The Never List

lives around here.” I was fumbling around for the right words. Rambling, I knew. She stood still, waiting for me to spit it out.
    “Sylvia Dunham.” I finally said it, and before the words were fully out of my mouth, I saw a shadow fall across her face. She knew the name. Everyone here must know the name. I went on.
    “She doesn’t appear to be home, and I know she is a devout person, so I wondered if by chance someone here might know her. Know where to find her.”
    She looked at me, coldly I thought, and shook her head.
    “Does that mean Sylvia Dunham is not a member of this congregation?” I tried again.
    She shuddered slightly, then seemed to remember church doctrine and forced a smile.
    “I guess you haven’t been in touch with her recently. Sylvia Dunham is definitely not a member here. She is with the Church of the Holy Spirit. A rather interesting little sect, or community, or whatever you want to call it. Well, to each his or her own.” Her expression turned dour. Then she looked around at the sanctuary with obvious self-satisfaction, admiring her picture-perfect church with its tall windows yawning up over the shining hardwood pews. “They don’t have a church per se.” She stopped abruptly, as though she’d said more than she wanted to already.
    Her eyes were on the door as she spoke again.
    “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get things ready before our Wednesday-night Bible study.”
    “Where can I find someone who is in that congregation?” I asked. I could tell she was planning to take my arm, probably to lead me out of there as fast as possible. Without even thinking, I avoided it by moving quickly in the direction of the exit on my own.
    “The only person who can tell you about that congregation is Noah Philben. Probably the only one who will talk to outsiders at all. He’s the leader of it, if it isn’t blasphemous to call him that. He stays at their … compound, but you won’t be allowed in there.” She looked me up and down, seeming to weigh her next words carefully. She shrugged, but I noticed her tone was softer now.
    “They have rented a space though, not far from here—on Route Twenty-two, right in the shopping mall with the Trader Joe’s on the way into town. It used to be the community center. I think he keeps an office there. There’s a white cross out front. Can’t miss it.”
    “Thank you,” I said, rushing to get the last words in as she closed the door in my face. The locks clicked directly in front of me.
    I dug in my bag and found the small notebook and pen I had packed. I carefully wrote down Noah Philben’s name and the directions she had given to his rented office.
    Just before five I wandered back over to the diner, figuring the waitress’s husband sounded like my best bet for now. The waitress was already standing out front, a light trench coat wrapped around her tightly, smoking a cigarette. I surprised her.
    “Oh, it’s you,” she said, this time not unfriendly. She gestured to a small wooden bench to the left of the door, and we sat down. She put out her cigarette on the arm of the bench, and I stared at it, transfixed, thinking of the fire hazard, as I watched to make sure each glowing ember burned out completely.
    “Gotta quit these.” She turned to me, her newly applied lipstick glistening. “Now, why would a nice young lady like you want to write about such an awful story?”
    I didn’t have a ready answer, of course, and was regretting mentioning a book at all. I could hardly pass for a real journalist and was wishing I could have come up with a better cover story. I’d have to make do, though, so I decided to treat the question as rhetorical, and only smiled in response.
    “Haven’t there already been some books about this?” she went on.
    “Three,” I said a little too quickly, a little too bitterly.
    “So what’s the point? Hasn’t that story been told? Or do you have a new angle, as they say?”
    “Those other three books were … incomplete.”
    “Really?” Now she seemed intrigued and leaned in a little closer, so close I could smell the cigarette smoke on her clothes. “My husband will be very interested to know that. What was wrong with them?”
    I hadn’t thought through how to explain this, so I carefully avoided eye contact as I spoke.
    “You’ll have to read my book, I guess.” I put on my best voiceof false cheer, which usually didn’t work very well. This time was no different, but she didn’t seem to