Churchyard Gate

The music floated through Daisy’s open window and called to her like a siren song. She pulled her best Sunday dress of navy dotted Swiss over her shapeless body and put her white pill box hat over brittle mousy brown hair. She carefully put on little dabs of makeup to brighten her plain face. Like a wraith she slipped into the back of the Chapel to watch the nuptials. Tears stained her cheeks as she heard the “I dos” and watched the couple share their first matrimonial kiss. She silently stole away before anyone could ask her if she was friend to the bride or to the groom. She stood in the shadows as well wishers threw rice and rose petals at the happy couple escaping to the black limousine.

Daisy watched from the Churchyard gate as the last of the wedding guests drifted away. She pulled off her much darned white gloves as she bent to pick up a handful of rose petals and a few grains of rice. The rose petals smelled sweet and fresh as she cupped them in her hand and brought them to her nose. She had always wanted pink roses at her wedding and white sprays of baby’s breath.  Lace, lots of lace on a snow white dress and a gossamer veil edged in lace roses and little seed pearls. The dream carried her home where she carefully added the rose petals to a bowl of potpourri on her dresser and eased the few grains of rice into a small jar in her drawer.  

Father Michael carefully hung his vestments in the closet as he took off each layer. He donned his old jacket and found the broom and dust pan behind the vestry door. He brushed his silvered hair off his brow and felt the ache in his bones from too many years. He pushed the broom across the front porch.  He was never able to get all the rice from the cracks on the stairs leading from the chapel. The wedding party had gathered up all the flowers that had lined the aisle. Father Michael smiled. The bride had been beautiful and the groom smitten. It was a good day. The last traces of the wedding taken care of, Father Michael retired to his small study to prepare for the evening services. His congregation was small. He would only have a hand full of worshipers, mostly widowed old women. This was a beautiful old church and thus a favorite for couples getting married but his congregation had shrunk steadily over the last few years. People no longer feared God, had reverence for anything or felt any link to the divine.

Mrs. Burrows, a gaunt stooped woman in her seventies came to play the organ for his services. Her husband had died when she was in her early fifties and her children lived across the country. They rarely visited anymore. Mrs. Sanchez always sat on the second pew in her woolen coat, scarf and hat. Winter or summer she dressed the same. Sometimes the mousy girl who lived next to the church would come and sit in the back. But today he had seen her slip into the wedding so he doubted she would come back for the service. She never missed a wedding.

Father Michael struggled up to the lectern and looked out at the empty pews. He had given a sermon to one parishioner before but suddenly felt at a loss as to what to do.

“Perhaps they’ll be here in the morning,” Mrs. Burrows said as she slid off the organ bench to gather up her coat and purse draped across one of the choir chairs.

“Yes, yes,” he responded making his way back down from the lectern. “Thank you for coming Mrs. Burrows.”

“I’ll be here in the morning.”

He put away the sacramental wine and placed the wafers back in their box. Back in the vestry he stored his robes. In the kitchen he placed the kettle on the stove to heat the water for his tea. He unwrapped the other half of the sandwich he had eaten at lunch and placed it on a plate with a pickle spear. Later he would finish darning the socks in the mending basket. He sighed as he sat down to his meager dinner.

Daisy heard the surprise in her boss’s voice when she called in sick. She had never missed a day of work at the local library. The surprise wasn’t that she was calling in sick it was because he couldn’t quite remember who she was. She re-shelved the books in non-fiction she reminded him.

Her hand shook as she sipped the hot chicken broth. Chills had been wracking her body all morning and she knew she had a fever. She only had one packet of headache powder and was saving it to use tonight before she went to bed.

On the third day she was almost too weak to get up and get a drink of water for her parched throat. But Friday she rallied because she could hear the church organ playing the wedding march. The zipper on her dress was being uncooperative so she was only able to pull it up half way. Brushing her hair only seemed to make it more unwieldy so she screwed the pillbox hat over the top of it hoping no one would notice. When she pulled on her white gloves one finger broke through the seam. She was already crying when she made her way to the pew in the back of the sanctuary. She was having trouble keeping her head up as the couple made their way down the aisle heading toward the shouts and cheers of well wishers on the church steps.

She felt like if she just lay down for a few minutes on this pew she would have the strength to make it back home. She would be okay if only someone would come and help her but in the mean time she would just lie here and wait.

Father Michael stood on the steps of the church the bitter wind whipping his vestments against his legs. There would be no need to sweep today the wind was doing his job for him. He walked to the side of the church to checked to see if the Churchyard Gate was secure and then returned to his own apartment through the back door. He hung up his vestments and then looked over his papers from the last few sermons he had prepared. There was really no need to write a new one no one came to the last few services except Mrs. Burrows.

