Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  Another brilliant offering from the choir succeeded in suppressing his gloomy thoughts, so triumphant was the tune. And the final Amen was almost a performance in itself, as the word was tossed from voice to voice; sopranos chasing altos; tenors outsoaring baritones. This wasn’t just a tame ‘So be it’, but a magisterial ‘Yes!’, as the entire choir affirmed, approved, avowed, in total validation. He himself had rarely said such eager ‘Amens’ to the happenings in his life, but been forced to acquiesce in what others decided on his behalf; be it the string of different placements in his childhood, or the bitter losses brought by the divorce. Would things ever change, he wondered, as he tried to imagine shouting an impassioned ‘Yes!’ to some new and lasting love – or even to a new and fearless temperament?

  His attention was shunted back to the service by a near-repeat of the sentiments he had heard at the beginning; now recited by the congregation.

  Wherever we go, God is sending us.

  Wherever we are, God has put us there.

  He has a purpose in our being here.

  As if to emphasize the theme, the pastor declared in ringing tones: ‘We go nowhere by accident. Christ has something specific and important He wants to do through every one of us. Be attentive to His promptings.’

  Again, Eric felt on his guard, knowing he was dangerously susceptible, due to lack of sleep and worry over Erica. All too easy to believe in some Message from Above. If he didn’t try to distance himself, he’d be setting up a mission to convert the Jews, or the heathen, or even entering a monastery and taking vows of chastity. Although, in truth, the latter wouldn’t be so different from his present celibate state. He cast a lascivious glance at the voluptuous brunette he’d noticed earlier on, now sitting in an adjoining pew. Her hourglass figure made him feel more saint than stud and, if only the merciful Lord would cause their paths to cross, he would have better things to do than be a monk.

  He was soon lost in erotic fantasies – so much so he failed to realize that the service had actually ended, until Peggy took him by the arm and steered him down the aisle, towards the door. As they made their stop-start way, the same fervent tide of well-wishers began clustering around again, asking had he enjoyed the service and how different was it from his own church back home? He hadn’t the heart to tell them that the nearest he had to a church was the Dog and Duck.

  ‘Don’t you think our pastor is just awesome?’ Arlene purred.

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Well, now you know who we are and where we meet,’ Debra said, clasping his arm with as much affection as if they’d just become formally engaged, ‘I hope you’ll be attending all our Easter services.’

  He muttered something inaudible, hoping she would interpret it as a murmur of assent, although, in point of fact, he had no intention of making church a habit. He hadn’t overcome the heights of terror and flown 5000 miles to spend all his time on his knees. OK, the rapturous reception he’d received was little short of a miracle, but there were limits to his hypocrisy. He could hardly celebrate the Resurrection when the whole concept of someone rising from the dead struck him as highly improbable, if not a shade grotesque.

  However, he was saved from further argument by being swept along the corridor and along to the community-room, conveniently losing Debra in the crush. A long trestle-table had been set up at one end of the room, spread with a white linen cloth and heaped with cakes of every kind – a veritable patisserie.

  ‘This is Eleanor,’ Peggy said, introducing a plumpish, fair-haired female, whose ample curves were enticingly set off by a pink gingham pinafore. ‘She makes the cakes, along with her lady helpers, of course.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he smiled, suddenly realizing that he had hardly eaten anything since the decidedly scanty meals on the plane.

  ‘Do help yourself,’ Eleanor urged. ‘And we cater for most allergies here, so if there’s anything you need to avoid, just let me know, OK? As well as all our regular cakes, we have fat-free, egg-free, nut-free, sugar-free and gluten-free.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I eat anything and everything – fat, sugar, gluten, eggs and every sort of nut – the more the merrier, in fact!’

  ‘Oh, isn’t he just darling!’ Eleanor exclaimed to her band of lady assistants. ‘And don’t you just love that accent?’

  ‘And what fantastic hair!’ one of her acolytes put in. ‘Would you mind me asking, Eric, is that a God-given colour?’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ Eric grinned, although entertaining serious doubts that any actual deity had been involved in the matter.

