Not one for idle gossip or small talk, Mrs. Gregory often filled our mealtimes by reading from a cherished volume she seemed to carry from room to room with her: a thick book called Science and Health. And on many a cold evening that past winter, once supper had been cleared and the dishes set to soaking, Mrs. Gregory had gathered us all in her parlor before a hearty fire, and there she read aloud or she prayed, encouraging each of her children to participate. “It’s the healing power of the spirit that cures our feeble frames,” she’d said on more than one occasion. She spoke long and boldly, warning us that “our ailments come not from the body but from the soul.”
Papa did not eat from the bowl of offered beef stew that evening, but from the way his pale features stitched together, I could tell that he was thinking over what our hostess had said. And as the weeks passed and Mother’s improbable admiration for Mrs. Gregory seemed to grow, she took an increasing interest in our hostess’s ideas of healing and spirituality.
One night, as we sat before the fire, Mother patched up Papa’s socks as Mrs. Gregory read aloud from her worn copy of Science and Health. When our hostess took a break from the book splayed across her lap to sip her tea, Mother cleared her throat and leaned forward. “I wonder, Mrs. Gregory…”
“Yes, dear?”
Mother’s tone was tenuous as she asked: “Might I have a turn reading?”
“Course you can,” said Mrs. Gregory.
Mother took the heavy book, which looked even thicker in her small hands. Then, with her voice clearer and more confident than I’d heard it in months, she began to read aloud: “God is good. God is Mind, and God is infinite; hence, all is Mind.”
Papa looked on, his features furrowing in keen concentration as Mother continued: “Spirit is the real and eternal; matter is the unreal and temporal. Spirit is God, and man is His image. Therefore man is not material; he is spiritual.” My mind failed to grasp these long and meandering sentences, laced as they were with words beyond my comprehension, and soon my attention turned toward Mrs. Gregory’s cat as it nuzzled my legs. But even as I began to doze off, lulled by the warmth of the hearth and the fullness in my belly, by Mother’s cadenced reading, I noticed that my parents remained fixed in their chairs even as the spring twilight turned to dark night, and that all three of us moved to our bedrooms much later than usual that evening.
* * *
—
The next night, Papa returned and sat down as we were eating supper. It had been a pleasantly mild day, with the promise of a gentler season evident in the longer hours of sunlight, the lessening of the bite in the wind. For the first time since we’d arrived in Battle Creek, Papa did not look as if he had to thaw his trembling body before the fire. His cheeks had a faint glow of color, but it did not appear to be simply a chapping from the frigid air.
Dinner that night was a fragrant spread of whole roasted chicken cooked with carrots and potatoes, the steam curling in languid ribbons over the table, filling the small dining room with a medley of delicious smells. Papa stared at our plates heaped with food as the dish before him remained empty.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,” Mrs. Gregory said, staring squarely into the pale blue of Papa’s eyes. “You’re welcome to join in our supper. There is nothing here that will harm you—except fear.”
Papa raised his hands to decline, as was his custom, but then he paused, the tint in his cheeks brightening the slightest bit. And then, to my surprise, he shrugged. “Perhaps just a small bite.”
Mrs. Gregory bit her lower lip, perhaps bridling a grin, and then, ignoring the tepidness of the acceptance, she heaped a plate of chicken with rosemary potatoes and carrots for Papa, spooning the flavorful broth generously over the entire dish. “When you finish that, you can have more. Eat anything you want. It is what you need; you’ve gone for too long without good food.”
Apparently Papa agreed, however silently, because he ate his entire portion. I stared on in wonder, exchanging a wordless glance with Mother. Mrs. Gregory, for her part, did not mask her approval. When the meal was over, she declared: “I’ll put the leftovers in the icebox, Mr. Post, and should hunger pangs bother you during the night, you just come help yourself.”
* * *
I awoke the following morning and found, to my surprise, Papa there to greet me at breakfast—having walked down the stairs on his own—with the first real smile I’d seen on his face in many months. “Papa!” I ran to him, my delight overtaking me as I let out an undignified hoot and squeal for which I was certain Mother would reprimand me, but I didn’t care. I squeezed him in a hug, and to my dizzying joy, Papa returned the embrace. I took the place beside him at the table. Papa helped himself to Mrs. Gregory’s offerings that morning: ham and eggs, pancakes, even a slice of toast soaked in her homemade butter.