“Well, good,” says Crampton. “You’ll have God on your side.”
Toby moves to turn his page again, but Clemence stopshim. She snatches the book right out of his hand. “Toby, can you come here for a minute?” she calls over her shoulder, already halfway down the aisle toward the back of the store. “There’s something Ithought Isaw … under the stairs.” She’s hoping he’ll follow, and he does, albeit falteringly, and maybe only because he wants his book back.
Crampton is calling out from behind them, “The bulb’s burned out! I’m surprised you saw anything in there. Somebody needs to remind me …”
Clemence pulls Toby inside with her and closes the door.
“We can’t do thisnow,” he whispers urgently, though Clemence suspects he’d go along if she insisted. The darkness, those confines, the smell of the books—something Pavlovian makes it seem like there is no other way to proceed. But that’s not what Clemence is here for. Plus she’s still got her coat on.
“Toby,” she says. “I’m scared of this Mary-Ann Arbuckle person. And then Icame in here hoping you and Crampton would tell me Iwas being ridiculous, but now Ifeel even worse.”
“Oh,” he says. They’re standing the way they always stand, close together because there’s no other option in such a small space, and now he puts his arms around her shoulders the way a normal boyfriend might. “Well,” he says, buying time, still thinking. “She’s a scary lady, it’s true. But she’s probably unlikely to murder you in broad daylight.” Clemence sinks into him, the way she used to sink into her husband. Is this codependence? What would Dr. Penelope think?
“I’m sorry,” she says against his shoulder. Wasn’t the point of this new life she’d made that she wouldn’t have to need anybody like this?
But Toby says, “It’s fine,” smoothing her hair, speaking in the most soothing tones he’s capable of. He’s missing so many essential emotional parts. And yet. “And I’d say you even have a good chance of coming out alive,” he says. “You’re going in there three against one, which makes it almost even.”
“Almost?” It’s hot in the closet. Clemence wants to be with Toby, but not like this. “Couldn’t you come over tonight? The sheets are fresh. Just this once?” She’s desperate, and she sounds it.
And he seems to know it, too, because he says, “Iguess so,” instead of refusing. And then he buries his face in her neck and starts kissing her. “Idon’t know what it is you do to me,” he says. “You’re the only person Ican’t say no to.”
“And also the only person who ever asks you for anything.”
“You really are,” he says, beginning to unzip her coat. “Idon’t know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking we have to get out of here before Crampton gets wise to us.”
“Ithink she’s wise already,” he says, before running his tongue along the curve of her ear.
“Toby, no,” she says. “I’m getting heatstroke. And I’ve got to get to this meeting. But come tonight, okay? There’s a whole world outside of this closet,” and, to prove it, she reaches to open the door, to let the light in, and there is Toby’s face, white and earnest. Does she reallywant this? She takes a deep breath and walks out into that world. So what if she does?
But Toby doesn’t move. She turns to him, “What?”
“My book,” he says. “Ineed it back.”
Clemence is still holding it. She passes it to him, before reaching back into the closet to grab another book out of the darkness. And as they walk back through the store, Clemence is speaking loudly, conspicuously, “Thanks for helping me find this,” emphatically waving the paperback in her hand. She sees her luck could have been worse—a copy ofHow to Win Friends and Influence People, only mildly mildewed. She insists on buying the book to save face with Crampton, even though Crampton sees through her, that narrowed look. Crampton sees everything. But it will make a good enough donation to the jumble sale, Clemence thinks, as Crampton wraps it in brown paper, and then she and Toby wish her luck in the afternoon’s endeavour.
“You’ll be fine,” Crampton tells her, but her voice is more tentative than Clemence has heard her sound before.
They assemble at thechurch beforehand, and while Mrs. Yeung is the same as ever, Reverend Michelle is jittery, awkward, thinking up nonsensical reasons to stall their departure. She needs to water the plants in her office, she explains, and so Clemence and Mrs. Yeung wait in the hall, and it is a very bad sign indeed if Reverend Michelle is off her game. Usually her capacity to love and appreciate difficult people is her superpower, including anydrunk man with no pants on wandering into the sanctuary, the woman who used to shoot up in the narthex, and the old guy with visions who screams during her sermons. Convicted murderers on parole had been welcomed into the congregation, so you would think that Reverend Michelle might have room in her heart for practically anyone, but Mary-Ann Arbuckle has brought her to the brink.
Not that Reverend Michelle will admit to being rattled. “Mary-Ann is harmless,” she explains, as they make their way to the coffee shop by the fromagerie. “You’ve got to admire her really—the passion, that fire.”
“Even if it’s hellfire?” offers Mrs. Yeung.
Reverend Michelle ignores the comment. “She’d actually be a useful person to have on our side,” she says finally, carefully, after taking a look up and down the street and around the corner to make sure Mary-Ann Arbuckle wasn’t waiting to ambush them. “If only she were remotely tameable.”
Reverend Michelle pauses once they reach the coffee shop entrance. “Are we ready?” she asks. The other women nod, and they go on in.
Mary-Ann Arbuckle resembles an operatic Viking, rising from her seat when she sees them. She’s tall and broad-shouldered, the effect emphasized by the blond braids she wears wrapped around her head. She’s acquainted with Reverend Michelle through thebia, and they shake hands in a way that’s almost civilized, Clemence considering that maybe everyone’s blown this out of proportion and the meeting is going to go fine,especially once Mary-Ann Arbuckle has treated them all to a round of hot chocolate, made vegan with oat milk. But once they’re seated with their drinks, she pulls a folder from her tote bag, slaps it on the table, and informs them that they’re all being served with a lawsuit.
“What’s all this?” asks Mrs. Yeung, flipping through the pages, which are bound with a hot pink bulldog clip. “You’ve hired a lawyer?”
“Iama lawyer,” says Mary-Ann, sinking back into her seat. Her braids are as meticulous as her manicure, which Clemence notices as she folds her hands together like something has been settled.
But Reverend Michelle is undeterred. “You’re not a lawyer, Mary-Ann,” she says.
“I’ve been to law school.”
