"We're home!"

"So – how was it?"

Eugene and Myra, now married thirty-seven years, had just returned from the big vacation. They had driven the old rusty Cadillac two hundred miles from the airport back to the house. That's about as close as it gets in the Heartland, where they've lived their whole lives unassumingly. Eugene hadn't been sure if the car would make it this time. It had been having problems for years, and no doubt was on its last leg. He had assured his wife for three hours that they'd be fine, and that the car had never run better, but when they pulled into the garage, he breathed a long, but hushed, sigh of relief.

They stepped into their kitchen, glad to be familiarity's company, even happier to see their daughter Shannon home for break from graduate school, watching television in the family room. Myra declared their presence and went to give her child a hug. Eugene and Myra were bred on organization and efficiency, but just this once they decided to let the luggage linger in the trunk so they could rest their tired legs a bit. The big vacation had worn them out.

"So – how was it?" Shannon asked distractedly.

"Oh, it was fine," Myra replied.

Eugene was from the traditional Midwestern school of thought that said when family sees each other after prolonged separation, one turns the television off and converses for a while. Shannon came from the new school: take advantage of free cable whenever one has the chance. "It's a different generation," Eugene thought, so he went to get the brand new camera they'd taken pictures with to spark her interest. The new digital camera (their first encounter with digitalness) was an uncommon splurge for them, but a deserved one for their first vacation in a decade.

The idea had come from one of Eugene's customers. Todd Jeffries, who'd had Eugene cut his hair since he was just a kid, now a doctor, was in the chair one day and went on and on about a condo he and his family had rented out in California last summer. The kids played in the sand and splashed around in the water while he and his wife watched them from the balcony and made love inside in the cool. Todd's wife had invited five or six other couples and their families to go along with them to make it a big group thing. Oh, did they have the stories to tell. They were livin' the life.

After work Eugene went to pick up Myra from the church. She was finishing up with the handbell choir, and it was apparent to Eugene when she came out that the rehearsal hadn't gone well. Myra had directed the handbell choir for three years now, but could never get them to play the way she thought they ought to. She puffed a great, disheartened sigh of air when she collapsed into the car, with a look of wry bafflement, as if to say, "Those women."

In college, Myra never really knew what her degree in music might come to, but if she'd known that this would be her means to an end, she would rather have gone to work in the butcher shops. For three years she had watched these eight elderly women take something as simple as dinging a bell and turn it into whack-a-mole. They rang their bells about as gracefully as infants incessantly trying to pound circles into square holes. But it wasn't just the tone; no, Myra could have lived with bad tone. It was the rhythm, the counting, the posture, and using the right bells might have helped. Beatrice Adley, for one, was utterly incapable of playing on the right beat. No matter which piece they played, be it Greensleeves or Away in the Manger, Beatrice insisted she play B-flat on count three.

"Ok Beatrice, when I bring my hand down for count one, that's when you play your B-flat, ok?"

Beatrice happily nodded and smiled, as most of the little old ladies tended to do, but when it came time to perform on Sunday, that unrelenting, delayed B-flat came a-calling. Then there was Agnes Martin, who always felt compelled to make suggestions about changes that could make the piece better. As much as Myra would have liked to appease her, she simply couldn't bring herself to give Agnes a forte, C-major chord solo at the end of Silent Night.

"You know, Myra, I had four years of clarinet lessons back in the day," Agnes would say, presenting as proof that she did in fact know a thing or two about composition. Why, it should have been quite clear to Myra that the woman was qualified.

And not to be forgotten was Dorsey Vollstedt, who was actually the best player in the bunch, but that smelled like old grapefruit. Her gelatinous stench was such that none of the other women wanted to stand within one octave of her. That no one ever played high F or F-sharp was not an accident. Still, Myra hated to complain. The group had at least been consistent: they showed up on time for every practice with joyous smiles and hearty laughter, rarely complaining, doing the best they could. So Myra took her critical thoughts and packed them away. It was her belief that anything left long enough would decompose on its own.

* * *

Eugene brought in the camera to show their pictures to Shannon. He was proud of his camera. He felt modern. The week before their trip, he dedicated one full evening to figuring out just exactly what a "digital" camera was and what it was supposed to do. He sat down in his favorite chair and plowed through the instruction manual. Eugene enjoyed scanning though the pages, seeing all the new options he would soon come to master. He memorized the different buttons and settings of the camera. However, when he finally pushed the "On" button, nothing happened. He scratched his head. After thirty minutes of struggling to make the darn thing work, he cursed the camera and went to bed. He muttered into his pillow, "Stupid technology."

