by Edward Lee
That, however, was not the cause of her query, when she squinted along the wall, pointed, and said, “What’s this?”
“You gotta be shitting me,” the priest murmured.
Another line of brick-demarcation. It was plain to see. A wedge of newer bricks filled in a block-space in the wall, as though a doorway had been there years ago but had been filled in. It was just like the obstruction upstairs, at the admin office. Only there was one difference:
“What the…fuck?” Alexander profaned once more, staring at the incongruently that Jerrica had already noticed.
“It looks like,” she began, but even her own bewilderment choking out the rest of the words.
The newer insertion of bricks looked, well—
That’s the strangest thing, Jerrica pondered.
—as though they’d been impacted by some kind of tool.
As though someone had tried to break them down.
— | — | —
TEN
(I)
A cemetery, Charity thought. Of course…
The heat of afternoon quickly burned off the late morning’s haze. But the interior woods remained cool in dappled shade, breaking only periodically. Winding footpaths through the brambles took them away. Aunt Annie had calmed down by now, almost as if the bunches of flowers in her hand gave her solace. Charity felt horrible, though, finally aware of the weight of guilt the graceful old woman had been carrying all these years. Certainly her previous poverty wasn’t her fault, nor was it her fault that the mineral settlement had come so late. Charity tried to reckon what it must be like for her Annie, trodding onward with all these broken pieces and bad luck…
“Here we are,” Annie said, just as the sun dazzled the shade away. The trail ended, emptied into a long, open dell. Spiring trees flanked to either side, in surprising symmetry; lush, high grass made a carpet pocked by simple gravestones, crudely carved. “This is the family cemetery,” Annie related. She seemed to stare in thwarted awe, as if reminding herself that she, too, would someday be interred here.
“It’s very nice,” Charity said. “It seems much more honest than typical cemeteries, much more real.”
But Aunt Annie acted as though she hadn’t heard her, too caught up in more personal reflections. Charity gazed out into the sunlit dell; it was oblong, like a coffin. Appropriate, she thought. Bees buzzed, hopping from one wildflower to the next, bundling pollen. Small birds watched them from the high Mockernuts. The scent of honeysuckle and hickory was delightfully overpowering, it made Charity high, in a sense. But eventually, this preliminary sensory impact lagged behind. She brought me here for some reason, she remembered. And that could only mean one thing:
She brought me here to show me a specific grave…
Charity had a good idea whose.
“I’ve never showed ya your mother’s grave, Charity,” the elder spoke. “And I never told ya the whole details. You was too young, at least that’s how I saw it.”
“I understand, Aunt Annie.”
“But now it’s time ya saw, an’ heard it all.”
Charity followed the old woman’s fragile form straight out into the burning sunlight. The ends of the high grass sifted; the flowerscents stirred. Around the graveyard’s peripheries, she noticed wild roses, stalks of lupines, sunflowers with great dropping heads. Their feet followed the path beat down by Annie’s feet day after day; Charity could see it, swarming forward around the unsophisticated stones. And just then it occurred to Charity how long this little jaunt had taken—it must’ve been a good two miles from the boarding house. No wonder she’s in such good shape for her age! Making this walk on a daily basis would keep anyone in shape.
Annie stopped at a pale granite stone. The inscription, obviously carved by hand, read: SISSY.
That was all.
At its foot lay a dried cache of yellow coneflowers and tarweeds. Yesterday’s offerings, Charity speculated.
“This is your mother’s grave, dear,” finally revealed. “My sister.”
Charity already knew the gist of the details: her mother had committed suicide shortly after her birth, and shortly after that, her husband—Charity’s father—had been killed in a mine explosion. Charity had never even seen a picture of her mother. Everyone out here back then was too poor to even own a camera.
Aunt Annie was stifling tears. “I’m just so sorry, Charity, things did work out like they shoulda,” she sobbed. “I hope you know that, and I hope Sissy knows it.”
“Of course she does, Aunt Annie,” Charity consoled. “You did the very best you could to raise me. The state taking me wasn’t your fault.”
