Sunday Service

“Greg, we leave in 10 minutes!” I hear my mom’s voice shout from down the hall. I finish applying my lipgloss with a roll of my eyes as I hear her footsteps coming.

“Rebecca,” she yells just before opening the door and letting herself in, “we leave in ten minutes, hurry up.”

“And I’m obviously ready,” I say, already bored with this day.

“Don’t be rude to your mother before church,” she scolds, opening the door further before turning and walking down the hallway. “Ten minutes,” she yells the reminder back to me.

I hate Sundays. I roll my eyes and grab my winter coat. I check the inner pocket for my pack of cigarettes. My best friend Jordan got some guy outside of Tabos to buy them for us. Mom doesn't like Jordan, because Jordan’s parents don’t go to church, and Jordan rides the church bus; really, she doesn’t like that Jordan lives in the apartments off Gordon street, but she doesn’t say that straight out. Instead, she says things like, “It’s not safe, Rebecca, I don’t like that neighborhood.”

The sound of the shower catches my attention as I’m walking past. Dad’s feeling bold today, I snicker to myself. Mom’s just slipping her jacket on when I enter the kitchen.

“Greg we’re leaving, we’ll see you there,” she yells. “Let’s go. Your dad’s such an asshole sometimes--he knows how much I hate being late.”

The ride to church is never silent, but it’s also never a conversation--it’s just mom stating every thought that passes through her head, and it’s all I can do to not scream out loud in annoyance. She’s in a mood today, wondering if Mrs. Pulkins is gonna ask her to sing in the Easter cantata and pissed that she hasn’t been asked already. “They always let Mary Mertloch sing, and everyone is tired of hearing it--Angie told me, she said she wished they would let somebody else sing--well am I right?”

I don’t answer, because I don’t need to. She’s barreling into the next thought. I’m just getting to the point where I think I’m going to actually tell her to shut up already, when she does just that. The reason is immediately evident-- a traffic jam just around the corner from the church.

“What’s going on?” I wonder.

“Must be an accident,” she says, rolling her window down to try to get a look around the row of stopped cars.

“Let’s just take the back way,” I mumble, a little less bored than before.

“Maybe,” she says, then checks her wrist watch, “Okay yeah, we had better,” she decides.

The back road is clear, and we slide into the parking lot ten minutes before services are set to start. My mom is in a near goddamn panic, because, as she says, “If you’re not 15 minutes early, you’re 15 minutes late.”

Something isn't right here. The lot is half-empty, and instead of the nauseating smiles and perfectly manicured families approaching the new sanctuary, there’s a small group huddled near the entrance. I recognize them all--adult faces I see every Sunday.

“Well good morning, everyone,” my mother pipes in cheerily, and I feel my face heat in mortification. “Happy Sunday!”

“Mrs. Jones, hello,” says Teresa Jackson, one of the choir ladies that always has about 15 layers of make-up on, her eyebrows drawn severely. “And Rebecca,” she nods to me before turning her attention back on my mom, “has Greg gone missing?”

“Missing?” my mom asks, darting a look of confusion at me.

“Yes, there seems to be several members missing,” Mrs. Jones said. “My daughter and her entire family are missing. They didn’t pick me up on time this morning, and when I called, no one answered the phone. Their neighbor, that Mr. Leonard, answered right away--you know he doesn't go to church, but he was nice enough to run over, and he said no one’s home. Door’s unlocked though, with dirty laundry at the kitchen table.”

“Well that does sound strange,” my mom replied.

“And Bob here, his wife was in the bedroom getting ready, and then she just wasn’t there--”

“It’s true,” Bob cuts in, and I can see the worry on his face. “I went to the bedroom, and she was just gone. The curling iron was laying on the dresser, and her Sunday clothes were on the floor,” he paused as if not sure if he should go on. When he decided to, he lowered his voice, though it was clear he’d already told this story to everyone there, “it wasn’t just her dress though, it was her under things, too. Her slip, bra, underwear, and stockings. I had seen her just before I got in the shower, she was already dressed, but when I got out…” he shrugged, looking around at the group.

“Just gone,” finished Mr. Leeds, the man who runs the sound booth. “Ya’ll see that accident on the River street on your way in?” he asked.

Mom and I both shook our heads.

