Drizzled with Death(22)

The rest of the service went smoothly, and by the time the offering plate went round, Celadon was breathing normally, and while she did keep an eagle eye on whether funds were going into the silver platter or coming back out of it, she kept to her seat and appeared not to have discovered any wrongdoing. As soon as the final hymn hiccupped to an ungainly finish, I grabbed Hunter by the hand and did a good imitation of a sprint out of the sanctuary. I paused briefly at the door to congratulate the pastor on a well-delivered sermon, fibbed, and said Hunter desperately needed to use the gents, then took the steps two at a time. I hadn’t had any breakfast, and after what had happened the day before, I wasn’t taking any more chances.

I busied myself with a flimsy paper plate decorated with a Fourth of July motif. I wasn’t a bit bashful about taking the first slice or scoop of anything that looked worth sampling. First of all, of course, was Grandma’s coffee cake. I only took a small slice because I can have it at home, too, but I couldn’t resist just a bit. Then on to the cheese and crackers, the fruit plate where I speared a succulent bit of pineapple, and then a piece of maple blondie bar. I took a bite of that before leaving the table and resolved to discover who made it. It was exactly the sort of thing I’d love to offer at the shop to people while they were browsing. Barely cooked through and almost caramelly in texture, the rich maple flavor mingled with the buttery richness of it, making me pluck a second off the plate before even trying anything else.

To make up for my low-nutrition, high-calorie choices, I also lifted a maple granola bar onto my plate. I knew who made these. The pastor’s wife was famous for them. They were oaty and chewy and studded with dried dates. You certainly couldn’t tell they were good for you when one crossed your lips.

The basement steadily filled with congregants, old and new. I heard snatches of conversation about Alanza and about the Griddle and Fiddle. I even heard a few people joking that if we couldn’t get Piper to start attending church, we could at least buy a couple of urns of coffee from her to replace the stuff we were serving, which tasted like it was what was left of mud season. A lull in conversation fell on the gathering the way it often does when people are enjoying their food. Generally, when this happens, someone is trying to make themselves heard concerning a private matter to someone nearby and their voice unexpectedly travels across the room. This time it was a freckle-faced redheaded kid on Celadon’s animal chow wish list who made himself the center of attention.

“What the heck is that?” All eyes turned toward him then followed his pointing arm to the generous basement windows, which doubled as escape routes in event of a fire and extreme athleticism on the part of our overweight and aging congregation. Framed by the window, four knobby kneecaps and some furry underbits sure to make Celadon curse under her breath clearly showed. Half the assembly shrank back toward the kitchen. The other half surged forward, eager to get a better look at the strange sight. Hunter and I surged, Celadon and Grandma shrank back. Grampa offered an opinion.

“Looks like the chassis of a camel. Anybody got some rope in their vehicle?” All around me, men and children shoved plates at their wives and mothers. There was no shortage of sexism in the church that morning. The few surging mothers heaped their foisted-upon plates onto chairs, counter edges, and even the women who shrank back. Within a minute I was faced with deciding if I wanted to view a live camel or to snarf down a couple more maple granola bars with a clear conscience. I split the difference by grabbing a couple along with a napkin and tucking them in my shirt pocket. I sailed out the door and into the fray, where I wiggled between the other people in the group, something not so hard to manage when you are my size, and found myself with a front row seat.

Camels are big. Scary big. With just a bit of bad posture, I could almost walk right under it. The attitude of the shrinking-back crowd looked more and more sensible. Especially when the camel swung its head with its big flapping lips in my direction. It blinked a long-lashed eye at me and flared its nostrils. I was momentarily reminded of Celadon before she calmed down in the church pew.

I tried to take a step backward, but the crowd was like a living wall of lurid interest. Everything slowed down in front of me, the way it does in movies or when you are having an out-of-body experience. The camel waggled its jaw, exposing domino-sized teeth. I tried again to back up but no luck. The camel stepped deliberately, painstakingly closer. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of my grandfather’s red-and-orange-checked sport jacket. Someone in a much more subdued color palette was next to him. I didn’t dare take my eyes off the giant creature. It continued its course and came to a stop right in front of me, so close its breath warmed the top of my head. I felt sweat spring from my armpits like a massaging shower head in a five-star hotel.