But Charity could scarcely think of more to offer. This was difficult. I’m standing before my own mother’s grave, she told herself. It was a bizarre realization.
Annie took up the old dried flowers and replaced them with new ones. But the second new bundle remained in her arms.
“She was a wonderful gal, your mother,” Annie elaborated. “A fine woman and a good mother. But she just let the bad things get to her…”
Charity burned, however sadly, with the next question. “How—how did she commit suicide?”
Annie blinked, staring down at the sparsely marked grave. “I cain’t talk about it right now, sweetheart. But I’se realize ya got a right ta know about yer mama, and I’ll tell ya all about it later, back the house.”
“That’s fine, Aunt Annie.”
But the woman looked crestfallen, she looked like a sleek, grand vine hammered too intently by the sun. “Charity, dear, what I’d like ya to do if ya don’t mind is take these old flowers and wait fer me back by the path. I’ll just be a minute.”
“Sure, Aunt Annie,” Charity agreed, taking yesterday’s dried bundle of flowers.
“There’s…another grave I need ta stop by,” the elderly woman said.
Charity did as instructed, secretly grateful to be out of the fierce blade of the sun. She couldn’t see much of her aunt for that time, just the vague shape of the woman’s billowy dress moving down the rows. Then she seemed to stop, gazing down with more regret in her eyes.
She was standing in front of another grave, weeping.
Whose…grave? Charity struggled to wonder.
Did Annie have more relatives out here? Well—of course she did; she’d said this was the family graveyard. But Charity’s question itched at her like a fresh patch of mosquito bites under anxious fingernails. Whose grave? she wondered. Whose grave?
She blinked, staring into the torrid sun. The question would not cease to form on her lips.
(II)
“So what do you think?” Jerrica asked. The Mercedes’ open windows let in voluminous wind. “Don’t you think that was strange?”
“The whole place is strange,” Father Alexander tacked on. “My boss is strange. The whole Catholic Church is strange.”
He was sideswiping the question, something, she’d learned, that he was very good at.
“Come on, Father! Bricking up the administration office is one thing. But that room downstairs?”
“We don’t even know that it is a room,” he reminded her. As he’d done upstairs, he’d tried to break into the basement anomaly, via the sledgehammer. He’d failed. However set these bricks, he’d said, weren’t the same crew who did the pissant job upstairs on the admin office.
He’d barely dented the face of new bricks.
“And what’s weirder is the blueprints,” she added. “What was it they said? Undesignated?”
“Unexcavated,” he corrected. “And I ain’t arguing with you. You’d think my friggin’ monsignor would’ve given me updated blueprints. According to these, there isn’t even a goddamn basement. What kind of shit is that?”
Again, Jerrica felt oddly charged by the demeanor of this profane priest. Just something about hearing such words come so casually from a clerical mouth.
Evening drained into the valley, with the beginnings of more of last night’s heat lightning. It had been a lo
ng day, but not once did Jerrica regret asking to go to the abbey with the priest.
They’d happened upon several other oddities too. Upstairs, along the long hall, they examined the nuns’ sleeping quarters, arranged almost like military barracks. Each room possessed a cot, a wall locker, and a spartan metal nightstand. The cots were stripped of their bedding, which made perfect sense, but the wall lockers and nightstands, however dust-laden, still seemed to contain a minutia of personal effects: letters, writing materials, rosaries, wind-up alarm clocks. And more personal effects were found in the nightstands in what must’ve been the in-patient dorm, where the sick priests were kept. Yes, it was strange, and Jerrica easily sensed that these loose ends bothered the priest.
“So what’s this you’re writing for the Post?” he asked, steering down Route 154. It was almost as though he’d asked this sudden question as a distraction, to change topics. As though he didn’t want to talk about the abbey anymore. “An article on rural communities, something like that?”
“A series of articles, three Weekenders in a row. The societal symptomologies of the modern Blue Ridge Mountain culture,” she tried to embellish as articulately as she could. “I want the works. The people, the economy, the history, even the folklore.”
