The Novella - 20 pgs.

A cold January wind blew Collette through the front doors of St Ignatius Catholic Church. A flush of shame spread across her cheeks as the breeze carried farther inside and rustled the hair of an elderly woman kneeled in prayer. Collette guiltily envisioned the woman dying of pneumonia. When Collette stepped towards the baptismal font, her heeled shoes clicked and echoed, intruding on the soft quiet. This only caused Collette’s blush to deepen. At the font, she glided two pale, slender fingers across the holy water's surface. It was almost as though she was bestowing a blessing. With her dripping digits making the sign of the cross, she whispered, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

An excess of holy water made a moistened trail down the arch of her nose before diverging from its straight path to slide down a cheek. The damp sensation unsettled Collette. An image flashed in her mind of a Cyclops-like eye perched atop her forehead anointing her with salty, purifying tears. The sleeve of her cardigan soaked up the teary residue and banished the absurd vision. After walking down the aisle and genuflecting before the tabernacle, Collette entered a pew. The polished golden wood gleamed under a tempting red cushion, but recalling the kneeling elderly woman she had disturbed earlier, she pulled down a kneeler and bent down in penance.

Collette bowed her head, dark tresses spilling forward to obscure her face, and thus shrouded, closed her eyes in prayer. However, after the initial, “Dear Heavenly Father in your divine mercy watch over and protect –,” followed by a long list of family, friends, and passing acquaintances, Collette set her mind adrift. St. Ignatius was an older church and Collette, without opening her eyes, could see the intricate etchings and paintings hovering about the altar along with the half-dozen smaller statues stuffed into tiny, arched recesses. A high, curving ceiling and tall stained-glass windows prevented the church from appearing gaudy. With each exhale Collette expanded her consciousness out into the wide arching space, and then with a deep inhale she drew back, gathering the colored beams of stained-glass light into her.

Now calm, Collette painted a picture in her mind of the Virgin standing at the back left corner of the church. Sky-blue robes, outspread palms, and the snake twined about her feet made up this particular statue of Mary. Prayer candles illuminated the dim area. Their light flickering off Mary’s robes and face created the illusion of faint stirrings. Her most compelling feature was the expression she wore, which was as ambiguous as the Mona Lisa’s. Collette opened her eyes and twisted around. On Tuesday at the school mass, Mary’s face had held a gentle smile. Today, it appeared to Collette that the Virgin, alone in her dark corner, bore a forlorn frown. Collette pulled her attention away and looked at the stained glass on her right. It was Mary’s son on the cross. In startling contrast, Christ’s face was at peace, while his mother’s twisted in pain. Enrapt by the colors of blue, green, red, and white. Collette was taken to another time and place.

The past summer Collette had been driving her younger brother, Troy, home from soccer practice. Looking back, it seemed to her that before she even registered any danger, her body reacted. Before she saw the red SUV barreling down the hill toward Collette and her brother, palms saturated with sweat and shoulders braced for the impact. The sunlight crystallized the scene. The blue of the sky, the green of the grass, the white of the houses, and the red of the SUV were lit up, like the parts of a magnificent stained glass window. A fragile world about to shatter. It was too late for Collette to react, no time to lay on the horn or slam on the brakes or jerk the wheel. The SUV swerved, Collette screamed. There was a long silent moment and then Troy laughed in relief. But he hadn’t seen what Collette had seen in that moment, in that moment, which for her was the moment of what could have been. Twisted green metal, broken glass reflecting sky, spilled oil mixed with blood, and her life without him.

Collette pulled away from her fears and looked over at the confessional booths. It was 4:30 on a Saturday. Confession was the reason for Collette's being at St. Ignatius. The occasion wasn’t a special one; she hadn’t committed adultery or killed anyone or immersed herself in the occult, yet. Nonetheless, who knew how much farther into sin she would fall if she didn’t continue the ritual of reconciling her soul with God on the first Saturday of every month. A green light shone from one of the booths. Her joints popped as she rose, but her grace returned by the time she pulled back the gray curtain.

“Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been a month since my last confession,” Collette whispered into the darkness.

