Clara’s head quickly turned, but Angela brought it back just in time.
“Discreetly!” Angela warned, locking eyes with Clara until she was satisfied they had an understanding.
This time, Clara’s head barely moved, but her eyes shifted conspicuously in Emily’s direction.
“Yeah, she’s still staring.”
“I knew it. It feels like a dagger in my back.”
“Hey!” Clara announced with gusto.
“Hi?” Angela replied, bewildered, then continued, “we were talking already, right? I’m confused.”
“No, that wasn’t Hey as in Hi, that was Hey as in I just remembered something fun.” From Clara’s pocket, she pulled out an old piece of paper, yellowed with age. “My mom asked me to help clean out her basement and I came across this.”
She unfolded the precious paper and held it for Angela to see.
What opened up in front of her was a welcome time capsule; a reminder of her life before it got messy. Clara presented an illustration of a tree that Angela had authored twenty years ago, yet the memory of the tree’s creation was still surprisingly accessible. On each branch of the tree, instead of leaves, were assortments of seemingly random objects including foods, faces, a soccer ball, a butterfly, a glowing sun, and most noticeably, a cross placed at the peak.
“You remember?” asked Clara. “From when we were in Sunday school. My mom told us to do this assignment. We were given the tree and we had to draw all the things that were important to us.”
“Yes, wow. I actually do remember. You found this in her basement?”
“You wouldn’t believe the things I found down there.”
“I think this one is supposed to be you.” Angela pointed to one of the simplistic faces.
“You think?”
“Of course. What? You don’t think you’re important enough to make my tree? And look, I put a cross at the top. I was such a suck-up. Do you have yours?”
“Mine’s garbage.”
“That’s a little harsh, Clara, don’t you think? It’s a child’s crayon drawing of a tree of love. It’s not supposed to be... Mozart?”
“He did music.”
“Damn.” Angela almost stomped her foot.
“I know it’s not supposed to be Van Gogh, but what I meant was mine’s literally garbage. I think it was thrown out or something. But, this is going to be today’s craft for the kids. So, you can hang yours next to Alex’s.”
Angela was unprepared for the sudden tenderness. Her words formed slowly and hid behind a thin humorous veneer.
“Clara, you’re either so sweet and sentimental that I just love you, or you’re lazy and recycling your mom’s old ideas. I can’t decide which.”
Like a crocodile lying in wait for the kill, a hand shot forth from the stillness behind Angela and grabbed her arm. She instinctively turned around, ready with a ferocious swat. Her social refinements, however, saved her from that embarrassment. Instead, she greeted the intruder with feigned, but convincing warmness.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Tina Brown apologized. “I just wanted to say hi.”
Gary’s wife, Tina, lived on the bright side of things; you could tell she was a permanent resident there by the inexplicable glow that she carried with her wherever she went. Sadly, her positivity was rarely an attribute, as she lacked the depth of any real understanding. Tina once brought a batch of freshly baked cookies to a middle-aged man named Rex Walter because he found out his cancer was terminal. They were delivered with a smile. Three weeks later, he was dead. But on the bright side, her cookies were, indeed, still fresh.
“Hi, Tina. I actually just ran into Gary outside. You got your purse, I see.” Angela made note, yet again, of Tina’s excessively gaudy, but feminine, handbag.
“Yes, what would I do without him?”
Angela almost winced at the comment. Had Tina forgotten her recent loss, or was she just trying to see how much blood would come out if she wiggled the knife?
“Oh, goodness! Sorry, Angela,” Tina found herself apologizing again in record time. “That's not what I meant to say. Of course, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just one of those silly phrases.”
“It’s okay. I get it.” Angela mused over the likelihood of Tina’s honesty.
It was then she noticed Chris, Tina’s son, hidden behind his mother. Although he was barely sixteen, he had transcended the awkward teen stage and appeared amiably put together. A sharp haircut coupled with well-fit jeans and a scandalously low v-neck suggested he was looking to impress. Given his surroundings, the question became, who?