It was a full three days before Eugene woke up and decided he wasn't going to let any digital doohickey get the best of him. He studied the manual, searching for his error, something he overlooked. At nine, Myra called him in for breakfast, but no – Eugene was too focused to eat. No breaks until he figured this out. Lunch came and went. Dinner came and went. And at eight thirty-seven in the evening Eugene found his answer in a footnote on page 3: charge the battery. He rocked in his chair and chuckled, "Aha!" It didn't quite make sense to Eugene that the battery wouldn't come pre-charged (wasn't that the point of a battery?), but he did so enthusiastically. In Eugene's mind, he had finally entered the new millennium.

"Here, Shannon, take a look at our pictures," Eugene said. He himself had not seen the photos he's taken, but was eager to share them.

"Yeah, ok." Shannon wasn't much interested, but tried to care. Looking at pictures of her parents' vacation was one of the many things that just didn't do it for her anymore. Much like family dinners, reunions, holidays, it simply bored her. She had other things to think about. Unfortunately for her, Eugene also wanted to show off the "slideshow" function of his new camera, which cycled through the pictures automatically.

"Ok, here – now this is just a picture of the car," Eugene explained. "I wanted to take a test picture before we headed out." Shannon rolled her eyes.

"Can we move this along any faster, dad?" Eugene had set the slideshow so that each picture stayed up for thirty seconds. Shannon could not tolerate this with free cable at hand.

"No, no, no. I want us to see the pictures. I set it up just for us to look at them," Eugene retorted.

"Fine."

* * *

Eugene and Myra drove home from the church, creakily rolling through the dead town. It was early March, which meant you could see your breath, like a nuclear plant it flowed out of your mouth. The air was so numbing you lost your sense of touch. The wind so sharp you thought about crawling down the streets instead of walking, to be more aerodynamic. Eugene, for the most part, had had enough of it. While waiting for Myra, Eugene had fallen into the trap set by Todd Jeffries. His body was shivering, but his mind was all the way out in sunny California. He could feel the sand beneath his back, the sweat dripping down his forehead. It had been so long since he'd seen any body of water bigger than the lagoon in the backyard, not that the lagoon should really be defined in water terms. Eugene wanted to get away, like he saw in the commercials. He wanted to look out at the endless horizon and find his vigor again; he knew he'd stashed some away, and now just needed to remember where he put it.

"What would you think of going to California for a little while?" Eugene queried as they pulled into the driveway. Myra, caught off guard, thought about it a moment and then gave an exhausted guffaw. Most Midwesterners guffaw when presented with California.

"Oh, gosh, I don't know. What got you thinking about that?" Myra wanted to know. Eugene explained about Todd Jeffries, and the cold, and they hadn't been away in so, so long.

"I just don't know," said Myra. "We've just got so much going on. I've got handbells and you've got the barber shop." Disgruntled, Eugene turned off the engine, opened the door, and got out of the car. He popped his head back in and said, "Think about it."

That Sunday, Eugene and Myra headed out for church yet again. The handbell choir was set to perform three songs during the service. As much as Myra hated the sting of embarrassment that accompanied each outing, it was Eugene that truly despised the experience. Myra at least had her back to the congregation while she was directing; Eugene had no such refuge. The cacophonous drumming of the handbell choir not only made the church members' ears throb and twinge, but also made them rather irritable. At eight o'clock in the morning, they weren't a very pleasant group to be around in the first place. But the grating, barbarous displeasures of the handbell choir made them downright surly. They would fidget in their seats and whisper in each others' ears, and they would look at Eugene. Like it was his fault. Like he was the one needing to confront Myra and put an end to this abomination. Eugene had no choice but to stare down at the pew in front of him, making absolutely sure not to make eye contact with an yone. He wanted neither to accept nor reject his wife and the handbell choir. He had too much respect for that. On this Sunday, he'd be looking at the pew quite a while.

When they entered the church, they were immediately greeted by Dorothy Estridge, who was responsible for printing the service programs, thus determining the order of everything. "Myra, we need to discuss something just briefly," squat Dorothy said with a smile as she took Myra aside. Myra had gotten used to Dorothy moving the handbell choir's placement in the service over the years. Myra's theory was that directly after the sermon was the best place for them, as most of the church members were either asleep or in the bathroom by then.

