Chris Bohjalian - Secrets of Eden

BOOKS BY CHRIS BOHJALIANNOVELS Secrets of Eden (2010) Skeletons at the Feast (2008) The Double Bind (2007) Before You Know Kindness (2004) The Buffalo Soldier (2002) Trans-Sister Radio (2000) The Law of Similars (1998) Midwives (1997) Water Witches (1995) Past the Bleachers (1992) Hangman (1991) A Killing in the Real World (1988) ESSAY COLLECTIONS Idyll Banter: Weekly Excursions to a Very Small Town (2003)

But for sorrow there is no remedy provided by nature; it is often occasioned by accidents irreparable, and dwells upon objects that have lost or changed their existence; it requires what it cannot hope, that the laws of the universe should be repealed; that the dead should return, or the past should be recalled .SAMUEL JOHNSON Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh. And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed .GENESIS 2:2425

CHAPTER ONE

As a minister I rarely found the entirety of a Sunday service depressing. But some mornings disease and despair seemed to permeate the congregation like floodwaters in sandbags, and the only people who stood during the moment when we shared our joys and concerns were those souls who were intimately acquainted with nursing homes, ICUs, and the nearby hospice. Concerns invariably outnumbered joys, but there were some Sundays that were absolute routs, and it would seem that the only people rising up in their pews to speak needed Prozac considerably more than they needed prayer. Or yes, than they needed me.

On those sorts of Sundays, whenever someone would stand and ask for prayers for something relatively minora promotion, traveling mercies, a broken leg that surely would mendI would find myself thinking as I stood in the pulpit, Get a spine, you bloody ingrate! Buck up! That lady behind you is about to lose her husband to pancreatic cancer, and youre whining about your difficult boss? Oh, please! I never said that sort of thing aloud, but I think thats only because Im from a particularly mannered suburb of New York City, and so my family has to be drunk to be cutting. I did love my congregation, but I also knew that I had an inordinate number of whiners.

The Sunday service that preceded Alice Haywards baptism and death was especially rich in genuine human tragedy, it was just jam-packed with the real McCoyone long ballad of ceaseless lamentation and pain. Moreover, as a result of that mornings childrens message and a choir members solo, it was also unusually moving. The whiners knew that they couldnt compete with the legitimate, no-holds-barred sort of torment that was besieging much of the congregation, and so they kept their fannies in their seats and their prayer requests to themselves.

That day we heard from a thirty-four-year-old lawyer who had already endured twelve weeks of radiation for a brain tumor and was now in his second week of chemotherapy. He was on steroids, and so on top of everything else he had to endure the indignity of a sudden physical resemblance to a human blowfish. He gave the childrens message that Sunday, and he told the childrentoddlers and girls and boys as old as ten and elevenwho surrounded him at the front of the church how hed learned in the last three months that while some angels might really have halos and wings, hed met a great many more who looked an awful lot like regular people. When he started to describe the angels hed seendescribing, in essence, the members of the church Womens Circle who drove him back and forth to the hospital, or the folks who filled his familys refrigerator with fresh vegetables and homemade carrot juice, or the people who barely knew him yet sent cards and lettersI saw eyes in the congregation grow dewy. And, of course, I knew how badly some of those half-blind old ladies in the Womens Circle drove, which seemed to me a further indication that there may indeed be angels among us.

Then, after the older children had returned to the pews where their parents were sitting while the younger ones had been escorted to the playroom in the churchs addition so they would be spared the second half of the service (including my sermon), a fellow in the choir with a lush, robust tenor sang It is well with my soul, and he sang it without the accompaniment of our organist. Spafford wrote that hymn after his four daughters had drowned when their ship, the Ville de Havre , collided with another vessel and sank. When the tenors voice rose for the refrain for the last time, his hands before him and his long fingers steepling together before his chest, the congregation spontaneously joined him. There was a pause when they finished, followed by a great forward whoosh from the pews as the members of the church as one exhaled in wonder, Amen

And so when it came time for our moment together of caring and sharing (an expression I use without irony, though I admit it sounds vaguely like doggerel and more than a little New Age), the people were primed to pour out their hearts. And they did. Ive looked back at the notes I scribbled from the pulpit that morningthe names of the people for whom we were supposed to pray and exactly what ailed themand by any objective measure there really was a lot of horror that day. Cancer and cystic fibrosis and a disease that would cost a newborn her right eye. A car accident. A house fire. A truck bomb in a land far away. We prayed for people dying at home, in area hospitals, at the hospice in the next town. We prayed for healing, we prayed for death (though we used that great euphemism relief) , we prayed for peace. We prayed for peace in souls that were turbulent and for peace in a corner of the world that was in the midst of a civil war.

By the time I began my sermon, I could have been as inspiring as a tax attorney and people would neither have noticed nor cared. I could have been awfulthough the truth is, I wasnt; my words at the very least transcended hollow that morningand still they would have been moved. They were craving inspiration the way I crave sunlight in January.

Nevertheless, that Sunday service offered a litany of the ways we can die and the catastrophes that can assail us. Who knew that the worst was yet to come? (In theory, I know the answer to that, but we wont go there. At least not yet.) The particular tragedy that would give our little village its grisly notoriety was still almost a dozen hours away and wouldnt begin to unfold until the warm front had arrived in the late afternoon and early evening and we had all begun to swelter over our dinners. There was so much still in between: the potluck, the baptism, the word.

Not the word, though I do see it as both the beginning and the end: In the beginning was the Word

There . That was the word in this case. There .There, Alice Hayward said to me after I had baptized her in the pond that Sunday, a smile on her face that I can only call grim. There.

The baptism immediately followed the Sunday service, a good old-fashioned, once-a-year Baptist dunking in the Brookners pond. Behind me I heard the congregation clapping for Alice, including the members of the Womens Circle, at least one of whom, like me, was aware of what sometimes went on in the house the Haywards had built together on the ridge.

None of them, I know now, had heard what shed said. But even if they had, I doubt they would have heard in that one word exactly what I did, because that single syllable hadnt been meant for them. It had been meant only for me.