pausing at the altar to cross herself before proceeding past the baptismal font and back down along the far side. The wooden floor is neither painted nor varnished, but the upholstery on the kneelers looks newly plush, and someone has gone row by row through the pews to space the prayer books evenly.
At the confessional along the wall, she stops.
“Father?” she whispers, pushing aside the drape. There’s the barest of murmurs from the storm, along with the drip of water from her skirt. She steps inside and kneels. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Father? Is there really no one there?” With her knuckles she raps on the panelled wall.
“Piss off,” she says quietly. “Goddamn,” she continues with more volume. “Shit-cunt-asshole,” she exclaims, then feels idiotic, no better than those girls.
From outside the booth, there’s a noise like a door closing. Cocking her head, she calls out a hello. When there’s no response, she pulls back the drape and scans the building. All is still. Beginning to shiver, she makes her way toward the front door, stopping at an alcove where a few votive candles stand beside a collection box. She bends over in search of something with which to light them. As she does, a voice booms out.
“You, girl! Get away from this!” A thin, balding man in a cassock is hurrying toward her. He looks almost forty, with thick, angry eyebrows. “You have no shame?” His accent is clipped, Eastern European. He turns and shouts,“Lenka, call police station.” A woman with a beehive piled atop her head has appeared in a side door by the altar and gives the barest of nods.
The priest reaches for Maggie and grabs her by the arm. Instinctively, she tries to wrench loose of his grip.
“What did I do?” she cries.
“You know what you do.”
“I don’t know! I really don’t!” Her skin’s still wet and she slips away. Reaching to seize her, he fastens onto a strap of her top. It rips loudly, freezing them both. Then he lets go and steps back.
“I only came in here to pray,” she says, holding the strap in place with one hand. “It was raining!” But when she turns to go, he blocks the door.
“Where do you come from?” he asks. “You are one of the draft dodgers at Harroway.” He speaks these words carefully, whether out of some difficulty in pronouncing them or with a particular disdain for such people, it isn’t clear.
“Who told you that?” she demands.
“The man with you,” replies the priest with a tight smile. “He speaks to storekeepers in Virgil. This place is the same as everywhere, people like the gossip.”
“We’re not draft dodgers,” she says. “We’re working for the Morgan Sugar Company.”
The priest seems uninterested in this distinction.
“Stealing is serious thing.” He raises a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Authorities send you back to U.S.A.”
“Father, it’s a misunderstanding. I’m Catholic, really! My dad’s a missionary.” The priest’s face remains stern.“Oh, never mind!” With her free arm she gestures toward the alcove. “Tell me what I was stealing. Candles?”
“You hide something behind your back.”
Reaching around, she pulls out her letter. The ink has bled so that the name and address are illegible. As she goes to offer it for his inspection, the wet paper wilts in her hand.
“For my grandmother,” she says.
He doesn’t take the letter from her. Instead, he gains a frustrated, almost disappointed look. “Three times this year they break into collection box,” he mutters. “You must understand.” Turning away, he walks down the aisle, glowers at the woman with the beehive as he passes her, and disappears into the other room.
The woman approaches Maggie with halting steps. “I apologize for my brother,” she says in the same accent as the priest’s. She has a slender white neck and pale lips almost indistinguishable from her skin. “You startle him. This parish is very
At the confessional along the wall, she stops.
“Father?” she whispers, pushing aside the drape. There’s the barest of murmurs from the storm, along with the drip of water from her skirt. She steps inside and kneels. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Father? Is there really no one there?” With her knuckles she raps on the panelled wall.
“Piss off,” she says quietly. “Goddamn,” she continues with more volume. “Shit-cunt-asshole,” she exclaims, then feels idiotic, no better than those girls.
From outside the booth, there’s a noise like a door closing. Cocking her head, she calls out a hello. When there’s no response, she pulls back the drape and scans the building. All is still. Beginning to shiver, she makes her way toward the front door, stopping at an alcove where a few votive candles stand beside a collection box. She bends over in search of something with which to light them. As she does, a voice booms out.
“You, girl! Get away from this!” A thin, balding man in a cassock is hurrying toward her. He looks almost forty, with thick, angry eyebrows. “You have no shame?” His accent is clipped, Eastern European. He turns and shouts,“Lenka, call police station.” A woman with a beehive piled atop her head has appeared in a side door by the altar and gives the barest of nods.
The priest reaches for Maggie and grabs her by the arm. Instinctively, she tries to wrench loose of his grip.
“What did I do?” she cries.
“You know what you do.”
“I don’t know! I really don’t!” Her skin’s still wet and she slips away. Reaching to seize her, he fastens onto a strap of her top. It rips loudly, freezing them both. Then he lets go and steps back.
“I only came in here to pray,” she says, holding the strap in place with one hand. “It was raining!” But when she turns to go, he blocks the door.
“Where do you come from?” he asks. “You are one of the draft dodgers at Harroway.” He speaks these words carefully, whether out of some difficulty in pronouncing them or with a particular disdain for such people, it isn’t clear.
“Who told you that?” she demands.
“The man with you,” replies the priest with a tight smile. “He speaks to storekeepers in Virgil. This place is the same as everywhere, people like the gossip.”
“We’re not draft dodgers,” she says. “We’re working for the Morgan Sugar Company.”
The priest seems uninterested in this distinction.
“Stealing is serious thing.” He raises a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Authorities send you back to U.S.A.”
“Father, it’s a misunderstanding. I’m Catholic, really! My dad’s a missionary.” The priest’s face remains stern.“Oh, never mind!” With her free arm she gestures toward the alcove. “Tell me what I was stealing. Candles?”
“You hide something behind your back.”
Reaching around, she pulls out her letter. The ink has bled so that the name and address are illegible. As she goes to offer it for his inspection, the wet paper wilts in her hand.
“For my grandmother,” she says.
He doesn’t take the letter from her. Instead, he gains a frustrated, almost disappointed look. “Three times this year they break into collection box,” he mutters. “You must understand.” Turning away, he walks down the aisle, glowers at the woman with the beehive as he passes her, and disappears into the other room.
The woman approaches Maggie with halting steps. “I apologize for my brother,” she says in the same accent as the priest’s. She has a slender white neck and pale lips almost indistinguishable from her skin. “You startle him. This parish is very
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