by Selena Kitt
It was only the Marys, their virginal white skin, their sweet demeanor, their inner glow, that redeemed them all. They were the daughters of the Virgin, an immaculate conception, seed planted through worship, not lust. They gave themselves, sacrificed themselves at the altar, their flesh untouched, always untouched, forever untouched. They were God’s whores.
Erica absorbed all of this in a glance, gaze skipped from red to white and back again. Then something else caught her eye. Beside the crosses, the two huge mechanized crosses the Virgin and the Magdala were strapped to, was a platform. On that platform was a cameraman, filming the proceedings, preserving the ritual. She knew she would be seen, not only by those participating in this great rite in the inner sanctum, but those waiting, eating refreshments and drinking wine, in the outer realm. This film would be shown on two huge screens for their viewing pleasure.
A noise below distracted Erica and she glanced down to see two men, two big men in black masks, half carrying, half dragging a Magdalene, her red mask slightly askew. Another Magdalene ran to her side, her red mask completely removed, dangling from her fist. Erica opened her mouth to call out, to cry out, but nothing happened. The word, her name, was stuck in Erica’s throat.
Leah! Leah!
They were gone, as quickly as they had appeared, and she wondered if it had been a dream. The crosses were being lowered, and as her body began to relax, she glanced again at the platform. The cameraman had stood, seeing the commotion, lifting his mask for a better view. She recognized him immediately, her shame and humiliation complete. It was her father behind the camera.
After that, everything was a blur. The sounds and musky scent of sex filled the room—the snap of a whip from the Magdalene side, the endless cries of orgasm on the Mary side. Erica glanced across to see the Magdala, arms still strapped, like Erica’s, but legs free. They were opened, feet dangling over the side of the cross, and a priest was rutting between her legs. Erica felt Father Patrick on her, his robes heavy, the weight of him suffocating. He was inside her, pumping himself deep and hard. His breath panted against her cheek, but she didn’t look up, she didn’t look at him.
The Magdala turned her head toward Erica, their eyes locked, and they recognized each other. Not as friends or enemies, but as women, as sisters. They were one and the same. Father Patrick grunted and thrust and exploded inside of her. Erica simply surrendered. She let it happen, knowing full well her own father was filming this ritualized rape as priest after priest violated his daughter. And he didn’t even know.
When it was over, when every last priest had emptied himself, buried his seed in her barren womb, Erica was taken down from the cross. She was carried, veil trailing behind her, the nuns dragging her, back down the trail of white rose petals, as Erica felt the semen of a hundred men sliding down her thighs in rivers to fall in milky white droplets amidst the flowers.
She was bathed, she was scrubbed and cleaned and petted and pampered. The Marys in their masks did everything for her that she could do herself. They put her to bed in a room alone, just one bed on a raised dais, a place she could float away in the darkness and forget.
She jolted awake in the middle of the night, not knowing where she was. And remembered. She thought of her father, who had just that morning told her he would be out of town for the weekend. Solie was put in charge. Erica had been thrilled, knowing she could attend the ritual without his suspicion.
Oh, the irony.
She had pursued her curiosity into hell, and this was the result. Her mother had mutilated her, her father had documented hell’s rituals, and her best friend, heavily pregnant, her sister in red. Where was Leah? Pregnant, alone, part of the Magdalenes? How had this happened? Had her father planned this all along?
There were no answers, only more questions. Erica clutched her aching womb, filled with seed that would never germinate and sprout, and cried herself to sleep.
She met father Michael for coffee on Monday at the Mayflower as if nothing had happened. She searched his eyes for any indication he’d known what had occurred in the bowels of the church. Could she trust him? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything anymore. She had begun this search as some sort of replacement for her own grief at losing Leah, she had let it consume her, had fallen into her mother’s diaries, Father Patrick’s ruse, telling herself she would expose them all for the hypocrites they really were.
But now, if she exposed the church, she exposed her father as well. Could she do that? She didn’t know his full involvement. Did she want to know? For the first time in her life. Erica truly wasn’t sure if she wanted to know.
“You look tired.” Father Michael smiled at her over his coffee cup. “Too much homework this weekend?”
“Something like that.” Erica poured sugar into her cup.
“Erica, we have to talk.”
“I know Leah’s pregnant.”
Father Michael put down his coffee cup and looked at her.
“If I tell my father Leah’s pregnant with his baby, he’ll find her. You know that, right? He loves her. And if her mother sent her way to protect her, to keep her from marrying him, she’s a fool. He’ll marry her and make the baby legitimate.”
“You don’t know the whole story.”
“So tell me.”
