She sat in a pew nearly halfway down the aisle of the church’s nave. Zoe had attended parochial school during her elementary grades. She could never sit comfortably in a church again. Her problem. Not His. Male pronoun referring to whoever was running the show these days.
There was always the imputed judgment. The nuns had counseled: It’s God’s house . We’re all the same under His roof. If made in His image. The precise image of a white male. And unless, of course, you were gay, Jewish, poor, Muslim, a felon, or worked for Planned Parenthood.
But here she was now. One of them. Well. Not exactly one of them. Amongst them. Maybe taking it for a test drive. Trying an old outfit on for size.
Zoe had driven to Montreal from Boston. A flight would certainly have been easier. Faster. And only a thirty minute drive to Old Montreal from Montreal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International (Sign Painters Union-approved) Airport.
But one of the main tenets of her chosen profession: Always arrive with an exit strategy. Coursework during her B-School days might have characterized it as Strategic Planning. Or the Paris equivalent.
Her main concentration was Murders & Executions…sorry…Mergers & Acquisitions, and although that semester was nearly two decades in the past, she still allowed her mind to function within that discipline. Or one of its corollaries.
Zoe was never certain a thoughtfully positioned getaway car would be necessary. She only knew it had to be there. A condition precedent to go time ingrained and informed by life experiences. Euphemism for previous fuck-ups.
And besides, they were so prickly at the TSA Terminal Checkpoints these days. Even fourteen years after 9/11 it was difficult to pass muster using a false identity. And the cameras. And the Old Spice. And the little bursts of C4-sniffing cool air blowing in the general direction of your Coochie…
No, if logistics allowed she preferred to drive. Her family kept a stable of ever-changing vehicles, aided by the cozy relationship with both a Mercedes and Ford dealership her Uncle never quite owned on paper.
Seated in this magnificent Basilica. Notre-Dame. Our Lady. What foundational principles of the Catholic religion remained important in Zoe’s life? Along with the loss in faith, she failed to believe any element applied to her any longer. If ever.
And as the name implies, if any mother, Notre or not, was scribbling doctrine instead of celibate old dudes who drink more than a wee dram…
For Zoe’s part, emphatic check marks right down the list to not covet your neighbor’s wife . She had hit all ten marks in one way or a nother. Would absolution be possible just on the grounds she honored her father, and never banged the Ox or Donkey next door?
Staring down the aisle, and marveling at the sublime effect of light through stained-glass. Fairly shimmering on this late winter day. The Catholic Church had violated just about every rule themselves. Golden Idols or otherwise. Constructing temples of excess in tribute to the Vatican. And that was the least of it. But sure as shit kbew how to make a window.
In the past two decades, revelations linking the Catholic Church and child sexual abuse were legion. It seemed that not one archdiocese in the home country had been spared. And precious few of the kids.
In an act of capriciousness. Of veritable callousness, the Church dealt with the issue by moving the Deity’s Diddlers around in a sadistic game of Pederastic Musical Chars.
But why contract for the services of a professional in Zoe’s line of work? The scourge of sexual assault was being handled so aggressively by the courts and law enforcement. Why not let justice win out? Particularly when the acts in question took place under Church auspices? In fact, took place on Church premises?
The precipitating factor was one which had reared its head in prior engagements. To often lucrative effect. Statutes of Limitation.
If an
There was always the imputed judgment. The nuns had counseled: It’s God’s house . We’re all the same under His roof. If made in His image. The precise image of a white male. And unless, of course, you were gay, Jewish, poor, Muslim, a felon, or worked for Planned Parenthood.
But here she was now. One of them. Well. Not exactly one of them. Amongst them. Maybe taking it for a test drive. Trying an old outfit on for size.
Zoe had driven to Montreal from Boston. A flight would certainly have been easier. Faster. And only a thirty minute drive to Old Montreal from Montreal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International (Sign Painters Union-approved) Airport.
But one of the main tenets of her chosen profession: Always arrive with an exit strategy. Coursework during her B-School days might have characterized it as Strategic Planning. Or the Paris equivalent.
Her main concentration was Murders & Executions…sorry…Mergers & Acquisitions, and although that semester was nearly two decades in the past, she still allowed her mind to function within that discipline. Or one of its corollaries.
Zoe was never certain a thoughtfully positioned getaway car would be necessary. She only knew it had to be there. A condition precedent to go time ingrained and informed by life experiences. Euphemism for previous fuck-ups.
And besides, they were so prickly at the TSA Terminal Checkpoints these days. Even fourteen years after 9/11 it was difficult to pass muster using a false identity. And the cameras. And the Old Spice. And the little bursts of C4-sniffing cool air blowing in the general direction of your Coochie…
No, if logistics allowed she preferred to drive. Her family kept a stable of ever-changing vehicles, aided by the cozy relationship with both a Mercedes and Ford dealership her Uncle never quite owned on paper.
Seated in this magnificent Basilica. Notre-Dame. Our Lady. What foundational principles of the Catholic religion remained important in Zoe’s life? Along with the loss in faith, she failed to believe any element applied to her any longer. If ever.
And as the name implies, if any mother, Notre or not, was scribbling doctrine instead of celibate old dudes who drink more than a wee dram…
For Zoe’s part, emphatic check marks right down the list to not covet your neighbor’s wife . She had hit all ten marks in one way or a nother. Would absolution be possible just on the grounds she honored her father, and never banged the Ox or Donkey next door?
Staring down the aisle, and marveling at the sublime effect of light through stained-glass. Fairly shimmering on this late winter day. The Catholic Church had violated just about every rule themselves. Golden Idols or otherwise. Constructing temples of excess in tribute to the Vatican. And that was the least of it. But sure as shit kbew how to make a window.
In the past two decades, revelations linking the Catholic Church and child sexual abuse were legion. It seemed that not one archdiocese in the home country had been spared. And precious few of the kids.
In an act of capriciousness. Of veritable callousness, the Church dealt with the issue by moving the Deity’s Diddlers around in a sadistic game of Pederastic Musical Chars.
But why contract for the services of a professional in Zoe’s line of work? The scourge of sexual assault was being handled so aggressively by the courts and law enforcement. Why not let justice win out? Particularly when the acts in question took place under Church auspices? In fact, took place on Church premises?
The precipitating factor was one which had reared its head in prior engagements. To often lucrative effect. Statutes of Limitation.
If an
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