Coming Apart - Carol Arnold

Every Sunday for the last thirteen years, Ella Granger had played the organ at the First Baptist Church on Mulberry Street. It was the highlight of her week, the warm sensation in her stomach beginning early in the morning as she bathed and dressed for the event. At this time, she allowed herself all the special indulgences she denied herself the rest of the week, soaking long in a warm mound of bubbles in the bathtub, patting herself softly with the lavender puff in the round powder box from the cosmetics counter at Ford’s, slowly buttoning her cream-colored silk blouse with the lace flounce in front and zipping up her grey gabardine skirt with the smart kick pleat in back. She’d slip into her black patent leather heels, savoring the quiet pleasure of knowing they would soon be clicking importantly across the polished floor of Old First as she rose to take her place at the organ bench, all eyes turned in her direction, in particular Milton Grey’s.

Milton Grey had first come to the church three years before, one harsh winter day with the wind blowing so cruelly in the belfry that the bells had clanged inappropriately during Ella’s opening rendition of Onward Christian Soldiers. She remembered that day well because at the discordant sound of the bells she had raised her eyes from the keyboard to find them locked into those of Milton Grey, two pools of cobalt blue so deep and unfathomable she had hit a minor key when the music called for a major. She felt herself coming apart, as if the long relaxing ritual of that morning hadn’t taken place, had instead been replaced by an overwhelming sense of coming off a binge, something she remembered well from her days of hostessing for Harry at the Silver Lounge. She had given all that up long ago, but here it was again, the reeling of the head, the feeling of having been socked in the stomach and wanting to throw up.

He had introduced himself that first day, during the coffee social after the service. He had come up to her from behind as she was talking with Mrs. Colbert about the mayor’s wife’s recent gall bladder surgery. She felt him before she heard him, as if she had backed up to a heater. He put his hand on her arm and excused himself to Mrs. Colbert for interrupting.

“You play like an angel,” he had said, the words whispering around her ear as if the angel he spoke about had landed on her shoulder and was flapping its wings.