  Reaching out a tentative finger to touch his mop of curls, the woman gave a little squeal of approval. He was beginning to feel like the family pet – patted, fondled, stroked, admired and, yes, royally fed and watered. A large assortment of cakes had been piled onto a plate and pushed into his hand, while another beaming female offered him juice, tea, Coke or coffee – the latter decaffeinated, of course. It appeared that, in America, if they could remove the things that gave food and drink its kick, they would have no compunction in doing so. However, his wodge of chocolate gateau gave little cause for complaint, exploding on his tongue in a symphony of creaminess and sweetness, with even a shot of caffeine in the ultra-strong, dark-chocolate flavour.

  Stuffing in another chunk, he was seriously engaged in chewing when Peggy chose that moment to introduce him to the pastor, the Reverend Marcus Matthews.

  Making heroic but vain efforts to swallow the whole large mouthful, he had to rely on dumb-show in response to the reverend’s greeting. He was also shamingly aware that he probably had a whipped-cream moustache and that he’d just dropped a shoal of crumbs on the floor.

  ‘I hear you’re visiting from England, Eric.’

  Mumble, mumble, was all he could manage, as he continued desperately chewing, having encountered an intractable piece of nut that wouldn’t seem to go down. Nut-free might have been wiser, after all.

  ‘And how did you find our service?’ the reverend continued imperturbably.

  ‘Er, awesome!’ he gasped, disposing of the nut, at last.

  Another man had now joined their little group – a bloke so big and bulky he made Eric feel a dwarf.

  ‘I don’t quite understand the terms you use in England,’ he remarked. ‘I gather you have High Church and Low Church. Is that correct?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Eric said, hoping the conversation wouldn’t develop into a discussion of the finer points of theology, otherwise he’d be woefully out of his depth.

  ‘And which are you?’ asked Peggy, still hovering beside him with a definite air of proprietorship.

  ‘Er, Low.’ Certainly the more truthful option, since there’d been nothing ‘high’ about either his birth or education.

  ‘And what’s the name of your church?’ an attractive girl enquired – one he hadn’t seen before, but who looked alluringly well-stacked. If only all these females were interested in his body, rather than his soul.

  ‘Um, St Matthew and St Mark’s,’ he said, ad-libbing on the pastor’s names. He could hardly say the Dog and Duck.

  ‘Is it big or small?’ she persisted. ‘I’ve seen pictures of your English cathedrals, so would it be something on that scale?’

  ‘Oh, no. Small and cosy. And extremely old.’ That was true, at least. The pub boasted genuine sixteenth-century beams. ‘With lots of brass and an uplifting atmosphere.’ There was nothing more uplifting than a foaming pint of bitter – or three.

  ‘Is yours a large congregation?’ the reverend asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s usually pretty crowded.’ Sometimes he had to wait a whole ten minutes before he caught the barman’s eye.

  Peggy gave a nod of approval. ‘Well, that sounds very commendable – so long as you’re there in person, Eric. I only hope you’re not a CEO.’

  He failed to see the relevance of the question. However, if she was labouring under the false impression that he earned a top-notch salary, he’d better put her right immediately, otherwise sh
e might expect a huge donation to the church.

  ‘Perhaps Eric doesn’t know what that means,’ the attractive girl put in, before he’d had a chance to reply.

  ‘Of course I do,’ he said, indignantly. ‘Chief executive officer.’

  Several people laughed. ‘In a Christian context,’ the girl explained, ‘it actually means “Christmas and Easter Only” – you know, the sort of apathetic people who only think about God a couple of times a year.’

  ‘Oh … I see.’

  ‘What we’re trying to establish’ – Peggy fixed him with her gimlet eye – ‘is whether you attend church regularly, each and every Sunday?’

  ‘Far more than that!’ he retorted. Who did this bloody woman think she was, checking on his religious credentials? ‘Three or four times a week, in fact.’ Frequent attendance wasn’t a hardship, since the Dog and Duck was so conveniently close to the library.

