought she loved the young man, committed suicide. The young man’s family were prominent members of this community. They made sure my father stayed in prison until he died. My mother, a widow and traumatized, went mad and was institutionalized. I am all that is left.” She spoke clearly but had to catch her breath every few words.

                “I’m so sorry.” A touch of genuine concern had come into Mrs. Harper’s voice. “What happened to the young man who attacked your sister?”

                “Nothing, as far as I know. I have tried for fifty years to understand the tragedies that have befallen me and my family.”

                “What have you discovered, Bridget?” the Reverend asked.

                “I have found that ‘the pupil dilates in darkness and in the end finds light, just as the soul dilates in misfortune and in the end finds God.”

                “Is that from this book?” Mrs. Harper asked.

                “No, it’s from Les Misérables,” Bridget responded while handing her a copy of Victor Hugo’s novel.

                “Why are you giving these to me?” Mrs. Harper asked with a puzzled look.

                “Because these books speak of piety, forgiveness, and redemption.” Bridget took a deep pained breath. “Mostly the books have taught me to look beyond people’s appearances and their affectations to find their humanity. They have inspired me to be a better person.”

                “Where has your search taken you, Bridget?” the Reverend asked.

                “Nowhere. I find that the town of Reflection is exactly what it was before my sister’s death and after.”

                “I meant personally”.

                “I am at peace.” With those words and a last gasp, Bridget closed her eyes and joined her sister.

                “Is she dead? Who do we call? I’m calling 9-1-1.” Mrs. Harper asked. Her hands trembled and tears formed in the corners of her eyes more from shock than from sadness.

                “I’m afraid so.” Reverend James’ said with his head bowed. “You don’t need to call anyone. I will make the arrangements for her internment.”

                “Is that it? Won’t there be a service. Shouldn’t her family be notified…” With those words, Mrs. Harper’s voice trailed off.

                “Who would come?” I'll bury Bridget in the back of the cemetery in an area we reserve for paupers.”

                He began to get up so he could escort Mrs. Harper to the exit, but she remained seated with her head bowed. She asked the reverend to leave her alone. An hour later she was still sitting in the same place even though Bridget’s body had been moved. She continued to page through the books Bridget had given her. Periodically she would raise her head and squint in the direction of where Bridget and Lizzy would sit on Sundays. Eventually she smiled in that direction and nodded. She turned to meet the puzzled face of the reverend. “There will be a service. I will pay for the plot and a headstone.”

                “Why would you do that?”

                “Because it is good to stay in a peaceful poverty than to stay in a painful wealth.”

                “Is that from these books?

“No. It was written by another author. Someone whose work I admire.”

                “I suppose the truth can be found in many texts.”

                “That’s true, but not if the history of my family was written.”

                “I don’t understand.”

                “The boy who attacked Bridget’s sister was my grandfather. He’s gone. He came to a bad end.”

                “I’m sorry. Will you be here for the funeral? You said something about a trip.”

                “I will be here. I’d like to speak if you feel it’s appropriate. I won’t be going on any trips. There seems to be much that needs doing here in this town and I need to take some time for private reflection.” Mrs. Harper opened Don Quixote and perused the random page with her finger. “Here’s something Bridget would have wanted me to learn. ‘Destiny guides our fortunes more favorably than we could have expected.’”

                Instead of leaving the church, Mrs. Harper rose and walked toward the front of the church. “Where are you going?” the reverend asked.

                “I see two friends I should have gotten to know a long time ago. I’ll be sitting in the second seat in row six from now on.”

                Reverend James watched as the woman sat in her new seat. Occasionally, he would see her lift her head and exchange a few words with the air next to her. He then walked to the pulpit where he opened his copy of the New Testament and smiled. The unusual events of this day started to make sense to him as he read Galatians 6:2, 6:3, and 6:4.