“Well, I wasn’t too far off from it, just went onto the shoulder to pass once the cops arrived. It was only the one car--run off the road and hit a telephone pole. Sergeant Pete Parish--you know, he makes the boiled peanuts at the Commerce football games,” we all nodded, “he said there weren’t anyone in the vehicle. Abandoned.”

Everyone nodded as though they had been there, too.

“Guys, you should probably come here,” Samuel Stephens yelled dramatically, holding the church door open, looking like he’d just run to fetch them. “Pastor wants to say something, everyone come inside.”

“Rebecca, I think we should try to call your father,” Mom said, looking worried, her arm slowing me down.

“You can’t seriously think he’s ‘missing,’ I said, rolling my eyes.

“I suppose not,” she muttered. “Alright, if he’s not here in the next few minutes, we’ll use the phone in the nursery to call the house.”

The sanctuary was littered with people, not the packed house as usual. Even from the back, I could see old Mrs. Tennyson on the front row with her tattered pillbox hat, looking straight ahead as though nothing was unusual. Even though half the choir wasn't there, the entire instrument section was missing--except for the drummer, and Pastor Jeff wasn’t behind the pulpit, but sitting on the altar steps.

He slowly stood, looking weary—dazed, I’d say. “Make your way closer everyone,” he said, more subdued than I’d ever seen him. My mom walked down the center aisle while I stayed near the back.

“I saw my wife and daughters disappear before my very eyes at the breakfast table this morning, leaving behind clothes, jewelry…my daughter Evi’s retainer even,” he said, not once looking up.

This was shaping up to be the best Sunday I’d ever had. If it wasn’t all so absurd, I’d be laughing.

“I can’t explain it,” Pastor Jeff went on, but before he could go any further, Heath Iverson burst into the sanctuary, looking completely panicked. He was sweaty and his tie looked to be on tight enough to have caused all that splotchy redness on his face. Heath had graduated from high school last year and was no longer in the youth group, which was a relief, because he was a total creep.

“Pastor, I was just on the computer in your office! Yahoo says there’s people gone missin everywhere--here and all over the world! Just gone, and especially church folk. Whole churches are empty! They sayin it’s the rapture!”

You could have heard a pin drop for a full three seconds.

“It can’t be the rapture—the pastor is still here!” Samuel cried out from up front. “And all of the Jackson’s are here,” he swung his arm around to point to the family of seven seated nearby. He had a point: the Jacksons were perfect.

Mrs. McCurtey, the lady that passed out the program every week, piped in, matching his indignation, “And that man that testified last week, Todd Whitehead, it’s only his fourth Sunday at church and he only got saved two of ‘em ago! How’s he gone raptured, but Pastor Jeff and all us still here?”

“I believed in Jesus since before I can remember, just like them Jackson girls—was raised right, but I’m still here, so how could this be a rapture?” Mrs. Simpson said just loud enough for all to hear, sitting beside her daughter--my friend, Lydia.

“Maybe brainwashing doesn’t count,” Lydia deadpanned.

“Lydia,” her mother chided.

I snickered from the back, and it drew more attention than I meant for it. I saw a twitch of a smile on Lydia’s face. She continued, louder than before, “Well what other explanation is there, that none of y'all actually believe? I’m a different case, my mom makes me come here, but I don’t believe in the rapture, which…I guess if this is a rapture that’ll be why I got left. And my mom, she don’t really buy all this bullshit either.”

“Lydia!” Mrs. Simpson cried, aghast at her daughter's daring. I could see the red bloom on her face from way in the back.

Everyone started talking at once, and Lydia made her way over.

“Jordan’s not here,” she said, sliding up beside me.

“I noticed, but if it’s a rapture, she’s definitely saved, even though she smokes like a freight train.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Where’s your dad?”

“I thought he was in the shower when we left, but I reckon he got raptured outta there,” I whispered, watching Mrs. McCurtey and a few other ladies shuffle into the reception hall.

“Rebecca, I’m going to call your father from the nursery, don’t go anywhere,” my mom said, bustling past.

“Wanna grab a smoke out back?” Lydia asked, a mischievous grin in place.

“Hell yeah,” I matched.

We slipped out the choir door, down the tiled hallway and out the double doors. We squinted as the mid morning sun caught our eyes.

"It's shaping up to be a beautiful day," Lydia says.

I return her smile, light us both, and rest my head against the brick. The sun is warm on my face, and my smile grows from the inside. I can't explain it, but "A beautiful day, indeed" comes out my mouth.