  They gazed at him with new respect, as someone supremely devout. However, he sincerely wished they would stop the interrogation. Not only was he bound to make a boo-boo, once the questions became more challenging, he was also being prevented from eating. The enticing smells wafting from his plate – not just chocolate, but almond, ginger and coconut – kept reminding him how ravenous he was. Indeed, he envied the troupe of little kids, blithely stuffing themselves with chocolate brownies or raisin cookies, without a care in the world. They were even free to run around the room, rather than being held captive by a bunch of pious inquisitors.

  ‘Tell me more about your community here,’ he urged, hoping that if someone else held forth, he might be able to swallow a few mouthfuls, whilst giving attentive nods.

  Needing no second invitation, the pastor launched into an elaborate account of the entire history of his ministry, along with the successes he’d achieved in bringing new souls to Christ and his particular interest in the Sunday school and youth groups.

  ‘That reminds me, Eric,’ Peggy interjected, ‘I’ve been meaning to suggest to Christine that she take Erica to Sunday school. I’m sure the child would benefit. She’s growing up far too fast and it might serve as a restraining influence.’

  Nonsense, Eric thought, bristling at the woman’s unspoken criticism.

  ‘It’s a lovely little group,’ Peggy persisted, unabashed, ‘with an inspiring teacher, who’s had years and years of experience. She encourages the kids to memorize verses from the scriptures and reads them Bible stories. And, in my opinion, that would be highly beneficial for your Erica.’

  He all but choked on his carrot cake. The only verses from scripture likely to interest his Lolita of a daughter would be the Song of Solomon; the only Bible story some salacious shocker unfit for children’s ears. ‘She’s … rather tied up with school at present.’

  ‘But Christine distinctly told me that they’ve given her extra time off school, so the two of you can be together while you’re over here.’

  This nosey-parker Peggy knew far too much about his life and family. He searched in vain for some appropriate reply. His lying skills were patently inadequate and, besides, he despised himself for lying in the first place.

  ‘Not all youngsters want to go to Sunday school,’ a bespectacled lady observed; kindly saving him from the prospect of having to frogmarch his protesting daughter to a Bible Study class. ‘But one thing, Eric, you shouldn’t miss is our Maundy Thursday service. It’s truly awesome and sometimes even reduces me to tears. All the elders of the church, along with our dear pastor here, literally get down on their knees and wash the feet of twelve members of the congregation, like Christ did at the Last Supper.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peggy, with barely disguised smugness, ‘and I’m one of the chosen twelve. Which makes me almost a disciple – or so I’d like to think.’

  ‘We’re all disciples,’ the pastor said, sanctimoniously. ‘And, actually,’ he added, ‘we have only eleven candidates, so far. So if you would like to be the twelfth, Eric, it would be a privilege for me to wash your feet.’

  Eric removed a piece of carrot from his tooth. How on earth could he refuse what was obviously a signal honour?

  ‘All the more so,’ Matthews continued, ‘because we have a tradition in this community of honouring the stranger in our midst.’

  Yes, too right – he was a stranger here. Although unsure of the exact statistics, he knew some 80% of Americans happened to believe in God, which made him an outcast straight away. And a third of those believers claimed to be ‘born again’. The phrase struck him with new force. If only he could have been born again – to a different mother, willing and able to keep him.

  ‘Well, how do you feel about it, Eric?’ the pastor smiled, displaying enviable dentition.

  That was another thing that meant he didn’t fit: a good ninety-nine per cent of Yanks appeared to have flawless teeth. But he must shift his mind from orthodontics and try to drum up some rational reason for refusing Matthews’ offer. Then, all at once, he remembered, with relief, that he already had the perfect excuse – and a genuine one at that. ‘Maundy Thursday is my daughter’s thirteenth birthday, so I’m afraid it would be impossible for me to get away.’

  ‘Bring her too,’ Peggy suggested, most unhelpfully. ‘It only lasts an hour, from six to seven in the evening, so you’ll have plenty of time to celebrate before and afterwards.’

  ‘I … I’d need to consult her first.’

  ‘Of course,’ the pastor said, soothingly. ‘But even if it’s not her sort of thing, do try to be there yourself, Eric.’

