all. None of the words of church made sense to her. The Creed—what part of that could she say she believed? Resurrection of the body, life everlasting, not those…She thought of her mother and father falling to shreds in their graves, and then, sharply, of Lorraine. But Lorraine would get better.
But she did not think so.
The long communion prayers wore on, and Paul lifted the cup. A slight commotion rose in the back of the church: a man came in, walking too loudly. Frank Rich, the doe-eyed sidesman, helped him to a leaflet out of habit. From the corner of her eye Clara could see that it was a stumbling drunk. She was glad the children were at home.
The man wore a big black felt hat. He veered slowly up the aisle, working against gravity, but advancing—an oil tanker, inexorable toward the coast. When he passed Clara his hand fell heavily on the arched end of the pew in front of her: large, oddly clean, long-fingered, with veins standing out, like the close-up of a surgeon’s hand in an old movie. She glanced up to see his face under the shadow of his hat. Pock-marked skin, squinting eyes still aiming for the altar. He was not very old for a wino.
The congregation was still and silent, waiting.
Paul found drunks difficult, and braced himself to leap over his fear and distaste. But it was right that the man should come to church, and somehow strengthening that the congregation would be worried and ashamed. Brushing from whom the stiffened puke / i put him all into my arms / and staggered banged with terror through / a million billion trillion stars… The man held out his cupped hands at the rail and Paul gave him communion—the wine too—then let Frank Rich usher him down to the front pew. But he stood again, very tall, and came back up to the rail.
“Are you in trouble?” Paul asked.
The man’s head lifted. His eyes stared into Paul’s, their focus coming slowly home, resolving into human sense and pain.
Down in the pews the congregation shifted. Clara could feel the cowardly anxiety of well-off people in the presence of disaster. And felt it herself. Paul was talking so quietly that no one could hear the words. The man answered, louder but unintelligible. He was swaying now. He bent down to hold the rail. Paul lifted the movable section, took the man’s arm and helped him out the side door to the vestry. Paul’s murmur covered the man’s ramblings as they went so that Clara could not hear anything but a noise of confusion and sorrow. He is good, Clara thought, a little surprised.
Paul was gone a long time. The congregation sat meditating on communion, or on alcoholism, or the homeless, or the poor whom we have always with us, Clara thought; or just aimlessly, peacefully, passing the time. Remembering her own responsibility, she prayed for Lorraine, the words wooden and empty.
Dolly slid her thin body between the sharp-twigged hedge and the fencepole, into the back yard of the house beside Clary’s. She needed something to do, to stop from thinking all the time. The next-door guy had yelled at his wife for a while, Come on, come on, come on, and when she went scurrying through she slammed the front door to lock it. But Dolly was betting she had not locked the back door. Yes, it opened.
The back landing was the same inside as Clary’s, but switched over, reversed. It was dark and smelled of stinky meat. Dolly slipped between piles of newspapers lining the steps, up the wrong side into the kitchen. Brown and gold linoleum, the same as Mrs. Lyne’s trailer in Winnipeg, dark brown cupboards. The counters under the cupboards were stacked with old magazines. No cookie jars. Dolly checked the fridge—no cake. Leftover casserole with crusty macaroni around the edges. In the pantry she found a bag of pretzels with an elastic band around it. She unrolled the bag and ate a few, walking around the wrong-way circle of kitchen, dining room, living room. It was weird to be in a backwards house, like folding
But she did not think so.
The long communion prayers wore on, and Paul lifted the cup. A slight commotion rose in the back of the church: a man came in, walking too loudly. Frank Rich, the doe-eyed sidesman, helped him to a leaflet out of habit. From the corner of her eye Clara could see that it was a stumbling drunk. She was glad the children were at home.
The man wore a big black felt hat. He veered slowly up the aisle, working against gravity, but advancing—an oil tanker, inexorable toward the coast. When he passed Clara his hand fell heavily on the arched end of the pew in front of her: large, oddly clean, long-fingered, with veins standing out, like the close-up of a surgeon’s hand in an old movie. She glanced up to see his face under the shadow of his hat. Pock-marked skin, squinting eyes still aiming for the altar. He was not very old for a wino.
The congregation was still and silent, waiting.
Paul found drunks difficult, and braced himself to leap over his fear and distaste. But it was right that the man should come to church, and somehow strengthening that the congregation would be worried and ashamed. Brushing from whom the stiffened puke / i put him all into my arms / and staggered banged with terror through / a million billion trillion stars… The man held out his cupped hands at the rail and Paul gave him communion—the wine too—then let Frank Rich usher him down to the front pew. But he stood again, very tall, and came back up to the rail.
“Are you in trouble?” Paul asked.
The man’s head lifted. His eyes stared into Paul’s, their focus coming slowly home, resolving into human sense and pain.
Down in the pews the congregation shifted. Clara could feel the cowardly anxiety of well-off people in the presence of disaster. And felt it herself. Paul was talking so quietly that no one could hear the words. The man answered, louder but unintelligible. He was swaying now. He bent down to hold the rail. Paul lifted the movable section, took the man’s arm and helped him out the side door to the vestry. Paul’s murmur covered the man’s ramblings as they went so that Clara could not hear anything but a noise of confusion and sorrow. He is good, Clara thought, a little surprised.
Paul was gone a long time. The congregation sat meditating on communion, or on alcoholism, or the homeless, or the poor whom we have always with us, Clara thought; or just aimlessly, peacefully, passing the time. Remembering her own responsibility, she prayed for Lorraine, the words wooden and empty.
Dolly slid her thin body between the sharp-twigged hedge and the fencepole, into the back yard of the house beside Clary’s. She needed something to do, to stop from thinking all the time. The next-door guy had yelled at his wife for a while, Come on, come on, come on, and when she went scurrying through she slammed the front door to lock it. But Dolly was betting she had not locked the back door. Yes, it opened.
The back landing was the same inside as Clary’s, but switched over, reversed. It was dark and smelled of stinky meat. Dolly slipped between piles of newspapers lining the steps, up the wrong side into the kitchen. Brown and gold linoleum, the same as Mrs. Lyne’s trailer in Winnipeg, dark brown cupboards. The counters under the cupboards were stacked with old magazines. No cookie jars. Dolly checked the fridge—no cake. Leftover casserole with crusty macaroni around the edges. In the pantry she found a bag of pretzels with an elastic band around it. She unrolled the bag and ate a few, walking around the wrong-way circle of kitchen, dining room, living room. It was weird to be in a backwards house, like folding
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