Page 102 - Vol. VI #3

Last Chance (continued from page 36)
Bruce cracked the window and listened. The widows wept as they prayed, and he wanted to collect their tears in reliquary vials. He wanted to build shrines in honor of their sorrow and light votive candles to their memory of their faith. He wanted to worship them for the purity of their emotions.
A thin young woman stood alone, rigid and grave, at the corner of the property, and she grew ston- ier as the day went on. Her legs were bare under her long dress, and she wore sneakers instead of boots. The jacket was too thin for the season, but she seemed oblivious to the cold as she watched every movement of the bulldozer, counted each tawny shred of grass ripped up from the earth. She punctuated her stare with furtive looks at Christ’s head, still lying on the lawn some dis- tance away.
Instead, he rolled up the window and turned to watch the bulldozer. With a great grinding of gears, it was backing up to remove more of the overgrown cedars that were pressing against
the side of the building. Even brick will rot in time with that sort of abuse, he thought. But no matter the condition, the developer was keeping the shell because the cost of demolition would drain all the profit from it, and anyway, people liked living in old churches. It had been done so many times that now there were architects who specialized in conversions, neatly mapping off a studio there, a one-bedroom there, a deluxe two- bedroom up top with the cathedral ceilings and view of the train station. Two units in the rec- tory, and a whole new structure in the outsized parking lot. Zoning law dictated the developer only had to supply one parking spot per condo unit, and Lord, there had been hundreds of spots available for the faithful. But it was just so much empty space now.
“She’s an odd one,” Frank said, pointing his nose at Martha.
The basement was being sacrificed for the man- dated affordable housing unit. Decades of youth groups and AA meetings had convened in that dank space. The kids had probably gone back to streets where they came from, but Bruce doubted if the drunks had found another home. He worried about them. They’d given themselves over to a higher power in that basement; it had been their religion. Would they continue to come by three nights a week looking for support? Would the affordable housing tenant open his heart and let them in, with an offer to make the coffee? The thought of which made Bruce wonder where the old urn ended up. There had been so much that had to be discarded, so many new homes to be found for things. The congregation never had a prayer.
“What do you think they’ve done with all the stained glass?” asked Annette, whose mouth had turned ashen in the cold. “Who bought them, you think, with all their religious figures and memo- rial names?”
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“You know what my Celia said,” said Esther, whose daughter was studying to be an archi- tect. “She told me that rose windows are ...” and then she bent forward in a whisper. The women laughed in shrieks.
“What will the poor girl do now?” asked Esther. “She was here every morning, sitting in the back like the toad in the corner. I don’t think she had much of a life besides that and taking care of her mom. Now the old woman’s passed on, what’ll become of her?”
“That was the last funeral we did here,” said Shir- ley. “Who knew at the time?”
“Who wants them?” Eric coughed out his words. “Grim old saints in murky colors.”
“Sold overseas.” A frown puckered on Shirley’s lips. “Places like China, Indonesia, where the church is really catching on.”
“Maybe that’s where they’ll start sending the per- verts,” Eric said, and no one laughed.
“They kept the non-religious glass, you’ll notice,” said Frank. “The round red things up top. Some- one’s going to have quite the warm glow in their bedroom.”