Reilly still had yet to fully understand the heaviness that fell over Sallybrook this time of year. He had a taste of it, bitterness yet to leave his tongue, but he couldn’t distinguish all the layers — no, he’d have to live it again and again, year after year, to fully understand everything these people went through, to understand the darkness that clouded their lives. He did, to some extent, empathize; to have everything dangling on a string, threatening to snap and send your world crashing — that was something he understood. But not like this. He’d never seen anything quite like this.
But part of his job was finding the current of a community and falling into the flow, and the residents of Sallybrook seemed to insist on plowing onwards, regardless of the inevitable loss on the horizon. The only real difference he’d seen in the lead-up to the Haunt was a grim line pressed across the faces of his colleagues, and fuller pews, people bowing their heads and praying it wasn’t theirs, it wasn’t their son or daughter to disappear next. As much as he wanted to enjoy his growing congregation, he had to look the gift horse in its mouth and wonder: didn’t they realize it didn’t help? Hadn’t they seen what had happened to Alice?
“Alice. Hi,” he said, smiling softly at her from behind his desk. His work was abandoned as soon as she made her presence known; the company of his closest friend in Sallybrook was far more interesting than next week’s sermon (which was looking more depressing than it needed to be; Reilly wasn’t sure if he needed to preach hope or strength or sorrow, and wasn’t sure if he’d ever really be sure.) “Yes, absolutely, that would be great.” He stood, walking towards one of the many, many vases that filled his office. “I swear, the florist must’ve found every Christmas-themed flower in the state. I have petals coming out the ears, and absolutely no eye for decor.”
He took a few bouquets in his hands, and passed her a vase as well, leading her out of the room. It was difficult to tell whether people wanted the subject of the Haunt broached or not, and Alice felt almost like the entire town’s struggle on a microcosmic level. Reilly didn’t want to upset her, but what kind of reverend would he be i he left her stranded with her sorrow? He supposed the best thing he could do was ask, so he did: “How are you doing?”
She laughed when he mentioned the florist. She knew him personally, knew how much he loved and cared for the church. His late wife used to bring them all cookies every week, and if they were to deny it, she would insist on making them dinner instead. He continued on the legacy of his wife’s generosity by donating flowers for every season, though during the Christmas season, it went a little overboard. “Wait until Easter. Those are always the most beautiful. Mr. Balucci picks all of my favorite flowers, and then makes a special bouquet just for me. It’s sweet.” She took one of the vases in her arms, knowing that if she carried more than one at a time, he clumsiness would take hold, and she would drop them immediately.
“Maybe this year he’ll make you one too. You could use some more decorations in your office.” She said all of this as she walked, her mind wandering away from her a bit as she spoke, something she did quite often with people she was close to. Reilly, of course, was one of those people. She could talk to him for hours without a care in the world, and there wasn’t a day that went by that she wasn’t grateful for his presence in her life. She never had faith in God’s plan more than when she and Reilly were together, because she knew that He had brought him into her life.
She knew that question held more than it let on, her heart dropping as she looked down at the flowers she was holding so carefully, her jaw locking for a moment as she tried to push her emotions away. So many people had asked her that question, she had almost grown tired of answering it. But this was Reilly, and not some curious neighbor who wanted a peak into her grieving process. “Uhm...” she hummed, holding the vase a little tighter against her chest. “You know, I’m getting by,” she responded with a slight smile, looking up at him with a hopefully convincing look. “Isaiah has been very helpful in talking about...everything. And I think...we’re getting through it.” Tears began to form in her eyes, and so she looked away, picking up her pace and going to the front of the altar, putting the one vase down in the center of it.
“So I was thinking we could do...all of the red ones over by the altar, and only sprinkle a few white ones in there, and then put all of the white ones around the pews themselves?” She turned around to look at him, hoping this would change the conversation. “What do you think?”