The Real Planet Earth
David J. Dunn
Whenever the whole process would come to a close, the church on Gower Street would be in disrepair. The elated families of the recently-wed would promptly leave, content to forget what they’d left behind. After they departed into the world, it became the task of one woman to restore the chapel to its former pristine glory. She was a conventional-looking 20-something: a brunette with a hint of red, with wide shoulders and thick-rimmed glasses clinging to her narrow face. She often called herself the undertaker, as after she finished sweeping up the rice in the aisles, she would erase the couple’s names from the bulletin board outside, leaving it empty until the next morning.
She worked alone. On the night of such a wedding reception, the clergy would slink off to the party, intending to instill a sense of religious duty, leaving the one-woman cleaning-crew to her job. When she first started working at the church she loved it: she looked forward to experiencing the joy of weddings, seeing the way that the couples interact, learning. She thought that if she watched enough connections being forged, maybe she could eventually have one for herself; but more often than not she missed them. She had to stay behind. Someone had to clean up after everyone else.
She had never really had a boyfriend. Sometimes she wondered if she really ever had friends. Most of her school chums had up and left for the mainland long ago, seeking luxuries. She stayed, not because of any personal connection, but because she couldn’t leave the city and the church behind; she’d become too accustomed to their charms. Toronto and Vancouver were attractive options, but her apathy towards life and her love for her sanctuary made her stay. Once a month she received a card from her friend Pam, who moved to Edmonton with her sisters just after high school. She married a handsome musician and would often travel around the globe, meeting people and re-discovering the world. They sent postcards to Pam’s acquaintances in St. John’s, copied en-masse, recalling their adventures out in the real planet earth. She always dreaded reading them, but did anyway. All she’d ever had was Gower Street.
The only person that she’d ever gotten close to was a venerable regular at the church, Martha the Baptist. Martha was one of the few who would even acknowledge the girl’s presence, as she usually tried to avoid eye contact and conversations. A charismatic old woman, Martha would stay with the girl for a few minutes and chat after sermons. The wise old woman started calling her Saint Eleanor, the patron of spotless chapels. She thought it somewhat blasphemous at first, but started to like it; the title was something bestowed upon her, a gift. However, two months after they had started to bond, Martha died of old age, leaving her alone again. The funeral was attended by a few elderly women, none of whom had even heard her speak the girl’s name. The priest spoke of fire and brimstone, and then they all withdrew. No one was saved.
From then on she was a fixture at the church. The clergy joked that she lived there. In reality she kind of did: she would only go home once a week, around the corner to her run-down apartment, to make dinner and stare out her window into the vastness of the city. Martha had always told her that there was someone out there for her; she just needed to find him. There just had to be someone to take her by the arm and show her the way life was supposed to be.
As time passed, she grew older and paler, and she started to wear heavy makeup to hide her aging features. Still, no one noticed. She soon gave up. She would rarely speak to anyone else, even to the clergy. Years later, she sold her home and moved into the church’s dormitory, never again leaving the building. Forty-five years later, she died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came.
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