+ + +

Her reconciliation with God was not going well. Collette sat in the dark confessional booth listing shameful stories, everything from quasi-sins to decisions that she had come to regret. She felt nauseous. Cold, clammy hands alternated between fidgeting, twisting the ring on her middle-finger and pressing to soothe her burning cheeks. Her throat tightened, straining her voice, so that it sounded wobbly and high, either as though she were about to laugh or sob.

Reconciliation was not typically so traumatizing for Collette. She confessed at the beginning of every month, and although she was devout, she was not a masochist. Throughout the course of a month, the sins Collette committed would prick and burrow under her skin, like so many splinters. Collette tended to be well-behaved, but to err is human. Coming to confession allowed her to heal herself of these infections. With the confession of each sin a splinter would be yanked free and left as refuse at the feet of a priest. By the end, Collette’s soul would bleed from a dozen or so naked wounds. But then the priest would absolve her and it was as though spiritual Band-Aids were put on the injuries for swift healing. And with time even the scars faded.

On this cold January day Collette’s little splinters were being removed, but an arrow had been driven into her heart, and she was dreading the pain of tearing that shard out. What would be pulled out along with it?

Father Thom listened dutifully as Collette catalogued her sins. Last weekend Collette had lied to her mother about her weight, and yesterday Lauren Schreiber had slipped on a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes after school. Lauren, flouncing about in her school uniform skirt, had flaunted the Manolo’s. Collette had been torn between her disdain for the ostentatious show of wealth and waste and her jealousy. After confessing to this envy, Collette continued on with two additional deadly sins, sloth and gluttony. Albeit the case of sloth was Collette forgetting to feed Turnip, the family cat, and her gluttonous deed consisted of eating the last slice of pepperoni pizza at a slumber party. The list sputtered out with the recollection of using the Lord’s name in vain five times and failing to return a neighbor’s smile. Finally, memory and imagination failed the distraught 17-year-old.

Father Thom had been tempted to interrupt this rambling tirade, but his priestly senses had been trained through years of intense clerical training and experience. He waited for her to stop and then said, “Collette, I want you to take a deep breath and calm yourself.”

Collette breathed in deep, and it was the memory of her sin that brought calm. His lips closing on hers, his breath smelling of citrus, of clementines. It was the scent of Christmas, of magic, and joy to her world. When praying Collette closed herself off from distractions, but in that sinful moment she had opened the flood gates, so that she could feel the nuance of every sensation. It was the precious and tender memory of her sin that gave the courage necessary to confess it.

“Father, I slept with a boy.”

Calm deserted her. Her previous courage proved to be a temporary anesthesia for the pain. Something important had been ripped from her, and she felt that loss keenly. Collette needed to fill the gaping hole with something. Father Thom was quick to sense this and went about giving his counsel. He hoped that God’s love would draw Collette back to Him, but actually Father Thom’s presence interfered. Father Thom said that she did not have the maturity or emotional capability, let alone the sanctity of God’s grace, to commit such sexual acts. He then went on to describe alternatives to intercourse that love could be expressed between a man and a woman outside of marriage. The more Collette heard the more that empty space in her was filled—filled with anger. Who was this man to speak of love? And when had she said anything about love? It hadn’t been love that had driven her to kiss Jonas under the mistletoe, and then to follow him to his room. Curiosity, fascination, and respect had drawn Collette to Jonas, but it was the strength of his arms, the caress of his hands, and the warmth of his body that had led her to explore a darker and deeper degree of friendship. It was lust. But Father Thom probably didn’t think young ladies capable of such vulgar emotion.

Frustration overwhelmed Collette, leaving her gasping and reaching to keep from drowning in her anger. Habit was her salvation. She perjured herself, as she recited the Act of Contrition, “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all of my sins because of Thy just punishments. But most of all because they offend Thee my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more, and to avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.”

In the past Collette would close her eyes, and as she expressed her sorrow and contriteness, an otherworldly radiance would wash over her, leaving her with a jubilant heart. Today, there was only the growing anger from frustrated expectations. She had expected, and partially dreaded, that confessing her lustful deed would erase any desire to repeat it. God had abandoned her in her time of need.

