Keys
Morgan had always loved the smell of church, ever since she was small. One of the first things she could remember about church was the smell. Musky wood and incense, the unmistakeable aroma of used books; there was something old about it, comforting. She used to beg her parents to get there as the doors opened so she could inhale the first whiff that lay dormant in the vestibule, before it was stolen by the morning crowd, or wafted away into the street. Even now the habit caused her to stand near the entrance, twenty years later, trying to sniff out the last remnants of that scent through the Sunday colognes and crisp fall air that crept in past the front doors. But she’d arrived too late, by necessity, and it was gone.
Staring at the small font of holy water she’d just crossed herself with, Morgan waited for the bulk of the congregation to take their seats. She sized up a group here or there with her peripheral vision, keeping her head bowed slightly so as to appear somewhat reverent – a position she found usually kept her from being approached. As the tail end of the patrons straggled in, she made her move down the outside aisle, head forward, and scanned the rows until she found an ideal seat: no children, no elderly, and no coats. Narrowing her eyes slightly as she genuflected to the crucifix above the altar, the coats dilemma plagued her mind again, as it had that morning on her way to mass.
The weather outside was cooling. The late fall had appeared without warning. One day it had been summer, and then, suddenly, it was Thanksgiving weather, that heavy sweater and front-yard football feeling. It was as if Mother Nature had woken up from an accidental nap, realized she’d left the heat on, promptly turned the thermostat down, and went straight back to bed. While it was a welcome relief from the sweltering weeks before, the shift in temperature signaled a sharp end to Morgan’s rituals, a sure sign that soon it would be time for winter coats, and, in turn, deep pockets.
She must have been scowling over the thought of having to wait until spring again to come to church, because she caught someone halfway down the pew behind her staring at her. She flashed the motherly-looking woman the shortest polite smile she could manage, then grabbed a hymnal from the holder in front of her, burying her face in it as she looked up the planned music posted on the front of the lectern. She happily noted “Here I Am, Lord” was on the list, one of her favorites. Her smile faded with the knowledge that it wouldn’t be sung until after Communion, so she wouldn’t get to hear it. As she looked over the rudimentary sheet music for the tune, she began to hum the melody to herself quietly. When she noticed it was getting her some attention from the gentleman beside her, she stopped, letting the notes float around in her head silently until they were overcome by the processional music. Mass had begun.
For the next thirty minutes or so, Morgan went through the motions. Sit, stand, cross, pray, sing. Not once, she noted, did she come close to having a religious experience. Not like she’d heard described over the years of being raised Catholic. Through catechism, Sunday school, from other Christians, and mass after mass after mass. Her mind wandered, muscle memory taking over to lead her through the service.
Let Jesus into your heart, she heard her first priest say, let Him in and you’ll be uplifted, you will feel closer to God, and the power will overtake you. Such promises capture the imagination of little girls. Jesus will come to you, Father Patrick had said, you will hear Him speak to you, if you only listen. Maybe those promises and the complete failure to fulfill them are what turned her into a nonbeliever. Then Morgan stole her first set of keys.
The memory brought her back to the present. She had other things to concentrate on. The priest approached the time for the eucharist, and the altar boys prepped the basin for lavabo. Amongst the congregation the solemnity was heavy, and Morgan’s slight tip of the head went unnoticed. Her eyes scanned her pew, taking stock of its contents. One, two, three, four sets of keys. Three had fobs attached for remote alarm and lock systems, ruling out the fourth which was merely adorned with a smiley-face keychain. The set nearest to her had a handmade lanyard, probably made by a relative, and probably special to the owner, so she counted it out. The remaining sets offered no brand names that she could make out, so she continued to mentally go down her list of factors. A few moments later and she had her choice: set number two had a well-worn fob, only one excess key, and one decorative keychain that did not mention a World’s-Greatest-anything or an Honor Role student – and there were no rhinestones. Morgan despised rhinestones.
Two it is, then, she thought.
Pulse pounding in her chest like a tom-tom during a rain dance, she sang the final refrain of “Hosannah in the highest” and followed the rest of the patrons as they knelt to pray. Heart racing, breath short, eyes closed, and as close to God as she had ever felt, Morgan squeezed her eyes tight and whispered nearly inaudibly.
“Stop me.”
But He didn’t.
Sighing softly, she slipped back into the pew. She laid on her side to reach the second set of keys, stretching. She held her breath, and with the ease of a practiced thief, she plucked them off of the wooden seat without a sound. Silently, carefully, she slid back into a kneeling position and waited.
The attendants turned their attention toward the consecration and Morgan sat perfectly still, calming herself down from the initial rush. The second song of the eucharist came and went, each line forcing a slower pulse, a softer breath, a stronger stance. By “Amen,” Morgan was standing with the constituents of Christ. As they exchanged the familiar peace-be-with-you’s, she slipped out of the pew and towards the front door. Head down, she covered her face with a well-placed hair adjustment. Outside, autumn wind whipped her cheeks pink as the adrenaline collected against her sternum. It overtook her; it spoke to her. Here, she imagined, is what it must feel like to be saved.
