NOW
The First Steeple
Skeleton in the Closet
Heads together, Homer and Mary bent over the old photograph of Concord’s Monument Square. Rising tall and pale in the foreground stood the Civil War memorial obelisk. In the middle distance, large and foursquare, was the Middlesex Hotel with horses and buggies drawn up in front of the porch. They could just make out the steeple of the First Parish Church high over the trees beyond the hotel.
“Picture taken in 1868,” murmured Homer.
“Photographs are so haunting,” said Mary. “Monument Square must have looked just like this when my great-great-grandmother Ida was alive, and my great-grandfather must have been a small boy in 1868.”
“And Ida’s brother Eben—remember Eben Flint? He would have been twenty-one in 1868. But her husband Seth was dead by then.”
“Oh, poor misunderstood Seth. Was Ida married again by 1868? Yes, I think she was. So her second husband, the doctor, he would have seen it like this. In 1868, Alexander must have been living with Ida in the house on Barrett’s Mill Road.” Mary stroked the photograph. “If only we could walk into the picture and see what it looked like then, the house I grew up in.” Mary sighed with longing. “Oh, if only the picture would open up and let us in.”
“I know,” said Homer. “It’s too bad. But we can still walk into the church.” He tapped the dim bell tower in the picture. “It’s our first steeple. The photograph won’t open up, but maybe the church archivist will. Maybe he’ll tell us something scandalous about the history of the First Parish, so that I can satisfy the shameless curiosity of my editor. Luther keeps calling up, demanding skeletons in the closet, vice and corruption, screwing in the—”
“Oh, never mind what went on in the steeple.” Mary laughed. “Homer, what on earth has happened to Luther Stokes? How could such a distinguished doctor of philosophy and celebrated director of a university press turn into a Peeping Tom?”
Homer shrugged. “Let’s hope this chap Henry Whipple knows about a few tasty scandals.”
“Oh, Homer, I doubt it. A scandal in Concord? In this upright old town? Surely none of those august old clergymen had skeletons in their closets. Nothing but old boots and dusty umbrellas.”
Homer met Henry Whipple at the side door of the church, but at once Henry steered him elsewhere. “My house is right next door,” he said, heading for the road. “We’ll talk in my study.”
In his study, thought Homer. On the way, struggling to keep up, he wondered eagerly about the nature of Henry’s study. Homer was a connoisseur of other people’s working arrangements. How, for instance, did they keep their pens and pencils, and where did they put their stamps? Did they stick up notes around their computer monitors about passwords and user IDs and reminders to pick up their pants at the cleaner’s? And, above all, how did they control their teeming collections of pamphlets and folders, books and notebooks, miscellaneous pieces of paper, unanswered letters, and all the ragtag strokes of genius scribbled down on the backs of envelopes? What about their dictionaries? And by the way, what other reference books did they keep on hand to be snatched up at a moment’s notice?
As it turned out, Henry Whipple’s arrangements were charming. He had built himself a nest around his keyboard. Small high-piled tables were gathered in close to take the overflow. A comfy sweater hung over the back of a chair to ward off a chill, and a whirly fan stood beside the printer in case of a heat wave. All that was missing in Henry’s nest was a lining of downy feathers.
And to Homer’s delight, Henry was ready at once to reveal a blot on the escutcheon of Concord’s old First Parish Church. “How about a hanging sermon?” he said. “Will that do?”
“A hanging sermon?” said Homer joyfully. “No kidding?”
“No indeed.” Henry sat back and said smugly, “The Reverend Dr. Ripley preached a hanging sermon in 1799.”
“Ezra Ripley? Pious old Dr. Ripley?” Homer’s eyes bulged. “But that’s impossible. You don’t mean the same dear old Ezra Ripley who was pastor of the First Parish for years and years?”
“Sixty years, that’s right. I do indeed.” Then Henry frowned. “But I don’t know as I’d call him ‘dear.’ He was a pretty authoritarian old—” Stopping himself, Henry reached for a book and flipped it open.
Homer was merciless. “Pretty authoritarian old what?”
“Never mind,” said Henry, busily turning pages. “Back to the hanging sermon. You know, Homer, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for the time.” Then Henry slammed the book shut and looked at Homer fiercely. “First, you’ve got to picture the congregation in the old church, all the pews packed with people eager to witness a hanging, and the unhappy victim sitting smack in front of the pulpit while the pastor scolded him for his criminal ways. Okay, Homer, you get the picture?” Henry opened the book again. “Here’s what Ripley said to poor old Samuel Smith. ‘Your life for thirty years past has been a predatory warfare against society and individual families and persons.’”