by Mary Carter
“I’m not a religious freak,” I say.
“I see,” Father Lorry replies.
“If I had to categorize myself, I’d say I was a vicarious Catholic.”
There is silence.
“What is a vicarious Catholic?” he says at last.
I sit back and try to relax. “Well,” I explain, “I don’t go to church and I don’t believe in hell—except here on earth—but I really like the Saints.” There is no immediate reply, so I wait.
Is he judging me? They aren’t supposed to do that, are they? Then again, they aren’t supposed to touch altar boys either, and we all know how that one is going. “I’ve never done this before, Father. Should I call you Father?” I squeak. Through the wire mesh window I can see his black robe and his head of salt and pepper hair trimmed at the edges. He is bent toward me, listening.
“Call me Father Lorry,” he says at last.
“I really like the Saints,” I say again, relieved he’s still talking to me. “I pray to them all the time.” This seems to peak his interest.
“Which ones do you like?” he asks.
“Well,” I say, stalling for time, “there’s Saint Anthony. I pray to him whenever I lose anything. Like keys or phone numbers. Oh, and one time he helped me find my purse—that was a really good save because I had just cashed a check and was loaded.” Just as I think he’s warming up to me, silence descends once again. “That’s all I can come up with right now,” I say defensively.
“I see,” he says again.
I start to feel like this isn’t going well. Does he think I’m greedy?
“I don’t just pray for things or money, I pray for people too. Like once Ray couldn’t find his guitar pick right before a show and I prayed for him.” There, that should show him that I think of others too.
“I see,” he says.
Does he know he’s said this like twelve times already? Is this a real priest or have I reached a recording?
“It may not sound like much to you Father, but it was his lucky pick. Ray can’t play without his lucky pick. So I prayed to Saint Anthony and lo and behold I found the pick in—” I stop, suddenly remembering where I found the pick. It wasn’t lost at all. I had stolen it and put it in my underwear because I was trying to talk to Ray and he wouldn’t stop strumming. Ray hated to play without his pick, so it was an effective maneuver. Not as effective as I would like, since I wanted him to remove it with his tongue.
Now why didn’t he take me up on that? Because he was focused on his music, that’s why. I mean that’s the only reason. What other reason could there be? Obviously he was tempted to remove it with his tongue, wasn’t he? And he did eventually retrieve the pick, and okay he used his hand instead and even though it wasn’t my first choice it did the trick, didn’t it? In fact it really, really did the trick, and the memory is making me squirm. Oh my God, I’m not supposed to get sexually excited in the middle of confession am I? Or am I? Am I supposed to confess that I’m getting turned on? No way. I’m not confessing that. Besides it’s not confession getting me all worked up, it’s thinking about Ray’s hand going after the damn pick. Father Lorry doesn’t want all the gory details, does he?
Or does he? Is this how they get their kicks? I should change the subject. Think about something else. Think about anything else. Pray to the Saint of Disgusting Thoughts to distract you. Think about getting the flu. War. Overflowing outhouses. Severed limbs. Okay, okay it’s working. I’m not at all turned on now. “I even prayed to him when I lost my virginity,” I hear myself say. Oh. My. God. Did I just say that to a priest? Melanie—I remind myself—that’s strictly a bar joke. I hear a shuffling noise and wonder if he’s trying to move even farther away from me. “And uh—Saint uh—Michael. Isn’t there a Saint Michael?” I squeak. I’m drowning here Father, throw me a bone!
Do you mean Saint Michael the Archangel?” Father Lorry asks.
“Of course,” I say as if I had heard of him.
“The Saint of Thieves,” Father Lorry says.
“I see.” I start to cough. “May I have some water please?” Why did he mention thieves? Is it possible God knows everything I’ve done and is taunting me through Father Lorry? Maybe this is where I die, choking on my own saliva, before I can absolve my sins. What happens then? Does it count that I was about to confess?
“Of course my dear. Wait here,” Father Lorry says. He opens the door to the confessional, and I listen to his shoes clomp down the hall. My first instinct is to run, to get out of this hot box, but I’m frozen to my spot.
