Chapter 21: 21. Excommunicated

A fist pounds on Thea's apartment door and the force of it sends the blinds on the furthest wall swaying.

Silence.

Black frizz zigzags up from Thea's head and snakes all over the recliner's backrest. She snores through a wide open mouth; drool creeps down her chin, threatening to drop onto her mostly clean cape.

More pounding, more swaying. A deep, beast-like voice calls out at the edge of Thea's unconscious perception. "Thea! Wake up."" He pounds once more. "It's Frank!"

Thea snores, but it catches in her throat. She coughs and yanks herself back into consciousness. Surroundings queue in her mind through a headachey, dry-throated haze: the recliner underneath her, the incessant knocking, some sleep goobers nesting in the corners of her eyes.

Her face shrivels inward; she rubs at her eyes with both palms and mutters. "It's too early."

Another fist on the door sends her precariously balanced cane sliding past the coffee table and tumbling onto the carpet. It lands with a soft thump. Her head swims in and out of streams of vertigo and frustration. Streaks of pain run past her temples, but she leans after the cane.

Another pound.

Wrapping her hand around the wooden shaft, she calls toward the door. "I'm coming! Hush up out there."

Frank calls back. "Then get over and unlock this thing before I barrel it down."

Vertigo still swirls about in her head, her mind wanders through trains of thought like a tourist wandering through the streets of a busy town. Only frustration and pain are constant. They furrow her eyebrows; they scratch in her throat; they bring her focus back to herself with judgment and shame and failure. She stumbles toward the door.

Frank's voice lightens. "Thea?"

She slaps the chain out of it's track. It flies about, strikes the door, and jingles to a rest against the frame. She yanks on the handle and the door comes with it. "What do you want?"

The beast of a man towers over Thea, his braids pull back into a ponytail and emphasize the worry lines etching his forehead. He clutches a six pack of the monastery's finest close to his chest. "Could you use a drink?"

Thea lets a sigh escape and her shoulders fall. "God could I."

Sunlight spills over the horizon in an explosion of orange; clouds skate through the sky like overladen brushstrokes of warm pastels. Frank drops into a wrought iron chair and it scrapes along the concrete balcony like nails on a chalkboard.

Thea closes her eyes and takes a deep breath through her nose. Frank's usual humid musk thickens the air with hints of clay and ash: along with the barest trace of yew and mulberry. Sins from long ago.

She pops the cap off one of the beers. The constant whisper of a breeze sweeps away the hiss of carbonation escaping from the bottle, but hoppy notes linger. With a sigh, she tips the bottle toward Frank. "Thanks."

Frank clinks the neck of his bottle against her's. "Don't mention it." He takes a sip and lowers his hand — as well as the bottle — to rest on his beer belly. "Want to talk about it?"

"Yes. Is — a-actually, no. I'd rather just drink."

Bottle upside down and pouring into his mouth, Frank stares at Thea out of the corner of his eyes.

Nausea twists, turns, and tumbles through her stomach. She shifts against the wrought iron of her chair. "Ugh, fine. Yeah. I'll talk about it."

Frank nods. "Alright, I'm listening."

Fire ignites in her chest. She jerks a hand toward her head like she might pull a fistful of hair, but she holds it back, curling her fingers inward. After a moment she drops a limp fist into her lap. "What good does it do to kick Dale out, too? He was only trying to help."

Only wind and the sound of Frank gulping down another mouthful of beer.

Fire dies down in uncertainty. Thea leans forward and studies the railing's vine-like lattice pattern, as if she might find the right words at the ends of the spiraling metal. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine. You don't need to worry, we're taking care of him."

Panic clenches her chest; she shoots her eyes toward Frank. "Won't that get you all in trouble?"

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He shrugs his massive shoulders. "Only if the bishop finds out. We don't have any trouble making tattletales that would go tell him, so we're safe."

Thea lets a sigh slip out and falls back against the backrest. "If you say so."

He waves the tip of his bottle about. "Well, go on. I'm listening."

With a shake of her head, she shrugs. "I'm behind on rent, I'll probably get an eviction notice in the next few days, and my motorcycle is just sitting at the mechanics. Then there's the hospital bills wiping out all my savings, not enough people in this city needing priests-for-hire. I'm running low on groceries too I think. I'm afraid to open the cabinets."

Frank whistles a long, low note. "That's a lot."

"Yeah. Any good ideas?"

"I already gave you all my good ones. Do you have —"

Crack.

A cat pops into existence on the railing, emerald eyes fix on Thea's. Light, brown-gray fur stands out in the waning light against dark brown stripes.

Fear, panic, surprise: it all stops Thea's heart with a moment of pain. She jolts backwards. "Holy shit!" The chair shifts onto its two back legs, then starts falling. Her stomach jumps up to join her heart in her chest and she flails her arms for the bit of railing to her side. If she can reach it, she can —

Frank slaps a hand on the back of her chair and it slams down onto all fours. "Careful!" He tips his head toward the furry bastard. "You know the cat?"

Her heart starts back up; its beating drowns out Frank's question and most of her thoughts. She smooths down her cassock's cape. "Can that thing teleport?"

The cat's chest almost seems to puff up, then it drops onto the concrete floor and weaves around the legs of the Thea's chair. Frank dangles a hand down. "Looks like it. Come here kitty!" He snaps twice and wiggles his fingers. "Here kitty! Here!"

Thea's body backs away from Frank's hand with just a vague feeling; her eyebrows seize up in a cringe. He's going to get —

With a hiss, the cat bats an open-clawed paw at Frank's hand. He yanks his hand up and shakes it: two gashes drizzle blood from the fat of his thumb. "Gah! Feisty thing isn't it."

Concern etches Thea's face. Her eyebrows raise and and she wrinkles her forehead in between wind-swept, black frizz. "You okay?"

"That's just how cats talk: I'm not going to take it personally."

The cat rubs its side from cheek to tail against Thea's leg. It discovers the cassock's skirt a moment later and walks in circles, letting the skirt trail along its fur.

Thea's stomach turns. Cat hair. Gross. Laundry is already hard enough with just her hair. But no use worrying, it's not like she has money for the machines anyways. She turns her head to Frank. "I meant do you need a bandage or something."

He wipes his palm on his habit's tunic, leaving behind an uneven streak of brownish-red. "No, I'm fine. It seems to like you at least." As if to answer that, the cat rolls over onto its side amid the folds of Thea's skirt.

The mass of fabric and fur nods off; purring fills the air. With a purse of her lips, Thea glares down into the pile. "I guess so."

Silence falls over them as they both sit, drink, and watch the sleeping cat's stomach rise with each breath. A nice moment outside of the chaos of the last day or so.

Frank breaks the spell at the end of his second bottle. "Have you tried making a deal with your mechanic?"

"Yes. She's basically a brick wall, though. Refuses to talk to me about it and slams the door in my face."

Frank covers his eyes with one hand and leans back. He sits like that for a minute, then drops his hand with a shake of his head. "I've got nothing. Do you think it's worth trying one more time to reason with her?"

Nausea creeps up Thea's throat. "Do I even have another option?"

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