As the piano whispered hymns behind his closing prayer and the rustling of the plastic that surrounds old ladies’ mints, the ones that’d ready their tongues for post church gossip, filled the room, Pastor Michael Altizer couldn’t help but think that this had been the worst week to ever be so rudely interrupted by a Sunday. It was the first morning in ten days without rain and the West Virginia air was left humid and thick. His black curls had fluffed immediately when he left his house and on his drive to the little white chapel, he dodged the deer, possums, and skunks that had been patiently waiting for the drier weather to retrieve their food. The joys of an Appalachian April.
The drive through a country minefield had scattered his brain, and his smartwatch, buzzing endlessly around his wrist with text messages from his wife, made it really hard to focus on the closing prayer. Not to mention, he had to remember to turn the lights out in the bathrooms before he left and to unplug the projector so that it wouldn’t run the power bill up and to hook the new lock he’d bought that morning to the dumpster outside so the bear couldn’t get to the trash anymore. And he worried about his family who had stayed home from church because Thomas had brought the stomach flu home from Mrs. Meadows’ third grade class a few days into the downpour and nothing seemed to be helping him. And poor Jamie was left with a sick kid and the recently whiny 5 year old Nora.
He had managed to survive the entirety of his sermon without the to-do list accidentally leaving his brain and floating into the microphone that smelt like berry flavored chapstick and electricity, but the prayer didn’t have a script so he really had to focus. A good pastor says good prayers.
“Lead us and guide us and hide us in your shadow, Lord, as we go about our weeks. It’s in your son’s name we pray, amen,” finally. “Alrighty, have a great week, church family. Go in peace,” he said through a tired sigh and a slight grin. He laid his mic on the pulpit, stepped down from the stage, and lifted his phone from the front pew. The church filled with the sound of jackets and purses wrestling onto forearms while he read the numerous texts from Jamie.
Hey, are you almost done? he read. Thomas threw up again. Poor boy. That was the fourth time in twelve hours. Were you planning to bring lunch home? I don’t think I can make anything. He didn’t want her to make anything. She had enough to handle. Nora is wondering if you can stop by McDonalds. Something about Mario toys in the happy meals. Of course he’d do that. Oh no. She’s complaining about a tummy ache now too. When are you coming home? Please don’t stay at the church too long. Just this once.
“Well where’s those good lookin’ kids at this morning, Pastor?” asked Steve in his booming, hillbilly voice. He had a pot belly and a handlebar mustache and the kids knew him as “the guy with the spit cans” that he kept for his dip—the ones Thomas was told to throw away when he scoured the pews for trash every week. Mike despised him but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was how loud he talked or his “jokes” about Mike’s poor parenting or his wife who was “fine as frog hair”. Or maybe it was the gross noises he made when he cleared his throat or blew his nose or the mysterious grease stains near the neckline of most of the old T-shirts. Or the way his fat, slobber covered tongue readjusted the dip in his bottom lip.
“Thomas brought home the stomach bug from school the other day and it looks like he’s given it to Nora now too,” he said as he lifted his phone just a bit to acknowledge who he was texting.
“And you left the wife to fend for herself with two sick babies so you could come and see me, huh?” he said through a laugh that shook his whole body. He slammed his opened hand against Mike’s back like they were in the highschool locker room. Mike hated the high school locker room.
For the next several minutes, Mike stood in the sanctuary, trying his very best to type a response back to his wife with consistent interruptions from those in the congregation, like sheep, repeatedly bumping their shaggy heads against his calves. Sweet old Ms. Latisha found him, as she always did, to compliment his sermon. She walked with a hunch and wore chunky, faux gold jewelry. Her kindness made up for the stench of her perfume and all the gossips agreed. He shook hands with 27 year old, red headed Robert who he had met at the college group he led several years before. Mike asked Robert if he wanted to take over for him as the leader of the middle school boys’ group on Wednesday nights. He declined. After Robert said goodbye, Mike got a few more letters typed to Jamie before Sam, in his classic, stretched out red polo he wore every other Sunday—he alternated between his red and purple ones—came to ask if they could play a few more upbeat songs during praise and worship because, “He’s already won after all.” Mike reminded Sam that he was not in charge of praise and worship but that he would talk to the worship leader at the next staff meeting, knowing full well he would not bring it up at the next staff meeting. He talked to Nathan and Lisa and their eight kids: Nelson, Jeremy, Mark, Haven, Luke, Rosie, Grayden, and Liam. Luke was dying to know where Thomas was and demanded that Mike promise to tell Thomas he missed him. Mike obliged and shook Nathan’s hand before they herded their kids out the door.
Mike read his text back. I can stop by McDonald’s. What do y’all— Before he could finish, Steve bellowed from the church office’s doorway, “Hey, Pastor, I’m bout to count offering. You want to get that far basket for me?”