"Myra, it looks like we're going to have to cut two of your songs," Dorothy continued, "You see, the chancel choir has prepared a special song for this week and it's just a bit longer than usual. And you know our churchgoers – if they don't beat the Baptists to breakfast, they aren't happy campers. So just pick whichever song you've all worked up the best, and that'll work out just fine."

Myra couldn't believe this. It would be one thing if someone wanted to finish off the handbell choir once and for all, claiming their utter dreadfulness as grounds for dismissal, but to sneak around the issue and blame it on the chancel choir's new whippy-dippy song, well, that just wasn't right, wasn't the moral way to handle the situation.

So Myra and Eugene sat down in the eighth pew from the back, like they'd done for forty years – Myra with a sordid frown and Eugene trying to conceal a little smile. When it came time for the chancel choir to perform, Myra noticed that Betty Hopkins, the church organist, hadn't relocated to the piano, where she should be. "Are they going to do this thing a cappella?" Myra incredulously thought. Then, like a thunderstorm of sabers, trumpets and horns and drums and piccolos and violins rained down upon the congregation. "They're using music on tape," Myra surmised, furrowing her brow. Whereas she was insulted before, now she was practically irate. Betty Hopkins had played the piano for the chancel choir for the past forty years that Myra had attended church, and now they were all subject to what Myra could never have predicted, not in her worst nightmares: Christian rock. The chancel choir members sang out their rotten pop hymn as if center stage at the Grammys. Myra and Eugene were traditi onalists in every sense of the word, and this music was a mockery. They gleefully awaited the stunned, infuriated, disapproving silence of the church, but when the last B-flat major chord of the choir was cut off, the audience did something never before seen at the Hupplesville First Christian Church.

They began clapping.

Myra and Eugene spun in their seats like the devil himself had walked into the sanctuary shouting unholy magniloquence. They couldn't believe their eyes or ears. The clapping became louder and louder – it was a full applause now. The chancel choir members beamed and Janice Taylor, the choir's director, took a bow. Myra gazed upon her with indignant, violent eyes. Eugene tried to get her attention to calm her down, for he feared she would spring out of her seat to pummel somebody, but it wasn't necessary. When people started rising for a standing ovation, Myra nearly fainted. Eugene helped her to her feet so that they could later claim to be in support of the choir, but even he thought this was quite a bit of hubabaloo for such a silly arrangement of music.

Myra sat down as soon as the clapping began to hush. Her anger was finally under control, but the waves of euphoria still radiated throughout the sanctuary. "Just wait until the handbell choir plays," Myra mused, "That'll shut them up."

* * *

"Ok, here we go. This first one here is an outside picture of the condo we stayed at." Shannon, after being scolded, had decided to turn off the television in order to give her dad her fullest attention. She could last about fifteen minutes looking at pictures and anything longer than that might result in a trip to the hospital.

Eugene began going through the pictures while Myra rested over on the couch, seeming thoroughly uninterested in photos of places she'd just been. Eugene described the condo and how it was just a real nice place, a classy place to get away to. They'd had a queen-size bed, and a television, and a fireplace, and a great big bathroom with two sinks, one for the each of them. There was even a couch and a loveseat placed for them so they could watch the fire and the nightly news at the same time. The wallpaper had this jazzy ornate flower pattern, Eugene said, so it made you feel like you really were out in the world somewhere. On vacation.

As dull as she found this, Shannon tried to seem interested for her father's sake. "So then, did you guys get to sit out on the balcony and watch the waves and watch the sun set?"

"Well, we didn't have a balcony, because, well, we weren't directly on the beach. We were just on the other side of the road. But if you stood on your tiptoes in one corner of the room, you could make out a sliver of the water," said Eugene, "Isn't that right, Myra? The ocean was just right there." Myra simply nodded and gave her warmest smile.

"You guys couldn't even see the water from your room?" Shannon wanted to know. "That sucks."

"Well, not entirely, no. But we could see that sliver. Just goes to show you how close we were. It was just right there," replied Eugene, trying his hardest to make the vacation seem splendid.

"Whatever."

After thirty more seconds of dead silence, the next picture in the slideshow dissolved into the frame. This one featured Eugene and Myra on the beach in Florida (it had been cheaper than California.) The sand looked white enough and there were palmy-looking trees in the background, but Shannon took interest in the attire of her parents. "Why are you guys wearing sweatshirts and pants?" she exclaimed.

