As usual, my fears fail to manifest. A few folks give me friendly nods but no gushing, oily-handshake salesman materializes, and I commandeer one of the chairs without incident. I keep to an aisle so I can make my escape if necessary, and wait for the service to begin. It’s weird to sit in this big open space that dwarfs the congregation. It feels temporary and amateurish.
Despite my reflexive skepticism, part of me is interested in what the message is going to be, and what Victoria Harkness is going to be like, and why I should have had a hallucination of her dying. I look around, observing the milieu like any good cop. Back behind the podium, leaning against the wall, is a series of paintings. Portraits and landscapes, oils and watercolors, and an obvious range of talent or lack thereof. Claire had told me about the tradition of artistic offerings. I wonder if these are past or current examples.
The other congregants are a variety of types. Mostly dressed in jeans, flannel shirts, sweaters, and the like, it doesn’t feel like an upscale crowd. The majority are white and female. I spot Claire seated next to a man with thinning dark hair, a pronounced widow’s peak and horn-rimmed glasses. She doesn’t notice me. At a few minutes before the hour, people stop trickling in. The whole group numbers about fifty. Assorted noises of gathered humanity sound: rustling garments and muffled coughs and sneezes. The lights remain brightly lit, the naked grocery store fluorescent tubes casting an unflattering light on the people below and turning the speckled broadloom carpet a bilious yellow.
I shift in my chair, crossing my legs. Others shift as well. Some glance at phones or watches. The pastor is late.
Minutes tick by. Now people are looking at each other, frowns and shrugs and raised eyebrows expressing ignorance and surprise. At a quarter past the hour, the man sitting next to Claire stands and walks up to the podium.
“Good evening, folks. As you can see, Pastor Harkness isn’t here yet. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, but until she arrives, let’s adjourn to the fellowship hall.”
I rise with the others. Outside, night has fallen, and the windows have become almost opaque, throwing back the ghostly reflection of moving people. I feel naked without my gun, and I can’t see outside. Someone standing in the parking lot could be watching and I’d never know it.
The people now represent the protection of a crowd, and I hurry to join them.
The fellowship hall is separated from the sanctuary by a partition wall. Some folding tables have been set up with carafes of coffee, tea, and plates of cookies. It has the same broad window wall and high ceilings as the sanctuary.
I normally hate things like this. You know, walking around trying to make small talk with a room full of people who all recognize each other. It’s different when I have a role to play. But I also can’t bring myself to leave — both the incipient anxiety and the unexplained connection I feel with the absent pastor pull me into the throng like a net of knotted ropes.
I angle my mental antennae and go undercover as a prospective congregant. With a cup of surprisingly good coffee in my hand, I nibble a peanut butter cookie and circulate through the people, listening to snippets of conversation. Most are speculating on Harkness’s absence, some advocating sudden illness, a traffic accident, a visit to an ailing follower. I hear anecdotes of the pastor’s surprise visits to her flock to help with gardening, child care, or yard sales. No one seems particularly worried, and I labor to adopt that same attitude as I drift through the eddies and currents of the group, avoiding direct contact, moving in and out of clouds of perfume, aftershave, and stale cigarette smoke.
Around the perimeter of the space are more pictures and displays. One table exhorts people to pony up some cash for the fire sprinkler repair fund. Another encourages community service, asking for signups to volunteer at the county animal shelter or pick up trash along the designated ‘Spirit Mile’ on Highway 101. On a bulletin board with a banner reading ‘Support the Creative Spirit,’ posters advertise local musicians and theater groups as far south as Cannon Beach. I don’t get any sense of political activism or cultish intolerance. Bonus. Maybe it is as open and progressive as advertised. My suspicion drops a few notches, and I’m ready for some light interaction.
Back among the congregants, I gravitate toward a group where the voices sound above the general hum.
“She invited me to come, and now she doesn’t want to engage in honest discussion.” The speaker is a remarkably handsome Asian man, with a shock of thick black hair and chiseled cheeks and long-lashed dark eyes. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt that is currently buttoned up to the top with black pants and shoes. He looks more professional than the people surrounding him, more polished. I sidle closer, nibbling on my second cookie.
“Reverend,” one of the other men is saying, “you know that’s not true. Pastor Harkness is open to hearing whatever anyone has to say —”
“I doubt she wants to listen to me. I don’t approve of what she’s doing here and she knows it.” The reverend has a rich baritone voice that no doubt goes over well in whatever denomination he preaches for.
“It’s not any of your business.” There’s definitely hostility in the tone. “You’ve got your own flock to attend to, and no right to come here to tell us what to believe.”
I now recognize this other man as the fellow who had been sitting next to Claire. The bartender herself joins the small group, and sees me hovering on the edge.
She smiles and speaks to me. “Hello. I’m glad you decided to join us tonight. I’m sorry Pastor Harkness isn’t here.”
Everyone’s attention turns to me, and I
