It all began when Angela caught a rogue football at one of The Bulldog’s big games. Rick was a linebacker and it was his botched pass that had sent the ball flying in the first place. She caught it, as well as Rick’s attention. After that, the two never left each other’s side. He became all she talked about.
Clara often found herself on the phone reminding Angela that her relationship with the high school sports star was not a race, but the two young lovers’ impatient infatuation couldn't be slowed. Angela was eager to leave her old life behind. They were married and had a child within three years. Angela was barely settled into her twenties.
For Clara, this meant Angela had moved on. Her best friend had a family, and, unfortunately, Clara was not part of it. Distance grew, and the echo in the gulf between them reminded her too much of her lonely lunches, so Clara followed in her nagging mother’s footsteps and escaped to teacher’s college. While there, she discovered a passion that she never dreamed could exist in her. Phone calls between the two friends became few and far between, and the ones that did arise were plagued by awkward silences.
Then, three months ago, Clara received a call that changed all that. It was Angela. She needed help, and there was only one friend who came to mind, the one she had almost fully discarded into her past – her trusted Clara. And so Angela confided in her one more time. Her husband, Rick, had vanished. One unremarkable night, he drove off in his car and never returned. The vehicle was found abandoned in the church’s parking lot the morning after he went missing. The driver’s door was open, as if he had expected to return, but never did.
Soon after that, Clara’s treasured phone calls once again became a nightly routine.
Angela tried to keep the personal details of Rick’s last night away from ravenous gossipers – even Clara was not privy to the exact events. But everyone knew from the reports that there were no signs of a struggle, no dubious footprints to track or bread crumbs to follow, only conjecture. With no real leads, the case remained open and Angela was left a semi-widow. Regrettably, her silence on the subject only fueled more rumours with catchy headlines: “Kidnapping on Highway 7”, “Spurned Housewife Buries Husband Deep Under Cornfield”, “Aliens Answered His Prayers”; all of them absurd and none of them sympathetic. Of course, Clara didn't believe a word of any of it.
Since then, Clara devoted much of her time to Angela’s well being. Her selfless endeavours included cooking meals, emotional cheerleading and looking after Angela’s son, Alex, when Angela was still regularly dealing with the police. Her generosity was boundless, and Clara could not have been more thankful for this gift of inclusion.
The sound of tires pawing through dirt returned Clara to the here-and-now of the parking lot. The first congregation member had arrived.
Caught up in her daydreaming, she had neglected her cigarette, which continued to smolder away in her hand. She buried it alive in the field without finishing it, prepared her smiling façade for the first arrivals, and took her position at the entrance to the church.
“Good morning,” came the first greeting of the day. The honour went to the feeble Flora Thompson as she struggled up the steps.
“Ahoy there, Flora,” Clara hollered back. She took Flora by the arm and steadied her. “Matthew didn’t bring you today?”
“Oh yes, he did. He drove these tired old bones all the way out here yet again. Precious boy. He’s just getting my chair out of the car.”
“Looks like it’s going to be a lovely day.”
“What?”
“Looks like a lovely day.”
“Yes, the Lord’s offered us a treat this morning, hasn’t He?”
“He certainly has.”
CHAPTER 5
A car that looked like it had survived some kind of bomb testing chugged into the crowded parking lot. It headed straight past the church and squeezed into a spot between an equally worn-down pickup truck and an immaculately kept van. As the car finally came to a halt, the sound of Annie Lennox belting, Love is A Stranger seeped out over the quieted engine.
Angela kicked open her stubborn door and stepped out sporting a pair of sunglasses. Her conservative and gloomy attire was only a veil and a black handbag short of being appropriate for a funeral. After a satisfying inhale, she slammed the door closed.
“She still running?” a disembodied voice called out from behind the van.
Angela searched for the voice’s owner. Eventually, Gary Brown emerged from behind his vehicle wearing a grey suit that didn't quite sit right on him. He smiled tenderly and nodded to her.
“You kidding?” she replied with vigor. “This baby’s been running longer than I have. I can’t imagine her stopping anytime soon.”
“Is that so?” Gary playfully teased back with the subtlest sprinkling of real concern.
Alex jumped out of Angela’s back seat like a dog after a rabbit and darted straight for the church, his red hair springy and wild.
“Whoa, buddy! Not so fast. Come on back here first.” Her command was firm.
“Why?” Alex rebutted, testing his mother’s sternness. She immediately proved he had yet to reach its limits.
“Never you mind why, just come on over here ‘cause I asked you, mister.”
Alex stood his ground, but she could see he was starting to budge. She pretended to pick up an old two-way radio and mimed turning it on. She spoke into it like a gruff soldier, complete with her best impression of radio-static noises.
Gary observed this behaviour from a distance, delight spread across his face.
“Come in echo one,” she began. “This is echo two, are you there? Over.”
Alex tried to appear unimpressed, but his right hand started to form a grip around his invisible radio.
“Echo one, can you hear me? What are your coordinates? Over,” she continued.
