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Authors: Charlotte Hinger
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launch into a spiel about Catholic monks forced to serve communicants on the frontier, but I didn’t dare get started on that subject when I need to spend every second on Mary’s death.
“What was the title of your article, Lottie?” he asked as he began dialing the phone.
“To Hell or to Kansas.”
He laughed.
Chapter Twelve
I had never met the office manager at the Diocesan headquarters but she recognized my name.
“Yes, Miss Albright, I imagine you’re calling about scheduling St. Helena’s consecration ceremony.”
She hadn’t heard! “Actually, no…”
“Rest assured that it’s on the top of Bishop Rice’s list. Now let me see what we can work out.”
When I could get a word in edgewise, I told her the very bad news.
Silence. Then, “Where can you be reached?”
I gave her my number.
“I’ll call you right back.”
But the return call came immediately from the bishop, the Right Reverend James P. Rice. He didn’t bother with so much as a “Hello, how are you.”
“Miss Albright, is this your idea of a joke?”
Why would I be joking? I was so rattled I hardly knew what to say. “I can assure you, sir, that this death is no joke.”
“I’m not disputing the fact of a death,” he said, softening his tone.
“I’m simply trying to find her family, sir, and I knew the Diocesan office would have a record. Perhaps you haven’t heard all of the details? She died in our little church during my niece’s confirmation service.”
A long pause before Bishop Rice replied, then he spoke carefully. “The church we’re trying to schedule for consecration later this year? A young woman’s confirmation without my permission?”
I froze, overcome with a feeling that something was going on that made no sense.
Even though I had never met this bishop I had heard wonderful things about him. As a lapsed Episcopalian I knew there had been a lot of changes in the church, and my opinion about religion had changed dramatically since I was young and rebellious. I wanted to go back to the church. If I could have even a fraction of what Keith had through Catholicism, I would be happy.
The Bishop and I were both speechless.
“Let me make sure you understand why I asked if this was some kind of a joke,” he persisted. “Your niece was supposedly confirmed in an unconsecrated church by a bishop I’ve never heard of? Assisted by a female priest I’ve never met?”
Edna Mavery was right. It was possible for a heart to stop beating. Just from hearing words.
“I don’t know what to say,” I finally managed as mine restarted.
“Needless to say, I don’t either.”
“I’ll come there. Right away. Do you have time this afternoon?” I glanced at the clock. “Around four?”
“Yes.”
His “yes” sounded more like a command than assent.
***
I usually spent Monday afternoons at the courthouse putting together family stories for the county history book. I called Margaret Atkinson, the office manager, and asked her to see if William Webster could man the office. Both persons had just barely approved of me before I took the deputy sheriff job. It’s hard telling what they thought of my becoming an undersheriff.
“Sam, I’m heading to Salina,” I said breezing past his door. “Gotta hurry to make it there by four. The Bishop wants to talk to me about Mary Farnsworth. And a number of other things. I’ll call Keith on the way.” He was on the phone and wiggled his fingers at me to indicate he’d heard.
Salina was generally considered the historical division between Eastern and Western Kansas although I consider Hays to be the philosophical place where we ripped the sheet. Nevertheless, the split has been stark since the 1880s with jokes like “There’s no Sunday west of Junction City and no God west of Salina.”
There was some basis for truth to that. I’ve never studied a region so grounded in self-reliance. Although most of the settlers who rushed to Western Kansas when the
“What was the title of your article, Lottie?” he asked as he began dialing the phone.
“To Hell or to Kansas.”
He laughed.
Chapter Twelve
I had never met the office manager at the Diocesan headquarters but she recognized my name.
“Yes, Miss Albright, I imagine you’re calling about scheduling St. Helena’s consecration ceremony.”
She hadn’t heard! “Actually, no…”
“Rest assured that it’s on the top of Bishop Rice’s list. Now let me see what we can work out.”
When I could get a word in edgewise, I told her the very bad news.
Silence. Then, “Where can you be reached?”
I gave her my number.
“I’ll call you right back.”
But the return call came immediately from the bishop, the Right Reverend James P. Rice. He didn’t bother with so much as a “Hello, how are you.”
“Miss Albright, is this your idea of a joke?”
Why would I be joking? I was so rattled I hardly knew what to say. “I can assure you, sir, that this death is no joke.”
“I’m not disputing the fact of a death,” he said, softening his tone.
“I’m simply trying to find her family, sir, and I knew the Diocesan office would have a record. Perhaps you haven’t heard all of the details? She died in our little church during my niece’s confirmation service.”
A long pause before Bishop Rice replied, then he spoke carefully. “The church we’re trying to schedule for consecration later this year? A young woman’s confirmation without my permission?”
I froze, overcome with a feeling that something was going on that made no sense.
Even though I had never met this bishop I had heard wonderful things about him. As a lapsed Episcopalian I knew there had been a lot of changes in the church, and my opinion about religion had changed dramatically since I was young and rebellious. I wanted to go back to the church. If I could have even a fraction of what Keith had through Catholicism, I would be happy.
The Bishop and I were both speechless.
“Let me make sure you understand why I asked if this was some kind of a joke,” he persisted. “Your niece was supposedly confirmed in an unconsecrated church by a bishop I’ve never heard of? Assisted by a female priest I’ve never met?”
Edna Mavery was right. It was possible for a heart to stop beating. Just from hearing words.
“I don’t know what to say,” I finally managed as mine restarted.
“Needless to say, I don’t either.”
“I’ll come there. Right away. Do you have time this afternoon?” I glanced at the clock. “Around four?”
“Yes.”
His “yes” sounded more like a command than assent.
***
I usually spent Monday afternoons at the courthouse putting together family stories for the county history book. I called Margaret Atkinson, the office manager, and asked her to see if William Webster could man the office. Both persons had just barely approved of me before I took the deputy sheriff job. It’s hard telling what they thought of my becoming an undersheriff.
“Sam, I’m heading to Salina,” I said breezing past his door. “Gotta hurry to make it there by four. The Bishop wants to talk to me about Mary Farnsworth. And a number of other things. I’ll call Keith on the way.” He was on the phone and wiggled his fingers at me to indicate he’d heard.
Salina was generally considered the historical division between Eastern and Western Kansas although I consider Hays to be the philosophical place where we ripped the sheet. Nevertheless, the split has been stark since the 1880s with jokes like “There’s no Sunday west of Junction City and no God west of Salina.”
There was some basis for truth to that. I’ve never studied a region so grounded in self-reliance. Although most of the settlers who rushed to Western Kansas when the
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