She Walks in Shadows (30 page)

I told you. All they understand is
she
.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He stands. “Then we’ll just have to wait until you do.”

And he leaves me in that room without another word, without looking back, leaves me there until an orderly looks inside and notices me and decides to bring me back to my room.

This world is changing, my savior wants me to know. Like a fruit at the end of summer, it is about to split open and disperse what has been hidden in its heart. Tonight, when I close my eyes, I see a naked woman covered in blood singing in a cathedral and all the men in all their suits are afraid. Is this real? It comes from so very far away.

Life and creation take infinite forms, give birth to infinite young. Some people this breaks, this terrifies. Like my lover, like the professor. For me, it is only awe.

I hope you find this, Doctor (I hope you are a Doctor). I hope you find this and walk away, tell the man in the blue suit to go to hell. There is a child who dreams of fire and the whole world is about to burn.

The doors are unlocked. Soon, I will walk through these sleeping corridors and out the front door. Soon, I will change my name, my being. I will indeed be, as my captor claimed, a body never found. The man in the blue suit will ask people if someone passed this way, but nobody will be sure if what they saw was a man or a woman, a boy or a girl.

In time, I will let my parents know that I am okay. By then, it will be too late for him and his kind, even if he does not know it.

I’ll be honest: I don’t know what to think of this world my savior is showing me. It is full of blood and fire and death and suffering. It is full of people who have no interest in being the children of an inconceivable god. They do not deserve this. They deserve better.

But maybe there is nothing better to be had.

I want to think that we will meet again, Doctor. I want to believe that when I lose my footing in this world, I will sit in front of you again. You will be tasked with putting me in a category, and I will laugh and tell you that categories are useless.

Will you listen? Will you believe me? I want to believe you will.

I want to believe you’ll see this letter.

But there’s only one way to find out.

It’s time to go.

THE CYPRESS GOD

Rodopi Sisamis

ROSA COMES BACK
from the hospital and takes a bat to Jimmy’s windshield. I miss the entire thing because I’m working in my mom’s bodega on a Saturday morning. I’m pricing bottles of Head and Shoulders with a permanent marker when the air around me turns into an electric current. I hear the muted screaming and car alarms seconds later. I throw down the bottles and marker, running to the front of the store, before I hear my mom telling me to get away and get back to work. I miss the whole thing. I’ll always remember that Rosa came back from the hospital and destroyed Jimmy’s windshield with a bat, but I’ll never remember the look on her face, the rage on Jimmy’s, or the way his windshield went from solid to gummy as it sagged into the driver’s seat.

I curse not being able to enjoy my weekends the way my friends do. I could rebel more. I could put my foot down and demand to be allowed to have a social life. Even though I’m an only child, I have somehow disappointed my parents so deeply that nothing I do is right. If I can’t be what my parents want me to be, the least I can do is be obedient. Even my looks seem to offend them. My hair radiates from my scalp like a froth of brown curls, some days simply reaching for madness. My front teeth have a gap and instead of lateral incisors, I have short, chubby fangs. For all these reasons, I don’t really get away with anything. I don’t even try. When my mom wakes me up to go work in the bodega with her, I go. I stay there all day, even though I want to be anywhere else. I envy the customers who walk in to buy things, then head happily into the sunny, warm afternoons, the rest of their days filled with unknown possibility. When I bring this up to my mother, she mentions that I enjoy food and shelter, and this is what it means to work.

“But don’t people who work get paid and have days off?” I ask, a limp rag hanging from my hand. I have been cleaning coagulated soda from the bottom of a refrigerator. She gives me a dangerous look then goes back to the mail she’s beens sorting through.

“La nevera con los galones de leche necesita limpieza.”

I hate cleaning the milk fridge. There’s always some weird, slimy, black stuff that covers the gallons of milk when they’re delivered that makes me wonder if they’re stored in some kind of factory filled with rats that like to shit on the plastic gallons. I wipe them down, anyway. I organize them by expiration dates, The fresh gallons of milk in the back of the fridge and the older ones in the front.

I look at the clock and calculate another eight hours to go before we close. Even then, I’ll have to go home and do nothing. My entire life feels like a prison sentence. The next morning, my mom stands over my bed as I’m sleeping and asks me if I’m going to church with her. Whether I say yes or no makes no difference: Either way, I have to go with her. I sit up in bed and, without waiting for an answer, she makes her way to the kitchen to make my father breakfast.

As we head out, my mother frowns at my hair and starts muttering under her breath, so I walk ahead, waiting for her in the apartment building’s hallway until she’s ready. The entire walk is a litany of criticisms. I’m relieved when we make it to the church. The large sandstone cathedral has two bell towers and a center tower with a rose-stained glass window in its center. The towers spiral toward the sky like daggers, overlooking the neighborhood, standing in judgment over its people. The cathedral has stood for as long as I’ve been alive and stood before I was even conceived. It’s one of the most successful dioceses in the city, in part because of its flexibility and its acknowledgment of its changing flock. As the people who lived in the neighborhood changed, so did the faces of the gods and goddesses.

The singing from inside is soft, growing louder as we walk up the marble front steps. As I step through the first set of double doors, awe and humility rise inside of me almost immediately. I buy a thin, white candle and light it at the feet of the Mother as she rises in the dark foyer, sucking all the light to her body, her lily-white arms extended, her face peaceful, smiling, as she steps on the head of a man who is in the process of turning into a snake.

“Save us from the patriarchy,” a woman nearby whispers in prayer.

I look at the face of the man: battered, bruised, his face twisted in humiliation. I don’t feel sorry for him. My grandmother told me about those men. The things they did, the violence and the horror that they spread upon the world.

“They thought they would get away with it forever. And for a little while, they did. A long time, they buried our mothers, our daughters, our sons, and husbands. But we bided our time. We bided our time and we came back.”