Father Thom followed with a false absolution, “I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

+ + +

On Monday Collette went to school. St. Eloi High School in the town of Belbrook was a strict, uniform Catholic school, where corporal punishment had only recently fallen into disfavor. About six years ago Sister Arnold had resigned when the school board took away her hickory, bum-swatting paddle, and Sister Agnes still kept her favorite knuckle-cracking ruler on display. St. Eloi was traditional in that several classes were still being taught by nuns. The religion classes for seniors were being taught by Father Thom Nolan. For the past decade St. Eloi’s standardized test scores had been the highest in the county. More than 98% of last year’s graduating class went on to college. It was a high school full of high-strung, ambitious teenagers.

Collette was taking notes in her last class before lunch. It was Father Thom’s Sacraments class. Collette’s script was neat and compact. She focused on making the letters as tiny and scrunched together as possible. It strained her eyes to study and review them, but she believed the sacrifice was well worth it to save a few trees. Not that Collette was environmentally conscience. She simply disliked waste. Last year she had fit six class’s worth of notes into one 70-page notebook.

Room 222 was tucked into the middle of the school, so there were no windows. The lack of natural lighting gave the space a washed-out, clinical appearance. Father Thom disliked this lifeless room, but switching with another teacher would mean condemning to the same fate. When he first began teaching, he had hoped that the nature of his subject and the students’ enthusiasm would instill the room with warmth and vitality. He had been too optimistic. Under the fluorescent lights the students’ faces were pale and held sickly yellow sheens. When they slid into a stupor midway through a lecture on Thomas of Aquinas, St. Augustine, or some other ancient theologian’s teachings, and their dead, beady eyes just stared blankly from white, waxy skulls, Father Thom felt like he was facing a horde of the undead. And he would look at the childish flowers and the Bible verse painted along the back wall in black, cursive writing, “He is not here, he is risen! (Matthew 28:6),” and God never seemed so distant, as He did in those moments.

Father Thom was a middle-aged clergy man, who believed in the grace of God, but had never been a big supporter of God’s wrath. Father Thom became a priest, however, not for his love of God, but more for his love of God’s people. This allowed him to be a better priest than most because people sensed Father Thom’s great love for them and assumed that God must love them even more.

Father Thom was well-suited to helping people. He blended into the background when in a crowd, yet in one-on-one situations he had the gentle smile and warm, brown eyes that almost beg you to unburden your problems on him. In many ways he was the canine companion, whom you could spill your darkest secrets to because you knew you would not be judged. However, lack of judgment does not mean lack of guidance. Father Thom had an unusual knack for saying what you needed to hear, rather than what you wanted to hear.

Today, Father Thom was teaching about the sacrament of marriage. Years ago at the St. Paul Seminary School of Divinity, Father Thom had fallen in love with a young graduate art student, Nora Casey. Thom loved Nora for her laugh and the way her eyes would seek him out first when entering a room. This especially was attractive for a quiet wallflower, such as himself. The day he asked her to marry him, they had been walking in the park, and it had started to rain. Even though he suggested they return to his dorm room, Nora felt they needed more exercise. What she really wanted to do was go see the ducks, but such motivation seemed too childish too be spoken aloud.

They stopped on a park bridge. It continued to rain. The ducks splashed in the brook. On that park bridge in the rain Nora was a laughing goddess. Her dark brunette hair was turned black by the rain and clung in dark tendrils around the curve, where her neck and her shoulders met. Thom would never love her more, so he proposed. She said yes. He said he would drop out of seminary school. As they walked back to his room, he hoped she wouldn’t die of pneumonia before the wedding. Two days later Nora died. Nora Casey, age 25, while walking home from a late night studio art class was run down by a drunk driver.

These memories haunted Father Thom as he taught Collette’s class. Father Thom’s voice was soft and could be described as shy sounding if not for its firm authority and the enthusiastic tension.

“Chastity is a Christian virtue, and contrary to what some might think, it does not mean celibacy. Tonight your reading of C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity will go more into depth on sexual morality. But for now, it’s enough to know that Christian morality describes the right order of relations, as being a man and woman united only in the sanctity of marriage. ”

Laughter, soft and light like distant wind chimes, rang out from the back of the classroom with it came the vitality, so dearly missed by Father Thom. The class stirred. Collette stopped taking notes and twisted around in her seat to look at the girl who had interrupted Father Thom’s rather dry description of marriage. Collette recognized the girl as Eleanor St. Clair, a recent transfer student from the local public school. Short, coppery hair framed high cheekbones, an angular chin, and a small, pixie nose. Eleanor wore a long white scarf and a mischievous grin, which contrived to make her look like a daring aviator pilot. Amelia Earhart rose sharply to mind.

