The huge church building takes up an entire block, its curious architectural mix demonstrating that when timeswere good, the church had been added on to over and over again. Once upon a time there had been money for that, to grow and think big, but now the roof was crumbling. Literally. The jumble sale, Mrs. Yeung explains, is raising money for a new one, their goal still far off on the horizon. Plus there are all the social programs, people lined up for the food bank every Monday evening, and Clemence has seen them there, lines of needy people stretching all the way down the street. Such desperation, a few decades ago, would have constituted an emergency, but now the emergency was routine. The social safety net was stretched so thin, but it was the church’s role to step up, no matter the challenge.
When the service begins, this appears to be its message, English contributions delivered by an earnest white woman with a round face and a freshly shaved head, who at first appears to be playing dress-up in her sombre robes. She seems so young, and Clemence wonders at the path that delivered her here. No one Clemence had ever known had become a member of the clergy. She’d never even realized it was an option.
The church sanctuary is refreshingly cool and bright, tall windows opening to the air with a complicated system of strings and pulleys, and old-fashioned fans whirring above, stirring the breeze. Aman plays the organ, his hunched back to the giant room, and Clemence realizes she’d been hearing his music from her bed on Sunday mornings, but so faint in the distance as to be almost indiscernible. In the sanctuary, however, the sound is loud and forceful, in defiance of all the empty pews. Atthe end of the service, they are all called on to stand up and shake hands with a neighbour, but the only person within reach of Clemence is Mrs. Yeung.
Coffee and cake are served in the courtyard, which manages to bring everyone closer. The cake is banana bread with a cream cheese frosting, which Clemence feels wholly justifies her attendance this morning. She might even come back. Her mouth is full of the cake when the minister approaches, introducing herself as Reverend Michelle, waiting patiently, expectantly, for Clemence to respond once she’s finished chewing. Mrs. Yeung stepping in to explain who Clemence is and that she’d brought her that morning, proudly, like Clemence was a prize.
“So you like it, right?” Mrs. Yeung proposes as they walked home together. “It’s so convenient, so close. They’re nice people. Good cake. Grape juice for communion. We need young people. And Charles told me you’re looking for a spiritual path.”
“He told you that?”
“Like Reese Witherspoon in that movie. The wild one.”
“Well, not exactly.”
“Ididn’t thinkexactly,” says Mrs. Yeung. “I’ve never seen you carrying a backpack. But the church is just up the street. You don’t even need a backpack.”
“Ican help with the jumble sale,” offers Clemence. “Collect more books. You’re going to need a lot of jumble if you’re going to build a new roof and feed the hungry.”
“That’s what the prayer is for,” says Mrs. Yeung, throwing her hands in the air. “So no church for you, then.”
“Probably not the Sunday-morning kind.” That banana bread, though.
“You know, it’s not healthy to sleep in the nude.” Mrs. Yeung leans over to pick at the lawn, to pull out a dandelion by its roots. Straightening up again. “And what if the househadbeen on fire?”
“Then Ithink being naked would be the least of my problems.”
But Mrs. Yeung isn’t listening. “The lawn needs mowing.”
“Is Charles coming to do it?”
“Summer’s over.” Clemence waited for her to elaborate. “He’s back at school now. He doesn’t have time.”
Clemence says, “Oh.”
Mrs. Yeung turns to look at her sharply. “You’re going to miss him!”
“Imean, he’s a nice guy.”
“You know he’s married.”
“I … didn’t.” As though this had nothing to do with anything, except it really did, more than Clemence would have supposed. This news feels like the ground giving out beneath her shaky legs.
“Yup, he’s taken,” Mrs. Yeung is prattling on. “Off the market. You’ve had the wrong idea and you’re going to have to do your husband-hunting somewhere else.”
“That’s not—” Clemence is indignant. She’s just been force-marched to church by this woman who’s now she’s treating her like some man-hungry predator, which is hardly a fair exchange. “He was just friendly.” He was also flirtatious. And now she’s furious at having been sucked into his game.
“Heisfriendly,” agrees Mrs. Yeung. “He’s a very nice boy, and everybody thinks so. Especially the girls.” She winks. She actually winks.
“It’s not like that at all,” Clemence asserts, or at least she tries to, but she’s completely discombobulated and her voice has gone strange so that she sounds like a wailing and sputtering mess.
“His wife is a very nice girl. Anice Korean girl. She’s a doctor. Very busy. That’s why you haven’t seen her. They have been together for a long, long time.”
“Good for them,” says Clemence, thinking fast to regain some ground here. Thinking stupid, perhaps, because then she blurts out, “But Ihave a boyfriend.”
Mrs. Yeung stops short. “You do?” Clemence nods. “You’ve never brought him home.”
“So Ithink it’s you who’s had the wrong idea,” Clemence says. Which is true, regardless of her attraction to Charles, because Mrs. Yeung doesn’t understand her intentions at all. “I’m not a husband hunter. I’ve had all the husband a person needs for one lifetime. So, Imean, I’m glad his wife is a nice girl—or a woman. But that’s got nothing to do with me.”