She puffed on her cigar and closed her eyes, her face smooth.

We enter through the heavy, wooden double doors. The floor stretches in front of us, a green, marble lake flecked with spots of white and black. The pillars are giant gods of marble, leading the eyes to the ceiling, which is filled with frescoes of the rich history of our faith. Saints at writing desks; angels leaning over their shoulders, whispering secrets. Saints in long, red robes, radiant suns around their heads, their lips crimson smiles, eyes cast upward.

My mother’s auburn hair shines in the soft light as she leads the way down the rows of pews. The fourth pew from the front is our place. We slide in and I pick out the program for the weekly mass from the hymn book rack. We both kneel and pray quietly. I ease off the kneeler and sit back in the pew, the program in my lap. The altar is being quietly set up by all the volunteers.

I recognize some of the girls from school and see Erica Francis among them. She volunteers in the church and is the head of the youth group. She also participates in school council and is the captain of the cheerleading team.

My stomach does flips when I see that Brother Jonah is going to be delivering the mass’ sermon. Erica moves over to Jonah, touching him lightly on the shoulder. My stomach lurches to my feet and my eyes sting. When Mass is over, I wait until almost everyone has filed out before I head towards the side of the church, which is made up of small, stone shrines that are architectural miracles in themselves. Each shrine houses a god, and enough space for penitents to light candles and leave offerings.

I can feel the waves of energy pulsating through the floor as I make my way to Marchosias’ shrine. She’s standing in the center of a low-set stone altar. All the candles around her have gone out. The small, stone cave is quiet and I work automatically, knowing by heart where all of the incense and fresh supplies are. I empty the censer with the resin-fused incense blocks. Pour fresh water into the chalice at her feet, sprinkling sweet-smelling spices into the water. A few drops of the oil I blended myself. I carry the charcoal between thumb and forefinger as I hold a lit match beneath it. When it begins to sizzle, flame moving like a tiny red worm around the diameter, I place it in the center of the censer, dropping the chopped resin in.

The smoke undulates, thick as hair in the dark. Fire comes last. I bring out fresh candles, knowing that no one visits this small stone grove except for me. I feel around for the glass bottles of candles and place them tentatively at her feet. I light them, my eyes adjusting to the flare of light, as the glow begins to slowly grow all around her, around me. She’s carved entirely out of red wood. The clear glaze around her body gives her the appearance of being covered in fresh blood. Her hands are extended on either side of her, one hand extended towards me, palm open.

I reach out and touch her fingers with mine. I take the biscuits from the ziploc bag in my purse, placing them in an empty silver dish at her feet. They look dark and cracked in the candlelight, but I know she will be pleased. I light one last candle, a dark maroon taper. I kneel on the cushion at her feet and cross my arms on my chest.

When I’m done, I dip my fingers in the lukewarm water, press them to her bare feet, then to my forehead and heart. I pull the golden bangle from my wrist and slide it on to hers. The necklaces that I have brought her throughout the years glitter around her neck and torso like chain mail in the flickering light. Her wolf eyes glow yellow. At the sound from the entrance, her snout furls and her eyes shift to the doorway. I am putting the supplies back in their place when Erica enters. My anger at her intrusion in my place of worship bubbles like a sulfur swamp.

“Hey, Sorha.” My name is chewed through her mouth, mispronounced, sounding sloppy and glib.

“It’s pronounced Sor-hah.” My voice comes out quieter than I’d like it to.

“You know, they’re thinking about opening up more space for more traditional saints.”

Her voice is saccharine, her perfume floral and too heavy. I shrug my shoulders with my back to her, placing the fresh carnations in the vase. They are pink, fluffy and baby-soft. I gently pass my fingertips over them, feeling the slight warmth that they emanate. A pity that they’ll be dried up and dead soon enough, but that is the nature of sacrifice.

“They might take her out of here. Empty out this entire shrine; put her in the dark storeroom.”

I unwillingly shiver at the thought of Marchosias being placed in a cold, dank basement, forgotten. I can tell that Erica has noticed and that it’s what she’s been hoping for.

“Kind of like you. Figures this would be your god of choice.”

I turn to her, the silver vase in my hand. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

Erica sneers and rolls her eyes, tossing her hair behind one shoulder.

“You’re the only one who believes any of this is real.” she extends one hand towards Marchosias. I instinctively tighten my grip on the silver vase. “Aside from the old people, I mean. No one believes in any of this in a non-metaphorical or non-ironic manner.”

Her smile is full of teeth and I find that I want to smash her face in.

“Welcome to reality.”

She turns on her heel and walks out, leaving me shaking with anger and hurt. I try to dispel the idea that one day, Marchosias won’t be here, that my tending to her shrine is a temporary thing. I place the vase with the carnations at her feet take one last look at her now-peaceful face before I walk out. My mother is waiting for me outside the gate and we walk home in stony silence. The sky has turned gray. The wind smells like leaves and overturned earth.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

I don’t know how to tell her that I am thinking about Jonah, the way his slender fingers hold the heavy book with the engraved, tentacled sea monster, that I saw him running at the park without a shirt on, that he has a tattoo on the inside of his well-formed bicep of a trident with two snakes coiled around the staff.

Our priesthoods are compatible. His dedication is recognized by the church but I still have to pass the tests, and finish my volunteer hours. When I become dedicated, our gods and priesthoods would be compatible, it would be one thing we would never have to argue about, if we were together, if we ever had children... I shake my head to dispel the dreams that cut me like sharp little knives when I’m alone. I can’t tell her that everything inside of me feels like white fire when he comes near me, or that I hate Erica Francis for taking away from me everything that I want for myself. I shrug. She doesn’t insist and we talk about the sermon instead. .