An Incident in a Rectory

The apple stared at her. Every contour of its menacingly shiny surface seemed to communicate an intimate knowledge of who she was, where she had been, and why she was standing in Father O'Brien's rectory this very moment. Upon closer inspection, the two soft brown spots on the otherwise impeccably green surface did resemble eyes. Lopsidedly located at the crown and foot of the fruit, it managed to keep a constant surveillance of both her hands and feet.

"What are you going to do, Mary?" it seemed to ask.

What am I going to do? thought Mary.

Outside, she could hear Sr. Agnes and Mrs. Stem's ever-present hissing growing louder.

"Yes, we know it's a situation..."

"A situation? Is that your best euphemism, sister?"

"Look, Alice, we're going to have to keep a colol head about this. Otherwise--"

"It's not a situation; it's a humiliation! And--if anything--we're going to have to be loud and clear as to our policy on these matters. I can't pretend it isn't as bad as it is when angry parents are tying up our phone lines and I'm fending off the Herald in my own goddamn driveway!"

"Believe me, I understand completely. But I work here, too. It's not just your reputation on the line and I really think--"

"How DARE you! How DARE you suggest you know ANYTHING! I don't see the press knocking on the convent door! I don't hear the PTA screeching for your neck! I don't..."

Mary could hear Mrs. Stem's tirade descend into choked sobs. Sr. Agnes attempted to comfort her in soothing tones.

"Shhh. It will be alright, Alice. It will be alright."

Mary heard two high heel clicks as Sr. Agnes moved her 4'10" body over to embrace Mrs. Stem's lurching, and now surely despondent, figure. She imagined Sr. Agnes' face buried in the rolls of Mrs. Stem's generous belly as she emitted a muffled, barely audible Solution to the Problem.

"Oh it is so , so troubling. It is so troubling, my dear. But really, she is just a very...a very confused girl. And I think she should have a chance to talk to God before she goes before the committee."

Silence. The smack of skin pulled off sweaty polyester. And then:

"He's coming."

Mary heard new footsteps on the landing, not the familiar clickety-clacks of nervous women, but the solid stomps of a Very Serious Man. She wanted to believe the benign notes of Sr. Agnes's voice, but could not deny the meaning in Father O'Brien's walk. Each sole hit the floor so hard that she imagined it molding to the arch of his foot.

She panicked.

Like a cornered hen, she hopped about the tiny dark room looking for an escape route, but there were no windows save for a stained glass image of her patron saint. Located at the top of the farthest corner in the basement level office, she had to climb on top of Father O'Brien's desk to reach it.

The apple peered under her skirt, but the Madonna ignored her. Sunlight, the only source of light Father allowed for his office during daylight hours, trickled through her golden locks, pure blue veil and the adoring face she fixed on her small man-infant.

"Look at me, I'm here. Let me out."

Mary searched for a latch and then, realizing it was hopeless, ran her hands over the edges of the glass, hoping to find some imperceptible opening. But there wasn't even a pane; it was part of the wall, like a painting. she felt the bile rising in her empty stomach. At that moment, it was all that the world was: a priest's office and the other Mary. Her sweaty palms lost their grip on the cool, indifferent glass and she tumbled to the floor as Father turned the latch and entered the room just in time to see Mary empty her stomach of its bigger, green contents.

She lay on her stomach, her face and hair sloppy with vomit. I will not move. I will not breathe. I will not breathe again.

A calm, deep voice:

"Let's get you to the nurse."

The air exploded from her lungs in a sob. And then she was crying. Shaking. She lost her cadaverous defiance and propped herself up on her elbows. Through the veil of her own grime she could make out the blurred face of a concerned old man. Hesitantly, both out of his own fear and a wish not to further disturb her, he crouched down beside her, offering a white tissue like a truce. When she didn't take it, he gently wiped her face for her, put his hand on her shoulder, and repeated: "Let's get you to the nurse." She nodded and allowed him to help her up.

And then she saw other things: pictures of his family, complete with birthday cakes and toothy grins; photos from his missionary days, his younger self surrounded by beaming newly baptized souls; the box of donations to the poor collected from this morning's mass; the school calendar with home football games circled in red. As she followed Father O'Brien out of the rectory, she felt her animal fear replaced by a crushing shame. The light blinded her when he opened the door to the building, but she could feel them looking at her--the accusing eyes of the faces and dogs and trees and grass and glass and Mary. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.


