by Tonya Hurley
Hazel held the delicate glass flute and put it up to the light, where a million beams of colored light seemed to bounce off it. At the bottom were the last drops of tears, the last of Agnes. She opened the card and gasped, barely able to contain her emotions. It read:
I Love You
“I love you, Agnes,” she whispered.
Hazel collapsed in a heap on top of Agnes’s bed, the one where they shared their gossip, their secrets, their fears, and their dreams.
She opened the cap on the tear catcher.
Hazel cried.
The rain stopped. The clouds broke gradually over Brooklyn, stretching west from Prospect Park to the Gowanus and across to Red Hook, from Carroll Gardens and Cobble Hill north to Brooklyn Heights and Dumbo, to the bridges, transforming stubborn gray afternoon skies to a pink, purple, and orange sunset. Shadows from high rises, office towers, and church steeples in the gentrified brownstone neighborhoods seemed to reach down like long fingers across the streets and sidewalks, grasping for the pedestrians below like some gigantic movie monster or like a god. Signs seemed to be everywhere that things were changing.
Catherine and Hazel, who’d been walking from Agnes’s Park Slope neighborhood, made the turn at the Barclay’s Center from Atlantic Avenue to Flatbush Avenue and headed toward BAM and Downtown Brooklyn, when they heard a loud and compelling voice in the distance. It cut through the rumble of idle truck engines in bumper-to-bumper traffic, the painful squeal of MTA buses braking at their appointed stops, the complaints of double-parked delivery men to overzealous traffic cops, the inane chatter of colleagues talking business along the busy thoroughfare, the happy screams of children running from their schools. All the typical sounds that make up a day in the city.
They approached the young man, scruffy and unkempt in all the right ways, looking like some post-wave John the Baptist, in a thick crowd of passersby. He stood atop a red plastic milk crate, holding a microphone, miraculously keeping his balance and his unfailingly erect posture despite the slope in the sidewalk. His voice crackled with enthusiasm. His eyes burned with the passion that only comes from certainty.
“He’s hot,” Hazel whispered with a little laugh.
“Shut up,” Cat scolded good-naturedly, elbowing Hazel gently in the ribs. “Let’s listen.”
It was the first light moment either of them had since Cecilia and Agnes had died and it showed on both their faces. The clouds had broken not only above them but within them.
“Don’t pay it forward!” he shouted, raising the politically correct eyebrows of some in the crowd. “Don’t do something good because something good was done for you. Do something good just to do something good. Without expectation of reward or recognition.”
As one of the earliest apostles of Cecilia’s, Catherine was especially skeptical of the sort of bandwagon jumpers that tried to hitch their wagon to her mentor’s message. To scam a few sympathetic onlookers to take pity and drop a few bucks in their jar. In fact, she’d come to believe that these frauds and phonies were just part of the larger Cipher plot to mislead potential followers and to discredit the girls and Sebastian. They might have won a few key battles, taken Frey down, but the war definitely continued to rage on. It could be hard sometimes, very hard, she reckoned, to separate the wheat from the chafe.
Despite her reservations, she was also gratified to see and hear so many authentic followers beginning to craft their own interpretations of the meaning of Sebastian, Agnes, Lucy, and Cecilia’s lives and deaths. That was their whole point, after all. To know yourself, accept yourself and most of all, to be yourself. And how you did that was entirely up to you. The more Cat listened, the more she was persuaded that this guy was the real thing.
“Now that’s a disruptive message,” Cat murmured under her breath. “Do good. Just for the sake of it.”
“Kind of old-school just standing up their preaching or whatever, don’t you think?” Hazel observed. “He could just post some videos on his wall. Tweet some pics and cool sayings. 2.0 it, you know. It would be easier.”
The stage performer in Cat kicked in and she tried to explain it to Hazel. Thinking of his impromptu lecture as she might one of her own gigs in front of a live audience. There was nothing quite like winning people over face-to-face. The look in their eyes, the change in their expression. It was a kind of alchemy. Magic.
