At half past two I had ninety minutes left to become a person who could forgive Bea.
I had asked her to meet me at the church gate at four. She had agreed. That was the first thing we’d agreed on since Friday.
Esther was in the church kitchen, talking to a phone with a dark screen.
“I’d like to come by,” she said. “If Tuesday would suit you—”
Then she saw me and stopped.
“Practicing?” I asked.
“Not getting very far. Tea?”
I kept my coat on. I wanted a plan, and I wanted to get through it quickly.
On Friday I’d posted a photo from our food-packing shift. Bea was carrying a box in it. I hadn’t asked her permission. She hated photos of herself online, but she looked happy in that one. I’d decided that made it all right.
Under it she’d written, Leah only volunteers when there’s a camera.
People we knew had laughed. I had answered that she never helped anyone. Later I checked the shift book. She had covered two evenings while I was away.
I’d taken the photo down. My answer was still there, under the empty post.
“I need you to tell me how to forgive someone,” I said.
Esther pushed a mug toward me. “I asked you to come because I have a letter to post. I wanted company.”
“We can talk on the walk. I need actual steps.”
She opened the small Bible by the kettle, then shut it without finding a page.
“Would you pray with me first?”
I put my hands round the mug. She asked for courage to listen and speak plainly. She didn’t name Bea. I waited for the instructions that would follow.
Instead she put a folded note in an envelope.
“Who’s that for?”
“My sister.”
I knew Esther had a sister across town. I hadn’t known they weren’t speaking.
“We disagreed about selling our mother’s house,” she said. “I arranged a visit from someone who could value it. I didn’t ask June. She said I always act as if I’m the only daughter.”
“Maybe the house needed selling.”
“Maybe. I still should have asked.”
She pressed a stamp down twice, though it was already stuck.
“Have you called her?”
“I’ve started to. I keep imagining what she’ll say.”
I had never pictured Esther afraid of a phone call. She ran the packing shifts. She knew where we kept the spare keys and what to do when nobody arrived. I’d wanted that Esther today.
We washed our mugs and left by the side door.
At the corner I said, “If you’ve written the letter, why not just send it?”
She took a few more steps.
“Because then she can read it.”
She wasn’t joking.
We went past the park. A man was trying to persuade his dog to leave a stick. The dog sat on it. Esther slowed to watch, and I looked at the time on my phone.
“Can I see what you wrote?” I asked.
The envelope wasn’t sealed. She took out one sheet and let me read it.
She was sorry she’d arranged the house visit alone. She asked if June would talk with her before anything else was decided. There was nothing about having meant well.
“I could use this,” I said. “Change the house to the photo. Then ask Bea to talk before we—”
“Before you what?”
I couldn’t finish.
“We aren’t deciding anything. I want her to stop making me look foolish.”
Esther held out her hand.
“I can’t write what you mean, Leah.”
“I thought you were helping.”
“I’m walking with you. And you agreed to walk with me.”
I gave the note back. She sealed it while I stood beside her, feeling like the dog on the stick.
At the postbox she read the collection time: four thirty.
“There’s another outside the church,” she said.
I looked at the slot right in front of us. I didn’t say anything.
After a moment she pushed the envelope through. We heard it fall.
“Do you feel better?” I asked.
“I feel as if she’ll get a letter.”
On the walk back I left my phone in my pocket. I tried to recall Bea’s face when I’d raised the camera. She had turned away. I’d called her name so she’d look back.
We reached the church at ten to four. Esther went into the kitchen. I waited by the gate.
Bea arrived on time but stayed on the street side.
“I took the photo down,” I said.
“I saw.”
I heard how I’d said it, as if I’d done her a favor.
“I should have asked before posting it. I’m sorry.”
“You knew I hated pictures of me online.”
“I did. I acted like it didn’t matter.”
A car passed. I could see Esther through the kitchen window, drying our two mugs.
“Your comment hurt,” I told Bea. “Everyone could read it. Don’t make that joke about me again.”
“I was angry. I wanted you embarrassed too.” She pushed at a crack in the pavement with her shoe. “I’m sorry I wrote it.”
I wanted to say we were even. Then we could leave.
“But you said I never help anyone,” she said.
“I saw the shifts in the book.”
“You shouldn’t need a book to know.”
I had an answer ready. She had written first. Other people had laughed. I’d been tired.
“I said it to hurt you back,” I said. “It wasn’t true. I’ll take it down and say that where people saw it.”
“Please do.”
She pushed the gate an inch with her shoe, then let it shut.
“I’m not ready to do a shift together.”
“All right.”
“We could talk Saturday. Somewhere without everyone walking past.”
I suggested the park bench. She agreed, and asked me to leave my phone in my bag. I said I would.
After she left I took down my answer. I put a correction on my page: Bea had helped, and I’d said otherwise because I was angry. Then I put the phone away.
Esther came out with her handbag. She didn’t ask for a report.
“Can I walk you home?” I said.
“If you have time.”
We took the park road. The man and dog were gone, but the stick lay on the grass.
“Does June live alone?” I asked.
“With her son. He makes model ships. Last time I visited, one took up half the kitchen table.”
She spread her hands to show me how big.
“Did it ever reach the water?”
“I don’t know,” Esther said. “I’ll have to ask.”
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