For years, he did very well. He earned all the money he wanted
until, one day, he abandoned that road as well. Why? There were, it seemed, a
number of reasons. Among them was that Lowther could not be certain he was not
adding to the misery of the world. He pitied the men and women who couldnât pay for their cars or who lacked the discipline to be faithful to their
spouses. They were, he thought, versions of himself. So, in a moment of
contrition, he quit his job and deliberately chose to do the things that, at
the time, appealed to him least. He moved to Barrow and began to work for St.
Maryâs. He taught himself to live on next to nothing, and he gave himself completely
to menial work.
     The first years of his life in Barrow were almost unbearably tedious. He
maintained the churchâs Volkswagen and cooked for Father Fowler. He did the same things, day in and
day out. He forced himself to do them without complaint, though the
insignificance of his new life ate away at his self-esteem. He began to think
that no man who respected himself would settle for the life he had chosen.
     And then the moment came without warning: he learned to surrender. It was early
spring, a year before Father Pennantâs arrival. Lowther had walked out of town in the direction of the Queen. The sun
was up. There was a cold wind. And he was at peace with himself. Thatâs all and that was it: nothing sacred, nothing grand or earth-shattering,
nothing that could be shared or passed on. A cold wind. A blue sky. But from
that day on, his tasks became fascinating to him. The way one washed or wiped
dishes, the way one swept a floor or drove a car: all these duties seemed human
and inexpressibly interesting. Less had finally led him to more.
     â You learned to live differently, said Father Pennant. You became a good man.
     â I learned to live differently, but Iâm not a good man, answered Lowther.
     â What makes you say that? After everything youâve told me, you seem like an exceptionally good man. Not many people change
their lives the way you did.
     Lowther smiled noncommittally and said
     â We can talk about this later, if youâre still interested, Father. I really should practise now. Otherwise I wonât get my two hours in. Is that all right?
     â Yes, said Father Pennant. Of course. Sorry to keep you.
     Lowther went up to play the cello.
     It was difficult for Father Pennant to understand why Tomasine Humble had been
so vicious about the man.
Though itâs sad to admit, Tomasine Humbleâs death was not significant in the way the death of a popular person is
significant. Her funeral service was not a memorable occasion, save perhaps for
the five old people who attended, for Father Pennant who presided and for the
men who dug her grave. Then again, the least death has a weight or sensation to
it. A community eddies, if only slightly, to fill a place that had been
occupied, and it does so mournfully or happily or with indifference. In very
little time, all those who had known her, however well, however vaguely, knew
that Tomasine had died and that she had been buried. The circumstances
surrounding her death were important to some â especially those her age who felt their own deaths were just around the corner â and insignificant to most. That she was dead was the meaningful thing, along
with the fact she had left no heirs, no money, no property.
     After Tomasineâs burial, the ground in the graveyard was more dense than it had been, with
another body â like cold, curdled earth â Â to digest. The currents of air that visited Barrow had one less person to circle
or caress. And the wind as it blew through town made a sound ever
until, one day, he abandoned that road as well. Why? There were, it seemed, a
number of reasons. Among them was that Lowther could not be certain he was not
adding to the misery of the world. He pitied the men and women who couldnât pay for their cars or who lacked the discipline to be faithful to their
spouses. They were, he thought, versions of himself. So, in a moment of
contrition, he quit his job and deliberately chose to do the things that, at
the time, appealed to him least. He moved to Barrow and began to work for St.
Maryâs. He taught himself to live on next to nothing, and he gave himself completely
to menial work.
     The first years of his life in Barrow were almost unbearably tedious. He
maintained the churchâs Volkswagen and cooked for Father Fowler. He did the same things, day in and
day out. He forced himself to do them without complaint, though the
insignificance of his new life ate away at his self-esteem. He began to think
that no man who respected himself would settle for the life he had chosen.
     And then the moment came without warning: he learned to surrender. It was early
spring, a year before Father Pennantâs arrival. Lowther had walked out of town in the direction of the Queen. The sun
was up. There was a cold wind. And he was at peace with himself. Thatâs all and that was it: nothing sacred, nothing grand or earth-shattering,
nothing that could be shared or passed on. A cold wind. A blue sky. But from
that day on, his tasks became fascinating to him. The way one washed or wiped
dishes, the way one swept a floor or drove a car: all these duties seemed human
and inexpressibly interesting. Less had finally led him to more.
     â You learned to live differently, said Father Pennant. You became a good man.
     â I learned to live differently, but Iâm not a good man, answered Lowther.
     â What makes you say that? After everything youâve told me, you seem like an exceptionally good man. Not many people change
their lives the way you did.
     Lowther smiled noncommittally and said
     â We can talk about this later, if youâre still interested, Father. I really should practise now. Otherwise I wonât get my two hours in. Is that all right?
     â Yes, said Father Pennant. Of course. Sorry to keep you.
     Lowther went up to play the cello.
     It was difficult for Father Pennant to understand why Tomasine Humble had been
so vicious about the man.
Though itâs sad to admit, Tomasine Humbleâs death was not significant in the way the death of a popular person is
significant. Her funeral service was not a memorable occasion, save perhaps for
the five old people who attended, for Father Pennant who presided and for the
men who dug her grave. Then again, the least death has a weight or sensation to
it. A community eddies, if only slightly, to fill a place that had been
occupied, and it does so mournfully or happily or with indifference. In very
little time, all those who had known her, however well, however vaguely, knew
that Tomasine had died and that she had been buried. The circumstances
surrounding her death were important to some â especially those her age who felt their own deaths were just around the corner â and insignificant to most. That she was dead was the meaningful thing, along
with the fact she had left no heirs, no money, no property.
     After Tomasineâs burial, the ground in the graveyard was more dense than it had been, with
another body â like cold, curdled earth â Â to digest. The currents of air that visited Barrow had one less person to circle
or caress. And the wind as it blew through town made a sound ever
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