No Club Language

Charismata

Chapter 124: No Club Language

Ruthie hated anything that occurred at the same time two weeks running.

Repetition made Christians confident. And confidence, in parish settings, usually meant a sign-up sheet was already breeding somewhere out of sight.

So when Derby's Tuesday sharpened into reality and Carlisle began whispering Wednesday and Belfast asked whether Thursdays on a sofa counted, Ruthie cleared the hall table at St. Anne's and announced war.

"No club language," she said.

Naomi, opposite her with three sharpened pencils and the tin from on top of the fridge:

"That should probably be the title."

"It's too good."

"That doesn't usually stop you."

"This needs uglier."

Mercer brought in tea for all of them and put Ezra's mug down near the end of the table even though Ezra was still on the stairs. Routine was one of Mercer's quieter doctrines.

Anand unfolded the carbon copy Janine had managed to get out of Geneva. Marsh's questions. Janine's fury in the margins. Levi's pencilled additions so small they felt like conspiracy done politely.

Ruthie read it once. Then once again more slowly.

"All right," she said. "They're frightened in the correct direction for once."

Naomi, offended on principle:

"Only because we did the work first."

"Obviously."

Ezra came in still buttoning his cuffs.

"Who's frightened."

"Geneva."

"Lovely."

Ruthie pushed a clean sheet into the middle. Not good paper. Back of diocesan circular. The Kingdom preferred irony when available.

At the top she wrote:

IF IT STARTS FEELING LIKE A CLUB, YOU HAVE ALREADY LOST

Mercer nearly choked on his tea.

"Subtle."

"I'm not subtle. I'm right."

Anand nodded toward the page.

"Make it plainer."

She sighed. Crossed the heading out. Wrote again.

NO CLUB LANGUAGE

"Better," Naomi said.

"More hateful," Ruthie replied. "Which is the same thing."

They began with the obvious enemies.

DROP-IN

SAFE SPACE

YOUTH SUPPORT EVENING

AFTER-SCHOOL PROVISION

Ezra added:

DISCIPLESHIP HOUR

Ruthie stared at him.

"Who's done that."

"No one yet. Which is why we write it now."

Mercer said,

"Add mentoring before some curate invents himself."

Ruthie wrote:

NO MENTOR LANGUAGE

NO DISCIPLESHIP LANGUAGE

NO PROVISION LANGUAGE

Naomi read over her shoulder.

"That almost sounds like we hate children."

"No," Anand said quietly. "Only storage."

The table quieted again. Everyone there knew how quickly the soft phrases became cages, how easily support became pathway and pathway became known cases.

Mercer took the pen next.

"If it's recurring, the lines need to be positive as well as negative."

"I dislike that you're right."

"Live with it."

He wrote beneath Ruthie's prohibitions:

SAME PERSON

SAME ADULT

SAME ROOM IF POSSIBLE

SAME WAY HOME

Ezra said,

"Add same purpose."

"Purpose sounds programmatic," Naomi said.

"Task then."

Ruthie nodded.

"Yes. If the room has no ordinary task, it'll start producing atmosphere."

Naomi added:

HOMEWORK / WASHING UP / TEA / SILENCE / WHATEVER IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING

"Silence counts as task?"

"Sometimes more than tea," Ezra said.

Anand pointed to the Geneva sheet.

"And first room."

Mercer wrote:

FIRST ROOM STAYS IN THE SENTENCE

Ruthie added under it:

IF THE WEEKLY ROOM GETS EASIER, ASK WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE FIRST ONE

Naomi said,

"That line's too good again."

"Then God will forgive us once."

The telephone rang. Mercer got there first.

"St. Anne's."

He listened. Held the receiver out.

"Peter Hallam. Terrified of enthusiasm."

Ezra took it.

"Morning, Peter."

They could all hear Peter's voice from where they sat because fear carried.

"I have just told the mothers at school gate that Tuesday is not an initiative, and one of them said, Oh good, because I was going to ask if my nephew could come too, and now I think I have narrowly escaped hell."

Ruthie called toward the receiver,

"You have."

Peter continued anyway.

"Connor asked whether he could leave a geometry set in Val's drawer. Is that allowed or is it symbolic in a dangerous direction."

Ezra smiled despite himself.

"Allowed."

"Good."

"Only if the drawer stays Val's drawer, not Connor's station."

"Yes. Yes, that makes sense."

Ruthie reached across and took the phone.

"Peter."

"Yes."

"If anyone asks whether Tuesday is available more widely, what do you say."

He did not hesitate this time.

"No. It belongs to Connor and the adults already in the sentence."

She handed the receiver back to Ezra with approval she would later deny.

Halloran rang next. Then Belfast. Then Leicester with Noreen Bell demanding to know whether ironing counted as task or whether it was too spiritually loaded.

"Ironing counts," Ruthie said. "Only don't let anyone call it domestic liturgy."

Noreen snorted so hard it came down the line like absolution.

By mid-afternoon the page had split into sections.

WHAT SECOND ROOM IS NOT

WHAT SECOND ROOM REQUIRES

WHAT ENDS IT

Under the third heading they wrote more carefully.

IF THE ADULT CAN BE SWAPPED OUT

IF THE ROOM IS ADVERTISED

IF CHILDREN START GETTING REFERRED

IF THE CHURCH HOLDS THE KEY RATHER THAN THE HOUSEHOLDER

IF THE CHILD HAS TO EXPLAIN THE ROOM TO ADULTS WITH CLIPBOARDS

Naomi read the last line and went still.

"That one stays forever."

Anand looked up from his tea.

"Nothing stays forever."

"You know what I mean."

"I do. Still no."

That irritated her because it was part of the same lesson as the wall and the envelope and the tin and every other irritating mercy of the last year: Hull was allowed to hold shape. Not ownership.

Ezra took the page when they were nearly done. Read it slowly.

"It needs one more line."

Ruthie braced.

"If a second room starts making the church feel useful in public, end it."

Mercer barked out one laugh.

"Put that on a diocesan crest."

Naomi wrote it anyway.

In the margin, because it was truer there.

Late afternoon light slid across the hall table. The church next door began to prepare for evening prayer with all the sleepy dignity of an institution that did not yet know half its future would occur in kitchens and spare rooms while it sang to itself through stone.

Ruthie recopied the sheet in her clearest bad hand. Three copies. One for Derby. One for Halloran. One for the tin.

Naomi frowned.

"Only one in the tin."

"Yes."

"But if this spreads--"

"When this spreads," Ruthie said, "the country will have to keep its own children. We are not becoming the office for everyone else's Tuesday."

Anand looked at her with quiet gratitude.

Ezra folded the Derby copy.

"I'll take this myself tomorrow."

Mercer picked up Halloran's.

"Carlisle can have theirs by tonight."

Naomi held the tin open while Ruthie slid the third copy inside among the other ugly salvations.

Borrowed nights. Guest towels. One-night rules. Now this.

Principles in metal. People somewhere else.

Ruthie shut the lid.

"There."

Naomi said,

"Still feels too small."

Anand answered from the kettle.

"That's how you know it might stay human."