Mercy House

by Alena Dillon

  But to be supplicant before the bishop, to balance the scales of lying—considered work of the devil—in God’s house, inside a confessional of all places, designed for profession and atonement, while still protecting Mercy House . . . that would be something else entirely.

  The bishop’s footsteps echoed down the aisle ahead of the group.

  Father John touched her elbow. Perplexity dug lines across his forehead. “Did you knowingly lie to the press, Sister?” he whispered.

  Her dry lips separated, on the edge of a reply. But then she turned from him and followed the bishop.

  The seventeenth-century confessional box was intricately carved from oak and stained dark brown. The priest’s box was in the center, enclosed by a half door at the bottom, like one found at the end of a bar, and a fern-colored velvet curtain on top. The box was bookended by two penitent booths covered by long curtains, one for a parishioner in the midst of confession, and one for the parishioner on deck, who was meant to wait in a state of prayer and contemplation. This system was designed hundreds of years ago. Now, only two percent of Catholics attended confession on a regular basis; there was rarely a line, rarely a parishioner in either stall, never mind both.

  Before she entered the left booth, Evelyn unwrapped her scarf and placed it and her hat on a nearby pew. She didn’t want to bring Katrina’s precious work with her, inside with him. Maria genuflected and crossed herself before sliding into a pew. Esther nodded at the sanctuary, acknowledging God, and followed Maria. They would be there, outside the booth. They would be there.

  Evelyn used the bottom of her cane to nudge the curtain aside.

  Inside the confessional the air smelled stale, like so many years of uttered sins, so many assigned penances. So many souls forgiven who went on to sin again.

  The curtain effectively blocked daylight; it was always the same time of day in a confessional. She knew the interior by heart. Normally, she dropped onto the red velvet of the kneeler. But that day, she sat on the bench; she would not lower herself before him.

  She could make out the profile of his face behind the wooden grate that separated them. She could hear his ragged breathing behind it.

  Evelyn waited for his greeting, the typical encouragement to trust in God. He remained silent, so she drew an invisible cross over her body. “Bless me, Father,” she said, her voice strained, “for I have sinned. It has been five weeks since my last confession.”

  “Confess then. It is the only way to be absolved.”

  Had the bishop confessed his sins all those years ago? Did another holy man absolve him?

  “I’ve been jealous of those who can walk without pain. I’ve been lazy; I slept until almost eight o’clock yesterday. I’ve hated my neighbor. And”—Evelyn paused, unsure if she should continue the way she was going. They both knew what he wanted to hear, and what was the point in pretending it wasn’t true?—“And I lied to the newspaper reporter,” she said. The bishop quieted on the other side of the divider, as if he was holding his breath. “I-I told him Mercy House has been open for twenty-five years, but really it’s been twenty-six.” She hurried into her closing prayer. “My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things. I firmly intend—”

  The bishop interrupted her, sounding choked, “Those were all venial sins, Sister. I think you are forgetting a mortal sin. The gravest violation of God’s law. If you do not confess it, you condemn yourself to hell.”

  “I’ve committed a mortal sin? That is news to me.”

  “You’ve insulted the Church, soiled its reputation, and therefore insulted God himself. Blasphemy. It is a crime against your faith.”

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “If you do not confess, I cannot offer penance, and your sins cannot be forgiven.”

  “I guess I’ll take my chances.” Evelyn cupped her knees with her palms and prepared to push herself to her feet, through the inevitable sear at the place the bullet had so recently ruptured her skin. But as she leaned forward, and her face passed before the screen, the bishop propelled forward so only the thin grate separated them, his purple-larva lips almost kissing the wood. She gasped at his sudden presence. When he spoke, he hissed, and she felt the wet heat of his words.

  “Now that you’ve launched this little PR campaign, you think you’re safe. You think I can’t touch you. But I can, and I will. I promise you that. What you’ve done at Mercy House is despicable. A disgrace to your vows. If other nuns see you go unpunished, they’ll think they can get away with anything, toss doctrine aside at their whim. I won’t allow that.”

  She recoiled from him involuntarily. “Why don’t you just let this go? Haven’t you punished me enough?”

  His finger jabbed the grate and his words sounded as if they’d been dragged through gravel. “It was your responsibility to maintain custody of your eyes. But you taunted me. You begged for it, you whore.” His next inhale rattled. “If you refer to that time again, Sister, and try to rewrite history, Father John will be ruined. So shut your fat disgusting mouth. And end this Mercy House nonsense or I will end it for you.”

  The curtain whipped across the priest compartment; the half door opened and then thudded shut. While the click of his heels reverberated off the cathedral ceilings, getting further from her with every step, Evelyn closed her eyes and leaned back against the wood of her booth. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to her chest and felt the wild palpitation of her heart; she had to remind herself that women did not die from fear alone.

  Chapter 19

  Each morning, the residents of Mercy House woke with purpose. They didn’t groan against the sun streaming through the blinds. They didn’t turn over and pull their covers tight against their shoulders. They rose. They brushed their teeth and brewed coffee. They got to work. Because there were sweaters to knit, dough to knead, orders to fulfill, gardens to weed, playground equipment to sand, accounts to balance, and marketing messages to post on social media platforms. And there was only so much time.

  Each night, when they nodded off on the living room armchairs before a fire, or when they laid their worn bodies down in bed, their minds ticked through all that had been accomplished that day, and all there was still to do the next.

