The Bradbury Report by Steven Polansky Page B

of the additions—wings perpendicular and oblique, glazed breezeways, ornamental cloisters—and in their points of attachment to the original structure was jarring. By the time we joined it, the church as a physical entity had ceased to make sense. There was a foolishness in the way it was laid out that I loved. I wandered the halls, eluding my parents, finding myself lost within its illogical precincts. I was christened there. The pastor was a giant. He was six-foot-eleven, and even as a boy—we stopped attending church when my father died—I could tell he was a fine preacher. I can’t remember any music, though there must have been an organ or a piano and hymns. For the offering my father took a folded check from the inside pocket of
his suit coat and put it on the collection plate. He avoided looking at anyone when he did this. After the service, there were often doughnuts, homemade baked goods, in the narthex. There was a church camp in summer I didn’t go to, and every once in a while, all the kids in the congregation were invited to come and sit on the floor in front of the altar to listen to a children’s sermon. I was too shy to go forward, and watched from a pew with my parents. I remember there were hand puppets once, barnyard animals—a donkey, a cow, a rooster, a lamb, maybe a dog. The pastor played the banjo. A woman who worked at the post office sang on occasion. So there was music. Of the three of us, only my father took communion.
    I didn’t know where Anna was, and I had not given any thought to her attitude towards God, but I couldn’t imagine she had gone to church. Virtually no one in Lebanon now goes to church. On Sunday, the church bells don’t ring. The carillon on the Catholic church is at all times quiet, the rectories and parish houses have been sold, the ministers are itinerant, and the churches themselves are used primarily for weddings, funerals, and various civic functions.
    At one o’clock, when Anna came back, I was still in my robe and pajamas. I was sitting, still, at the kitchen table, a mug of cold milky tea in front of me. I might have fallen asleep. I had not washed. I had not gotten to the air-conditioning or the windows, and the house was stifling. Anna came in through the side door, which opened into a small mudroom/pantry directly off the kitchen.
    â€œSleeping Beauty,” she said.
    She was wearing khaki shorts, running shoes, a white T-shirt with little flowers embroidered on the neck, and a yellow visor. In each hand she had a shopping bag loaded with groceries. Her forearms and calves were sinewy and mottled with freckles. She was spry. She hoisted each bag onto the counter. She had gotten stronger, livelier with age. I was a slug, a sorely diminished thing. Watching her move about my kitchen, sorting through her purchases, putting them away in my cabinets, I wanted only to go back to bed.
    â€œWhat have you got there?” I said.
    â€œI had to lay in supplies for the trip home.”

    â€œThat’s right,” I said. “When are you leaving?”
    She smiled at me. “You know exactly when I’m leaving. You jerk. You’ve been counting the minutes.”
    â€œTomorrow,” I said.
    â€œFirst thing. But you’re not off the hook yet.”
    â€œI had that sense,” I said. “How did you sleep?”
    â€œOkay,” she said. “You were snoring.”
    â€œYou could hear me?”
    â€œI could hear you. You were snoring away. Then you’d make this horrific gasping sound, and you’d stop. As if you’d stopped breathing. I was worried.”
    â€œSorry,” I said. “I didn’t know I snored.”
    â€œMy husband was a great snorer,” she said. “The same thing. Suddenly he’d gasp and stop breathing. He went to a sleep clinic. They gave him a machine to use at night. A mask to wear over his nose. It helped him sleep. Helped me, too. If