The three times Lola went down we pretended as if nothing had happened. And nothing did, at first. She slid off the pew like a Slinky, all coiled and springy. Her arms bendy like Raggedy Ann. There were no warning signs, she would say, no blurred vision, seeing of spots, ringing in the ears, or sensation that the room was spinning. Each episode came on like an eclipse, a gradual fading to black; except for the glowing white corona that hovered above like a halo. Each occurrence a revelation.
When she came to, Lola’s speech was musical and snappy. A distinct change in vernacular. It took us a while to catch on, to recognize the patterns. The roll of her tongue, click of her palate. Struts and strolls over multiple consonants. Hops and skips over double vowels. She spoke with an exaggerated sing-song, a two-step rhyme, and fancy tongue-twisters that made us blush. For an unassuming mousy housewife of few simple words, words that flowed ever so softly they almost sent you to sleep, Lola was full of beans.
At first, worshippers took to their knees, expert at reviving the fallen. Some made proper use of their hymnals, others simply fanned. Is there a doctor in the house? Lola’s pulse taken, forehead dabbed, holy water sipped, and yellow floral skirt smoothed. She was given a clean bill of health. Her fainting and spirited display was chalked up to the unseasonably warm weather. What else could it be?
The second time Lola went down, Della was approaching the altar, her bouquet of rosy petunias drooping gently against her big belly. The tizzy she aroused. Lola, not Della. We all knew what Della was carrying. We weren’t so sure about Lola. A flurry of chatter and gossip pulsed through the pews. Something’s definitely off. Whispers and tales were spun. A nosey-parker sent rumours through a broken telephone. She just wants the attention. She’s faking it. The unsavory sentiment nested in the shadows.
The third time Lola went down, Bertha was thumping the pipe organ, bellows swelling and collapsing, congregants fervently swaying in glorious praise and song. As the rousing pitch climbed higher, Lola began her descent, spooling and kinking and pleating. Her mumbo jumbo was chevron and checkered, zigzag and chintz. Her tongue performed high-wire acts like a flea circus. Moses supposes his toeses are roses — Mrs Puggy Wuggy has a square cut punt. Parishioners were in awe. Some believed Lola exalted. Others thought her possessed. We gathered around to witness her testimony. But no one could decipher the riddles, unscramble the puzzles. Was she for real? Everyone guessed, no one knew. From then on, Church became a popular place. Packed to the rafters and crammed like sardines. The collection plate full.
Pastor Jeremiah was not a fan. Lola’s fainting became a holy distraction. The Sunday service taking second fiddle to her kerfuffle. The Pastor would stand at the pulpit with one eye cast in her direction, praying that this would not be her day. Lola kept all of us guessing, attentive. Not to the sermon, not to the Promise of the Gospel, not to the Second Coming, but for the next hullabaloo. We started taking bets.
We’d look up from our Book of Common Praise, swivel our heads back towards Lola to see if she was on her way down. Elbow the fella or gal sitting next to us to alert them to her imminent fall. We’d wager on which parlance would burst forth. Necks craning like swans to catch the first utterance. And, just as Lola was reviving, Bertha would work the bellows into a brisk tempo, suspenseful, like ‘Charge!’ music at a stadium hockey game. A stirring backdrop for the reveal.
When Lola would walk in the door, we’d sit up tall in our pews, our hands folded neatly in our laps, listening intently. Not to Pastor Jeremiah, or to the unchanging heart of Christ, but for sounds of Lola slipping off her wafer-thin cushion.
