The folding chair under me creaked every time the choir hit a high note, which was often enough that I spent most of the opening hymn watching the gray dust motes drift through a shaft of sunlight. My sister Clara had been nudging me toward this multi-faith community gathering for a month, swearing up and down that a morning of quiet reflection would do me good after the year I had. I didn’t want to argue with her, so I put on my second-best shoes and let her drive us down to the old Masonic hall on 4th Street.
By ten o’clock, the room was packed tight with about eighty people fanning themselves with paper bulletins and coughing into cheap woolen sweaters.
I was only halfway paying attention when the program shifted to the blessing circle up front. Clara elbowed me in the ribs and whispered that we should go down there because everyone was doing it, and honestly, standing up in a room full of neighbors who all knew about my divorce felt easier than sitting there alone. Before I knew it, I was caught in the slow-moving shuffle toward the dais where three different local clerics had set up shop side by side under a cardboard banner that said Unity in Action.
The Christian priest was a man named Father Thomas whom I had known since my daughter was in Sunday school, and he looked just as tired as I felt. He reached out and wrapped his large, warm hand around my cold fingers before I even reached the bottom step.
By the will of Jesus Christ, you will walk today, he said, his voice dropping into that solemn, church-supper cadence he used for funerals. I managed a tight, dry smile and pulled my hand back just enough to keep my balance. I’m not paralyzed, Father, I said under my breath.
Before I could take another step, Rabbi Goldstein from the temple across town had my other hand between his palms, his eyes shining behind thick wire-rimmed glasses. By the will of God Almighty, you will walk today, he told me, nodding with such absolute certainty that it made my stomach turn over. Again, I said, I’m fine, really, just tired from the drive. I thought that would be the end of the line, but then the fellow who led the meditation group down by the park, a quiet man everyone called Brother Dave who wore a saffron robe over a gray sweatshirt, stepped forward and took my wrist.
By the will of Buddha, you will walk today, he murmured, his voice as soft as dry grass. I rolled my eyes so hard it gave me a mild headache right behind my left eyebrow. Look, I didn’t come here for a miracle parade, I muttered, but the person behind me was already shoving me forward toward the exit doors so they could get their own blessing.
The service finally wound down around eleven-fifteen, and the crowd surged toward the coffee urns in the back corner like cattle smelling salt. I told Clara I was heading out to get some air because the smell of floor wax and stale doughnuts was starting to crowd my lungs. The sun hit me like a hot iron shovel the second I pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped out onto the porch.
I walked down the three concrete steps, my keys already jingling in the palm of my hand, and turned toward the north side of the gravel lot where I always parked my car to keep it out of the elm tree sap.
Except where my blue 2011 Honda Civic with the dented rear fender had been sitting twenty minutes ago, there was nothing left except a neat rectangle of loose, dark gravel and a few drops of fresh oil glistening in the heat.
I stopped dead in my tracks and stared at the empty space for a solid five seconds. My brain refused to match what my eyes were seeing, so I turned around twice like a dog looking for a bone it had buried yesterday. My first dumb thought was that Clara had moved the car as some kind of joke about my driving, but Clara didn’t even know how to drive a manual transmission.
I walked right up to the empty spot and touched the loose gravel with the toe of my loafer, feeling the tiny stones shift under my sole. Someone had turned right around and stolen a car from a church parking lot while three holy men were inside telling me about my legs. I didn’t cry or scream, because after the year I’d had, my system was just plumb out of dramatic reactions. I pulled my flip phone out of my pocket, flipped it open, and dialed 911 while staring at the empty patch of earth where my only way home had just vanished.
