white-knuckle flyer, I was working on control myself. Whether it was the diamond brilliance of the day or the fact that Zack never let go of my hand, my pulse didn’t lurch into triple digits during the hour and fifteen minutes we were in the air. When the mountains came into view, Zack leaned towards me. “How would you like to come out here for our honeymoon?”
I turned to him. “I’d love it,” I said. “I love the mountains and the sky and the trees and the air and the light. When the kids were all at home, we used to strap our ski equipment to the luggage rack of the station wagon and drive here for the weekend.”
“I didn’t know you skied.”
“Well, we do. Mieka’s really good,” I said.
“We could get a place out here if you want,” he said.
“Skiing wouldn’t be much fun for you,” I said.
“But it’d be fun to watch,” he said.
Beverly Parker’s church was on the airport side of the city. It was a sprawling octagon surrounded by a parking lot with enough spaces to service a mid-sized shopping mall. Our cab dropped us off at the main entrance where a burly man with a brushcut, a fixed smile, and eyes glazed with the joy of being born again greeted us. He pumped Zack’s hand. “I recognize you from the trial,” he said. “Thank you for clearing Sam Parker’s name.” The man took my hand and pumped it. “Welcome,” he said. “We’re glad you’re here.” His eyes slipped over Glenda and focused at a point beyond my shoulder. “More people arriving,” he said. “This is going to be a big one.”
“Thank you for helping us honour my father, Mr. Phillips,” Glenda said to the man’s retreating back.
“Someone you know?” Zack asked.
“My Little League coach,” Glenda said. “Taught me how to throw a curve ball.”
Zack picked up on the tension in Glenda’s voice. “Even assholes have their uses,” he said evenly. He looked around. “So what’s the deal with this church – it is a church, isn’t it?”
“Not just
The sign was tasteful; the lobby, less so. The Samuel and Beverly Parker Atrium had all the defining features of an overpriced shoddily built hotel: the soaring glass roof, the water fountain that spewed eternal healing streams of recirculated water, the small forest of flourishing tropical plants, the groupings of plush, welcoming couches and chairs. But there were also concessions to the day-to-day demands of running a church that apparently aimed to meet all its parishioners’ needs. Signs indicated the location of gyms and meeting rooms. A wall was lined with machines that dispensed soft drinks, chips, and candy bars. A large pixelboard streamed announcements of events that would fill the calendars of the faithful from cradle to grave: Moms and Moppets, Junior Explorers, Volleyball (boys), Volleyball (girls), Teen Movie Night, Networking for Success, Family Life, Single-again Bridge, Estate Planning for Seniors.
Zack was fascinated by the range of activities. “If you belonged to this church, you’d never have to leave the building,” he said.
“That’s the idea,” Glenda said dryly. “They want to keep you safe from the taint of secular humanism.” She squared her shoulders. “I guess we’d better go into the worship space. I doubt if anyone’s reserved a seat for me.”
The large auditorium had a stage, a podium, and hundreds of seats banked theatre-style. The place was already packed, but there was an accessibility section in the first row that still had room. We settled in and listened as a disembodied voice on the sound system announced that television screens had been set up in the gymnasium and meeting rooms and overflow seating was available. Finally, Beverly Parker entered and took her place, not far at all from where we were sitting. In a terrible and tasteless cosmic joke, the suit she was wearing bore an uncanny resemblance to Glenda’s.
Even Zack noticed. He leaned close to Glenda and whispered, “It looks better on you,” and the three of us exchanged furtive smiles. It was our last light moment. When Sam’s casket, mahogany, dark, and gleaming, was carried in, Glenda’s intake of breath was jagged. After the pallbearers had set the casket in place, Beverly stood and placed a simple spray of roses on its lid. The flowers were of the same delicate pink as Alberta’s provincial flower, the wild rose, and I swallowed hard.
The service was simple and mercifully short. The hymns, played over the public address system, had a professional slickness that kept them from tugging at the heart; the eulogy, delivered by an old rancher friend of Sam’s, was brief and affectionate. The minister delivered the prayers and read the psalms with practised ease, and when he offered the benediction, I thought we were home free. But as the pallbearers picked up the casket and started back down the aisle, Sam’s voice filled the auditorium. He sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” in a voice so strong, sweet, and passionate that it seemed impossible it would ever be stilled. Beside me, Glenda slumped and covered her face with her hands. After the last note had died, she straightened and fixed her eyes on the space where the coffin had been. I took her hand in mine. There were no words to ease the sting of that moment.
As we made our way out of the church, I noticed an ugly and unmistakable phenomenon. Many people recognized Zack and came over to thank him for helping Sam. Picking up on my connection with Zack, people nodded and thanked me for coming. But no one acknowledged Glenda’s presence. The shunning was corrosive. Glenda chewed her lip. “Apparently the mercy of our Lord and Saviour doesn’t extend to me,” she said.
Zack turned to his wheelchair to the door. “Let’s get the rock out of Dodge,” he said. “There’s a bar at the airport. We could all use a drink.”
“Good plan,” I said. “Let me pay a quick visit to the bathroom, and I’ll be right with you.”
“They’re a little hard to find,” Glenda said. “I’ll come with you.”
We walked across the atrium together, and Glenda guided me down a corridor that led to the bathrooms. She pointed to the Women’s. “Success,” she said. “I might as well come in too.”
A woman came through the door, spotted us, and stepped in front of Glenda. “That’s yours over there,” she said pointing to the Men’s.
I glared at her. “Not any more.” I opened the door to the Women’s bathroom. “After you, Glenda,” I said, and like heroines in an old movie, Samuel Parker’s daughter and I swept in.
