My Google Drive is full Part I

 and I don't want to buy more storage. So, I've decided to copy and past one of my little stories here for free preservation. It seems like years have passed since I wrote this, but it's really only been 10 months or so. It's "finished" insofar as it has a beginning, a middle, and an end; and because I don't think I care for it enough to come back to it.

H.LP-B

Story 6.

Idea: memory of daydreaming during church

I was shot on the third Sunday of April when I was 13 during the 10 a.m. service at Christ Church.

I was never a good parishioner, not really, and that is saying a lot when you are an Episcopalian. Our church’s slogan read: Everyone is welcome here. One parishioner did not like some of the other members, and had asked that the sign be modified to read: Nearly everyone is welcome here. The lackadaisical openness meant the church welcomed anyone, even racist idiots or, even worse, non believers. I told my parents I did not think much of any of the religion part; I disliked the stories since they spewed nonsense; I had homework to finish; Music was my religion. And yet, again and again I would find myself at church every Sunday. My corporeal existence remained tethered to my parents' decisions. My mother, who was raised Catholic, converted and was Confirmed when I was 6, while my father had adopted a more relaxed approach. I think he saw religion primarily as a tool for teaching responsibility and commitment. We never prayed over meals, or gave up meat on Fridays. That was too Catholic (and meant there was more time for the food to get cold).

It started as most Sundays had before. Mom had let me sleep in, deciding that I looked good enough to forgo a shower and that my attitude would benefit from the extra 20 minutes of sleep. Yet, shortly after rising, we argued, as we had every week prior, over my choice of attire. I was obliged to list the three benefits to acolyting, as I saw it: the alb served to dissemble my disinterest in dress clothing; acolytes received communion before the congregation; and Susan Michaels, the People’s Warden, always saved the acolytes hefty slices of cake during the coffee hour that followed the service. I kept the last point to myself to spare a lecture on over-eating.

While I still thought arguing would make a difference, my sister did not and had diligently dressed herself in a dark skirt, tights, and loose-fitting sweater. She looked neat. Our mom remarked on how nice Juliet looked. Juliet smiled, and continued to witness my tantrum while crunching on toast, a pleasure I missed out on since I would inevitably have to change my clothes. I never was able to charm Mom.

When we arrived at church, my sister and I went directly to the vestry which required entering on the west side of the building, exiting into a courtyard, before reentering on the east side. We ducked our heads as we entered the low-ceilinged room, removing our L.L. Bean windbreaker jackets as we did so. We said good morning to Deacon Joel -- who had been banned from his previous church in North Carolina and founded a go-fund me page to finance his move to New Jersey, of all places -- was already vested and looking through the leaflet.

“Charles is out today, so Dina I need you to read the First Lesson,” he said as he passed the leaflet to me. He went on to explain that the passage examines the community of believers, and that there are some complicated words. “Skim it over, let me know if you have any questions.” He departed, bowing on his way out. I shrugged.

Juliet and I equally disliked reading from the lectern. The lectern was made of mahogany from which an eagle emerged at the crown of the podium. Too fancy for an Episcopal place of worship, Dad had remarked upon its arrival. Juliet rarely read from the lectern since she was in choir. I thought she was better than the majority of the adults. The choral director seemed to think so too, and asked that Juliet spare her voice “unnecessary use.” One ancillary benefit of having a talent is that everyone seems to think it must be protected. I was in the choir too, and was asked to read often.

“This stinks.” I’d thought about asking Juliet to read it instead, but I was sure she would decline, and so I kept quiet. I tucked the leaflet into the back of my black dress pants that were a hand-me-down from a family friend. I folded it tightly enough that the paper pricked the base of my spine; I inhaled.

The last time I had been in that room, one of the three high school boy parishioners, Adam Constance, asked to kiss me. I still had my white robe on, and I felt like a glass of milk that was brimming over. I was too nervous to say yes, and too eager to say no. The vestry room felt hot, and the thrill of kissing in the basement beneath the altar felt tantalizingly reckless. Our lips barely touched and as he tried to find my tongue, I stepped backward and focused on appearing calm. He looked at me and said the thing we had said all too many times that day: Amen. I was programmed to like that.

While I stood there remembering Adam Constance’s kiss, I stared embarrassed at my feet, which made me realize that I had never changed from my sneakers to my pair of black demi-heels. I began to wonder how long I was taking, and glanced at the clock: 5 minutes till 10 a.m. I hated being late. I thought once more about changing my shoes, and shuffled from the vestry, up the stairs, and to the back of the church to join Juliet and others to prepare for the procession.

Archie Burns was the cross bearer, while Juliet and I flanked him with torches. As Dad passed by us, Archie beckoned him over with a shake of the cross. “Your daughter was late, and she is wearing sneakers. You must do something about this irreverent behavior,” he said. Archie Burns despised me more than anyone else in Christendom. My dad winked.

Archie opened his mouth to retort, but the sound of the organ filled the hall, and the procession began. Juliet and I were almost always in sync, and we led the group down the aisle with ease. I momentarily entertained lighting Ken’s sleeve on fire.

We paused at the base of the altar. There were three, relatively shallow steps that I crossed steadily by hoisting my leg high into the air so as to not trip on my alb. I’d trained myself not to look down when placing the torch in its holder, instead using my foot to feel for the small hole in the tiles. I looked at Juliet to confirm that her torch was secure, and we took our seats at the organ’s conclusion.