“Maybe that’s why there are so many people listening. There’s no filter,” Cat figured. “It’s personal. He’s doing it the hard way. One at a time.”
The boy was unfamiliar to them yet his words seemed very familiar. As if he was speaking for someone else rather than for himself. The more he spoke, the more deeply he touched them. He wore a pin, one of the Agnes-Lucy-Cecilia-Sebastian mash up milagros that sold so briskly from nearly every street corner these days. His, however, was obviously not store-bought. It was handmade and he wore it like a badge. On some days, the press reported, you might see as many “Subway Saint” medals as crosses on people across the borough and even the city. It was one sure sign their cults were growing. One among many. Hazel and Catherine listened evermore intently.
“Look around. To your right and to your left. In front and behind you,” the boy suggested and then paused. “And forget what you see!”
“Wow,” Hazel exclaimed. “He really gets it.”
“The answer isn’t before you,” he shouted. “It is inside of you.”
The crowd was completely rapt now and growing larger. Hungry for his message. His insight. Whatever Lucy, Cecilia, and Agnes had initiated Catherine smiled at the boy, acknowledging him with a “keep up the good work” nod of her head. She was inspired by him. She looked around for a tip jar but there was none. Another good sign his motives were genuine. Cat gestured toward Hazel and the pair made their way out of the throng.
“Drinks on me,” she said with a wink. “Don’t be afraid.”
The boy flashed her bright smile and interrupted his self-help sermon just long enough to shout out, “Cheers, Cat.”
Cat turned back and flashed him a thumbs-up for recognizing her.
“He’s brave, standing up there like that, considering all that’s happened,” Cat commented. “Cecilia would be proud.”
“You think that’s how it was for them with Sebastian?” Hazel asked.
“You mean getting seduced by a hot guy with a mysterious message?” Cat answered, with obvious sarcasm in her tone. “I think there was only one Sebastian.”
Hazel smiled weakly and turned thoughtful.
“I guess, but that’s not very encouraging for the rest of us.”
“You don’t need to be Sebastian. Or a saint for that matter. Find your own way to express it. I think that’s what’s important.”
“Being so inspired by someone, believing in something, in somebody so much, you’d die for it. That’s a powerful connection to make, though.”
Cat thought about it for a second and related it to the only experience she really knew well. Her own.
“Whether its music or spirituality, politics, relationships, whatever,” Cat observed, “on some level, you have to be willing to give yourself over, suspend disbelief, to be a fan, to commit to the end, to drink the Kool-Aid. It just depends whether you like how it tastes.”
“Drinking from the wrong cup can get you dead,” Hazel said sheepishly. “I still don’t really understand why it all turned out this way. I miss Agnes.”
“But they’re not dead, Hazel. Not really. That guy preaching and those people listening are proof of it. Faith is proof of it. Living proof.”
Hazel paused and swallowed hard, thinking of how best to say what was on her mind.
“I see Agnes sometimes. On the way to school. In the backyard of her house outside her bedroom window when I visit Martha and Faith,” Hazel said, looking away from Cat, unsure of the reaction she might get. “You think I’m crazy, right?”
“Nah. If you’re crazy I am too,” Cat suggested. “I see Cecilia in the audience
at every show. Around every corner. They’re inside of us. That guy was right.”
“Maybe we should tell Jesse about him?” Hazel said. “He sounds like he could be one of us.”
“Maybe,” Catherine agreed. “It’s growing. Taking on a life of its own now. The more the better. People are ready to listen.”
Hazel and Catherine strolled back toward 4th Avenue and down Pacific Street to Smith, window-shopping and café hopping. Without realizing it the girls had walked all the way to Precious Blood just as evening fell. They stood silently for a long while, staring at the entrance to the massive edifice and at the symbols, sculptures, and engravings that marked the stained-glass windows and outside walls of the cathedral. But as striking as the exterior of the renovated building appeared, it was the treasure within Precious Blood that they reflected upon most.