  Forlornly, he put his plate down, having completely lost his appetite. His feet were little better than his teeth – callused, with the beginnings of a bunion, so the last thing he wanted was for them to be on public view. And because he always sweated in any alarming situation, they were bound to be hot and fetid. The thought of this fastidious-looking pastor handling his misshapen toes had already brought a flush to his face. ‘Honestly, Reverend Matthews, I just couldn’t allow you to wash my feet. It would seem completely wrong – I mean, you an important minister, demeaning yourself like that.’

  ‘No way is it demeaning. And please do call me Marcus. Washing the feet of my congregation is, indeed, a symbol of humility, but Christ enjoined us all to serve each other, and service is a joy, Eric. And, yes, it may be a humbling experience, but only in the best sense. It’s also incredibly freeing. To abase oneself for others, as our Lord and Master did Himself, is truly the work of God.’

  ‘No, really, you don’t understand. I’d feel extremely uncomfortable.’

  The pastor gave a reassuring smile. ‘The great disciple Peter made exactly the same objection, Eric, but I’ve no need to remind you what Christ said in reply.’

  There was a need to remind him. Any knowledge he had of the Gospels appeared to have deserted him, although he could hardly say so here. In any case, the great disciple Peter probably had near-perfect feet, having worn sturdy open sandals all his life.

  ‘In fact, He even washed Judas’s feet,’ the pastor pointed out, ‘to emphasize the fact that He came down to earth to minister to sinners.’

  So now he was a sinner – even a traitor on a par with Judas. Well, he deserved the accusations. He had been lying through his teeth for the best part of an hour, and had also failed abjectly in all his relationships, including that with Erica. Yet, sinner or no, he was still desperate to be let off the hook. He already had reason enough to dread his daughter’s birthday, without adding yet another. On the other hand, since he was destined to spend the day alone, with the birthday-girl otherwise engaged, was there really any point in continuing to resist? After all, if he was seriously worried about his feet, he could always ask Kimberley for the name of the nearest salon and book a pedicure. Yes, good idea. Why not join the Yanks in their devotion to the Body Beautiful?

  ‘All right, Reverend – sorry, Marcus – I will be there on Thursday.’ He suppressed a shudder as he uttered one last lie. ‘It’ll truly be an honour to have you wash my feet.’
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  chapter twenty-five

  ‘It’s a must-see, Eric – the symbol of Seattle….’

  ‘You can’t come to Seattle and not go up in the Space Needle….’

  ‘The views are awesome, breathtaking….’

  So what the hell should he do? Overcome his fears – new fears now, of lifts, of heights – or have to face those people at the church and admit he’d been too scared to take their advice? The Space Needle’s observation-deck was nearly 600 feet high, and the elevators travelled at a dizzying rate of 800 feet per minute – facts that had made him nervous even sitting safe at home. He could, in fact, avoid the lifts if he toiled his way up the 848 steps, but there would still be a sickening sense of vertigo once he reached the top. How had he developed acrophobia, for God’s sake, when he’d always prided himself on being able to cope with heights? No wonder his daughter dismissed him as a freak. Indeed, he felt the deepest self-contempt, knowing she – and everyone – would laugh him to scorn for quaking in the face of a simple tourist attraction.

  ‘So go up, then,’ he instructed himself, gazing once again at the beetling, daunting structure – a sort of flying saucer tethered to a gigantic pylon, towering high above him. He had been prowling round the vicinity for at least the last half-hour, determined to ratchet up his courage, yet depressingly aware that he and courage had never been natural bedfellows.

  ‘They say it’s as high as thirteen hundred and twenty candy-bars, balanced one on top of the other,’ Peggy had told him on Sunday; going on to enthuse about the 360-degree views of the Olympic Mountains, the Cascade Mountains, Elliot Bay, the surrounding islands, etcetera, etcetera. He should never have mentioned sightseeing, since it had sparked off a storm of other suggestions from his enthusiastic Christian friends, urging him on no account to miss the Art Museum, Pioneer Square, Capitol Hill, the Pike Place Market and so many other places he would have to resign his job and spend a year in Seattle, just to tick them off the list.