“Oh, hi, ...” Angela instigated the greeting before she had realized Chris’ name had escaped her.
“Chris.” Tina rescued her.
“Right, Chris. I knew that, sorry. Sorry, Chris.”
“No worries.” He offered a meager shrug, appearing distracted from the entire exchange. Something, or someone else, was on his mind.
“I just wanted you to know,” Tina interjected, “that we’re still praying. Gary and I pray every night for Rick’s return and for Alex to get his father back. If you ever need anything...”
“I’ll give you a call, thank you.”
“You just hang in there. You haven’t heard anything lately have you?”
“About?”
“Well, about Rick. Have you heard anything?”
Tina had made a fatal mistake. Her sloppy questions left a foulness in the air between them, and Angela knew she was just fishing for something really meaty to take back to the horde. Their hunger was becoming insatiable.
“No. Not a thing.”
“So, they don’t know anything about why his car was here. They haven’t put that together yet?”
“If they have, they haven’t told me.”
“I see. Well, you just hang in there. I know something’s going to happen soon. I feel it.”
“You feel it, too?” Angela’s deadpan voice betrayed her irritation a little more than she had intended.
Tina finally felt the obligation to acknowledge Clara who had been standing next to Angela for the entire exchange. A pitiful grin was all Clara got before Tina and Chris headed into the sanctuary. Clara felt spoiled even by that.
Angela was drained by the experience. Tina, that parasite, probably stole tiny bits of energy with every word she uttered.
“I should really get back down there and make sure those kids haven’t eaten all the play-dough,” Clara said, half-turned already.
“Okay, get to it.”
“You going to be all right?” she asked Angela with refreshing honesty.
“That question is too close to how are you doing?”
“Fair enough.”
“I’ll see you after the service, though. At the picnic lunch, right?”
“Yeah, I’m the tomato cutter. See you then.”
The two parted ways.
Angela joined the herd, slowly shuffling into the sanctuary. Still standing guard at the door was the ever-stoic Emily. A bulletin was handed out to each passerby with not a single utterance until she got to Angela.
The bulletin was offered, but when Angela tried to take it, Emily’s grip tightened.
“God tests,” Emily coldly announced.
Whether this was supposed to be a comfort or a warning, Angela could not decipher. It was delivered with superb ambiguity. Something darker troubled Angela, however. Regardless of what Emily meant, the saying itself spurred memories – it was familiar. Like trying to remember the tune of a beloved song you have sung a million times, Angela racked her brain. Suddenly, it came to her.
“Rick used to say that,” said Angela.
Emily’s stare collapsed and her eyes went searching, lost in secret thought. Angela watched with astonishment as Emily struggled to piece together a rebuttal, which surely by now was scattered to the wind.
Although the intensity of Emily’s distress was puzzling to Angela, instead of pressing the matter, she decided to yank the bullet
in from Emily’s hand and carry on.
CHAPTER 7
Creaking pews announced every uncomfortable shift as the congregation waited in silence for the service to begin.
Emily was last to enter the sanctuary and did so only after she was positive no one was without a bulletin. She made her way up the aisle and squeezed down a pew, inconveniencing a dozen members in order to claim her seat next to Michael.
On the other side of the room, Angela was sandwiched between two families. The ones closest to the window on her left, though she didn't know their names, she knew they were more than just occasional churchgoers. She judged this mostly by the seriousness with which they sat. To her right, there was Flora and Matthew Thompson. Flora was always the first into the sanctuary as her eighty-year-old bones could no longer handle the trials of the mess hall meet-and-greet. Her grandson, Matthew, who was no older than seventeen, accompanied his grandmother to church whenever his parents could not. He looked just like a miniature adult in a grown-ups’ suit.
Angela scanned the room, but after having awkwardly caught too many secret glances, she decided it was safer just to stare ahead and wait for the minister to begin.
