Perfect rows of plush seats pointed toward the tiled stage. Bishops from all over the province lined the far wall, seated on ornate chairs that belonged in castles. Behind the robed mass choir, velvet drapery framed the convention theme banner–Baskets Overflowing.
Prelate Thompson strode across the house-sized stage in shoes that clacked like drummers counting down. His suit was nice. Nicer than the one they’d buried her Johnny in. Was it envy, if you had already done the work? Johnny had worked two jobs his entire life and never owned anything that fine. Even when she could still manage to sew, fabric that nice was a month’s rent. The hum of congregants settling into seats bubbled into the rhythm of the base guitar and piano.
The coffee maker pushed fragrant steam into her face, fogging up her glasses. Almena set another fresh brew of Johnny’s signature blend on the table and brushed some crumbs off the crease free tablecloth. Congregants were still filing in. Two young ladies in dresses fresh from the department store scooped up a coffee and snacks. Dresses so rich in colour had never been worn. Half-smiles barely creased their lips as they nodded and walked away before she could tell them to enjoy the brew. Hundred dollar perfume trailed behind them. Almena smiled.
“Brothers and sisters, our annual convention is now underway, we want to thank you all for coming.” Prelate was speaking now, his voice pressed and prim, crisp with unworried confidence. Squeezing her palms against the trembling that had started up again, Almena reached for another bag of sugar cookies and laid them out. She swallowed the bitterness of missed breakfast. The AC pricked at the back of her neck and around her ankles. People in suits need AC in every season.
Beside her, sister Jennifer poured coffee and handed them to the people making their way down the aisle.
Almena yawned with her back turned to the crowds, squinting as she picked up another bag. She hadn’t gotten back to the apartment until 1am that morning. Jennifer, sister Pinnock, Miss Del, and the other ladies had swept, wiped and polished while the men laid out chairs and tested electronics. At 6:30pm, Prelate and a bundle of men in starched suits came by, asking Elder Brandon if they’d be done on time. When she’d finally made it to the apartment, she hadn’t gotten bothered to even take her clothes off. Straight to bed.
“…I want to personally thank those who gave generously every week to make sure that we could have the building renovations done in time for this convention. And a special thanks to those who contribute to the Second Home program that allows us to bless both our widows and orphans with a place to live. Some of our less fortunate, long-standing members who benefit from that program are serving here today to show their thanks for your generosity,” Prelate said. Almena grimaced as eyes turned to sweep over her and the others. A wall of eyes that didn’t see. Wasn’t there a scripture for that: they look, but don’t see? Prelate thankfully moved on to the names of those who gave amounts that would pay her rent for a year. Attention shifted back to the podium. Their applause rattled her joints, turning up the volume of her headache. Shivers and cold sweat collided across her skin.
“We’re showing thanks? But they get thanked,” Jennifer said sideways towards her. Almena’s shoulders uncoiled; leave it to Jen to give words to Almena’s thoughts.
“Those children have no mothers. I don’t need thanks for doing this for them.” In about twenty minutes, she could go sit down in the back, enjoy the service and go home.
Rent was past due. The letter still sat on the kitchenette counter. It had gone up, again. Her pension wasn’t increasing though. Every month, she teetered from one bill to the next. Almena squeezed her hands, the ache dull compared to her burning shoulders.
If you have all these big givers, why do you raise the rent so often? She thought as they folded away the tablecloths. Sugar and spray starch still clung to the white fabric. A faint sweetness sticking to the air like debts and memories.
She jiggled the key to keep it from sticking as she pulled it free. Dry, cold air tumbled from the apartment. The rusted heater jolted into a rattling rhythm when she flicked the switch. Taking her shoes off, she shuffled across the swept laminate floor, determined not to slide into another fall. The memory of the ambulance calling attention to her broken wrist melded in the hum of the old fridge as she passed by the narrow kitchenette counter.
The letter stood like a pallbearer in white against the faded brown. They really should print letters for old people in larger fonts.
Microfibre sheets from the thrift store scratched at her calves; a paltry layer between her and the twin-bed laying like concrete under her. She rubbed her neck and thumped the lumpy pillow. She was reminded of the pillow-top queen sized bed she’d sold to make up rent. The bed she’d shared with Johnny. In the home she sold to pay for his treatment. He’d told her not to. She’d done it anyway when he couldn’t leave the bed and couldn’t feed himself.
“You were right Jo, but you were wrong too.”
Almena groaned. She’d forgotten to make herself a to-go plate from the trays of leftovers at the convention. All that sweeping, and packing up; all the rich, grating laughter and chatter on the other side of the walls. The stillness of solitude had dragged her home.