“Please be seated,” the priest said. As I sat, I felt the leaflet slip into my underwear. I’d realized that I could discreetly remove the leaflet during the first hymn, but hadn’t planned on the paper making a home in such an uncomfortable part of my body. I fidgeted, and settled into my own ritual. Some months prior I’d discovered that if I fixed my eyes on a certain point, my vision would eventually blur and I would not see anything despite my eyelids remaining open. I could hear the service as it progressed, and would focus my vision accordingly. I was told that I looked very composed by a few parishioners on a handful of occasions. The room’s details disappeared, and I began to think about something else.

The usual service felt especially slow. The congregation shifted uncomfortably in their seats since the heat system was still running, despite the present spring weather. Two months before, they’d fired the groundskeeper for negligence and since then nothing was in order.

“Kyrie, Kyrie, Kyrie.” Juliet nudged to signal that it was time for my reading. I blinked to moisten my eyes, then blinked again.

I noticed his gun fist; It was only when I stood at the lectern to read and placed the microphone lower so that it aligned perfectly with the pistol. I didn’t have glasses on, and so I squinted to block out the blur of candlelight that framed the eagle. As I watched the gun move toward the back of the pews, I suddenly became aware of the heat around me. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and then repeated the motion on the other side.

As I continued to stand at the lectern, the gunman eased himself into a pew. It was the third from the left, and he would be one of the first parishioners asked for a donation, or an “offering,” as our priest liked to say. Shifting my weight evenly between my legs, I rose onto the tips of my toes, moved the lectern’s microphone down, and at some point began to read.

“A reading from the first letter of Paul to the Caribbeans.”

I found the laughter for my remark to be very startling. As it increased, the gunman rose from his seat and began to walk along the wall toward the altar. He passed under the stained glass windows with his armed hand at his side. I looked down at my father, whose hand was pressed against the side of his face. I’d made a mistake, which I almost never did. “Cor-in-thee-ans,” he mouthed. I could tell he was embarrassed. I continued:

I urge you, brothers, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree in what you say, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and in the same purpose. The gunman paused under the stained glass window. Perhaps this passage will change his mind, I’d thought. I kept reading. For it has been reported to me about you, my brothers, by Chloe’s people, that there are rivalries among you. I mean that each of you is saying, “I belong to Paul,” or “I belong to Apollos,” or “I belong to Cephas,” or “I belong to Christ.” Is Christ divided? What should I do? Was Paul crucified for you? Do I shout? Or were you baptized in the name of Paul? Do I run away? I give thanks to God that I baptized none of you except Crispus and Gaius, so that no one can say you were baptized in my name. I baptized the household of Stephanas also; beyond that I do not know whether I baptized anyone else. The gunman began to move, more quickly this time, in my direction. For Christ did not send me to baptize but to preach the gospel, and not with the wisdom of human eloquence so that the cross of Christ might not be emptied of its meaning.

I paused and was gripped by the realization that I had finished the paragraph. I turned my eyes away from the page and focused intensely on not looking at the gunman. I heard my voice:

“Hear what the Spirit is saying to God’s people.”

The congregation responded:

“Thanks be to God.”

I moved slowly back to my seat as if to suggest normalcy, but did not sit down once I arrived. Juliet mumbled something as another organ interlude ensued. I thought about telling her that there was a man with a gun 15 feet away from her, but my mouth did not move. He was so close to us that I thought I could see his chest moving up and down. How is nobody seeing him? I thought.

Deacon Joel rose from his seat and reached for the Gospel that was underneath his chair. I couldn’t understand why the Gospel was kept on the floor during the service, it seemed sacrilegious if not unsanitary. After adjusting the rope around his waist, I watched as he moved toward the center of the altar. The gunman’s eyes followed the Deacon’s movements with pointed care. I blinked, my eyes watering as they strained to adopt a panoragram of the room. The directness of the gunman’s gaze crushed part of my fear, and I adjusted my eyes to focus on him

.

The room began to rearrange itself around me. The horror of what was going to come tightened in my chest, and my lips felt as dry and as white as a communion wafer. I wondered what would happen next; the gunman would leave; the gunman would shoot himself; the gunman would shoot my family. I wouldn't let myself think about the last one. I was no longer sweating, and the leaflet still clung to my back. I was as ashamed and scared as the piece of paper, and I wanted my Mom.

His arm rose quickly at the moment the Deacon raised the Gospel over his head and the congregation rose, as they always did, for the Gospel procession. I saw the opportunity that he saw, and I begged my body to move.

Someone yelled my name. I landed on my side with my neck tucked into my right shoulder. I relaxed into the weight of my body, using gravity to pull every sensation from my body. I could see my feet, but they felt miles away from me. I looked at my chest, and the pattern of the training bra that I’d put on that morning.

At some point I lost consciousness. I was taken to the hospital, the same one where I’d had my hernia operation when I was three-years-old. I died during surgery.

“Huh,” he says as he reaches across for the glass of water on their nightstand. “Yeah, that’s a pretty twisted thing to imagine. When I think about how I might die, I always picture it being in a car crash and then I wonder who will visit me in the hospital, that kind of thing. You must have been super bored during church services.”

“We are messed up,” she replies, and lifts the glass from his hand, taking a sip before placing it back on the nightstand. Her mouth dry from all the talking.

“Well,” he yawns, “Try not to do anything too heroic while I’m asleep. I have to teach an early class tomorrow and wouldn’t be able to drive you to the hospital. You could take the bus though, it stops there.”

She smirks while pulling the advent purple covers up to her chin, places her hand on his, and drifts off to sleep.