See, Eugene and Myra hadn't been out of the Midwest for nearly a decade. In their minds, Florida meant seventy-eight degrees and cool breezes, alcoholic drinks with little umbrellas, and plastic pink flamingos. But the truth was that in mid-March, Florida was much closer to fifty-two degrees. When Myra and Eugene left the Tampa airport and first walked outside, the only thing that rose faster than their eyebrows were the goose bumps on their arms. Being old people, they got cold easily. Instantly, they looked at each other as if to say, "What have we gotten ourselves into?"

"Well, it was just a tad colder than we'd expected," Eugene explained. "But it turned out great. You know how your mother and I like a cool bedroom when we're sleeping. Any hotter and we wouldn't have gotten any sleep whatsoever."

"I'm sure the condo had air-conditioning, dad," Shannon touted.

"Well, yeah, that's probably true." Eugene could see that Shannon was becoming less and less impressed with every photo. But he still had something up his sleeve.

* * *

Myra marched out of the church, not even taking the time to shake hands with the minister as was customary. Eugene could barely keep up with her. Myra plowed into the old Cadillac and slammed the door shut. She had never been so aggravated in her whole life. If this was where the First Christian Church was headed, then she was ready to renounce her Christianity right there in the parking lot. Myra wouldn't even be surprised if they went ahead and canceled the Easter handbell choir sing-a-long all together. "Oh, we've only been working on it for two months," Myra joked to herself, "but heck, if we've got Christian rock tape music, well then, then that's really something. Just kick us off the stage, why don't you!" Eugene got in and started the car. He knew it was best to leave Myra alone in such a situation. No good talking about it.

"Alright, Eugene," Myra fumed. "Alright what?"

"Let's do it. Let's go to California. Let's get outta here as fast as we can." Eugene's lips curled up into the tiniest of smirks.

"Whatever you want, my dear."

They talked to their longtime travel agent, Martin Rollins. He had a package deal for them which was good for a three-room condo for five days at two hundred and thirteen dollars a night. The condo was right on the beach. "Right directly on the beach?" Eugene asked. "Right directly on the beach," Martin said. Eugene took care of the plane tickets and Myra packed the luggage. They called Shannon to tell where they'd be; Eugene let her know that she was going to be awfully jealous once she saw the seashells and pictures they'd bring back. That night, as they lay in bed, Eugene and Myra couldn't stop picturing that joyous, sunny beach, those crashing waves.

"Cover me," Eugene whispered. "Cover me completely."

* * *

Shannon was in her second year of graduate school up in Wisconsin. She had a small apartment in the city, which Eugene helped her pay for. At seven o'clock each morning she woke up, took a shower, and tried to catch the morning news on the radio while eating breakfast. She rode the bus to class each day and didn't return home until after six in the evening. When she finally made it home after a hard day, she did so alone. This fact rarely went unnoticed to Shannon. It had been three years since she had been involved with anyone serious. For the most part, she didn't mind too much. Except for maybe on the weekends, she had plenty to keep herself busy. But she, too, longed for something to pep her life up a bit.

Though shocked to hear from her parents that they were going to Florida for the week, she wasn't also jealous, at least not to the point Eugene had been hoping for. Sure Florida would be nice, she thought. Long beaches and cocktails wouldn't hurt. But this empty apartment would still be waiting for her when she got back. Shannon couldn't help but think every now and then how nostalgic she had become, and how quickly into her life it had hit her. She remembered times at home, as a kid, without worries. Without the constant fretting about finding someone, about making money, about not wasting precious time. "It's a different generation," she thought. Nowadays, if you hadn't met your mid-life crisis in your twenties, you were one of the lucky ones.

Shannon often laid awake at night, thinking about wrongs she needed to right. Like how she needed to be friendlier to the bus driver each morning. He was a nice man – why did she have to be so sullen to him? Like how she needed to call her friends from high school, who had sent her e-mails that had never been returned. Like how she needed to volunteer at the hospital, had thought about it a thousand times, but could never quite let go of sleeping in on Saturday mornings. But what plagued her most was how she acted towards her parents. She didn't mean to seem uncaring, unappreciative. And she wasn't really sure when she had turned so cold to them. Was it in college? Was it the distance? They were always ready to give her a call and ask her how her days were and how the apartment was looking. But somewhere along the line she forgot how to care about their lives. When it was time to hang up, her mother and father would sign off, and tell her they loved her. And Shannon would say "bye," and hang up the phone. Whether Eugene and Myra ever noticed the omission was uncertain.

