Free Knife Fight and Other Struggles by David Nickle

woman in a long dress, her grey hair tied in a bun. The room dimmed as a cloud drifted past the sun. She held her hands up in the air, waggled her fingers, and began to sway. The pastor said nothing, but held his microphone to his chest, and swayed also. Around me, the congregation began to stand, and Carrie nudged me, and Cheryl tugged my arm as she stood. Beside her, Lottie shut her eyes and began to hum.
    A spotlight came on, illuminating the woman on the stage. She leaned her head back as though bathing in it. Then she too began to speak, to shout. She bunched her shoulders, as though coiling a spring there, and released, her arms spreading from her waist, and she did not just shout—she screamed. The pastor stepped back and held his arms out over her head, fingers spread as though he were preparing to catch her, should gravity fling her high.
    I remember an impulse then, to wrap my own arms around myself. But I could not. Cheryl and Carrie had taken my hands, one each, and held my arms apart. I suppose I might have pulled away, forcefully drawn my arms in. But the fear passed as fast as it came. And like Cheryl, like Carrie—like Ruman, gyrating and babbling with the crowd in front of the pulpit—
    I was swept up.

    When it was finished, we all went for lunch at a pancake place on the other side of the motorway. It was crowded and noisy, and there was no hope of finding a table for all of us. We divided ourselves: Cheryl, myself, Lisa, and Lottie took a table near the window; Ruman, Carrie, Mary, and Rose found a booth not too far off. Cheryl thought it important that no one who had come to church in the same car also sit at the same table.
    “How else are we going to build community,” she asked as we took our places in the sunlight, “if every time we worship, we all sit in our little tribes?”
    “Amen,” I said. I glanced over at the booth. Ruman’s face was obscured by the menu.
    “Aw,” said Lottie, “you miss your friend?” She patted my arm.
    “He seems to like it here,” I said. It was true. We didn’t speak much in the short drive over, but I had never seen Ruman seem so . . . nourished.
    “He does at that,” said Cheryl. “How ’bout you? You think you might join us?”
    “Perhaps,” I said. “I don’t know about. . . .” I waggled my fingers at my shoulders and swayed a bit in my chair. Lisa concealed a grin. Cheryl didn’t bother. She laughed.
    We ordered: me, a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs; Lottie, a platter of fresh fruit; Cheryl, an omelette. Lisa asked for a big plate of pancakes topped with stewed apples.
    “Did you go to church with Ruman?” asked Lisa, as we waited for our meals. “Back in the old country?”
    “No. Ruman came here just recently. I have been here two years more. I did not know Ruman. We have a job together.”
    “He said he didn’t like church in the old country.” I could see Lottie trying to shush Lisa, but she made as not to notice and pressed on. “He said he likes this one better. Do you like this one better?”
    Cheryl cut in. “Well, I bet there’s no dancing back in the old church, not like we have,” she said. She waggled her fingers as I had.
    “Oh, there can be dancing,” I said. “They do all sorts of things in our churches.”
    “You see?” said Cheryl to Lottie, as though settling a long argument. “There’s more we have in common than not, even across the wide ocean.”
    The food came, but not all at once. First, Lottie got her fruit, which she left untouched in front of her, sipping at her tea until my eggs and bacon arrived along with Cheryl’s omelette, whereupon Lisa urged all of us to eat.
    “I do like your church better,” I said as I scooped egg onto a piece of toast. “But I did not spend much time inside our churches. We have a different. . . .” I struggled for the word in the new language.
    “Faith?” offered Cheryl, but I shook my head.
    “Obligation,” I said. “Nearer that. Our God demands