The pew was not visibly broken, which was part of the disagreement.
“I didn’t break it,” said Ewan.
“You absolutely broke it,” Nadia said.
“I adjusted my position.”
“You stood on it.”
“I did not stand.”
“You mounted,” Miles said.
“I leaned.”
“You climbed onto the backrest,” Nadia said.
“To improve reception.”
“Of what.”
“The rite of sprinkling.”
There was a pause.
“You were trying to get more holy water,” Miles said.
“I was seated behind Big Augustine.”
“That is not a structural condition,” Nadia said.
“He occupies a generous volume.”
“The pew was not designed for vertical participation.”
“I remained largely horizontal.”
“You were kneeling on the back.”
“I was elevating devotion.”
We had arrived early to address the instability before the others came. The church was quiet in the way churches are quiet even when empty, as though sound remained present but unwilling.
Miles had brought a level.
Nadia had brought a tape measure.
Neither instrument produced agreement.
“The floor is uneven,” Nadia said.
“The pew,” Miles said.
Thomas, never the doubting sort, said the instability was structural.
I said it was intermittent.
We measured several times.
The numbers varied slightly, though never enough to suggest error.
When Father Mark appeared, he did not ask what we were doing.
He observed the level.
He observed the tape measure.
He sat down.
The pew shifted.
“There,” Nadia said.
Father Mark nodded.
“I’ll call a guy.”
No one asked what kind of guy.
The man arrived twenty minutes later carrying a bench seat upholstered in cracked burgundy vinyl. He set it gently in the aisle.
“From an Oldsmobile,” he said.
“What year?” Nadia asked.
“Eighties.”
“Did it have woodgrain sides?” Miles asked.
“I believe so.”
The man lifted the damaged section of pew as if it were lighter than expected. The seat slid into place without resistance.
We all sat.
The seating was excellent.
The vinyl made a faint sound as we adjusted.
Father Mark remained seated longer than usual that morning.
By the following Sunday, people had begun arriving early.
No instruction had been issued.
No announcement had been made.
Still, the seat filled first.
Children preferred it.
Older parishioners adjusted their walking speed.
Several minor disagreements occurred.
By Lent, the competition had intensified.
No one referred to it directly.
But the congregation developed a new choreography of arrival.
Families divided.
Coats were placed.
Hymnals redistributed.
Those who secured the seat displayed a noticeable calm throughout the service.
Those who did not appeared distracted.
By Easter, attendance had improved measurably, well beyond the normal surge.
Visitors asked no questions.
Eventually, Father Mark called the guy again.
Additional seats were installed.
Not replacements.
Additions.
The seating capacity of the church increased without altering its footprint. No one remembered which pew had originally been broken.
Jeffrey-Michael Kane is a writer and environmental attorney in New Orleans. Kane is the author of Quiet Brilliance: What Employers Miss About Neurodivergent Talent and How to See It (CollectiveInk U.K.), a celebrated nonfiction work on cognitive patterning and inclusion in the workplace. His prose work has appeared in Eleventh Hour Literary, Redivider, Minnesota Review, New Ohio Review, Plough, Dappled Things, and Others.
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