192
SARAH PLIMPTON
me to a secluded seat near one of the stained glass windows. The
church is filled with white flowers, the organ plays discreetly. I hold
myself stiff and straight, smiling and nodding when necessary. There
is a lady with a white feather sitting in front of me, the white
painted spine jerks annoyingly, the soft fluffy parts gracefully fol–
lowing after as she gossips without pause to the lady next to her.
The church fills, your mother comes in and the service starts. You
and she both appear, your face set in stone with marbled muscles.
I stare, automatically doing what the congregation does, sitting
standing kneeling and the thing lasts forever.
My mind wanders vaguely remembering that it usually is
moved by the public nature of such affairs, that it has respect for
ceremony and the rows of venerable members of the family who
stand nostalgic, so wise, thinking profoundly, their thoughts rising
together in unison, in prayer and worship to detach the church
from its stone foundations and float it in the sky, blessing the young
couple. The spring garden party hats are wet and damp, slightly
askew from a run in the rain under a large black umbrella; I hear
the voices and hymns through cotton wool padding, the minister is
such a dull man and that woman with the feather is always talking
to that other woman who has the wide open surprised eyes, while
they have sweets to fill out their figures in tea rooms crowded with
tables of women leaning toward each other, chatting and talking.
I
tum
my eyes to the vaulted ceiling where there are stone flowers,
roses, where the ribs of the vaulting join. I look at the stained glass
window, it is open a crack, the saint tilted inwards with his feet
out in the rain. Underneath the window a spider's web bounces up
and down shivering with activity; the small black spider with yel–
low markings, her fat abdomen -throbbing, rushes from one side to
the other. A fly perhaps driven in by the storm has been caught
and is giving the last shudders and buzzes of its wings before ex–
piring and being wrapped up by the spider for a future meal. The
storm continues; I can feel a fine spray of damp from the open
window. I look back at the couple standing at the altar and listen,
blocking out other inferference, to the rain on the windows and the
wind in the trees. I am afraid of crying, laughing out loud, scream–
ing hysterically.
It
is all a farce, I am chanting in time with the
organ, slapping those two ladies on the back, telling them about you