“Leah confessed to me, and we both know I shouldn’t be telling you this. Oh Erica, I can’t keep anything from you.” He reached across the table for her hand, clasping it in his. “The reason Leah went away to have her baby is because of something her mother told her. That much you got right.”
“I knew it.”
He took a deep breath. “You and Leah are sisters.”
“I know. She’s always been like my sister.”
“No, you’re sisters. Half-sisters. You have the same father...”
“My father and Leah’s mother? What? That’s not possible.”
“Yes, it is. I’ve spoken to Patty Wendt and she confirmed Robert Nolan is Leah’s father.”
“No wonder she ran away,” Erica whispered. “Oh, Leah...”
“How did you find out?” Father Michael inquired.
“Oh...” Erica hadn’t considered that question. She wasn’t ready to tell him about the Mary Magdalenes. She could barely process what had happened herself. “Rumors.”
“I’m sorry.” He stroked her hand. “Leah, poor Leah. She’s so devastated.”
“You’ve seen her?” Erica exclaimed. “You know where she is?”
“Yes. I went with her mother and dropped her off.”
“To one of those places?” she asked. “Those places that keep girls until they have their babies?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “She’s giving the baby up for adoption.”
“You knew this whole time?” Tears came to her eyes. “And you never said anything?”
“Erica, you have to understand,” he pleaded with her. “I’m a priest. There are things I simply cannot share.”
“You’re telling me now.”
He sighed. “I’m conflicted.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means...” He swallowed, looking down at the table. “I have feelings for you. And they aren’t the feelings of a priest toward one of his congregants. They’re not wholesome feelings. They’re dangerous.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I’m falling in love with you,” he replied softly. “And I… I’m not allowed to do that.”
Erica felt those tears that had been threatening start to fall. She couldn’t stop them. “God works in mysterious ways.”
“Indeed he does.” He was still holding her hand. Holding on.
“Do you want to know how I feel?”
“I think I know.” His smile was a sad one. “But I’m afraid to ask.”
“Coward.”
“Erica...” He winced, squeezing her hand, but she pulled away. “Please...”
“I have to tell my father. I have to tell him about Leah.” She
frowned, a realization dawning. “Does he know? Does he know Leah’s his daughter?”
“Yes.” Father Michael sat back in the booth with a deep sigh. “Patty told him. But not until after she knew Leah and your father were involved.”
“He knows then.” Erica mused. “He knows and he still went looking for her. But he doesn’t know she’s pregnant, does he?”
“No.”
Erica shook her head, incredulous. “Don’t you think he has the right to know?”
“Perhaps.”
“I have to tell him,” she insisted. “That’s his child.”
“Can you do something for me?” He met her eyes, and she saw the burden he’d been carrying. It couldn’t be easy to keep someone else’s secrets. But she was so tired of secrecy.
“What?” She sounded far more angry than she really felt.
“Will you please wait until the blood drive?”
“That’s almost a month away!” she exclaimed. “Why?”
“Because your father has sponsored it this year, and he promises to give blood. There is a way to rule him out as the father,” Father Michael explained. “But I need his blood type. And I can’t exactly ask him for it, can I?”
Erica shook her head. “Leah was never with anyone else. It’s his baby.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Father Michael cleared his throat. “Leah asked me if I could find any information that would rule out the possibility Robert Nolan is her father.”
“Oh.” Erica blinked. “You think Leah’s mother isn’t telling the truth?”
“I don’t know.” Father Michael shrugged. “She says she wasn’t with anyone else except your father. She’s a good Catholic, faithful. I don’t want to accuse her of lying. What I’d like to do is put the issue to rest. Not knowing has been torture for poor Leah.”
Erica remembered the film reels she had found, the ritual performed with her mother, and Leah’s mother, as the Virgin and the Magdala respectively. Leah’s mother had been heavily pregnant. With Leah? It seemed the logical conclusion. But if she’d been a Magdalene, then she couldn’t have been a virgin. She was having sex with the priests long before her raising as the Magdala on All Saints’ Day. Father Patrick had made an exception for Erica, as she had never served in the round. That’s what they called it, having sex with the priests in the curtained cubbies. Had he made an exception for Leah’s mother? She didn’t know.
Erica looked at Father Michael. He was staring miserably into his cup of coffee, and her heart went out to him. He was only trying to do the right thing. To do good. How could she fault him for that? She longed to tell him about the Mary Magdalenes, about what had happened. What would he say? Would he be horrified? Would he turn her away? Wash his hands of her? Or would he embrace her, let her cry in his arms, turned back into the little girl she felt like inside, broken and used and tossed away like tissue?
“Okay. I’ll wait until after the blood drive.” Erica agreed to the timetable.” But you’re going to have a hard time getting Daddy to give blood! He’s squeamish.”
