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I ARRIVED EARLY FOR the start of Mass. So early, in fact, I encountered Iker Legazpi on his way out of the previous service. He stopped to chat and soon I was telling him about Scott Nixon’s plagiarism and his subsequent disappearance.
Iker’s baby face creased with concern as he listened.
“Molly,” he said finally, “you must be very careful with this.”
“I’m not talking to anyone about the plagiarism,” I said. “Just you.” Along with Honey Akiona, Pat Flanagan, and Emma Nakamura, but Iker didn’t need to know that.
“I am not speaking of your legal defense. I am speaking of your safety. We do not know why Melanie met this unfortunate end. We do not yet know what happened to Scott Nixon. It seems there is someone who wishes to keep a secret.”
“Oh. Good point.”
“You do not know whose ox is being goosed. If others were killed to keep a secret, it is a secret you are safest not to know. Ah, here. Mass is starting, Molly. I will let you go in.”
“Right. Thanks. See you at the next Garden Society?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Tuesday.”
My punctuality had been entirely unintentional. Having missed Mass for the last few weeks, I hadn’t realized St. Damien’s had switched to their summer schedule. I usually tried to arrive late enough to miss the Passing of the Peace. This was where you had to stand up, try to catch a fellow worshipper’s eye, and then before they could get away, clasp their hand and exchange your greetings before moving on to your next target. For me, a confirmed introvert, passing the peace was about the least peaceful activity I could imagine.
It was the last morning Mass, and the sanctuary was nearly full. I found a place near the back. As the entrance procession made its way up the center aisle, I picked up a flyer from the pew shelf in front of me. St. Damien’s was participating in an interfaith food drive, which was led by the Kuewa Unitarian church, and headquartered at the Mahayana Buddhist temple downtown. Also included were the Mahina Daijingu Shinto temple, the Hawaiian-language nondenominational church, the big-box megachurch that sat on fifty acres upcountry, and the Methodists down the street.
St. Damien’s was far more ecumenical than the Byzantine-rite Catholic church I grew up in. As far as the church of my childhood was concerned, the Orthodox were heretics to be pitied and prayed for, and Buddhists, Shinto, Methodists and the like were simply heathens.
Before I knew it, we had prayed the Our Father, and then came the dreaded announcement: “Let us offer each other a sign of peace.”
I stood and readied myself to wander around the sanctuary and beam at strangers, when I felt a hand land heavily on my shoulder. The hand then gave me a far-too-friendly squeeze. This better be someone I know really well, I thought. I turned and found myself nose-to-chest with what appeared to be a tall male person wearing a black shirt and stepped back to get a complete view of my assailant.
“Davison? What on earth are you doing in church? I mean, how nice to see you in church.” He wore a tank top bearing the silhouette of an assault rifle and the legend, Defend Hawai`i. “Wow, okay, peace be with you. Against whom are we defending Hawai`i?”
Davison laughed loudly at my question, the way you might laugh at your boss’s unfunny joke.
“I know you prouda me I made it to church today, ah?” He lifted his arm and sniffed his armpit. “No time fo’ shower this morning, but. Got up kinda late.”
“Well, what a pleasant surprise to see you here.” I made a mental note to come to the early service next time. “Anyway, I’ll just be—”
“Yeah, Dad told me I gotta to start going to church,” Davison said.
“Is your father here?”
“Nah. Hadda work. Sunday’s busy at the Drive-Inn. Said he had dinner with you Thursday, but. You two cool now?”
“Sure. Of course.” As cool as I could be with the ex-fiancé who bedded his ex-wife the moment he was a free man, and then tried to make me think I was crazy for calling him out on it.
“Eh, lucky you’re here. Dad said I gotta apologize.”
“Okay.”
“I was just kidding around, ah? Didn’t know it was gonna make you so upset.”
“I believe this is called a non-apology,” I said.
“Nah, nah, nah. You’re right, Molly. I’m very sorry. My actions were inexcusable.”
I’d seen this act before. So contrite when I caught him cheating on his assignment. So full of promises to do better next time.
“Dad’s been real down since you guys been fighting,” Davison added.
“I imagine he’s found some way to console himself.”
I’d had it with both of them, Jerk père and Jerk fils. It probably wasn’t a very Christian thought to entertain during Mass, but I couldn’t help it.
The congregants were taking their seats. The Passing of the Peace was over.
“Eh, I sit here wit’ you,” Davison offered. He squeezed into my pew and wedged in next to me. At close range it was obvious he had ladled on a double dose of his cloying body spray. I tried to take shallow breaths and think kind, Christian thoughts as the choir sang “Beautiful Savior.”
I was glad they had selected one of the classic hymns. I had never understood what happened to devotional music around 1860. Before then, sacred melodies were composed to make the heart soar. But around the late nineteenth century, hymns all started to sound like they were written for a barbershop quartet.
The congregation stood to sing.
Davison nudged me. “How we gonna know when we gotta stand an’ sit an’ stuff?”
“Just do whatever the pew in front of you does.” I flipped through the hymnal for the correct page.
“I never got a song book,” he said. “Can I look at yours?”
I balanced the hymn book on the back of the pew in front of us, so we could both read it.
“Fair is the sunshine,” we sang. “Fairer still the moonlight / And all the twinkling, starry host...”
Davison nudged me again and pointed to the front of the sanctuary.
“Eh, is that the twinkling, starry host?”
“No. He’s the choir director.”
I had hoped to sidle out unseen when the service ended, but Davison followed me out to the parking lot.
“Do you need a ride?” I finally offered, with utter insincerity. I was feeling extremely short on Christian charity. I didn’t care for Davison’s company, and I did not want the stench of his awful cologne clinging to my Thunderbird’s new-old-stock upholstery.
“Nah, I gotta ride. There she is.”
I stared, speechless, as she approached us.
“Hey, Molly,” she said. Then, to Davison, in an entirely different tone of voice: “Hey, doll.”
Davison pulled his former stepmother close and held her tightly against his chest.