He called her and told her not to come out in this cold weather for the evening service. She had clucked at him but finally agreed. A cup of tea and some scripture reading would finish his night.

The morning brought the conviction; Father Michael knew it was time to write to the Bishop. His little parish was failing; his church had turned into a wedding chapel. Perhaps they would find him another post, somewhere in the country.

He was sweeping the sanctuary when he found her. Her cold body slumped across the last pew. He shook her shoulder but even before he touched her he knew she was dead. His little wedding mouse, she looked so forlorn. He realized he didn’t know her name but he knew where she lived. The funeral home laid her out and found a simple coffin for her. Daisy Lane, a bright sweet name for such a weigh-faced spinster.

Mrs. Burrows played to an empty chapel and tsked all the way home after Father Michael gave the funeral service to empty pews. He dug the grave himself and filled it after they had put her coffin in it. He brushed off the dirt from his hands and rearranged the daisies he had placed on her grave. He would write the Bishop today.

All the lonely people 
Where do they all come from? 
All the lonely people 
Where do they all belong? 

(Written for a Writing.com contest called Short Shots. The picture prompt is at the beginning of the story. Must be story less than 2500 words. I based it on the song by the Beatles 'Eleanor Rigby'. When I researched it I found out the original name of the girl was Daisy.)

Train

Writer’s Cramp—November 5, 2013  You or your character are taking the subway home. The passenger next to you (who is a stranger) gets off at the stop before yours, and without saying a word, leaves an envelope with your name on it on his seat. Write the STORY or POEM from there.

Train

I couldn’t call him back to say he had left something behind in his hurry to get off the subway train. The action had been too deliberate. I had seen him pull the envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket, stand and place it on his seat. He tapped it twice as if to indicate that it needed to stay there. He stepped off the train without a backward glance. I watched him walk away until he was just another business suit amid a crowd of commuters. I looked around the train car to see if anyone else had witnessed his strange behavior. The teen slumped in the seat across from me was picking the black polish off his finger nails and bobbing his head to whatever music was being piped through his earphones. An elder lady reached down to pull her shopping bags closer to her. A middle aged man popped his newspaper after turning a page.

                I jumped when someone tapped my arm. A young woman stood in front of the seat the man had just vacated. She held the envelope in her hand as if to offer it to me. I started to raise my hand palm out to let her know, no it did not belong to me, when I saw it. My name was written in bold letters across the front of the envelope.  I noticed a tremble in my hand as I took it from her.

                “Thank you,” slipped off my lips.

                She took the seat next to me.

                “Why is the envelope outlined in black?” she asked.

                “It used to indicate a death notice in the old days,” I answered. The significance of my response struck me. But it made no sense. I cudgeled my brain to try and find one familiar thing about the man who had just gotten off the train but I knew he was a complete stranger.

                “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the girl said.

                Her words seeped into my bones. I wanted to fling the offending envelope away. Angry words echoed through my head, slammed doors, hateful-mean-cruel words to wound, a hastily packed bag. I was stroking the face of the envelope as the memories flooded back. Nights spent on the street, a determination to never look back and then a lifetime of unspeakable things; hunger, desperation, humiliation.

                I was all ready to tell the woman next to me it was a mistake. An envelope left by another commuter. It was pure coincidence that it carried my name, Jane Porter, a name from another time. I screwed up my courage and tore open the envelope. I unfolded the letter.

                “Janie,” it said at the top of the letter. My eyes filled with tears. It was like a soft caress that pet name from so long ago. I brushed my sleeve across my wet cheeks and read on. “I hired a private detective to find you. I instructed him to get this letter to you. We didn’t know it but your mother was sick when you left. Cancer. She fought hard hoping against hope that you would come home. Her last words were ‘tell Janie I’m so sorry and make sure she knows how much I love her. Tell her it doesn’t matter what she has done she will always be welcome home. Find her, oh please dear God, find her.’ There are train tickets and a credit card. Come home Janie. I need you. Love your Dad.”

                I looked in the envelope and found the tickets and the credit card. A shudder passed through me as I suppressed the desire to sob. It felt like a physical weight had been lifted from my shoulders. A small mewling sound interrupted my thoughts. I bent my head and brushed my lips against the tiny head nestled against my chest. I gently adjusted my son in the carrier harnessed to me.

                “We are going home little man. Yes, you and I are going home.”