The atheists are coming to Des Moines to hold their national convention. I read that in surprise—they’re coming here? How strange. I go about my day, but I keep thinking about those atheists. How do they live in a world without God? What could I learn from them that would help me? I’m not an atheist, but I’m not the woman I used to be, either. Before the day is over, I’ve recruited my colleague and we sign up for the convention. After I pay for my registration, I cannot shake the feeling that I’ve just plunked down money for a prostitute. Or I am one. Or worse, that I’ve just paid the 2011 equivalent of 30 pieces of silver.
There is no place to park. I circle blocks looking for a space and in so doing pass the protestors who are pacing the sidewalks in front of the Embassy Suites. My heart sinks. Des Moines is a relatively small city with a gold-domed capitol overshadowing blocks of building of varying sizes and architectural styles—it looks like a child upended his collection of blocks and called it a city. A nice farmers’ market on Saturday mornings is really the only reason I come downtown. It’s the territory of insurance companies, Quizno’s, and conventioneers. Nancy helps me watch for a parking place, but I’m rattled by the people with the signs. They’ll spot me, I know. They’ll know that I am the dog who left the church and returned to her vomit. I imagine their looks of disgust. I circle the block in widening gyres.
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