I wonder how many Hail Marys he would dole out if I told him everything. I wonder if he’s ever coming back. Maybe he thinks I’m insane. Has he listened to so many confessions he can peg the crazy ones in a matter of seconds? Just as I’ve convinced myself that he’s calling the police or scrounging about for a straight jacket, I hear the familiar clomp coming toward me and a few seconds later he opens the window and hands me a glass of water. “Thank you, Father,” I say.
For a moment I wonder what it would be like if he were my dad and I was his daughter stopping by on the way to school. Would I have to confess all my deeds, every day? Jesus, that would be draining. Then I remember priests can’t marry. Maybe it’s for the best. I wanted to ask him if he thought the whole celibacy thing had perverted his sexual drive, but we were there to talk about me, not him. The water tasted stale. “Is this holy or regular?” I ask.
Again, I’m greeted by a thick, dark silence, and just as I’m about to write Father Lorry off as a dud, he laughs. He has a deep, comforting laugh, and it relaxes me. “To tell you the truth, Father, I don’t really know the names of all the Saints. I kind of make them up as I go along and then pray to them. Is that okay?”
“God hears all of our prayers, dear.”
“Well thanks, this has been great.”
“Is there anything you’d like to confess, my dear?”
I’m addicted to love. I say “fuck” three plus times a day. I’m twenty-nine and I don’t know what to do with my life. I’m jealous of my brother. I haven’t voted for two years. The last time I went to the dentist I stole a water pick. I talk to cockroaches. Three years ago I spent two weeks in a psyche ward for taking a Bic razor to my wrists. I have cellulite on my thighs. My left breast is slightly larger than my right. Sometimes I shave my eyebrows because I’m too lazy to pluck. I have a hundred and eighty-eight stolen objects in my closet and I’m afraid that if I stop stealing I’ll die.
“Not today, Father, I think I’m good.”
Chapter 13
“Melanie, it’s your mother. I just wanted to remind you about dinner on Saturday. Make sure you bring a gift, darling. Corinne wouldn’t say anything of course, but it’s the right thing to do. I’d also like to Clear The Plates with you—if it weren’t for you, we’d be bringing the boys. I wanted to bring them anyway, but Richard said we need to give you some time. Don’t tell him I mentioned it because it will make him anxious. Richard is on new medication. I don’t think it’s as strong as the one you’re on, but there’s no need for you to mention it. We can’t wait to see you and—I have a little surprise for you too, darling. Bye-bye.”
I stare at the answering machine while violent thoughts cascade through my brain like a slot machine from hell. Knife! Gun! Bomb! Who does she think she is? My mother, Rene, had become a royal pain in the ass ever since my dad left her and she dropped the second e off her name. She lives in New Haven, Connecticut, in a two-story brick house with her new husband, Richard, and his five Bichon Frises, that is, “the boys.” Last Thanksgiving, Mom set up a kiddie table for the boys so they could dine next to us, gobbling turkey parts from little placemats in the shape of bones. “Mother,” I made the mistake of saying as I stared at the drooling beasts, “do they have to be in the same room?”
My mother shot a “didn’t I tell you” look to Richard and ran her hands through her new hair. It was short, choppy, and furniture polish red. The ends stood straight out, and s
he looked radioactive, as if touching a single strand could zap you into yesteryear. I kind of liked the funky cut but it didn’t fit her personality. “Melanie, we know you’re having a hard time adjusting to my new marriage,” my mother said as I glared at the boys.
I put my fork down and stood my ground. “That’s not true, Mom,” I said in a reasonable tone.
“You refuse to accept the fact that Richard and the boys are family,” my mother continued, blowing past my incredible show of maturity. “You always do this, Melanie. God forbid, if anyone in this family finds a little happiness, you’ve got to go and stir up some drama. I warned you about a career in acting so please, please don’t make a scene in front of Richard and the boys.”
I looked to my brother Zach and Corinne for support. They buried themselves in their sweet potatoes and fussed with my niece and nephew. I knew Corinne didn’t want dogs at the table either; she barely let her children sit with us. But she was a coward and wasn’t going to say a word. Richard didn’t say a word either, but a flush rose in his cheeks as he grabbed another buttered roll from the turkey-shaped basket Corinne had weaved by hand.