“Sounds like an interesting piece,” Alexander said, sticking a butt in his mouth.
Jerrica, with a cupped hand, lit the cigarette for him, then lit one for herself. “It’ll be more than interesting, it’ll be a step up the ladder. I could kick myself, though, for not bringing my camera.”
“What?” The priest frowned. “To the abbey?”
“Of course. The abbey’s as much a part of this place as anything: the sewing shops and the whorehouse and the moonshiners. If it’s part of the truth of this town, I’ve got to write about it.”
“I wish I could tell you more, but I don’t know that much. All the diocese gave me to go on were those blueprints, and the notarized closure statement.”
“But you do know about the nuns themselves, and that’d make a great addition to my article.” Jerrica felt on a professional roll now, she felt inspired. Perhaps her forbidden attraction to the priest gave fuel to her creativity. She knew she could be as attracted as she wanted—she still couldn’t have him, and that seemed more exciting than anything else.
“I can’t believe how much time passed while we were out there,” Alexander cited. “Sorry for taking up your whole day, but, hell, you were the one who asked to come.”
“I had a great time, Father,” she allayed him. “It was invigorating. And I can’t wait for you to tell me about the nuns.”
Alexander laughed. “Not much to tell unless you want a lesson in austerity.” When they passed the old, closed church again, he crossed himself. More dedication, more faith. Christ, she admired that, without even knowing why. In all her life, Jerrica Parks had never been to church, had never even believed in God as anything more than the Easter Bunny. She blinked, then, shook her head. What had he said?
“What were you saying? Something about austerity?”
At once, the priest seemed anxious, on edge. “I’ll tell you all about them, but— Earlier, didn’t you point out a tavern in town?”
“Yeah. The Crossroads. Charity and I went there last night, as a matter of fact. Just turn here,” she guided, pointing to the veer-off to Main Street, “and you’re there.”
“Outstanding,” he said. “How about you let this busted, over-the-hill priest buy you a drink?”
Jerrica felt lit up. “Sounds fine by me.”
(III)
Hail, Dicky,” Tritt Balls Conner elucidated, rubbin’ his crotch ta boot. “That fuckin’ job we did on the fat gal’s still got my dog a’hoppin.”
Aw, man, Dicky groaned to himself. This guy’s a psy-ker-path. “What say we just cool it fer now, huh, Balls? We done enough today, ain’t we? Tells ya what. I could use me’s a cold beer.”
Tritt Balls, stroked that devil goatee’a his, lookin’ speculatively out the winder-shield. “Ya knows somethin’, Dicky? Hail. I’se thinks yer right. A tall, cold one’d do the job a might nice right now. Let’s git us a few.”
Thank God. Balls could be some mean trouble, yes sir! Ands that fat chick they’d busted up today? Boppin’ her in the belly an’ makin’ her puke? That had got Balls’ dander up a right fierce—afters, he’d jacked hiself off in the ’Mino ta boot! Dicky didn’t wanna be part’a no more ruckin’, no he didn’t, an’ he were glad as glad could be whens Balls agreet ta havin’ a beer.
So’s Dicky, what he did just then was he pulled that El Camino’a his right inta the parkin’ lot’a The Crossroads. But ’fore he could do so fully, he glanced over an’ complained, “Aw, shee-it, Balls! Cain’t ya ever git enough?”
Balls Conner grinnned back like a tomcat, his jeans pulled down his ankles. Whuppin’ his willy fierce he was, an’ not even mindin’ that gal’s shit still on his dick, an’ just then he spooged hisself bigtime. Looked like a load’a Elmer’s Glue, it did, sittin’ there on his belly.
“Told ya, Dicky, cornholin’ an’ killin’ that fat beaver back there got my dog’a barkin’. But now that I’se hadda good come, I’se really ready fer a beer, I is! So’s let’s go!
(IV)
A few heads turned, naturally, when Jerrica entered The Crossroads with Father Alexander; the moment seemed to freeze, faces locking up, the clack of billiards balls halting, hands cocked back at the dart boards. “And my broker isn’t even E.F. Hutton,” the priest joked. But in less than another moment, the tavern’s conventions returned. Jerrica and the priest took a far booth.