* * *

The next handful of pictures Eugene had taken were of birds on the beach. These birds weren't extraordinary in any way – no flamingos or macaws or even seagulls – just ordinary birds. "I see these things every day outside my window in Wisconsin," Shannon thought. That hadn't stopped Eugene, who was going to digitally document every aspect of their vacation, be it birds on the beach or the blue and green tile of their condo's bathroom.

Because it was so chilly down in Florida, Myra and Eugene's options were severely limited. They couldn't lie out on the beach, because the wind frosted their skin. The water wasn't warm enough to take a dip in, and they weren't hot enough to require it. For the good part of the first two days in Florida, Myra and Eugene simply walked up and down the beach. They went to dinner at fancy restaurants, but were ultimately unsatisfied with the food when compared to the price they were paying, as old Midwesterners often are. "Twenty-five dollars for a lobster tail!" Eugene exclaimed. "I can buy thirteen cans of tuna for that much money!"

It wasn't that Eugene and Myra were expecting a romance-filled week, packed with ocean caressing during the day and wondrous, exotic love-making at night, such as Todd Jeffries had described it. No, those days were far behind them. But the vigor and zeal that Eugene had tucked away, well, it wasn't to be found in Florida. Myra and her husband did indeed sit on the couch and loveseat while watching the fire and the nightly news. And then they went to bed, back to back, Myra on the left, Eugene on the right, just as it had been for thirty-seven years, just as it had been back in Hupplesville.

Myra hadn't had good sleep in at least a decade, and being so far from home made it that much worse. The tyrannosaurus rexian-like roar that was Eugene's snoring didn't help, but there was something more on this night. Myra couldn't help but think how delightful this trip might have been in years past. She hearkened back to the days when Shannon was still a little girl, and the family ate dinner at the table every night. She remembered them going to the park, watching Eugene push Shannon on the swingset. Remembered helping her daughter learn to play the piano. Once Shannon went off to college, nothing was ever the same. There was too big of a hole left to really go on normally with her life. Eugene and Myra had lived their lives so thoroughly through Shannon's for so many years, had made her their only priority, their sole cornerstone.

Myra hadn't expected her daughter to be an affectionate little girl her whole life. Every child has to grow up and become independent. Every youth's naïve optimism grows shrouded sooner or later. Myra still remembers a night at the dinner table when Shannon was in high school. Midway through dinner Myra had pointed to her glass of milk and said to Shannon, "Now, see – that's a glass half full," still believing her keen observations to have some value for her child. Shannon looked at the glass and replied, "But it's such an ugly glass." Myra only smiled. She understood that children grow apart from the parents; Myra herself hardly ever spoke to her parents once she had gotten out of the house. No, Myra thought, it's not easy to keep the one's you love near you. They're bound to leave sometime. To set sail for their own vista. She understood that. All she hoped was that someday her daughter would have a child of her own, because only then would Shannon begin to understand the splendors of givi ng your absolute self, and the sadness of having nothing left to give.

Eugene and Myra hadn't made any plans for the next day. Not feeling the need to walk up and down the chilly beach again, they instead walked around the condo complex, and then around town. Myra bought some seashell earrings for her friends back home and a seashell necklace for Shannon. Eugene bought a T-shirt that said "FLORIDA" in big bright letters with a setting sun and seagulls in the background. Instead of going to another fancy restaurant, they decided to go to the store and bought bread and deli meat for sandwiches, which they proceeded to eat in the condo. That evening, they walked across the road to get to the beach (a walk that Eugene utterly resented by that point) so that they could see the sun set.

The skies were indeed clear; they couldn't complain about that. They listened to the waves and even dared to stick their feet in the ocean for a moment. As the sun gradually approached the horizon, Eugene spotted a sailboat far into the distance. He could tell that the sailboat was on just the right pace to pass through the sun as it sank below. Eugene took his camera out of his pocket and arranged all the settings to take the perfect photograph. If nothing else, he thought, this would be the postcard picture that he would show everyone back home. This would be proof that Eugene and Myra's Florida was just as beautiful as Todd Jenkins' California. The sailboat crossed the sun. Eugene took a digital photograph.

* * *

On Saturday morning, Myra packed all of their belongings and Eugene got the plane tickets ready. They were set to leave at noon. After making the bed and cleaning the bathtub (Myra couldn't stand to leave it messy), they said goodbye and locked the door. Once they were on the airplane, Myra remembered that she had handbell practice later that evening. She had completely forgotten about church since getting to Florida. She smiled. "I suppose this wasn't a total disaster," she thought. She looked over at her husband to thank him for suggesting the get-away, but Eugene was already asleep.