“I don’t have a problem with Richard,” I said, smiling at Richard with clenched teeth, “but the boys are dogs, Mother. They’re dogs!” I suppose a tiny bit of my anger was decades old; Mother had never let us have a dog growing up. I was glaring at Zachary now; he was the one who went on a three-day hunger strike the time a stray mutt followed him home and Mom and Dad refused to let us keep him. They said they drove him to a “farm” where he would be very happy. Then Mom started to cry, and I immediately melted into a puddle of guilt. Richard scooped the boys up in his arms. They squirmed and yipped, turkey giblets hanging from their whiskers. Corinne put her face close to her plate and started shoveling like it was a driveway buried in snow, and Zachary shook his head at me. “Let’s just give Melanie some time,” Richard said as Mom sobbed across the table. “When she’s ready, we’ll Clear The Plates.”
Richard is a marriage therapist and is writing a book on marriage called Clearing The Plates. It is supposed to be a friendly way to “get rid of the dirty plates between you and your spouse.” When everyone has “Cleared The Plates” then it’s time to “Set The Table.” If you asked me, it was just an excuse to hurl insults at the other person in such a way that they looked like the bad guy if they tried to defend themselves. It was genius really, but it didn’t make it any less annoying. I think his real expertise on marriage stems from experience—he has five ex-wives. I’ve often wondered if he acquired one Bichon Frise per marriage and that’s why there are five of them, but I’ve yet to work up the nerve to ask.
A certain amount of the blame for the descent of the Zeitgars has to go to my father and his exodus to the Florida Keys where he asked my mother for a divorce via a postcard with a dancing starfish. Zach, who had just graduated from Cornell University, took over my father’s law practice and went from twenty-five to fifty overnight. Last year he and Corinne packed up their SUV and moved to Connecticut, just three houses away from “Rene,” Richard, and the boys. Zach said it was so my mother could be closer to her grandchildren, Zachary Junior, five, and “little Corinne,” three. I think it’s because he’s a mama’s boy. They live in a two-story brick house with a manicured lawn and a territorial view of Target. It’s a nice house, but it’s been severely abused by my sister-in-law, Corinne.
The house has been beaten with ribbons, hearts, dolls, pastel color schemes, and extensive stenciling. I bring sleek interior decorating magazines with me every time I visit just so I can imagine what the living room could look like without the pink glass bowls filled with dinner mints, beaded pillows proudly displaying the American flag, and crocheted teddy bears staring at you from the mantle. If the shiny wood floors and simple white couches in the magazines fail to calm me down and I start hyperventilating, then I have to conjure up the Saint of Frank Lloyd Wright and we feel the pain together.
The kids are cute but my nephew, Zachary Junior, is way too astute for his age. Last week on the phone he actually asked me what a “psyche ward” was. At first I gave him the benefit of the doubt, even though my heart was galloping like the winner of the Kentucky Derby.
“Where did you hear that word, Zachary?” I asked.
“Aunt Melanie, it’s two words, not one,” Zachary Junior answered in a voice way too condescending for a five-year-old. Bloody pretentious snobs the lot of them.
“You got me—two words. Where did you hear them?” I prodded while he hemmed and hawed.
“Daddy,” he said finally when I told him I’d bring him taffy if he told me.
“What exactly did Daddy say?” I asked in a singsong voice as if I were as happy as a clam. (Are clams really happy? I made a mental note to conduct a study.)
Zachary picked up on my mood and said in a loud, cheerful voice, “He said if you didn’t get your act together you were destined for another stint in the psyche ward.”
Had to hand it to the kid, he handled those big words like a pro. I have every intention of clawing my brother’s eyes out the next time I see him. But first, I have to get a birthday gift for Corinne.