The guard at the door recognized them and stepped aside. Hazel and Catherine bounded up the staircase and stepped inside the vestibule, in awe of the dark and cavernous space awaiting them. The girls lit votive candles to illuminate their path but did not move.
“Hello!” They each called out into the darkness, again and again, like scared children waiting to hear their echo. Or for a friend to call back.
“Do you think they know we’re here?” Hazel asked nervously.
“I think they do now,” Catherine joked.
“I know we don’t know each other very well, but I hope we can be friends,” Hazel said.
“No, we don’t know each other well,” Catherine agreed, “But we have a lot in common.”
Hazel hugged Catherine hard and long.
“I could really use a friend,” Hazel said.
“Couldn’t we all.”
“What do we do now?”
Catherine’s answer was short and certain. “Keep them alive.”
Hazel’s eyes wandered toward the ossuary doors at the other side of the church.
“What if they aren’t there?” Hazel wondered. “Like what if their bodies are gone?”
“You mean stolen by vandals or some crazy super fans?” Cat replied.
“Or something else,” Hazel suggested.
“Alive?”
“Yes, what if we went down there and found their dresses and headpieces in their glasskets. Their bodies gone. Walking the streets among us again.”
“I don’t need to see if their bodies are there or not to know that they’re out there among us. Now and forever.”
Jesse stood behind his desk and stared out from the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office across the brownstone blocks and toward the gleaming tower of Precious Blood cathedral, gathering his final thoughts. The expansive view of Brooklyn never failed to impress him. He turned around to face the woman, a respected journalist, sitting across from him.
“And that’s what happened,” he said wearily.
Jesse rubbed at his hands as he always did when thinking about them, the memory ever fresh in his mind and in his broken bones and torn muscles. He knew full well he’d relayed a story so fantastical it could scarcely be believed. And if he didn’t, the wide-eyed look on the journalist’s face and her frantic scribbling on her notepad were sure signs he’d done some mind-blowing. They were both exhausted.
“I’m flattered you chose me to tell this story, but why now?”
“It’s time,” Jesse replied. “There have been so many rumors that turned into gossip, then into legend. Or lies. This will be the truth as I know it and have lived it.”
“Some might say you’ve used the mystery to your advantage. Secrets and lies were your business at one time, weren’t they?”
Jesse removed his glasses and rubbed at his graying temples.
“That was a long time ago.”
“I’m not looking to cheap-shot you, Mr. Arens, but I do want you to understand that I’m not a rubber stamp for you either.”
“I’m not expecting a love letter. Just that you will be fair.”
Fairness was what Jesse sought more than anything. Through the years since the girls had passed, so much had been misstated, misinterpreted. Until now, he’d preferred to entrust their legacy to the hearts and minds of their ever-growing legion of followers. They were the ones, he believed, that mattered most anyway, and they seemed perfectly satisfied. But the truth also mattered to him.
“If you don’t mind, I just have few follow-up questions.”
“Sure,” Jesse agreed, putting his hands in his suit pants pockets.
“Lucy, Cecilia, Agnes, and Sebastian are candidates for sainthood I understand.”
“True. The Pope began the process and the investigations before he died. I have no doubt about the result.”
“Subway saints, the papers have called them. First of their kind.”
“Hopefully not the last,” Jesse replied.
“I don’t think there’s any danger of that. They continue to be an inspiration. Statues, relics spread all over the world. People pray to them, see them. It’s an amazing legacy.”
Jesse smiled.
“Elvis, Jesus, and the Sackett Street Saints,” he joked. “I try to keep them alive in my way, but there is a beauty and meaning in the old traditions. Sister Dorothea is our Vatican contact and she oversees those things for us. I can arrange a meeting if you like.”
“I know the Victorian tear catcher that Agnes used has been of great interest over the years.”
