ADRIAN MARKLE

The Church of Squalls

It was a just regular church, but they called it “the church of squalls” because the front door opened almost right onto the sand, and two bus lengths from that was the ragged sea. Apparently the church’s roof was leaking. I’d never noticed it, but that’s what the fundraiser leaflet that had been shoved through every home in the village’s doors said. My roof, on the other hand, wept rain from the ceiling near the TV. I’d put my dog’s water bowl underneath it, so for now the problem took care of itself, but it would only get worse and I couldn’t afford to fix it; hermitted deep within my wallet was my last twenty bucks for the month. Financially, I couldn’t afford to go, but socially I couldn’t afford not to. 

The fundraiser was a few dozen people of all ages milling about in front of a row of unsteady folding tables whose legs sunk into the sand. On them were tubs of tuna and mayonnaise and trays of buns. Gulls squawked and circled high overhead. Old Martin in his threadbare tweed coat stood near the table with an antique shotgun pinched in the crook of his arm and squinting toward the bird sounds. When the gulls got too close, he fired into the air, sending them scrambling away through the wind. 

“There’s kids here,” a woman chided, settling her hand on her boy’s shoulder.

“S’only rock salt,” Martin muttered. When he’d fired, he’d aimed broadly at the sea. I’d once have been out there. Not for a while now. About a year ago I hauled up a few skeletal, almost seaweed-skinned things, and then not a lot else for months, and then I’d stopped going altogether. Waste of fuel. 

I turned to the lunch line. Carol, the blue-haired, blue-eyed, part-time volunteer organist, who I’d known since I was little, looked warily at the crowd and frowned. She shook more and more mayonnaise out of an industrial-sized jar into the puddle of tuna in a wide plastic insert like I use to try to keep shoes and old sweaters dry under my bed. Carol smiled at me. She waved me closer and, when I knew I could not pretend I thought she was waving to anyone else, I slouched toward her. “I knew I’d see you here,” she said. “Your mother worried you’d stop coming to church when she . . . but I told her not to worry.” Her grandson stood on a chair beside her and jerkily stirred the extra mayo in with a wooden spoon. “So much support here; we’ve got to make it stretch.” She gave me a paper plate—her hands were warm—and put a white roll on it, split open like a book. “Got to stretch it,” she said again. She spooned a scoop of mayo flecked with tuna onto it. 

“This from a can?” I said.

She frowned. “We tried to buy local, but you charge too much for us here.”

The mayo started running down over the sides of the bun. It looked revolting, but my stomach groaned. She heard it, but didn’t say anything, instead grabbing my wrist and holding me there while she, after looking over her shoulder, gave me another scoop. I raised the plate in thanks. I turned away from everyone, from Carol especially, so they wouldn’t see the fury of my eating. The mayo slicked across my teeth as I choked it all down, barely chewing, just sliding it right down my throat. My tongue was scraping dry across the plate hunting for drips when I heard a voice behind me.

“Glad to have your support.” The priest’s robes—which seemed a strange choice considering the weather and the informality of the event—snapped loudly behind him. He gestured with a chicken leg, sucked what last he could off the bone, and threw it over my shoulder. 

I became painfully aware of my wallet waiting in my pocket. I felt myself taking a step back, angling away from him. “Thought I would at least come down,” I said, “show my face. See what’s happening.”

The priest’s lips had a greasy shine. “Glad to see you’ve enjoyed our generosity,” he said, pointing to the paper plate that fluttered in my hand.

“Been a long time since I had canned fish.”

“Glad you liked it.”

Carol came up behind the priest and passed him the Beech donation box. The priest cradled it in his elbow like baby and smiled. A little black padlock kept the lid shut tight.

“Can you not make change, or?” I said.

The priest sucked his breath in. “We’ve all got to come together in this.”

“I’ll just go see if someone else doesn’t have change,” I said. 

Carol wide-eyed me from around behind the priest. She waited. Slowly, I fished my wallet from my pocket, hooked out the one bill, and slid it into the dark of the box. Carol smiled. The priest smiled, lips slick.

“We really appreciate your support,” he said. He reached out and squeezed my arm, his thumb leaving a greasy smear on my shirt. He and Carol moved on through the crowd. I thought about the bone the priest had thrown away. It had looked like it still had some meat on it. Maybe I could get if for my dumb old dog. My feet sunk into the sand as I walked over to where I thought the bone had landed. I was bent, craning for it, eyes skimming over small mounds of sand and little patches of grass, when the shotgun thundered out behind me, sending my heart into my throat and my arms flapping out into the air above my head. Old Martin smirked. “Apologies,” he said.

I turned and sunk my way through the sand back to the parking lot, where the first of the day’s falling rain anointed my forehead.

Originally from Canada, Adrian Markle lives in Cornwall, UK, and keeps going back to school. In the final stages of his PhD, he looks forward to the future with equal parts delight and dread. He recently has work in Penumbra, Dream Catcher, and The Roadrunner Review. He likes old dogs.