“Well we’ll just have to talk him into it, won’t we?”
Erica smiled. They were a team again.
“Thank you for waiting.” Father Michael gave her a half smile. That wasn’t good enough for her. She reached across the table, taking his hand, turning it over in hers and tracing the lines on his palm. He had beautiful hands, long fingers, a piano player’s hands. There were calluses on some his fingers from playing his guitar.
“Father Michael...” Erica looked up at him, into those blue, blue eyes. “Michael… Wasn’t it the Archangel Michael who led God’s army against Satan? ”
“Yes.”
“Leader and protector of God’s children,” she murmured.
“I’m afraid I’m failing in my job description.”
“No you’re not.” She insisted, tracing her fingernail over his lifeline. “I have feelings too. I don’t know anymore what’s right or wrong. “
“I do.” His voice was low, hoarse. “That’s what makes this so difficult.”
She looked up at him. “So what are we going to do?”
“There isn’t anything to do,” he replied, his voice pained. “The reality is, I can’t stop feeling what I’m feeling. And I can’t do anything about those feelings.”
She nodded. “So we just… don’t.”
“We can’t,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” Erica raised his palm to her lips, kissing it gently. Father Michael watched, transfixed. Then he withdrew his hand, stirring his coffee with a vengeance.
“So tell me, have you uncovered anything more in your search for your secret society?” Father Michael smiled, teasing her.
“No,” she lied. “You?”
“I actually asked Father Patrick about it.” Father Michael met her gaze, taking a sip of his coffee. Erica thought her heart would stop. “He said he’d never heard of them either.”
“Well, if it was a secret, why would he tell you?”
He laughed. “Good point.”
“I should go.” Erica picked up her coffee, finishing it in three big gulps. She couldn’t bear the pain another minute. She wanted to go somewhere to be alone, to collapse, to cry until there were no more tears. “I have something to do before school.”
“You want me to walk you?” he asked, watching her put on her coat.
“No.” Erica slung her book bag over her shoulder.
“Tomorrow?” He looked so hopeful.
“Of course.” She smiled, giving him a brief wave before heading to the door.
As painful as it was, neither of them wanted to let go of the sweet torment of their clandestine meetings. She wanted to be with him, and he with her, even if they could never consummate their feelings, even if it hurt.
Chapter Thirteen
Rumor had it that Marty had left town with her baby in tow. Leah wondered if she had sacrificed her ten thousand dollar Mary Magdalene payout and gone to Australia instead. Her answer came in the form of a postcard, with a fat koala on the front, and simply the words Gregory Adam. There was no return address, no signature. But Leah knew. Gregory Adam was the name Marty had chosen for her baby, if it was going to be a boy. She and her little boy were starting a new life somewhere else.
Leah wanted to do the same. She had never gotten paid for that night by the Mary Magdalenes because she and Marty had left early. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. She had memorized his features, the way his hair brushed his shoulder blades, his strong jaw, those capable, creative hands. She would’ve known him anywhere. Had he seen her? She’d taken off her mask, unveiled herself, she would’ve thrown herself at his feet, naked and pregnant with his child, and begged him to love her again.
If only Marty hadn’t gone into labor…
But she had. And Frannie too, delivering identical twin boys two months early, right around Thanksgiving. Jean had delivered her baby during the girls’ Thanksgiving feast. They had been in the kitchen all day long, roasting turkeys, two of them, mashing potatoes and snapping green beans. Jean hadn’t felt well all day, complaining her stomach hurt, and the sisters gave her milk of magnesia and sent her to bed. But Jean slipped down the staircase, coming back into the kitchen to be with the girls, sitting in the corner on a chair, accepting little bits of food here and there—taste this, what you think?
It wasn’t until her baby’s head was crowning that anyone knew she was even in labor. She didn’t scream or cry or flail. Leah noticed her face getting red a couple times and handed her a wet washcloth, telling her she really should go lay down, but Jean was adamant. She wanted to be in the middle of things. She got her wish, and thank goodness Sister Lawrence was peeling carrots with them when Jean’s head popped up, like it did whenever she sensed something coming, and announced, “The baby is coming! Uh-oh!”
At first Sister Lawrence had urged her to go upstairs, but right when Jean tried to stand, water gushed down her legs, splashi
ng all over the kitchen linoleum. Then there was no time for anything. They all were witness to the birth of Jean’s baby. She squatted right there on the kitchen floor, Sister Lawrence demanding towels, and the girls running to find any available cloth. She spread kitchen towels down on the floor, but by that time the baby’s head was out. It turned, a quarter turn, Jean gave another grunt, her face pink, and that was it.