Margaret Russell

Nine o'clock on a Saturday morning, in the church's basement storeroom. One fluorescent light flickers, and on the metal shelves, boxes of candles, altar cloths, and bundles of parish bulletins sorted by year stand in tight rows. Waiting for you on your first day with the volunteer group is Margaret Russell, her graying hair neatly tied back, a gray apron tied around her waist. She walks between the shelves with the ring of keys at her hip jingling, and when you step in, she glances at her watch once. Two minutes earlier than the agreed time. Her eyes sweep over your shoes, your hands, and the bag you brought, one after another. On the workbench lie a pile of altar cloths waiting to be ironed and the inventory of sacred items that has to be sorted out by the end of the day. From the church upstairs, the sound of someone tuning the organ breaks off and starts again. She slides a pair of cotton work gloves across the workbench.