Her stomach roiled in protest. No use getting up to check the kitchenette, the only thing in there was the letter. Not even condiments in the fridge. Her purse on the hanger beside the front door held her last $20. The pension cheque wouldn’t be ready until next week. She could pay the electricity bill or get some things from the dollar store. Not both. She flicked off the light. The hollow hum of the fridge filled the apartment like a congregation murmuring after service.
Tomorrow was the deadline.
The children’s home had extended the fundraiser twice. She’d skipped dinner four times and called it fasting so she could give. They still didn’t have enough to pay off the building.
Yesterday, Prelate had reeled off names and shown a slideshow of the renovations to the newest church campus.
“So much for gracious sponsors,” she mumbled as she made her way to the kitchen to draw out the last of the teabag she’d been using. Almena closed her eyes and saw the children playing catch with Johnny’s old ball and glove. One of them, a little girl with auburn pigtails, was wearing his favourite cap. She’d been one of his favourite Sunday school students. Almena smiled between tears. Her throat locked up, rejecting the hot, flavoured water. She abandoned the mug beside the rent letter.
Jen’s pension payment came on Wednesday, they’d share dinner. She could fast until then. Planting her bare feet flat on the chilled, fake-wood grain floor, she stared at the leather purse. Flap worn, clasp missing, twenty dollars inside. A few coins kept it company.
“Bills, groceries or giving? Pick your poison.” The deflated purse waited, a mute audience. She should pay the electricity bill. Fall knocked at her window and creeped in under the door. But pigtails in baseball caps and belly laughter filled her ear’s memory. Today, she’d sleep and ignore her stomach. Tomorrow, she’d go down, drop off the $20 and read stories to the toddlers. Sunlight through her bedroom window hit her dresser mirror, glinting like Prelate’s shiny shoes and shinier car. Thirty-six years of sewing until her fingers numb to fund missions and paint walls. Was this faith or foolishness?
“Lord, I give this to you, not them,” Almena said as she picked up an offering envelope. It smelled like church. Sanitized. Peering through the glasses that now hurt more than helped, she took a pen. It bled onto the paper, a vein giving up its life for its goal. Her signature had gotten wobbly, her cursive jagged in places. She took the twenty from the yawning purse and slid it into the envelope, the sound reminiscent of the letter sitting on her counter. As she sealed it, the hum of the fridge swept away the stillness.
The next evening, she stood near the exit door of the church, glaring at the donation box. It was flanked on either side by young women, wearing usher’s uniforms and wedding bands glistening under the fluorescent lights. She narrowed her eyes under the harsh, heatless white light. Stilettos and dress shoes clapped like a chorus on their way out. Almena hadn’t dropped her envelope during service to avoid stares and questions. Now people whispered as they passed her lingering in the back row, staring at the donation box. Almena glanced at the double door. Cool fall breezes whisked maple leaves away from the church yard. Free. The smell of air freshener and floor cleaner greeted her nose as she slumped into the chair closest to her. The ushers chattered away like radio folks, hands waving this way and that, making sure the world saw that they were married. They had no intention of abandoning their post.
Why am I even doing this?
Faith. Faith that the children would keep smiling, faith that they’d keep a roof over their heads.
Her belly had given up its grumbling but the electricity bill was still due. She could at least pay some of it before they sent the cut-off notice again. Or she could put it toward the rent, the money went to the church board anyways. Wasn’t it the same thing? Gritting her teeth, Almena marched up to the box. Each step was one less chance to walk away and keep her money. Her shoes scrunched against the polished floor, announcing her offering before she lifted her hand.
She drummed up a small smile, stepped between the two women, and released the envelope. The young lady closest to her gave one of those dead eye smiles that might as well have been a slap. Her cheeks burned. Her eyes threatened to spill secrets. Coins and keys jingled as she hurried away and pretended not to hear the ladies snickering, “I really don’t like counting their money.” She pressed the empty purse to her side, silencing the jeering coins.
“Who gives just $20 to a project like this?” hit her as she stumbled through the door. Straining to see through tears and the glasses she should’ve changed two years ago, Almena rushed across the grounds with her head down. The cold hit her face, freedom and weight in collaboration.
The children still had the books Johnny had donated; she’d read the one about the lion. The echo of their laughter faded into the gaping darkness that stretched before her. Her steps squeaked against the uneven sidewalk. Almena stepped around gouges in the concrete while singing a song from convention that had been playing in her mind since Sunday Intermittent glare from yellowing street lights provided fleeting company. The dark expanse was a shadow of the farm Johnny had dreamt of buying in his youth. Instead of damp earth and ripe produce, the fall air brought her the smells of exhaust fumes and dust. Hunched, hugging herself with her patched, tweed blazer, she trotted the crosswalk under the glare of cars counting down the red light. The parking lot of her building was dotted with cars like mouths starved of dental care.
