There is no other in the World–
Mine was the only one.
But the line from Emily Dickinson held a different meaning for me now.
I read it with a new mind and a totally different awareness of the woman who had selected it. It was the word mine that jumped out at me. Mine. Emily had had no life of her own but had been an extension of a narcissistic, demented woman with an insatiable appetite for ego gratification.
To her mother, Emily was a pawn as all of us were pawns. We were Denesa’s dolls to dress and undress, hug and rip apart, and I recalled the inside of her house, its fluffs and frills and little girl designs on fabric. Denesa was a little girl craving attention who had grown up knowing how to get it. She had destroyed every life she had ever touched, and each time wept in the warm bosom of a compassionate world. Poor, poor Denesa, everyone said of this murderous maternal creature with blood on her teeth.
Ice rose in slender columns from the red day on Emily’s grave. I did not know the physics for a fact but concluded that when the moisture in the nonporous clay froze, it expanded as ice does and had nowhere to go but up. It was as if her spirit had gotten caught in the cold as it tried to rise from the ground, and she sparkled in the sun as pure crystal and water do. I realized with a wave of grief that I loved this little girl I knew only in death. She could have been Lucy, or Lucy could have been her. Both were not mothered well, and one had been sent back home, so far the other spared. I knelt and said a prayer, and with a deep breath turned back toward the church.
The organ was playing “Rock of Ages” as I walked in, because by now I was late and the congregation was singing the first hymn. I sat as inconspicuously in the back as I could but still caused glances and heads to turn. This was a church that would spot a stranger because it most likely had so few. The service moved on, and I blessed myself after prayer as a little boy in my pew stared while his sister drew on the bulletin.
Reverend Crow, with his sharp nose and black robe, looked like his name. His arms were wings as he gestured while he preached, and during more dramatic moments it almost seemed he might fly away. Stained-glass windows depicting the miracles of Jesus glowed like jewels, and field stone flecked with mica seemed dusted with gold.
We sang “Just As I Am” when it was time for communion, and I watched those around me to follow their lead. They did not file up to the front for the wafer and wine. Instead, ushers silently came down aisles with thimbles full of grape juice and small crusts of dry bread. I took what was passed to me, and everyone sang the doxology and benediction, and suddenly they were leaving. I took my time. I waited until the preacher was at the door alone, having greeted every parishioner; then I called him by name.
“Thank you for your meaningful sermon. Reverend Crow,” I said.
“I have always loved the story of the importunate neighbor.”
“There is so much we can learn from it. I tell it to my children a lot.” He smiled as he gripped my hand.
“It’s good for all of us to hear,” I agreed.
“We’re so glad to have you with us today. I believe you must be the FBI doctor I’ve been hearing about. Saw you the other day on the news, too.”
“I’m Dr. Scarpetta,” I said.
“And I’m wondering if you might point out Rob Kelsey? I hope he hasn’t already left.”
“Oh, no,” the reverend said, as I had expected.
“Rob helped with communion. He’s probably putting things away.” He looked toward the sanctuary.
“Would you mind if I tried to find him?” I asked.
“Not a bit. And by the way” –his face got sad”–we sure do appreciate what you’re trying to do around here. Not a one of us will ever be the same.” He shook his head.