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a long, flower-printed
skirt. Even though she looks like she stepped out of Lorna’s yearbook, her
figure is not outdated.
    “Hi, Hayden, you missed Sunday school.” She smiles
at him and then me. She looks genuinely pleased to see us.
    He says hello to her.
    In the awkwardness that follows, she says, “My
name is Leah,” and holds out her right hand. Is it possible for someone to
shake hands like a ballerina?
    “Oh, sorry,” says Hayden. “This is my friend,
Baby.”
    I’m glad for the anonymity.
    “I am so pleased to meet you.” Her formality makes
me sit a little straighter. These are classy people. I’m glad I put cover-up on
the bit of bruise that’s still visible.
    “Hayden, I brought you a plate of those brownies
you liked.”
    “Oh?” He looks like he is about to say something,
but strains against it.
    “I left them for you in the Sunday school room.”
    She turns and I watch the pretty way her skirt
flaps around her ankles. I steal a peak; Hayden is not watching her.
    “Brownies, huh?”
    “She made these gluten-free brownies. I ate
several, but only because they didn’t have nuts. The other snacks had nuts.”
    I look at his face. I like that he speaks
directly, no assumptions. He stares ahead, tapping his right hand in that thumb-pinky
way he does. There’s a slight indention under his mustache on his upper lip, a
scar maybe. His haircut is precise, like his clothing, his movements.
    I look back at his lip. I would love to peak under
the mustache to see the scar better, to touch it. The hair edging his high
forehead is baby-fine and lighter than the rest, the same color as his eye
lashes: pyrite.
     “You pulled me out of that building.”
    “Yeah.”
    He is golden.
    Two men, one woman and the girl named Leah walk
out onto the stage area. The woman sits behind the piano, and the shorter man
stands at the glass podium. Leah and the other man walk to the microphones and
spend several minutes adjusting them. The man at the podium starts to pray but
it sounds like he is reading. Everyone gets real quiet and listens. The lady
starts to play the piano. Hayden stands up and I remember Thom’s advice, so I
stand too. In a minute everyone is standing.
    Hayden opens a music book and turns to a song called,
“It is Well.” It’s a pretty, old-fashioned way to talk. But Thom is right, I’m
bored. My bedtime is approaching. There’s movement just off to the right and
ahead. A woman sways; her face is in her hands. She weeps.
    I watch her. I want to go to her and put my arms
around her. How can she hurt so much? How can I give her comfort?
    The next song isn’t so sleepy and the woman lifts
her hands up next to her face. She still has tears, but she smiles. She’s
really getting into the singing. I listen to Hayden’s deep, rumbling voice and
watch the crying woman. There is beauty here. Close. I look around to see if
anyone else notices.
    Just in front of me, a pear-shaped woman elbows
the gal she stands next to. She points to the crying woman, and they share a
knowing look and a smirk.
    Yeah, that crying woman should remember she’s in
public.
    The singing takes forever. I watch the second hand
on a large clock. It’s faster than the beat of the music. Finally, they tell us
to “greet one and another” and sit down. I hope they don’t use old-fashioned language
the whole time. I read books like that, but it sounds out of context in real
life.
    Hayden shakes my hand and I laugh, but I don’t
want to let go. I shake the hand of the “elbow” woman and then we sit. She
pulls a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer from her purse and smears a huge drop on
her hands. The cucumber-alcohol smell burns my throat. I wish I could ask her
for some, because now my hands feel dirty.
    Talking, talking, more talking. I’d rather be
climbing into bed. The speaker, performer—whatever he’s called— he has a nice
voice. But he’s so passionate, I wonder if elbow lady is nudging her friend
when he gets into