“Howdy, Father, miss,” greeted the floor waitress, a cherubic brunette in cutoffs and a pink tubetop. Her bellybutton peeked over the snap of her shorts. “What can I git yawl?”
“A pitcher of beer, please,” Alexander said. “Don’t care what kind as long as it’s cold.”
“Comin’ right up.”
Above them, ceiling fans roved lazily, breaking the hot air, and when the beer arrived, it sluiced right down their parched throats.Alexander leaned back, sighed. The day’s labors had finally caught up with him, but Jerrica herself felt kindled. She knew what it was: it was him. His presence enlivened her, recharged her.
“God, that’s good,” he remarked, taking another big sip of beer.
“Yeah. After all that hot work all day?” Jerrica sipped her own; her concentration, however, remained fixed on Father Alexander. He didn’t look like a priest at all; he looked more like a refined tough guy, wearing the Roman collar for kicks. She’d seen his body from the waist up—his face seemed the same. Lean, even incised. Intense.
Her fascination wouldn’t let go.
“So how far along are you with your article?” he asked.
“Just notes—I brought my laptop, so I can work on the road; I’ve only been here two days. But it’s coming along well. This piece is going to kick butt.”
“Don’t forget to mention me,” he joked.
“Oh, don’t worry.” She smiled bright. “I will… But you promised to tell me about the nuns.”
The comment seemed amusing. Alexander lit a cigarette, sighing smoke. “The Sisters of the Heavenly Spring,” he recalled. “They’re an order of cloistered nuns that make lye soap look like Ivory. Very hardcore, so to speak. They even wear habits.”
“But I thought all nuns wore habits,” Jerrica ventured.
“No. Misconception. The Second Vatican Council lightened up on all the rules, cut a lot of slack. But the Sisters of the Heavenly Spring? They didn’t care, they didn’t want to hear it. They’re Epiphanists, kind of like the French Foreign Legion of nuns. The hardest, grubbiest, crappiest work that the Church has to offer—they volunteer. They believe in the severity of faith.”
“Well, what about you?” Jerrica dared to ask. “Aren’t all priests severe?”
Alexander chuckled. “Depends on how you define the word.”
“Well, I mean—” She knew she shouldn’t as
k this, but her curiosity wouldn’t release its grip. “Priests are celibate. Isn’t celibacy severe?”
“Oh, no, that’s the easy part,” he answered. “That’s cake.”
“But…” More hesitation. She couldn’t help it. “Isn’t sex something God created, for people to enjoy?”
“For those in Christian wedlock to enjoy within the realms of procreative love. But God didn’t create it to be exploited, which is what’s going on now. Just because it feels good doesn’t mean one has carte blanche. Heroin feels good too, but it’s still evil. The devil’s everywhere, twisting the minds of the faithful, and those who would be faithful. It’s a card game.”
Jerrica stared at the man’s words. They sounded so antiquated—Those who would be faithful—but the conviction behind the words seemed to make them real. “Do you really believe…in the devil?”
“Of course,” Alexander replied without reluctance. “Some priests will duck that question, with metaphors. They’ll tell you that the devil is just a symbol of the failings of humanity, but they know it’s more than that. There really is a devil, sitting on some abyssal throne in the blackest guts of the earth. And he’s smiling bigtime. He’s kicking serious ass, and he loves it.”
This was getting too deep. She didn’t want to challenge him, because she sensed that if she did, he would bury her with thesis she could not argue. She didn’t want to argue. She just wanted to know. “Okay, back to celibacy. Why go through all that hardship?”
“It’s not hardship, it’s a gift.”
“Why go through all that abstention and frustration when you don’t have to?”
“I don’t have to, that’s the point. I do it because it’s my call. It’s my call to not have sex. I’ve had plenty of sex, in my younger years, if you want to know the truth. When I was a teenager, when I was in the army. But for all that time I knew there was something else more important waiting for me, and it excluded sex. So I stopped. Simple.”