"Mary. Come on. Mary."

The voice was stern but unsure. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.


"It's all right, dear. We'll get you to the nurse. Come on."

She allowed him to take her by the arm and lead her across the parking lot, keeping her head down the whole way, staring down the concrete that molded beneath his feet.

~~~~~

Outside the nurse's office, she could hear Mrs. Smith talking to Father O'Brien.

"No fever, kept 'er Gingerale down, I think it's just fright. You know what kind of trouble she's in."

"Indeed."

"I think we ought to let her rest, send her home, give her a few days."

"No, I don't think that's possible. It's urgent that something be done now."

"What do you mean, Father?"

"I mean she's a seriously disturbed individual that needs some good counsel before we send her back out to face the world again."

"Her parents already did that."

"I'm sorry?"

"They had her tested. No schizophrenia, manic-depression, any of that nonsense. She can't pull no insanity defense on this one."

"Of course, I know that she's undergone medical testing, but that's not what I'm referring to. The school understands that we are now dealing with a strictly disciplinary issue. However, I think that as a Catholic institution we are obliged to also treat this as a spiritual matter."

"Father, she just vomited all over your carpet. She's not ready for you to save her soul."

"When someone does the things she's done...it indicates that something is seriously wrong, something deep inside. There is something wrong in a place that the lay faculty cannot reach. I know I can help her. Please let me help her before it gets worse."

A woman that sounded like Mrs. Stem interrupted the conversation.

"Oh Father, I just heard. I can't apologize enough..."

The trio moved away from the door and continued the conversation in hushed tones.

Mary lay in a cot at the far end of the nurse's office by the window. It was a very ugly window, she thought as she sipped her tonic, you can't even see out of it. True, it was a translucent pain of glass, yellow with age. Mary wondered if Mrs. Smith ever wished she had a better window, but then, she thought, she probably doesn't have any time to look out, anyway. Mary saw how Mrs. Smith spent her time: the bandaid wrappers overflowing the small pink wastebasket, the stacks of vaccination and insulin shots that lined the pink cabinet, the framed photographs of her pink-checked children as infants, grade-schoolers and high-school graduates. She put her plastic cup down on the pink plastic desk and pulled the thin wool blanket up around her shoulders. Mary decided she didn't want to be a nurse when she grew up anymore. If anyone asked her about a vocation she would respond: "a flower," "a cat," or "a window." Then her mother would chuckle and call her "Proud Mary." "Proud Mary doesn't think we deserve an answer," she would say as she tousled her hair.

Mary was 18 years old.

Father O'Brien opened the door. Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Stem were nowhere to be seen.

"Feeling better?"

She nodded.

"We're going to the chapel."

~~~~~

She didn't realize the height difference between she and Father until they were standing at the door of the rectory chapel and he took her hands in his and said:

"Mary, I know you are a good girl. That's how I know that you must be feeling very badly about the things you've done, which is why I want to hear your confession. Will you allow God to absolve you of your sin?"

She looked at his hands. They were smaller than hers and more delicate, with little puffs of white hair on the knuckles. He was shorter than her by at least three inches, as well. I guess it was because I was so upset and I was walking behind him, she thought.

"Mary?"

She looked down into his eyes. They were small and framed by small wiry glasses. The chapel was dark, lit only by the hundreds of red prayer candles. His pupils seemed to take up the entirety of his irises. She saw longing in them, frustration. He placed his hands on her cheeks as if to focus her attention.

"Mary, will you allow God to absolve you of your sin?"

"Yes, Father."

"Then follow me."

He led her into the confessional booth. She had said confession many times before, at least once a year with her class. She loved it when the priest pulled back the flap to reveal his face as a checker board. Now the sight of Father's pale peach face divided into tiny segments made her laugh out loud.

"Mary, that's very inappropriate."

But she couldn't help it. Look at all those eyes looking at you, Father. Look at them I can't count them all. They are not the window; they are part of the wall, like a painting. They are my eyes looking at you. Her giggles became hysterics.

"STOP it, Mary! Don't you KNOW where you ARE?"

She choked on her last laugh. He was angry. She felt the same fear creep up that she felt when she was in his office.

He sighed. "I'm sorry, maybe you don't feel ready for this but it is very important. Maybe we can chat for a bit and then you'll be ready for your confession."

He proceeded to talk.

"Mary, I remember when you first came to our Parish as a very young girl. You and your mother were a very special case for us."