“Yeah I got it, Steve,” he said. He’d forgotten it was Steve’s week to count. He’d have to wait even longer than usual before he could leave. If Steve wasn’t getting distracted from his work because he got hungry, he was dropping the cash on the floor because of a sneeze or some other loud, exaggerated bodily function, and forgetting the count.
Just before he headed for the basket he got another notification. Michael, where are you? Can you PLEASE answer me? Though it is nearly impossible to read tone in text, Mike was fairly sure he had a handle on Jamie’s. He looked back up from his phone, quickly found the offering basket on the far side of the church, and brought it to Steve who spat out another “joke” about his absent parenting, or something of the sort. Mike tried not to listen.
He deleted the text he was about to send and re-typed, I’m still at the church. Steve is about to count the offering and then I’ll be headed home. He almost instantly got a response.
Yeah. I’ve heard that one before, Mike. Just hurry, please. I would love a break.
After racing a few laps around the church to try and hit everything on his to-do list, he paused in the sound booth, where he had just powered off all the speakers, and started to text her back.
I’m going to leave just as soon as Steve is done counting. I promise. Do you still want me to go through McDonald’s? he sent.
Oh please, she responded. You and I both know Steve is the slowest counter on staff. Don’t worry about getting lunch if you won’t be home until 3:30.
Well, it works out, Mike defended, trying even harder to ignore the guilt that festered in his chest like a disease, I have to turn all the lights out and lock up the church and everything. He missed having his wife there to help but he didn’t say it.
Have you ever thought about asking somebody else to turn out the church lights? Just this once, so you can take care of your sick kid?
He stared at her text, wanting so badly to type a response that would make her regret the statement. The gnawing in his chest grew a little but he gave his mind, reeling with insecurity that looked starkly like anger, a moment before he typed anything. I’ll ask Steve to hit the lights. When he left the sound booth and found Steve, still counting in the office, he said turning out the lights would be no problem. He also managed to snuff his nose in the loudest, most obnoxious way, sounding something like a goose getting hit by a coal train, while Mike gave him the extra key to lock the door.
As he walked towards the exit, Mike reached in his jean pocket for his car keys and felt something cold and metal and round. The new lock for the dumpster. He’d replace that before he left. He opened the back door to find the dumpster sitting perpendicular against his car, one of two that were in the lot. Church garbage—paper plates covered with pot luck remnants, old bulletins, diapers, tissues, water bottles, coke bottles, dried out markers, old batteries and boxes for batteries, brown paper bags from fast food restaurants, half eaten doughnuts, styrofoam cups, so much fried chicken, instruction manuals for microphones and speakers, coloring pages—were strewn about the parking lot, covering nearly every inch of pavement. Standing against the dumpster was a huge black bear, desperately scouring the trash for some food after too many days of rain. When she heard the door squeak and saw Mike, she bolted away, clutching a huge Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket in her mouth. It wasn’t more than two minutes before she was lost in the woods that covered the mountain behind the church. The first mammal all morning that didn’t have something to tell him.
Mike stood frozen, his mouth agape. He knew the bear had found their dumpster before but he’d never seen this much garbage in his parking lot. He drew his phone from his pocket, snapped a picture, and sent it to Jamie. There were no words needed. She’d know. He then went back through the church and into the kitchen to find a trash bag. There stood Steve, leaning against the countertop, taking advantage of the last two doughnuts from the morning’s coffee hour.
“I was just about to go back to counting, Pastor,” he said with puffs of doughnut powder shooting out his mouth with every word.
“That’s alright,” Mike said as he bent down and found a black trash bag in the cabinet under the sink.
“What are you doing?” Steve asked as he wiped the crumbs from his mouth with his forearm. Mike shook the bag, filling it with air and his annoyance.
“The bear that lives up the mountain dragged the dumpster up against my car and threw trash around like confetti all over the parking lot,” Mike said as he headed back towards the exit.
“What?” Steve almost yelled as he followed him.
Mike opened the door and started to pick up trash while Steve stood behind him, taking in the mess.
“Yeah. Perfect timing too,” Mike lamented, bending up and down as he grabbed trash and shoved it in his bag. “Sick kids. Anxious wife. Growing headache. I just want to go home.”
“Why did—how—” Steve was without words for the first time in his life, Mike was pretty sure.
“Just go back inside, Steve. Keep counting,” he began crawling on the pavement because his back already ached from bending over.
“Do you want me to help you push the dumpster off your car?”
“Maybe once I finish cleaning this trash up.”
“I can do that, Pastor.”
“Do what?” Mike asked, hardly louder than the rustling of the bag.
“I can take care of the trash. You go home.”
Mike, on his knees, looked up from the garbage to see Steve in his stained t-shirt, powdered sugar clinging to his huge nose, standing over him with his arms outstretched, ready to take the bag.