“It was donated by her closest friend, Hazel,” Jesse informed.
“She runs the museum about the girls in Gowanus that your foundation endowed.”
“Yes,” Jesse said enthusiastically. “She is a real keeper of the flame and probably has the best relationship with Agnes’s followers of any of us. You should definitely interview her.”
The writer made a note.
“That place used to be the old halfway house Frey set up, right?”
“Born Again. I rebuilt and repurposed the building. Put it to better use I think.”
“They never did find out who burned it down, did they?”
Jesse replied impassively and directly. “No.”
“The portrait of your friend Tony that hangs in the entrance there? And odd choice, isn’t it?”
“Tony was a doorman and a friend. The best at both. It made total sense to me that his would be the first face you see as you walk into that building.”
“A sort of guardian angel, you mean?”
“Everybody has a saint inside them. Some just never get the acknowledgment they deserve. This was my way of paying tribute to him.”
“Quite a story you’ve told,” the writer commented, shaking her head in both disbelief and admiration. “A real story of devotion.”
“It’s their story.”
“You’re too modest, Mr. Arens,” the writer opined. “In these twenty years, you’ve built a communications and technology empire that eclipses even the one created by Daniel Less, and you wield more influence in this city than the infamous Alan Frey. How ironic that you now own this building, operate from this floor, where he did so much damage.”
“Wealth and power and influence aren’t bad in themselves,” Jesse opined. “It’s how they are used that matters.”
The journalist looked around at the photos and accolades that hung on the walls of the office, first among them pictures of Lucy from her club-kid days and platinum album awards for Cecilia and for Catherine, the superstar artist whose sales had helped build his first record label and his first fortune.
“It’s hard to imagine that Cat was once a struggling artist.”
Jesse laughed. “Well, she might be again soon if she keeps giving money away like she has.”
“With a week of arena shows coming up in town I don’t think we need to worry.”
“No,” Jesse agreed, turning serious. “Cecilia would be very happy to see that her music and her message live on in Catherine.”
“I saw that they are raising the Milagro logo above the entrance as I arrived today. It mus
t be gratifying for you.”
Jesse thought about that for a moment. It was, but not in the way the writer might have intended.
“It’s all about them now. The future,” Jesse said, turning two pictures on his desk toward the writer. “My daughter Faith and my son Jude. Hopefully, they will carry on the work I’ve started.”
“Lovely kids. Faith looks just like Agnes.”
Jesse stared lovingly at the photograph. She did indeed, he thought, look so much like her mom. Faith’s true parentage had of course been the subject of rumor and speculation since she was born. Jesse was always very careful not to get into it too deeply. A self-deprecating quip was usually enough to satisfy inquisitive reporters or nosy neighborhood gossips. It had to be. The truth was way beyond belief.
“Yes, fortunately for her,” Jesse said with a smile. “Beauty, smarts, and a loving heart. I’m very proud of her. Proud of them both.”
The writer was satisfied with Jesse’s little joke as he’d hoped but wasn’t quite done probing.
“What have you told her about her mother?”
“I told her what any child of deceased parent tells them.”
“And what is that?”
“Your mother was a saint.”
The reporter laughed. “In this case it just might be true.”
“It is true,” Jesse replied.
The reporter, noting Jesse’s certainty for the record, cleared her throat and continued.
“It must have been hard for them under the circumstances, both the bad and the good.”
“They know who they are and respect where they come from. A parent can’t ask for more than that.”
The writer nodded and continued.
“Why do you suppose Alan Frey was so helpful in the subsequent investigations against his colleagues, those other Ciphers as you called them, after his conviction?”
“Hard to say, but I think he wanted it known. He was proud of what he’d tried to do.”
“It cost a lot of people their reputations, their fortunes, in some cases their lives,” she said. “Those trials and perp walks of bankers, brokers, board chairmen, university deans, politicos, prosecutors, and judges. Totally riveting.”