Manhattan Kitchens, nestled on Park Avenue and Twenty-first, is one of my favorite overpriced culinary boutiques. They’re snobby with a capital S, and it’s always a pleasure to steal from them. I know I promised I wouldn’t steal anymore, but this is an exception. Zach had no business telling a five-year-old his Aunt Melanie did a stint in the psyche ward and knowing Mr. “I’ve-never-even-had-a-past-due-library-book-perfect” was about to house a stolen item in his kitchen was more pleasure than I could bear.
Today the store is really crowded, which is always a good thing. But I didn’t count on the cameras and sensors. When were those put in? I pick up a porcelain gravy boat and feel it up. Sure enough the tag on the bottom is lumpy. I almost laugh out loud. What genius thought of this? Let’s put a sensor in the price tag. Thieves will never think of removing it. I hang around the pots and pans for a while, just to see if anyone accidentally trips off the alarm and how it is handled. You’d be surprised how many times they go buggy, beeping every few seconds. A few false alarms and most store clerks will wave everyone through with a tension headache and an apologetic smile. While I wait, an associate sneaks up and asks me if I need any help. I pretend to be seriously into the nonstick pans and give him a perturbed look. It works; he slinks off to help someone with the new Mega Toasters.
Like a game of Shoplifting Twister, I rub the tag off the gravy boat with my left hand while pretending to be shopping with my right. I move my foot over the pieces of shredded tag and shuffle in behind a woman who is so obese no one will notice me standing behind her. Slipping out the door would be possible if I had one of their shopping bags. That way, if the alarm did go off, I’d look innocent and hold up my bag as if I paid for it—then pray they wouldn’t badger me for the receipt. “It’s a gift,” I’d say as I pawed through my purse, totally exasperated until they waved me on. But how was I going to get a bag? They were only giving them to those who made purchases. I could make a purchase and get a bag, but I refused to. The store was so expensive! Not that I didn’t have the money, it was just the principle of the thing. Who in their right mind would pay eighty-two dollars for a gravy boat?
Someone touches me on the elbow, and I almost drop the gravy boat. It’s the sneaky sale associate again.
“Careful,” he whines. “You break it, you buy it. Would you like a basket?” He shoves a silver bin at me.
“No thank you,” I say, pushing it back and shaking my auburn wig. “I wouldn’t want to scratch it.”
In a flash the gravy boat is out of my hands. “Of course you wouldn’t. We’ll just keep it safe and sound until you’re ready.” With that, he and my gravy boat sail away.
I circle the store until the sales clerk busies himself with another customer, and then I head back to the gravy boats where I proceed to take another one. This time I hover behind a sta
ck of teapots while removing the tag. I hide there until a woman with a baby stroller wheels to the front of the line and starts arguing with the cashier about the price of refrigerator magnets. I thank the Saint of Stressed-Out Moms for the distraction and sneak up behind her as if I’m a fellow want-to-be-mom with a ticking womb.
As I’m goo-ing and gaa-ing at the baby, I carefully slip the gravy boat into the little storage basket at the back of the stroller. Genius really, that those suckers have so much storage room! But then I have to wait for her to leave, which takes forever, and really tries my patience. I mean, how long can you look at cutlery without going stark-raving mad?
Meanwhile, the twerpy sales associate keeps looking at me. Every few seconds he holds the other gravy boat up and waves it at me like it’s a doggie treat. I have to get out of here. I slip out the door and wait. It takes the young mother twenty-five minutes to emerge, but when she does, I follow her. She’s walking at a pretty fast clip, and just when I think I’ve lost my gravy boat, she stops at the corner and I’m able to make my move. I pretend to drop my purse and while I’m bent down to pick it up I simply grab the gravy boat out of the stroller without her even noticing. You know, people really should pay more attention to what is going on around them.
“Oh my. What a beautiful gravy boat,” Corinne gushes. “Manhattan Kitchens. But they’re so expensive.” You can tell she’s impressed; her face is cherry red. Corinne is in a constant state of blushing and apologizing as if an invisible piece of toilet paper were permanently stuck to her behind. She has beautiful, milky white skin but drab mousy brown hair that hangs past her shoulders. I hinted around once about taking her to get her hair cut and styled, but she quickly told me she “had no time for vanity.” Then she smiled and said, “You would understand if you had children.”