A bald gentleman by the name of Sandy finally lifted the silence with some droning first notes on the electric organ. The tune was simple and slow, designed either to induce spiritual calmness or death by boredom. Gradually, a more youthful piano accompaniment chimed in to keep the music alive. Bruce, who was at least twenty years Sandy’s junior, and with a full head of lengthy dark hair, played the more lively keys. After a few faulty missteps, the two men eventually found a complimentary cohesiveness and achieved a tone of tranquility.
At the back of the sanctuary, Don Hooper entered wearing his minister’s robe and a long piece of embroidered fabric swathed around his shoulders. In unison, the congregation stood up to watch him parade past. His greying hair was slicked back tight to his head emphasizing not only his receding hairline, but also the sharpness of his skull, like Marlon Brando in The Godfather. Bushy eyebrows helped to shroud his eyes in mystery, as if they were constantly hidden behind sunglasses. These quasi-sinister features, however, were put to shame by the generosity of his smile.
As if it had been painstakingly rehearsed, the music ended just as Don reached the pulpit. After laying down his personal Bible, which was overflowing with scraps of paper and post-its, he soaked in the faces of the gathering before him.
“You may be seated,” he gently commanded while lowering his own hands, as if he were conducting the room. Amazingly, everyone sat in perfect harmony.
The Brown family was seated in the front row, like eager groupies, with Tina and Gary’s attention fixed on Don, anxious to absorb whatever Godly insight they could. Chris, on the other hand, was less interested in what he considered the ramblings of a fifty-year-old virgin. Without arousing the suspicion of his parents, Chris afforded himself a quick glance to the other side of the room. He knew exactly who he was looking for and his vision cut through the crowd to catch a glimpse, even if just a fleeting one, of Matthew. He enjoyed the sight of Matthew’s messy blond hair, his eyes that seemed to be only seconds away from sleep, and the kind, gentle curves of his face. Memories of having tasted the salty sensations of his flesh when they were supposed to be studying in his bedroom, took their intoxicating toll on Chris, who became worried about the inappropriate reactions his body might start having. Although Matthew took no notice of Chris’ voyeurism, Chris had decided his appetite was nonetheless satiated for now. He turned back around and dreamed of the approaching church picnic where Matthew and he could do more than just ogle each other.
“Thank you, Bruce,” Don began. “Thank you, Sandy. Once again, we should really be paying you.”
“Oh, God’s love is enough,” Sandy quipped, heartily.
“But a buck wouldn’t hurt?” Don’s response elicited a polite degree of laughter from the congregation. He waited for the amusement to die down before he continued.
“And thank you, Sandy, for that perfect segue into today’s topic: God’s love. Now, I do want to be upfront about this. Today’s sermon will be a little different than what we’re used to. A little darker, maybe. Because, let's face it, these are dark times, aren’t they?” His authoritative gaze fixated on Angela. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. I have forgotten about the announcements. Does anyone have anything they’d care to announce?”
From the back of the church, an eager hand sprang forth, waving insistently like a caffeinated Jack-in-the-box.
“Susan Greenfield,” Don pointed to the flapping appendage. “You have something you’d like to say?”
Like an ascending sun, Susan arose from the placid crowd with infectious enthusiasm. She was a vivacious young woman and obviously a devourer of every pulp beauty magazine on the shelf. She was immaculately constructed. The tint of her skin, the flow of her hair, the tightness of her blouse, nothing was left to the unpredictability of nature. It was a trait she had obviously learned from her equally fashion-conscious mother, sitting next to her. More recently, however, in an almost desperate attempt to prove she was not just a pretty face, Susan had taken to charity.
“Hello, everyone,” she began. “I wanted to remind you that we need your cookies! The fundraiser to fight empty tummies all over the world is happening next weekend and we’re short on baked goods. All the money goes to drilling new water wells in Africa. So please, bake, bake, bake! And lets get some water for some Africans. Thank you.”
