Short Story.
The Church Bus
The sun’s first rays pour in through the window of my mother’s kitchen.
Diffused by the net, which prettily shields ‘Our Business’ from the neighbours, it spills onto the floor in a scalloped pattern.
Just as well that the rays have yielded to the net’s shape, for it is Sunday, and I’m on the lookout for the church bus, which will transport us toward a similar fashioning of the spirit.
The gentle ticking of the clock accompanies me in the quiet of the morning as mom’s tea grows cold. We’re late, but as usual, so is the bus.
At last, the raspy three-toot horn splutters out as gravel crunches beneath weary tires. I catch sight of the bus through the window, ‘A Place Where People Find Purpose and Destiny’ reads the slogan glossed over the chapped surface of the sliding door. I help my mom down the front door step and into the van, where Sunday best smiles greet us warmly, through crooked teeth.
“Good morning Mrs Jacobs! Is this your lovely daughter?” Brother Owen says over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. Yes, my mother beams as she settles into her seat, relieved to be able to count this Sunday as one where we’ve made it to church.
Taking my cue from her, I ease in beside her and allow my gaze to pan along the pockmarked landscape of my childhood. Rows of identical houses of varied colour peek out behind barbed wire and wrought iron bars. At equal intervals these houses make way for sandy fields where haphazard tufts of parched vegetation have the audacity to bloom beside dumped mounds of outdated electronics. Once intended for recreation, some fields still hold the creeky remains of merry-go-rounds and abandoned swing sets – these former playgrounds now house the recreational activities of wayward adults and have become no place for children.
The sudden lurch of the bus yanks me out of thought. We’ve stopped to pick up another passenger.
“The ticking clock accompanies me in the quiet of the morning. We’re late, but as usual, so is the bus.”
‘Coleeeeen’, shouts one of the boys who has been sent out to call her in the absence of a bell. Add to that a loud clanging of the padlock on the burglar barred gate. ‘Coleeen’ he shouts as we all blink in unison at her failure to appear. Finally, a series of clicks and clacks from behind the front door signals the emergence of Sister Coleen. Four year old child in tow, they huddle together on the seat across from us, remarking on the cold – Sunday best smiles their only defense against the rainy weather.
The groaning of the engine lulls me back into my hood-gazing out the window. We are not the only ones on our way to a service. Stockinged feet carry pastel clad ladies holding onto their hats as they clip-clop down the street. They are usually without men but seldom alone - the pitter-patter of shiny shoed feet are never far behind. This ritual is the tenuous thread that holds families together - for men folk, commonly caught up in the profligacies of derelict playgrounds, become clipped-wing creatures, and in the absence of backbone, every thinly-spread matriarch takes it upon herself to weave a spiritual sanctuary her brood can fall back on.
“And in the absence of backbone, every thinly-spread matriarch takes it upon herself to weave a spiritual sanctuary her brood can fall back on.”
The grinding gravel crunches once more as we come to a halt in front of a neatly kept house with tended grass and discreetly set burglar bars – painted to match the cream coloured house. While some houses explicitly screeched for Jesus to take the wheel, this one looked like its captain was home and in charge. Something about books and their covers passed through my mind as my eye remained fixed on the barred door behind which the series of clicks and clacks heralded the appearance of our last passenger. A young boy stepped out alone and locked the door behind him. His shoulders hunched forward and sloped down, as though he was carrying the collective weight of each absent family member on them. He advanced into the vehicle, raised his gaze to meet ours and flashed us his Sunday best smile, “Good morning” he says. “Good morning, brother Charles!” Brother Owen enthuses jovially and in stark contrast to the gloomy skies above. “God is good, he says over his shoulder to the passengers in general. And they sing back brightly, “All the time”, as we turn into the parking lot of the local high school premises, where Sunday service is communally observed.
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