She could see him trembling through the little dark holes. Why was it that everyone became so emotional whenever they mentioned her mother? "Proud Mary," she called her.

"Your mother is such...a brave woman. I hope you know that, Mary. Do you know that, Mary?"

He was rocking back and forth now. His round bald head atop his round, shaking shoulders, he looked like a sobbing zombie.

"Oh Mary, it makes God so sad that you don't know how happy your mother has all of us because she has shown us the Way. Your mother has shown us how we can spread the Good News to even the hardest of hearts, even the deafest of ears. Your mother has shown us that we can light the light of Christ in even the darkest of places."

He suddenly stiffened.

"And we thought that you were no exception. I remember the stories. The way that you used to...act with the other children. No, don't lie, Mary, your teachers told me all about it. I knew to get to the bottom of you I would have to know everything. And now I do and it is very, very clear. It's just that I can't understand why, Mary. Why do you do the things you do?"

It didn't really sound like a question. Or maybe she just had no conception of what she could possibly say in reply. Or maybe there was no answer. This kind of thing had never shown up on any of her pop quizzes. After twenty seconds, she decided on a response:

"I understand, father."

He remained quiet, as though puzzled by this.

"Mary, I am trying to grant you the sacrament of confession. I'm happy that you think you understand why you are here, but before God can absolve you of your sin, you must confess it. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Father."

He began to rock back and forth again.

"Mary, I'm trying to help you Mary, Mary, I'm trying to help you Mary."

His rocking picked up pace. Faster and faster, he was riding on momentum now, a body possessed.

"No, you don't understand. You think because I'm here trying to help you that you haven't been caught. But you have been caught, Mary. I'm going to have to hand you over to them soon, Mary. But first God is going to try to help make sure you never do the things you've done again."

His voice was harsh and unforgiving.

"Tell God what you've done, Mary. Tell God what you've done."

Just then Mary noticed the intricate carvings in the confessional booth. It wasn't just squiggles of things lining the box, but gorgeously rendered crucifixes and weeping saints and redemption.

"Why didn't you eat my apple, Father?"

"I saw it father, I really saw it."

"Mary, please!"

"I am."

Kew Gardens

From the oval-shaped flower-bed there rose perhaps a hundred stalks spreading into heart-shaped or tongue-shaped leaves half-way up and unfurling at the tip red or blue, or yellow petals marked with spots of colour raised upon the surface; and from the red, blue, or yellow gloom of the throat emerged a straight bar, rough with gold dust and slightly clubbed at the end. The petals were voluminous enough to be stirred by the summer breeze, and when they moved, the red, blue, and yellow lights passed one over the other, staining an inch of the brown earth beneath with a spot of the most intricate colour. The light fell either upon the smooth, grey back of a pebble, or the shell of a snail with its brown, circular veins, or falling into a raindrop, it expanded with such intensity of red, blue, and yellow the thin walls of water that one expected them to burst and disappear. Instead, the drop was left in a second silver grey once more, and the light now settled upon the flesh of a leaf, revealing the branching thread of fibre beneath the surface, and again it moved on and spread its illumination in the vast green spaces beneath the dome of the heart-shaped and tongue-shaped leaves. Then the breeze stirred rather more briskly overhead and the colour was flashed into the air above, into the eyes of the men and women who walk in Kew Gardens in July.

-- Virginia Woolf

A Clockwork Kiwi Part 1

"We know that you like watching them."

This information was quite disturbing to Lena, as the latest image they had been showing her over and over again was a pair of violently jiggling bikini-clad breasts. At first she blushed with embarrassment. Then her pulse quickened. She dreaded the idea of the Team involving her in anything to do with sex. But then, after the thousandth or so replay, she realized that it was just another clip (or "picture" as they elegantly and archaically put it) like all the others before it, which had included a lamp turning on and off, bare feet stepping on and off a hard wood floor, and a kite flapping in the wind. Still, this new foray into a, um, more personal realm inspired in Lena a newfound rebelliousness. Sure, they were all-powerful and she was all-helpless, but someone had to draw a line somewhere. She thumbed the large red button on the end of her armrest.

"Permission to speak to Team."

"Permission granted."

"I would like to respond."

"G'head, sweetheart." She could hear the jubilant chortling of drunken laughter. This was their favorite time of the day and so, naturally, was the time she most dreaded. It was like being drunkdialed by your gynecologist.

