INSTEAD OF RUSHING HOME from work and getting into bed, Oliver showered and changed and walked eight blocks to the non-denominational gathering with the hip music and semifamous preacher, and eventually found an aisle seat near the back. On principle, he avoided the last row.
His mission that particular morning was a specific one. He was there to pray for his mother. It seemed like every time he closed his eyes the last few days, the fresh corpse of Mrs. Tompkins would shimmy and saunter into his dreams and repeat Betsy’s admonition to not worry. It was time to exorcise that demon.
Oliver rarely missed church, at least physically. Mentally and emotionally however, it was a crapshoot. Not that he didn’t want to pay attention, but it was usually a struggle to stay awake after guarding the Harrington all night. His faithful attendance wasn’t just to make God like him better or to earn some spiritual perfect attendance award. Oliver liked church. He was especially fond of being part of a crowd instead of trying to manipulate one (that said, he made sure to laugh out loud every time the preacher made a joke, as a professional courtesy).
Everything Oliver knew about mercy and grace and forgiveness, he learned through osmosis. Whenever Delores Miles was feeling particularly guilty about her life spiraling out of control and the rotten influence she was imparting on her only son, she would wake him up and drag him to church. They would dress nice, arrive late, and find a spot on the last pew.
He wasn’t sure about the rules. But as soon as the preacher would give the cue to bow their heads and pray, Oliver would drop his chin to his chest and rush to get God’s attention by starting his prayer first. He didn’t mean to confuse God by adding a competing voice. And he certainly felt bad about butting in line in front of the preacher. But that guy had access to God all week; Oliver had to seize his opportunity when it arose. So his strategy never changed—to intercept God’s attention, then try to hold it with frantic supplication, mostly on his mother’s behalf. He would compliment God on his big house and the good turnout that morning. He even prayed for “big and bountiful” offerings. But mostly he prayed for his mother. When the preacher started winding down, Oliver would thank God for listening, promise to be good, and apologize again for cutting in the prayer line.
After the final amen, Oliver would usually have to elbow his mother awake.
Ironically enough, it was one of his mother’s “steady” boyfriends that had introduced her to the reparative, guilt-assuaging properties of church. His name was Chris. He drove a red Mustang, smiled a lot, and always smelled like gum. Oliver remembered him as an earnest listener and perfect gentleman. He didn’t drink or swear or yell at his mother. His particular weaknesses were Roscoe’s Burger Platters and sex with Oliver’s mother, but not in that order.
Oliver had learned early to become an expert fake sleeper—slow, steady breathing with his mouth open in a slightly unnatural position. He considered it more art than skill. When Chris came over, Oliver sat vigil in his bedroom as he did with all his mom’s “dates.” Sometimes the sex noises scared him, but most times they just grossed him out. The moaning normally gave way to whispers and cooing and eventually snoring. On rare occasions things got ugly and Oliver would sit paralyzed, a lame and impotent protector. Chris never hit his mother. He was the weepy type, apologetic, a pleader. Sex seemed to trigger immense and immediate guilt. He rarely slept over. Instead he would ask forgiveness—from God, from Delores, from Oliver—and flee the house. But then he’d show up early in his Mustang, wake the Miles family with the smell of sizzling bacon, and coerce them into going to church with him.
One Sunday morning he didn’t show up. So Oliver woke his mother, prepared a less fancy breakfast (Eggos and milk), and talked her into going to church with him. He didn’t realize until the sermon was almost over that they were sitting directly behind Mustang Chris and another woman. When the service was over, his face was as red as his car when he introduced Oliver and Delores to his wife (clumsily avoiding his mother’s name, referring to her as “a waitress I know”). The wife was prettier than Oliver’s mother, a thought that filled him with his own immense and immediate guilt.
To her credit, Delores Miles elected not to make a scene. She was overly sweet and kept the conversation going longer than anyone was comfortable with. On a typical ride home from church she would ask Oliver all about the sermon and how they could apply it to their lives. He eventually learned not to get his hopes up, however. That day though she took Oliver through the McDonald’s drive-thru, then gave him a ten-dollar bill and turned him loose in a convenience store. After that, she went home and drank herself into a three-day oblivion.
Oliver realized he was nodding off in the pew, just like his mother, when he heard what sounded like a familiar sneeze. So he sat up straighter and unwrapped a fresh piece of cinnamon gum. The guy making the announcements had the hiccups, which sparked titters of good-natured laughter. The worship band launched into a lively set. The players were about Oliver’s age, all sporting cool haircuts and expensive jeans. He sang along with the songs he recognized and scanned the church bulletin during the ones he didn’t. Oliver was more than a little pleased to see the morning’s sermon title: Sifting the Ruins to Find Your Purpose.
As the final song wound down, Oliver couldn’t help wishing his mother were with him in the pew.
The worship band milked the last somber chord as the preacher took his position behind the pulpit. Before the words Let us pray reached the back of the room, Oliver had leaned forward, planted his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. As silly as it was, he was still trying to capture his share of God’s attention by getting a small head start. Oliver’s prayers still lacked formality or even the use of complete sentences. Instead he conjured an image of his mother, then lobbed a series of blessings and entreaties and requests toward heaven, all on her behalf.
Oliver didn’t wake up until the drummer clicked off the final, benedictory song. Everyone stood in unison. Oliver looked at his pew mates, but no one would meet his eyes. He stared at the simple wooden cross above the pulpit and offered two more prayers—one to assuage his guilt for sleeping through church and another, more desperate plea for God to not let him turn out like his mother.
Neither felt very effective and Oliver slipped out of the pew and into the sunshine. He nodded and smiled at the familiar faces but kept his head down to avoid making small talk. When he heard the familiar sneeze again he looked up and thought he saw Mattie ambling down the sidewalk. He quickened his pace and eventually caught up with her as she was unlocking a silver Honda Civic.
She looked startled when he said hello.
“Oh, hey there, Oliver.”
“So,” he said. “Do you go to this church too?”
She looked confused, as if contemplating a much harder question than the one he asked. Finally she said, “No, not really.”
He wasn’t sure what to say next, so he pointed to her purse and said the first thing that popped into his head. “That’s one green banana.”
Mattie lifted the severely under-ripe banana, ran her thumb along its contour, then dropped it back into her purse.
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose it is.”
“Do you really eat it that way?”
“Oh, no. I hate bananas.”
“Then why are you carrying one around?”
“I just like the way it looks.”
“Oh, okay. Well I guess I’ll see you at work then.”