When she spoke, the words bit the air and resounded with a clarity that rivaled a British accent, “The ‘right order of relations’? Father, you glossed over that particular aspect. Does not Christian morality, also declare that in the ‘sanctity of marriage’ a woman is subject to her husband?”

Father Thom didn't know what else to say to that other than, “Yes, it does.”

“Well, to be quite honest, that is a rather archaic notion, is it not? Perhaps, the ideal of marriage is also outdated?”

“It comes from Scripture. The Apostle Paul asserted that the relation between a husband and wife should model the relation between Christ and the Church.”

Eleanor looked skeptical, “And the Church is obedient to Christ. But why must the woman be obedient? That implies that she is inferior. Why can she not be the Christ to her husband’s Church? A woman, certainly, sacrifices and suffers for the marriage, just as much as the man. Your wonderful sacrament of marriage seems to me like a religious conspiracy to control women. And for that matter why can women not be priests?”

Father Thom laughed, not that he was trying to be insensitive. He was just overjoyed to finally receive an enthusiastic response, even if it was more on the confrontational and antagonistic side.

“Eleanor, we can continue this discussion outside of class. We’ve gotten off topic. Class, since we didn’t have time to cover St. Aquinas’s teachings on marriage, please read those handouts for tomorrow, along with your readings from the Catechism and chapters 5 and 6 from Lewis’s Mere Christianity.”

As the classroom emptied, Father Thom’s delight abandoned him. He had dreaded coming to teach this last of the seven sacraments. His hypocrisy was draining him.

+ + +

Collette stood, gathered her books, and was swept into the crowded hall. She jockeyed her way through the pack, finally getting caught by a stream headed to the St. Eloi feeding grounds or the Commons as it was commonly referred to by the students.

Jonas was sitting at a back table consuming, yet another book. Oddly, Collette found his addiction to literature, not dorky, but exotic. She read only what her level of education required of her. To her, Jonas was a bold explorer of distant worlds, and it was the stories of these adventures that enchanted her. They had met at St. Ignatius Church; both of their mothers were stout Catholics, very active in the faith community. Jonas and Collette got together on Friday nights to watch old black and white horror movies. With Dracula, Frankenstein, and Hyde flickering in the backdrop, their friendship flourished.

Currently, Jonas was reading a Hemingway. He shone darkly among the St. Eloi students, like the noble Othello among Venetian lords. Out of the 792 students and teachers at St. Eloi, 13 were black, 20 were gay (but not openly because this was a Catholic school), and 34 were left-handed. So, there were other minority groups, but none so disproportionately represented as the blacks.

Collette winded through the cafeteria, making her way to where Jonas sat. She slid into a chair. Jonas didn’t notice her, hypnotized as he was by The Sun Also Rises. He was worlds away from her. She sighed, and he looked up with a grin. He raised her hand in a playful and chivalrous manner.

“But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Collette is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill–”

“Jonas,” Collette interrupted and pulled back her hand, “you sound gay.”

He looked at her in surprise, and she regretted the unfortunate words. Collette looked down at her right palm and traced the lines with her left thumb. After a silent moment Jonas asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t need to. Yesterday, I went to confession. I talked to a priest.”

Jonas frowned. This time she avoided the disappointment in his eyes by looking out at the bustling Commons. Her gaze was drawn to the girl on the far side, sitting alone near the windows. The sun framed a dark silhouette and blazed around red hair, creating the illusion of a fiery halo. It was Eleanor St. Clair. Collette remembered her laughter.

“Today, in Sacraments we were talking about marriage a—”

“What?”

Startled by the outburst, Collette looked at Jonas and smirked when she realized why he had interrupted.

“Today, in Sacraments we talked about marriage, and there was this girl who debated the place of women in marriage and in the Church. She called Father Thom’s ideas archaic.”

“Huh, gutsy. So…what about her?”

