Chapter 11: 11. Prayer

Spare belongings scatter the floor in front of Thea's only closet. Among them: a Bible, a clay vase she hasn't found a place for, and a folder full of identity documents. Thea kneels in front of the closet: a rosary dangling from her hand.

She rubs a thumb across the crucifix and drinks in the details carved out of the dark jujube wood. Tiny wooden Jesus hangs from the crucifix, which in turn hangs from a string of wooden beads large and small. The Blessed Virgin Mary stares up from a pendent set in between the crucifix and a loop of more beads.

Reluctance and skepticism work to hold the air in Thea's lungs, but she forces a breath out and performs the sign of the cross. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

Nothing. No sound, not even birds fighting on the balcony.

Thea grips the crucifix in her fist. "I believe in one God, the Father almighty, Creator of heaven and earth and in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord..." Actually, she hates the Apostles' Creed, why'd they make it so long?

The grainy texture of the crucifix's wood disappears in her hand's warmth and sweat.

She glances toward the ceiling to check if God is watching, then she shifts to the first large wooden bead. "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven."

The bead for the fourth Hail Mary rests in her hand. Heavier than the rest, but not physically. Every one of Thea's senses recoil like a confident child that just bit a lemon, and an overwhelming annoyance settles into her mind. Annoyance at God for not making it clear if he exists; annoyance at society for not making it easy to exist; annoyance at herself for making all the wrong choices. Above all that annoyance though, a dense cloud of sadness blocks out any shining rays of optimism.

We could have confronted them. They were too drunk to be walking about and We knew and We could have said something. But no. We'd rather make money.

Her heart pounds, pumping cold, concentrated panic through her veins. She buries her head in her hands and gulps in a series of breaths. "It's just anxiety. It's just anxiety."

Keep telling yourself that. We know the truth.

Pangs of panic reverberate with every beat of the drum in her chest, but Thea clambers to sit upright. "I'm fine, get my breathing under control and I'm fine."

Breathing won't make it not Our fault.

Anxious guilt crashes against the dam inside her psyche, built tall over many years of practice; then it sloshes over. She wrenches herself up to her feet and hobbles toward the bathroom. "Medicine time."

A pair of mourning doves fly past the workshop's expanse of windows. Frank raises a delicate, clay coffee cup no bigger than a plump strawberry. He tracks the birds with his head and long black braids sway with the movement. "You're going to have to tell me more if you need help. This is all too cryptic."

Thea's last bit of reluctance thaws; almost. She shakes her head for a moment, then sighs. "Fine. Did you see the news today?"

Frank sips from the cup. "You know darn well we don't have a television. If you need more time —"

Thea drops her palms on the wooden table with a thump. "No, no. Sorry. You remember the instant wedding thing we talked about a couple days ago?"

Frank lowers the cup into the palm of his other hand. "Yeah, what about it?" His eyebrows jump. "And why would it involve the news?"

"Well, I did it. Made fliers, hung them up yesterday, then I got a call last evening when I was about to head home."

Frank nods. Wooden legs groan as the gargantuan man shifts weight to the edge of his chair.

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Thea glances between Frank and the pattern of wood grain on the table. "It was a couple young women and a crowd of their friends. They had me meet them outside city hall and do a tiny ceremony and fill out the paperwork."

Concern taints Frank's eyes. "You were okay walking all over like that?"

Thea dismisses the concern with a wave of a hand. "Nearly, that's not what this is about. They were drunk, Frank."

"And you still went through with it?"

A weed of guilt sprouts in Thea's mind, sending out spiraling vines looking for purchase. She shakes her head and forces a steady tone. "I would have backed out if I thought they would regret it. They'd been together for five years or something like that. But they were drinking when they left and... I wanted to say something, to tell them to stop or to go home."

"And?"

The weed's vines constrict. She closes her eyes and breathes. "I didn't. They died in some hero thing after they left city hall; I only caught the headline."

Frank chokes on a sip of espresso. "Oh shit. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Bit empty though."

"No kidding. What are you going to do now?"

Thea scratches a stray itch on her calf, careful not to knock over the cane resting across her knees. "I don't know. That's why I came here; to talk about this and maybe figure out what to do. I'd be glued to my recliner if I stayed home. Do you have any ideas?"

Frank studies the espresso he hasn't drank yet and swirls the cup. "Hmm..." He looks back up and locks eyes with Thea. "I've got an idea, but I don't think you'll like it."

A small flame of anger burns away some of the guilt's vines. She grits her teeth and glares at him. "I'm not coming back, Frank."

He doesn't break eye contact. "I'm not talking about coming back. The abbot has been overwhelmed and complaining to Brother Dale. So Bother Dale might be willing to part with some monastery funds if you agree to pick up some of your previous duties."

Cold water extinguishes the anger and new guilt sprouts. She drops her gaze back to the table. "Oh, Mass?" She shouldn't have snapped.

"Mostly Mass. The abbot has been getting calls non-stop about it; confession too."

Thea traces a couple of the grain patterns with a finger. "It's a good suggestion. But I hate confession and Brother Dale. Even if I didn't, wouldn't the monastery get in trouble if I handle Mass?"

Frank lets out a laugh. "Probably, but that's only if someone raises a fuss. With how many calls I hear about, I don't think that'll be a problem."

Resignation seeps into Thea's eyes, blurring her vision. It's better than losing her apartment.

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