When Moths Fall Asleep

7.5 - rejection

The world outside looked innocent as a baby doe opening her eyes for the first time to Angelina. All around her people walked by and smiled at each other, chewed gum and pushed babies in strollers like they were surrounded by goodness. They seemed so sure of it, too. No one can hurt us, they seemed to be whistling. We're part of the human race, and oh, isn't it wonderful?

Angelina liked that people could still think that. She sat for a minute in the bus canopy just to watch them all.

She felt too dirty to join all the happy, noisy Sunday people out on the street. Her white blouse stuck to her skin with sweat, and even after washing them in scalding hot water, her hands still felt stained with the sweat of others.

Her job at the massage parlor was Angelina's least favorite of her four. She liked her sewing the most: the solitude, the patterns, the pure, romantic joy that came from making something. She barely got to do it at all anymore, but she did manage to scrape together a few little scarves and baby sweaters every week which she sold to Miss Banks at her handmade clothes store, Stitches. It didn't bring in much money, but it warmed Angelina to think that someone could value her work enough to turn it into money, no matter how trite the amount.

Her second favorite was waitressing. It hurt her feet and listening to the same kitschy, outdated playlist loop over and over again made her head pound. But Angelina liked the little interactions with people, the pleasantries. Hello, how are you? Good, how are you? She liked being able to say, Hello, I'm Angelina and I'll be taking care of you today. It felt that way, too. A mother hen she became, rushing to grab napkins and beer and dishes for her hungry chicks.

She didn't like working as a maid because, of course, no one does. She might not have minded cleaning if the things she cleaned hadn't seemed like such tasteless insults. Oh, here, let me dusty off your twenty-four-carat gold mantel decoration. I could sell this at the pawn shop and finally stop worrying about sending my son to college. And yet, they paid so condescendingly like all she could ever ask for was in their twenties and supercilious smiles.

But even cleaning she could recover from. At least it was satisfying. The massages, however? They were the opposite.

Across the street glinted the shining golden cross of a busy Catholic church. Each time someone opened the gargantuan wooden door and went inside, a snatch of choir music wafted across the street. Angelina stood from the bench and began to wander toward the crosswalk. It had been such a long time since she'd been in a church, but what she remembered was the welcome and the calm of it. That was what she needed: to feel welcome and calm in a world that pushed her away, was always roaring with the next thing.

Angelina pulled her aching feet across the road and tried not to think about going home. She had an hour until she had to go clean again, then two hours to nap with Dewey and get dinner fixed for Rob before it was time to get to the restaurant. She wondered what they would do if she just didn't show up home one day. Maybe that would be today.

She dragged up the stairs, one other woman straggling behind her. Angelina felt the heavy brass of the doorknob, ran her hand over the sleek wood of the door and thought, What a lovely place.

Angelina pulled the door back. The music had stopped and the church echoed with words from a full, low female voice. Angelina held the door open for the old woman, tried to catch her eye and smile, but the woman didn't look her way. She closed the door behind her and stepped into the lobby.

It felt like being swallowed by a deep, warm animal more than anything. Light filtered through the dark stained-glass windows, reflecting dimly off the ebony wood of the pews. From the lobby, she saw a brigade of gray heads, walkers, and long sweaters. Angelina remembered this from her own childhood: church was full of old people. They used to pinch her cheeks and the particularly decrepit ladies had developed a habit of stroking her hair, not so much with affection as with jealousy.