Page 111 of Bless This Hot Mess
“Of course,” Japheth agreed kindly.
“We were all in the lobby,” Carrington said. “Eating cake. Laughing. Making jokes about Methuselah and millennia and admiring Rebekkah’s haircut. If Rino was going to start a fire, he would have had to do it before he came up to the office, or after he left. Unless he had MacGyvered a fuse in the parking lot that would be timed to go off twenty minutes later and he knew the exact duration of his conversation with Emma-Lou…”
“Argument, it felt like an argument,” Suwarna corrected.
“Unless he knew the exact duration of the argument with Emma-Lou,” Carrington allowed before concluding, “taste is a dead end. All that taste tells us is that we served a delicious fudge cake to a woman in the prime middle years of her life on the brink of either a breakdown or a spiritual breakthrough.”
“No one who had tasted it would have wasted that cake,” Rebekkah added. “Even Emma-Lou asked me to wrap up a slice for later.”
“Emma-Lou loves her to-go bags. Loved. Oh goodness, I hope she still loves them,” Carrington simpered.
“Paper bags…” Ronald said, almost to himself before taking his turn. “Touch. Emma-Lou had started collecting paper bags. From the grocery store, the pharmacy, the Christian gift shop that wraps candles in so much tissue paper you’d think they’re illegal substances.”
“Herin case of an emergency kit,” Rebekkah nodded slowly. “She had one in her desk, one in her purse, one in her car. She gave one to me to breathe into when I was having my… moment of reflection.”
“The panic attack?” Ronald asked.
“Sure,” Rebekkah admitted.
“I remember one time we were in the elevator together, just the two of us at the end of a day and she said to me, ‘You know what’s better than five o’clock? A never-ending vacation.’ I thought it was a boss joke, you know? But what if she meant… this? A literal emergency exit. A plan to burn it all down and bounce?”
“Paper bag arson,” Suwarna said, jotting notes. “They’re kindling. Portable, disposable, they don’t draw suspicion. It wouldn’t take much–a crumpled pile, a spark and we’re in business.”
“Or out of business,” Carrington said wryly.
“Touch teaches us that Emma-Lou was collecting paper bags,” Suwarna summarized. “Whether that was for mental health or moral crisis, we can’t be certain, unless we could speak to her.”
Silence fell again as that sank in.
“Sight next,” Suwarna directed. “Rebekkah, I understand you have the gift of prophecy? I overheard you casting a spellor doing some kind of strange fortune telling in the washroom stalls. A very interesting side hustle. Catholic confessional meets powder room prophet. Anonymous. Aromatic. If this all goes belly-up and you’re looking for a marketing manager, we should talk. Now, I’m not sure if you need to hum or chant or spin in a circle or draw an eye on your forehead? When you’re ready, please present your evidence for sight.”
Rebekkah adjusted her hat, pulled some left-over Saddles ‘n’ Spurs napkins from her purse and laid them out like a makeshift yoga mat. She sank cross-legged onto the tissue-tiled surface and pressed one hand to her forehead.
“This is a mix of science, faith and some pixie dust from the Holy Spirit,” she said. “Everyone, stay very still and don’t speak or you might interfere with my antennae.”
“Her antennae?” Carrington whispered in a scoff.
They all watched as she closed her eyes, removed her hat and inhaled dramatically, as if the ash around them were incense in some apocalyptic cathedral. Rebekkah’s eyebrows began to twitch and then stilled for a few beats. Suddenly, the ear flap of hair slowly, magically, of its own volition, began to hover above her ear. Whether from the static electricity from removing her hat or the breath of the Holy Spirit, the sight of the levitation prickled down the spines of believers and skeptics alike.
“Her antennae!?” Carrington whispered again with frightened conviction.
“I’m seeing… the future,” she intoned. “Several futures. A montage, if you will. First future. I see trees. Towering pines, maples flaring red and gold, silver birches standing around gossiping as they shiver and chuckle. Sunlight pours down through the canopy in sharp beams; dust motes float like angels too lazy for wing flap. Oh, Suwarna!”
Suwarna straightened, “Yes?”
“You’re in the woods,” Rebekkah said slowly, watching the vision sharpen. “Wearing a toga. A very colourful toga. Like a pride flag the size of a bed sheet tailored into something wondrous. It’s draped beautifully and cinched at the waist with a braided hemp rope. You look rested and like you hold a lot of responsibility wherever you are. Around your neck hangs a golden whistle. On your feet, sturdy hiking boots, you’re not going to twist an ankle in those. You’re holding a clipboard and it’s made of….bark? Like someone laminated a slice of tree for you.”
“Eco-conscious administration,” Suwarna simpered. “I’m all in.”
“Everyone around you is sitting in a big circle on woven yoga mats,” Rebekkah went on, “listening while you explain conflict resolution arbitrated by goats.”
“Finally,” Suwarna says under her breath, “my time will come.”
“This little forest congregation is made up of a dozen or so commune members, all in their own variation of Suwarna’s toga. Some are knee-length, some forest-floor-sweeping, all colour-coordinated and wrinkle free.”
“We’ll weave them from hemp, bamboo, wool or,or!” Suwarna scribbled frantically in her notes, “Or from a wood-pulp-derived fabric that’s soft, smooth, breathable, and resists wrinkles effectively, and will dry quickly on a clothesline. We’ll weave them on our own looms, obviously.”
“The acolytes, I’m not sure why I know that’s what they’re called, but theacolyteshave their hair braided or tied back with strips of fabric that match their uniforms. They look well-fed, well-rested, and emotionally regulated,” Rebekkah reported from the future. “In the centre of the circle, like living statuaries, three goats stand ruminating on the reasonof life. They are small, muscular, and smug, like they know the bylaws of this forest dwelling better than anyone.”