"I would like to say that no, I do not like watching them. I do not like watching any of it, but especially not that. I find it offensive. If you don't mind, I think I've done enough for you and I'd like to go home."

A long pause. Then, a chorus of snickers. Then, an answer (or something like it):

"A whole year of whoring might not have managed to fuck the Catholic out of you, but we certainly will if you ever take it upon yourself to again interrupt our work with your insolent bleating."

Three weeks ago she would have been shaking in her hand-cuffed boots; now she felt a mere dull disappointment. It was their special little way of saying, "Not now, dear"; an only hapazardly malicious maneuver--kind of like the way some of her clients would warn that they were about to come only to plop out of her mouth and squirt her right in the eye. It was just their nature, really.

Lena liked to imagine that they were a secret species of articulate chimpanzee--the proverbial kind that should have been locked away in a closet somewhere, their masters hoping to obtain a spontaneous copy of Hamlet as a return on their investment. Instead (because this is reality, after all), they were working in a Team on an Experiment of which Lena was a Very Important Component. Said project specifically meant immobile Lena was fed a daily diet of 12 hours of a single image that replayed itself continuously. During this time she had the ability to communicate with the Team via an old-school monitor system, expressing her thoughts, concerns and deep perplexion at what the fuck was going on here. Her communiques were roundly mocked and usually followed by bald threats of torture, gangrape, and/or death that gradually began to lose their intended effect by the end of the first week.

Why did she take these fools so lightly? It didn't matter how stupid they seemed, they had her in their sights and under their powers. I should be afraid, she thought. But something about them makes it hard to take them seriously. Perhaps it was the frenzied hooting and passionate arguing ("No, you idiot, not the red button, the blue, THE BLUE!!") that suggested an information system structured more along the lines of Fisher Price than IBM. Or maybe it was the fact that at least half of the voices coming through the monitors sounded intoxicated on any given day. Whatever it was, Lena found that as she approached the anniversary of her first month in captivity, she was no safer but somewhat wiser for recognizing the nature of her captors. They were powerful but imbecilic, made threats without seeming to understand their meaning, and committed violence without recognizing it as such. They denied her the presence of any kind of true sadism that might have given a semblance of meaning to her days, laughing at her bleeding eyes the way a frat boy laughs as he places his sleeping roommate's hand in a bucket of warm water, as though she were somehow in on the joke, too.

notes from a novel i didn't particularly like all that much

"[In reference to Plato's Symposium] To be human was to be severed, mutilated. Man is incomplete. Zeus is a tyrant. Mount Olympus is a tyranny. The work of humankind in its severed state is to seek the missing half. And after so many generations your true counterpart is simply not to be found. Eros is a compensation granted by Zeus--for possibly political reasons of his own. And the quest for your lost half is hopeless. The sexual embrace gives temporary self-forgetting but the painful knowledge of mutilation is permanent."
-- Saul Bellow, Ravelstein (24)

"We are seeking the other that is part of oneself." [Socrates-->Aristophanes]

[Poetics] "a tragic hero has to be above average in height."

"Maybe an unexamined life is not worth living. But a man's examined life can make him wish he was dead." (34)

"According to certain thinkers, all men were enemies; they feared and hated one another. There was a war against all, in the state of nature. Sartre has told us in one of his plays that hell is 'the others'--Abe detested Sartre, by the way, and despised his ideas." (42)

"Nothing is more bourgeois than the fear of death." (44)

With the help of Eros we go on looking for our other half: "Eros was a daimon, one's genius or demon provided by Zeus as a compensation for the cruel breaking up of the original androgynous human whole." (82)

"A man should be able to hear, and to bear, the worst that could be said of him." (85)

"The best we can hope for in modernity is not love but a sexual attachment--a bourgeois solution, in bohemian dress." (120)

"The strong state--and this is what he learned from Socrates--comes to us through nature. At the core of the soul is Eros. Eros is overwhelmingly attracted to the sun." (120)

"The challenge of modern freedom, or the combination of isolation and freedom which confronts you, is to make yourself up. The danger is that you may emerge from the process as a not-entirely-human creature." (132)

"Ravelstein had come to agree that it was important to note how people looked. Their ideas are not enough--their theoretical convictions and political views. If you don't take into account their haircuts, the hang of their pants, their taste in shirts and blouses, their style of driving a car or eating a dinner, your knowledge is incomplete." (136)