The Gospel of Winter by Brendan Kiely Page A

the paintings, and the people positioned around the room in chairs, or leaning over tables, the church felt cold and empty, and the pageantry could not hide the lifelessness behind it. It reminded me of my own house, a giant dollhouse perfectly appointed to pretend something real existed where nothing did. I didn’t want to wait around for the afternoon service to watch James wave the incense or hold up the book while Father Greg raised his hands in prayer and smiled down at him. Prayer was a sacred trust, Father Greg had told me, and there was nothing that could break it, if I had faith.
    For the words you will speak will not be yours; they will come from the Spirit of your Father speaking through you. . . .
    Everyone will hate you because of me. But whoever holds out to the end will be saved.
    I repeated the passage to myself as I got outside and took off, on my own, down the long slope of the front lawn to the street. I couldn’t understand: Was it really love if it was so often being tested? Hadn’t I endured? I had, and I would hold out to the end, I told myself. I must. What else did I have?

CHAPTER 3
    T he car service had been scheduled to pick me up later, but I left without calling to cancel. I walked home, letting the cold air sting my face and eyes. When cars passed me, I tried to keep my head down. I felt like a stain on their gorgeous country view, and I wanted to be a mark that could be dissolved with the blink of an eye. I could only imagine what I looked like, leaning into the wind with my overcoat billowing behind me, my face windburned and splotchy. I could just hear those people asking as they passed me, Who is that? Does he belong here?
    Well, go take your faces off , because I am just one of you.
    When I got home, I threw off my coat, made a snack in the kitchen, and prepared to barricade myself in my room for the rest of the afternoon and evening; and that would have been the end of my day had the phone not rung while I was still downstairs. I ran to get it, thinking it was FatherGreg calling back to apologize, calling to tell me to come speak with him after the service, calling to tell me he was proud of me, calling to tell me that if a man can reach out to another man in his time of need, then he is bringing God into both their lives and they are both the better for it.
    But the voice on the other end was not his. It was Josie, and it took me a few seconds to collect myself. I was suddenly embarrassed, and I didn’t know why.
    â€œGood break so far?” she asked.
    â€œOh, yeah,” I said.
    She hesitated. “Actually, isn’t it always kind of a letdown? There’s all this buildup and expectation, and then it’s, like, where’s all that fun I’m supposed to be having?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œOh my god, Mom. I don’t need an audience!” Josie breathed harder, as she must have walked away and tried to find privacy in her house. I waited. “Actually, I was having fun at your party, for a little bit,” she said finally.
    â€œMe too.”
    â€œEven though Mark’s mother was a total psycho and made us pull a Houdini for no real reason. We weren’t even drunk yet. Anyway, it’s kind of bugged me how it ended. I mean, we didn’t even say good-bye to you.”
    As she spoke I walked out of my own kitchen and cut back toward Old Donovan’s office. “It’s cool,” I said.
    â€œActually, it wasn’t. What was cool was how you handled the whole thing. You just stood there calmly, taking the heatfor all of us. We stood there doing nothing. When I got home, I was, like, Why did I do that? I suck .”
    I was quiet on the other end. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
    â€œSeriously,” Josie continued. “You didn’t fight back. At first I thought that was weird, and then I thought, Oh my God, he’s just going to take all the blame— for us.”
    â€œIt was my