“Well, she’s sitting over there by herself,” Collette signaled the direction with a nod and glance. “She’s new isn’t she?”

Jonas looked, “She’s reading a book. Maybe she wants to be sitting by herself.”

“C’mon, let’s go say hi.”

Collette needed a pick-me-up. And what better way than to make a new friend? Collette, herself, had only been at St. Eloi, since sophomore year. She hadn’t made many friends due to a shy and self-conscious nature that came off as cold and distant. Her strong Catholic faith didn’t help either. She lost one potential friend because of it. When the potential needed comforting after a breakup, Collette had spouted the Bible verses that had always brought her solace. “Thus says Lord, ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name: you are mine. When you pass through deep waters, I will be with you. Your troubles will not overwhelm you.’” At the time Collette didn’t understand why the girl had given her a disdainful look and said, “Don’t give me that crap,” but now she looked back on the memory and cringed. She resolved not to make the same mistakes with Eleanor.

They stood on one side of the table, and Eleanor sat on the other. Collette ventured forth.

“Hi.”

Without looking up from her book Eleanor replied, “Hello.”

Collette glanced at Jonas. He took the hint.

“Uh…that’s a good book you’re reading.”

Eleanor was reading Ender’s Game. “I know.”

Collette rolled her eyes, “Hi, my name is Collette Duffy, and it’s Eleanor, right?”

“Wrong,” with a great show of reluctance Eleanor put down the book.

"Excuse me?”

“I go by Leo. Eleanor sounds…It just doesn’t work for me.”

Collette nodded and introduced Jonas. They sat across from Leo, and Jonas asked her opinion of Ender’s Game. The two warmed to the subject, but eventually, Leo realized they were excluding Collette, and the subject turned to movies. Leo’s view on each was expressed with firm ferocity; she wasn’t wishy-washy. Luckily, Collette and Leo shared similar tastes in film. The Collette friendship plan was going exceedingly well. Leo even apologized for her curt greetings, explaining that she was always cranky when pulled away from a book. She compared herself to a cantankerous morning-person irritable for having been forced from sleep. Collette was about to declare victory when Jonas brought up the Sacraments class.

“Do you disagree with a lot of Catholic stuff?”

“Yes. And those religion classes we are required to take are worthless. No, they’re worse than worthless. It’s like this school is trying to brainwash us all into becoming good little Catholic boys and girls. Usually, I tune out during Father Thom’s class, but today I forgot my book in my locker, and couldn’t stop myself from listening to his drivel.”

“If you're not Catholic, then why did you transfer here?” Collette asked, trying not to be offended by the hostility towards her faith.

“The math program is much more intense, and the curriculum overall is more challenging.”

“So, what are you if you’re not Catholic? Are you Protestant?” Collette was still trying to figure out where exactly Leo stood.

“I’m not Christian.”

“Are you Jewish? Agnostic?” asked Jonas.

“You won’t be able to guess it.” Leo replied, as though she weren’t going to continue, but neither of the other two said a word, and kept looking at her questioningly.

Leo ran her fingers through her hair, and then clasped her hands together on the table. She looked them each in the eye, as she said, “I am a witch.”

Incomprehension was apparent on their faces. And Jonas was tempted to be flippant and ask, “Like Harry Potter?”, but instead chose a more polite question, “You mean Wicca?”

“Yes.”

“And thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” Collette mumbled under her breath

“What?” said Leo, luckily for Collette, Leo hadn’t heard her, “Listen. Usually, people don’t understand what being a witch entails. We’re not Satanists or Anarchists. Wicca might not be as organized as other religions, but my faith is as strong, if not stronger, than those who attend their worship service every blessed Sunday. My temple is the world, and everyday I worship in it.”

Leo reached to her neck and pulled out a chain that had been concealed by her scarf and shirt. On the end of the chain was a silver five-pointed star enclosed by a circle.

“This is the pentacle, a sacred symbol that is traditional to the Wiccan path. See the five points, each represents a different element, earth, air, fire, water, and spirit. The circle represents the cycles of nature. I don’t display my pentacle at school because it wouldn't be well received,” she said with a wry grin. “Freedom of religion doesn’t exist at a private Catholic school.”