“This is echo one, I’m standing right in front of you.” Alex had resisted for as long as he could.
“This is echo two, is your message over? Cause you didn’t say over. Over.”
“Stop being difficult. Over.”
“I need you to return to base before heading into the church, that’s an order. Over.”
“What for? Over.”
“That’s top secret information, soldier. Over and out.”
The walkie-talkies disintegrated back into the air from where they had come, and Alex moped over to his mother. However, when he was just out of her reach, he was halted by a realization.
“You promise not to wipe my face?” he asked innocently.
“I’m not going to wipe your face.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
He took another step toward her and was betrayed in a flash. With inhuman speed, Angela had wetted her palm with her spit and lathered it all over his face.
“Mom! Stop!” His agony was palpable, yet she showed no mercy. She ran her damp fingers through the clumps of his hair to lend some order to the chaos.
“You want your hair a mess?” She took a second to straighten his Sunday clothes then announced, “Okay, now go ahead.”
He scampered off toward the church. A few other children arrived at the same time and Alex enthusiastically greeted them. Together, they disappeared out of Angela’s sight.
“You’re doing just fine, you know that?” Gary offered some encouragement. Although Angela was faintly annoyed that he felt she needed encouragement, it came from a kind place and she accepted it anyway.
“Thanks, Gary.”
“You ever need anything, you can give us a call. Only, I will warn that Tina is downright desperate for some, you know, female talk. So, if you get her on the line, she’s liable to draw blood with her yammering. Last conversation, I timed her. Three hours. She talked for three hours.”
“Thanks for the warning,” she replied between laughs.
“And if your old ride there starts falling apart on you, you just bring it on into the shop. I’ll take a look at it, free of charge. Alrig
ht?”
“Oh, Gary, you really don’t have to do that.”
“Lending a hand never hurt anybody.”
“Unless they don’t get it back.” Angela chuckled at her own joke, worried that if she didn't, neither would Gary.
“Well, I’ll see you in there.” He delivered a sympathetic smile and departed toward the church.
“Yep!” Angela took note of the purse Gary carried under his arm as he headed inside. It was a distinctly feminine bag in a soft pastel blue, presumably his wife’s. Angela hated it.
She turned to the side mirror of her car and quickly examined her reflection. Angela was not often concerned with her appearance. In fact, she often disregarded it completely. However, there were certain days when she knew she would be scrutinized, or rather, dissected by bladed eyeballs. Once the people in the church heard what she had to say, she knew this was to be one of those days. Though faith brought the congregation together, Angela knew it was gossip that kept them satiated. And they were starved.
A stale gust of wind playfully twirled dirt around her feet. Angela stopped to admire the fluid motions of the dance. It was not that long ago when she would have ignored such a treasure.
She looked to see where the wind originated from, as if expecting to find God huffing and puffing. What she saw was an empty field cowering under the ever-watchful Burward forest, with its lifeless trees crowded together like the tombstones of an ill-planned cemetery.
A decaying well—long abandoned—near the edge of the parking lot, managed to trap some wind and send the doomed gusts howling into its depths. The deathly whistle that resulted gave Angela shivers that overwhelmed the delight she had felt moments earlier.
The beauty had been soured.
She plucked a loose eyelash from her face and headed toward the building, into the den of ravenous lambs.
CHAPTER 6
The mess hall stirred with its usual social fervor. People roamed about the large room with Styrofoam cups of coffee and perky smiles to match.
Most did not deviate from the safety of their family units - each cohesive clan moved as if they shared a single mind. One clan would greet the other and begin an exhaustive update about the week’s events. Such events included the weather, the price of gas, or how they mourned the passing of summer and could not wait for its annual resurrection next year. Once this falderal was concluded, they would detach and move onto the next family. This ritual was the same every Sunday and everyone knew their role backwards and forwards.
This cycle could only be broken by the wild cards – the ones who didn’t have wives and husbands and children. Solitary people were unpredictable and therefore unsafe. No one knew of the secret life of the loner. The forbidden topic of what one does when they are alone was an affront to the wholesome family. What interesting weekly tidbit could the loner recount? Their struggle to find purpose in their lives or perhaps the number of times they indulged in some dastardly masturbation? Neither of these topics concerned the happily self-sufficient, self-oriented families milling through the space.
Being acutely aware of this, Clara had retreated into the basement to prepare for Sunday school.
Her mother, Dorothy, on the other hand, situated herself as the main attraction by the entrance of the sanctuary armed with bulletins. She watched over the undulating crowd of God-fearing socialites accompanied by the intimidatingly tall Emily Rosenthal, who was yet again wearing an impressively unfashionable dress. Although most of Emily’s wardrobe seemed to have been stolen from dead widows, there was something to be said for their charmingly homemade look. No one was fooled, however; it was clear, hidden under her stuffy garments, was the body of a woman who could crush most men—something Emily seemed determined to hide.
Dorothy beamed her infectious smile into the room, while Emily simply looked as though she was standing guard.
“Did you notice the changes?” Dorothy spontaneously inquired.