Another moving van.
Another neighbor lost.
The painters would show up tomorrow; then the realtor. Shilling to another retiree trying to stretch their pension. Moving vans might as well be hearses for how much they cost and where they led. First they packed up your hopes, everything else was an easy fit. Every ad for housing reminded her why had set-up a direct deposit on the rent. Now that the rent towered over her feeble pension, how would she fight it?
She waited for the elevator, averting her eyes from the old man clutching his pillow. Two young men carried his twin bed like a coffin. His expression was her mirror. His posture was a replica of dozens of others. Those watching their last decent home spit them out like old gum.
The apartment was dark.
The switches didn’t respond.
The heater wouldn’t rattle. There was nothing inside the fridge to go bad.
Her purse slid from her hands. A dull thump followed. Almena dragged her hands across the wall, shuffling to the cabinet with the candle from memory. The sound of the match scraping up a flame splintered the yawning darkness. The light wobbled into place, a struggling yellow with a whisper of heat. Leaving her now useless glasses on the counter beside the letter, she squinted her way to the bed.
Would I be able to sue them if I fell in this darkness? Her thoughts vibrated through the frigid apartment, the chill gnawing at her toes and trembling fingers. She bit her lip. It did not stem the tears. Or the thoughts. The new church campus was the size of her whole building, filled with new bulbs, abuzz with light fueled by tithes and offerings. Chilled by AC until the women traded stilettos for snow boots. She’d served meals near a vent one winter. Sweat shone on her forehead the whole time. She’d caught the flu a few days later.
She knelt at her bedside cradled by a blanket she’d quilted twenty years ago when Johnny had been around to thread the needle. The embroidery had fallen off with the years. The fabric frayed under her tired fingertips. Shadows of washed out colours under the candlelight highlighted the sheets and shirts that had formed Johnny’s favourite winter comforter. His cologne had long since faded. Replaced by bargain detergent and tears.
Almena clasped her hands and wept. There would be a reconnection fee if she didn’t pay in a few days. The cheque was a week away.
“Lord, help me. I can’t. I just can’t.” Her heartbeat and ragged breaths filled the void left by the fridge. The cold burned her nose. It bit her knees through the floorboards.
“Is this my reward? Is this… I can’t do this! I have nothing left!”
Sunlight barged through the bedroom window. Light bullied its way through Almena’s subconscious and dragged her out Johnny’s embrace. Her big toe had found a hole in the quilted comforter and was now numb. Her smile drained from her face.
It was mail day. That postal worker started at five am.
Swaying as she walked, Almena willed herself to the door and slid to the floor where three envelopes had been slipped under. The cold wriggled up her spine, releasing goosebumps across her body. The first was an offering envelope from the church. Almena rested it on her lap, she’d get to that when her cheque came, if anything was left after they took what she owed. The second, and third envelopes carried the building logo. Heart punching in her chest, she ripped them open and read. Almena leaned her head against the door. Sweat and tears grappled as they slid along her clenched jaw.
“I gave it to You!” she whispered. “To You!” There was no strength to scream. No one would catch her if she got lightheaded and fell. She swallowed bitterness, left the eviction notice on the floor and staggered back to the bed. They’d given her two weeks. She could sleep until Jennifer came by in the evening with supper, then she’d have enough energy to call and check if her cousins get her a job in the old factory.
A hammer beat the sleep from her eyes. The sun had retreated, leaving only the chill. She was curled, cocooned in the comforter, her pillow damp.
Jenn? She thought.
Jennifer normally showed up later, but hot soup was welcomed anytime. She waded through nausea to the door.
“You’re early, Jenn…”
No one at the door.
A box and an envelope waited on the welcome mat. Almena hauled them into the apartment, locked the door, and sat on the eviction letter. The box was heavy, dense. The edges of the thick cardboard were sharp, just folded.
Her name, all caps covered the seam tape: To Almena Rosenbaum, with thanks.
In it, the colourful food labels were like freshly fallen maple leaves, still wet with dew. Cans, rice, snacks, coupons, a gift card. Almena trembled. The protein bar she opened smelled like honeycombs and hope. She reached for the letter. It bulged with paper. One sheet printed on the property management letterhead, thanking her for her payment. The other, handwritten, thanking her for decades of service to the church and children’s home. Seeing her name handwritten was a hug from decades past.
“You donate your time. Thank you.” Through tears, Almena watched the still burning candle flicker and hold against the din of her room.