Chapter 3

By the time bedtime rolled around that night, Lizzie was tired and didn't kick up the usual fuss about how unfair it was that her older sister, Rejean, got to stay up a half an hour later than she did.

After brushing her teeth and slipping into her fleece pyjamas, she kissed her Dad goodnight and crawled into bed. She thought about reading the next chapter  of Runaway Ralph by Beverly Cleary by flashlight, but decided instead to re-braid her doll's long black hair.

How did I get so bent out of shape about an essay? Sure, I could have done better, but it was just one assignment wasn't it? If it had been perfect, would it really have made a difference to Mr. Thompson?

With those thoughts in her mind, she drifted off to sleep.

But not for very long. She was suddenly cold. Had some crazy person opened a window? Eyes closed, she hunted for the blanket to pull up around her shoulders. She couldn't find it. When she opened her eyes to investigate, she discovered she was no longer in her bed. She wasn't even in her house.

 She was lying curled up on a wooden pew in a dimly lit church.

While just minutes ago she'd jumped into bed in pyjamas, Lizzie was shocked to find she was now dressed in an old-fashioned party dress like she'd once seen in her Grandma's photo album. Her bare feet were no longer bare. Scuffed black leather shoes were squishing her toes together and heavy white knee socks were making the back of her legs itchy.

Confused and struggling to sit up, her hand brushed across a wide-brimmed felt hat with a big blue ribbon. It was pinned into her hair.

A single note from an organ brought Lizzie completely awake and onto her feet. She sought the source of the note, and found a choir at the front of the church jumping to their feet as well.

Dressed in blue robes with the funny hats students wear at graduations, Lizzie watched a dozen black men and women open their songbooks in unison and wait expectantly for the organist to begin.

The organist was apparently prepared let them wait a bit. The petite woman seated at the keyboard looked out across the congregation. Spotting Lizzie, she smiled broadly and nodded an acknowledgment before turning her attention to the sheet music and the choir. After a three bar opening flourish, she signalled the choir and they launched into a stirring version of One More River to Cross.

Lizzie was unsure what was happening, but the woman looked familiar...and suddenly so did the church. It was her church, Zion Baptist. She came here most Sundays for Sunday school, but now it looked so...different.

The parlour facing Prince Street was filled with odd, uncomfortable looking furniture. The wide semi-circle of pews looking up to the raised stage were darker brown and newer looking than they had been last week. There was something about the colour of the paint over the steeple tower at the entrance that was odd too.

Founded in 1898 by three dozen black worshipers who wanted more than second-class gallery seats at First Baptist Church down the street, Lizzie knew Zion had been the focal point of social activities for the black community for a century.

Singing and praying together had made the church a foundation for the community. It was a source of power and strength for generations of parishioners who found themselves shunned or patronized by the larger white community in Truro.

For Lizzie, Zion meant Sunday school classes in the brightly lit basement and summer church camps with games that included croquet and wheelbarrow races on the front lawn.

Those happy memories stood in stark contrast to the one overwhelmingly sad memory: her mother's funeral.

Her Mom had died in a car crash during a storm three years ago. Lizzie had been in the backseat of the red Impala, but remembered little about it. The doctors said she'd hit her head. She experienced something they called amnesia.

All she remembered of the tragic day was getting into the car after school in the pouring rain, the car pulling into traffic, a rumble of thunder in the sky, a flash of lightening...and then nothing.

She was out of hospital in time for her mother's funeral here. The church was packed and everyone kept coming up and saying how sorry they were. There were tears and prayers, but also lots of joyful songs, just like Momma would have wanted.

She thought Rev. Smith's sermon was too long and too loud as usual, so she'd passed the time watching the watery red and green reflection of the stained glass swim across the east wall. It was easier than listening or thinking about a future without Momma.

There were no colours dancing on the wall today. No Rev. Smith. Not a single person in pews that she recognized. There was no one, except the organist, who even acknowledged she was even there.

Pushing away the thoughts of the funeral, and the unreality of the current situation, Lizzie was watching the organist's hands sweep across the keys when she suddenly realized knew who the tiny old lady was. Just as quickly, she realized she couldn't possibly be right.

On a normal Sunday she would never leave her father's side. But her father was not here, and this was obviously not a normal day, so Lizzie slipped out from the pew and crept closer to the front where she could get a better look at the organist's face.

"Is that you Aunt Vera?" she whispered leaning forward. "How is it possible that you're here?"

"It's me dear," the woman whispered back to Lizzie without taking her eyes off the sheet music for Abide With Me, the choir's next selection.

Lizzie sat back stunned. How could that be? Vera (Halfkenny) Clyke was dead. She'd been to the funeral here in this church when speaker after speaker praised her work as past clerk of the church, past president of the Ebony Senior Society and her efforts as the church organist for an astounding 72 years.

She wasn't really Lizzie's aunt, but everyone called her Aunt Vera. She was a sweet old lady. Lizzie had only heard her play a few times. She'd officially retired around the time Lizzie was born, but she’d filled in occasionally when the regular organist was sick. Lizzie had heard she played until just a few months before her death at age 98.

Listening to the way the woman dragged emotion from church's Thomas organ she knew the words of praise she'd heard at the funeral were true. The church was lucky to have - or that had - Aunt Vera

As Lizzie pondered the impossibility of the situation, she scanned the church. Her attention eventually settled on a man seated in the back row of the pews furthest from the door. He was the tallest man she'd ever seen. He was old, but when his eyes met hers, they were warm, almost mischievous. He had a big bushy moustache and wore a heavy khaki coloured coat.

To Lizzie's surprise, he beckoned her over.

"Can you help me, sir?"  she asked shyly." I seem to be a little lost."

The old man smiled and reached into his pocket. With the flurry of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he opened his hand in front of Lizzie and produced a small brown paper bag filled with hard candy. He silently offered her one.

"Thank you," she said popping a peppermint into her mouth. "You look familiar, do I know you?"

The man smiled again and nodded.

Lizzie thought he was going to say something when he suddenly got up, brought his heels together, and stood at attention. He looked directly a Lizzie and brought his massive hand to his forehead in a salute.

"Take pride in your work, Lizzie,” he said, and then strode out of the church into bright sunlight. He didn’t look back.

As she stood there, her mouth open in amazement, the choirs' song grew to a thunderous crescendo... until Aunt Vera hit a note that couldn't be right. It sounded like the buzzer on an alarm clock.

And it was an alarm clock. Somehow Lizzie was suddenly back in bed.

                                  

                                                    Vera Clyke carving in Truro, NS