“To what?” Emily’s voice was shockingly sweet and at complete odds with the body that brought it forth.
“To the spacing.” Dorothy lifted one of bulletins she had prepared for the day’s service. “You know Flora Thompson? At the end of last Sunday’s service, she told me she was finding it hard to see the hymn numbers.”
Emily’s blank stare was unrelenting, but it took more than that to stop Dorothy.
“She said they were too small, ‘cause of the spacing. The problem was how they were spaced, so if you look at the bulletins, you’ll see I changed the spacing.” She took a second to muster her conclusion. “And there’s more spacing now. So, you shouldn’t run into that problem anymore.”
“That’s just great. I’m sure Mrs. Thompson will be thankful.”
“I just hope the spacing is adequate. Once you change the spacing, you know, even one little bit, then that’s it! The whole thing is thrown out of balance.”
The two women nodded to each other as if this was a problem they were well-accustomed to.
Emily returned her gaze to the room, marginally warmed from her interaction with Dorothy. Her eyes settled on her husband, Michael. He stood across the room from her and gave a nod in response. Michael was a mountain of a man to match Emily’s own considerable form. He looked like the kind of lumberjack that could carry a tree over his shoulder after chopping it down with his bare hands. He had recently taken to only shaving once every three days, so hair generously sprinkled his face. Emily hated that, but had reserved her annoyance to herself as she did most things.
The front door to the church swung open and the wood let out a terrible groan. Heads turned to greet Angela as she spilled into the room, ushered in by the fleeting sunlight creeping in behind her. There was an audible change in the crowd. Conversations quieted and attention shifted; the star had arrived.
As the door slowly closed itself, Angela straightened the wrinkles from her pants, filled her lungs with a breath of determination, and headed toward the coffee table.
“Okay,” Emily said to Dorothy, “there’s Angela, finally. I saw Alex running around here a bit ago. She really should keep a better watch over him, or she’ll lose him, too.”
“That poor girl,” Dorothy lamented with almost comical emphasis.
“Yes.” Emily was obviously annoyed at Dorothy’s unbridled sympathy.
“How long has it been now? Two months?”
“Three. Rick went missing in August.”
“Oh, that poor thing. Can you imagine not knowing? I think that would be torture. Awful. And now she has to raise Alex all alone.” Dorothy’s voice faltered as painful memories trickled back. “When I lost Albert, God was all I had to turn to. Of course, Clara was nowhere near as young as Alex, but still.”
“Yes, Dorothy, it’s terrible. But I have faith everything will work out. As long as she keeps the Holy Spirit in her heart, God will give her the strength to carry on.”
“That’s right,” Dorothy tenderly added, “and she’s shown tremendous strength already. I’m sure she’ll be able to endure.”
They watched as Angela fumbled her way through the cream and sugar, adding liberal amounts of both to her coffee.
“She looks to be doing just fine, doesn’t she?” Emily remarked.
“Looks can deceive, poor thing.”
“Rick’s name is still in the call for prayer, right?” Emily asked, turning her body fully to face Dorothy.
“Of course.”
Dorothy’s stout little frame stood with confidence until doubt got the better of her. She opened one of the bulletins and hastily flipped through it.
“Oh shit, it’s not.” Her abrupt profanity sent shockwaves through Emily’s entire body. Still, few people could swallow their indignation like Emily could.
“Sorry, Emily,” Dorothy apologized. “Pardon me. I should see Don about Rick’s missing name. We can’t have that go overlooked. Are you okay here?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Dorothy smiled and patted Emily on the shoulder,
despite barely being able to reach it. She then embarked on her journey to find Don in the sanctuary, leaving Emily with the task of bestowing every member with a bulletin.
Angela leaned against the coffee table. The sea of shifting bodies mingling before her was daunting, so the sturdy wooden support provided much needed anchorage.
After taking another drink of coffee, she made a promise to herself; just one more sip and she would venture out onto the rough waters. This promise had also been made five sips ago, but this time she meant it.
“Angela!” A saving grace emerged in the form of Clara, bounding across the room toward her.
“Clara!” Angela tried to match her friend’s enthusiasm, but as usual, it was futile.
Clara wrapped both her arms around Angela, almost knocking her coffee onto the ground and Angela off her feet. The pressure built up in Angela’s head from the force of Clara’s bear hug. Eventually, she was released.
“Angela,” she spoke seriously now.“How are you doing?”
“You know, I told you I can’t keep answering that question everyday.”
“I know, I know, sorry.”
“How are you doing?”
“My mom’s doing well; she was worried about the spacing of the new bulletin or something. You know how she is, fretting about everything, as is the usual. All the kids are settled in downstairs, so, things are good!”
“I haven’t seen your mom yet.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“I have something serious to ask you.” Angela’s voice lowered as if she were about to slip Clara a secret folder of government documents. “Clara, I need you to discreetly look over my shoulder and tell me if I’m still caught in Emily Rosenthal’s gaze of eternal damnation.”
Worship Me Page 2