From the moment she stood up, Matthew’s eyes were enslaved. He was uncontrollably drawn to her. Although his hormonal urges were titillated by almost anything these days, he was undoubtedly intrigued by her presentation. So much so, in fact, that when she concluded and sat back down, as if he had relinquished all control over himself, he applauded. This died out rather quickly, once the silence of the rest of the room became evident to him. But Chris took notice, and puzzled over Matthew’s public fawning.
Dorothy, who was sitting just a few seats down from Susan, offered her support in the form of a thumbs-up.
“Great, anyone else?” Don asked, and Gary stood up. “Gary Brown, everyone.”
“Thank you, Don. I thought you all should know that the ceiling above our heads is falling apart, but fear not, I’m on the job and we’ll be doing repair work before the first snow. I’m donating my time, and I’m hoping a few others will, too, if you feel so inclined. Thanks.” He sat back down next to Tina, who gripped his hand as if to say she was proud.
“Thank you, Gary. Is that it?”
The room was silent for a moment, lasting anywhere from a minute to a week, at least from Angela’s perspective. She had been sitting in her pew waiting anxiously to make her big announcement. As the stillness plodded on, a tingling spread through her arms and belly. Her legs felt weak and she became convinced that if she stood up, she would most certainly fall flat on her face. However, she had to act. She would not get another chance to tell everyone in one fell swoop. Opportunities like this were momentary, and this moment was just about over. So, she had no choice. To help support the weakness of her legs, she reached out and gripped the pew in front of her. With one powerful heave, she managed to get to her feet. At the same time, however, Emily also stood. Considering Emily’s superior stature, Angela’s momentum was dwarfed. Without acknowledging Angela, Emily committed to her announcement.
“Michael and I are in charge of the Christmas concert this year,” Emily began. “Rehearsals are not optional. If your child wants to be in it, they must be present every Wednesday at six-thirty. We also need help with costumes. If you want to lend a hand, just let us know. We’d appreciate it.” Emily concluded by shooting a couple more daggers Angela’s way before taking her seat.
“Looking forward to it. Angela Morris? You have an announcement as well?” Don shifted the attention to the only person still standing in the room besides himself.
Angela looked around at the forty-six anticipating faces bea
ming up at her.
“Hello. Hi, everyone. I thought I may as well say this to all of you at once. First, I just wanted to say thank you all so much for your compassion and your thoughts.” She had made it through the hardest part—the truth that followed was easier to stomach. “Since Rick went missing, Alex and I have been... This has been a hard time for us, and your help hasn’t gone unnoticed. But, we’re leaving. We’ll be moving at the end of the month. We’re looking for a new life. We can’t just keep waiting for our old one to come back. So, yeah, we’re leaving.”
The congregation stared like she had just announced there was piss in the communion wine. Angela’s pulse pounded a drum solo in her ear. She and Alex were going to move—that was not a lie—but they were only moving to a small apartment building in town, still within driving distance of the church. This detail Angela decided not to reveal.
“So, again,” Angela gracefully finished, “thank you all so much. Really. Thank you.”
Once Angela returned to the safety of her seat, she knew she had set the congregation’s minds aflame. The Browns, the Rosenthals, the Thompsons, she assumed they were all, at that very moment, constructing elaborate storylines where she orchestrated Rick’s disappearance and was now making a hasty escape. Why else would she be so keen on leaving? She fought the urge to stand up again and tell everyone it was just a bad joke. It was tempting, so tempting. But when the murmurs in the congregation grew and the agitation became palpable, she was glad to be rid of the church. She would not take it back for all the blessings in Heaven.
“Well,” Don announced. “I’m sorry to hear that. You and Alex will be deeply missed. But, if you’re sure that’s the journey God wants for you, then you must follow. Mustn’t you?”
Angela nodded vigorously, but only agreed in part.
If this is the journey God wanted for me, then maybe He should have skipped the fucking detours. She smiled as this passed through her head.
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