"So is that it?" Shannon asked. The slideshow seemed to have returned to the first picture of the old Cadillac in the garage. "No, no. Wait a minute. Wait, where are all the other pictures?" Eugene didn't understand where his sailboat photo had gone. He manually cycled through the pictures again. And then again. The picture had mysteriously disappeared. "How did this happen?" Eugene had made sure the battery was charged, the settings were functioning, the camera had snapped. He couldn't come up with an explanation. The image had vanished. Maybe he wouldn't be able to brag to Todd Jeffries after all. Eugene placed the digital camera in his desk drawer and swore to never touch it again.

Eugene and Myra awoke early the next day in order to get dressed up for the Easter service at church. Myra wore the new matching skirt and vest she had bought especially for the occasion; if her handbell choir was going to sound terrible, she didn't have to look terrible directing it. She went downstairs to make some eggs for breakfast and saw that all of Shannon's bags were packed for her return to school. Shannon and Eugene walked into the kitchen.

"Aren't you going to come to church before you go, honey?" Myra asked her daughter. "You know, mom, I think I'm just going to head on out. It's a long drive," Shannon said. "What?" Eugene remarked. "You know, your mother's been working on this Easter sing-a-long thing for a long time. Sure, church isn't exactly what it used to be, but you could at least come listen to your mom."

Shannon looked at her mother and tried to say something, she didn't know what. True, listening to the handbell choir wasn't exactly Shannon's idea of time well spent, but she knew it wasn't really about that. It was about supporting her family. But that barrier to her parents, the one that had been built right under her nose, it was still there. Shannon stared at Myra for what felt like eons, but was probably only a few seconds.

"I really need to get going," she said, now looking down at the floor. Myra smiled her warmest smile, the one she's perfected.

"Of course. We understand, sweety. Take care of yourself on the road." "I will."

* * *

On the way to church, Eugene and Myra stole glances at each other, knowing they were back to reality again. "Let's get this over with," Myra said as Eugene parked the car. When they entered the church, they were immediately greeted by Dorothy Estridge, who pulled Myra aside because something needed to be discussed.

"What, does the chancel choir have two special-special songs this week?" Myra quipped. "Oh, no, no ,no. No, I just wanted to let you know that we've moved the handbell choir to the end of the service. We just thought the chancel choir would really be able to wake everyone up at the beginning. Give a real spark to the program!"

"Fan. Tastic."

Eugene and Myra took their seats, eighth pew from the back, and soon enough were treated with the chancel choir's new pop version of what they called an Easter cantata. The trumpets blared and the violins soared and Eugene and Myra rolled their eyes. The congregation ooohed and aaahed, whooped and whistled, cheered and applauded, like Jesus Christ himself had entered the building. Myra reluctantly rose to her feet to join the rest in their unanimous praise. "Things could be worse," she thought.

The sermon ended, communion was taken, and it was time for the handbell choir to perform their sing-a-long. "Here we go," Myra said as she got out of her seat and walked towards the front of the sanctuary. Waiting for her were her eight loyal handbell players. Myra raised her arm, and brought it down for count one. The sound was just as deplorable as it ever was. The congregation was supposed to be singing Because He Lives along with them, but it was a dispirited mumble at best. Not that it was easy to follow along in the first place, what with an odd-sounding B-flat landing on every count three. Eugene buried himself into the eighth pew from the back. Myra told herself it would be over soon enough. She did everything she could to keep her ladies together, mouthing their entrances and brazenly cutting off their holds. "At least they're having fun," she thought. It wasn't important for the handbell choir to be the talk of the church. It wasn't the means to her end. It was simply something s he did with her fellow churchgoers. They made a little music. That was all.

The congregation had stopped singing about two-thirds through the song, but the handbell choir trudged on to the end. Myra gave the final signal for the ending C major finale (which curiously included a C-sharp), and cut off the final chord. The ghastly sounds of the handbell choir echoed throughout the sanctuary. Myra imagined all the whispering being done behind her back, criticizing her and her group and their unending devotion to the art of the bells. Myra began to gather her music, and as she did, a singular sound from the congregation tickled her ears in a way she hadn't felt in ages.

Someone was clapping.

Myra didn't need to turn around to see who it was. She knew. And though not many people joined in, she couldn't have cared less.