  They were raising money. Lots of it. By the third week, they’d raised almost twenty thousand dollars, nearly hitting their goal—mostly as a result of donations made by people around the country, around the world, even. But more important than the funds was the effect the process and their success was having on the residents. Evelyn could see it in the way they held their bodies. Their arms fell from their chests. They stood tall, open—vulnerable. They laughed without tucking their chins. They touched one another on the knee, hand, or back. They talked to strangers. They joked more readily, expressed ideas, and took initiatives, risks of the heart. They were becoming more confident. This new mission—it was healing them.

  But the money was important too. Evelyn was certain, inside their one-month deadline, they’d earn enough to fund Mercy House operations costs for the year. With that in the bank, how could the Catholic Church publicly justify shutting them down?

  She felt like her shoulders had been hitched up since the bishop arrived, and the fact of the money earned was almost enough to make her neck muscles unclench. But then she’d hear his growl from the other side of the confessional booth. End this Mercy House nonsense or I will end it for you. And the fibers of her muscles constricted almost tight enough to choke her.

  Mother Superior’s text arrived on the eve of their last fundraising day.

  They were in the kitchen, sipping sparkling cider out of chipped mugs, celebrating having officially exceeded their goal.

  Desiree had her arm slung over Mei-Li’s shoulders and was drinking the last dregs of cider straight from the bottle. “I used to think this girl should hook. She’d clean up with those Asian-fetish horndogs on Wall St
reet. But the CEO of this fundraiser shouldn’t hook. Girl should run Wall Street.”

  The last batch of Esther’s delicacies was baking in the oven, filling the room with honeyed warmth, like the girls and sisters were living inside a cooling gingerbread house. Maria was wrapped proudly in the scarf she’d finally finished, which Katrina had encouraged her to keep for all her hard work, but they all knew the real reason was that it was unsellable, oblong and patchy with dropped stitches. Lucia intermittently pressed the refresh button on the Mercy House website and announced when another donation trickled in. She’d so enjoyed launching and running the site, she said she might even go back to school, or at least take the GED test so she could enroll in a community college course on web design.

  Evelyn lifted a spoon and was about to tap it against the ceramic of her “What Would Jesus Brew?” mug, about to launch into a speech about the impressive talents, dedication, and growth of each of the young women in the room, when her phone buzzed in her jeans.

  Mother Superior was programmed into Evelyn’s phone as “Big Momma.” The message read: “Turn on Channel 2. Now.”

  The buzz ricocheted around the room as the other sisters received and read the same text. They looked at one another, and Evelyn could see her own concern reflected back at her.

  The television was on a table in the corner of the living room. Evelyn felt like her stomach contained choppy waters. She gripped the remote and punched the set on while the sisters gathered beside her. The residents, bewildered, followed close behind.

  There he was, the Hawk, on the local news, bent over a three-headed microphone, wearing a black house cassock with a magenta-trimmed shoulder cape and buttons encased in matching silk, a zucchetto, and a heavy chain with a crucifix the size of a man’s hand lying on his chest.

  The red banner at the bottom of the screen read, “Bishop Announces Sale of Local Shelter Mercy House to Save International Orphanages.”

  “Holy shit,” Mei-Li whispered behind Evelyn.

  And she was right. He was a steaming piece of holy shit.

  “It gives me no pleasure to report that the church must sell Mercy House. While it has been an indispensible service to this community for just over twenty-five years, our resources are being called elsewhere. There are ten orphanages throughout Latin America at risk of closing. They desperately need funds, and the sale of Mercy House will allow us to save these orphanages from the brink. We will be able to continue housing and placing thousands of God’s children from third-world countries like Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, and Ecuador,” he said, pronouncing the names with an exaggerated Spanish accent. “Although we are saddened to see this chapter of our outreach closing, it is for the greater good, and the women of Mercy House understand that.” From the television screen, he peered straight into their living room, and Evelyn felt the pierce of his stare, as if he were speaking directly to her. With this broadcast, he was seeing her PR campaign and raising it to another, heart-wrenching level. Ten orphanages to her one women’s shelter. Camera flashes blinked and shutters sounded like window blinds being suddenly dropped.

  “We applaud the women for their hard work raising money the last month, but unfortunately they did not raise nearly enough to match the price of the house. The funds they did raise will be used to place the current residents in alternate housing, and they’ve generously agreed to donate the rest to the children of our Catholic orphanages.”

  “Like hell we did.” Desiree’s objection pealed at the top of her register. “I’m homeless too.”

  Evelyn’s mouth dried. The Hawk had let the young women in her care apply all their passion, all their hopes, into fundraising for an entire month, knowing he could sell the house whether or not they succeeded. In fact, he probably viewed their success as all the more satisfying; now he could show them just how little their hard work mattered—just how little they mattered.

  The row house would be sold out from under them. Now, rather than being repurposed as a Church mission, used as a home for children whose mothers were imprisoned, or to shelter, feed, and nurture homeless families, Mercy House would be peddled to the highest bidder. It would be converted into cash, and she knew just how the Catholic Church often allocated their cash. The sale could be used to support the lavish lifestyles of so many holy men, with their fancy cars, watches, rings, and vacation retreats, a penchant for luxury reinforced by their top gun, the boss, Pope Benedict XVI—the Prada Priest, named for his infamous bloodred loafers. Or worse, in a matter of months, Mercy House could be used to silence the cry of victims abused by priests, or to retain lawyers who defended pedophiles and other dangerous men camouflaged by sacred vestments. Men like the one glowing on the screen in Evelyn’s living room.

  The thought of her Mercy House being closed by wicked men, and liquidated to subsidize their bad habits, made outrage swell in Evelyn like rising floodwaters. She didn’t see an escape. She was helpless against the tide; she would surely drown.

  Her thumb jabbed the power button and the television winked black.

  Evelyn dreamed she was being chased down the street of her childhood home; she recognized it from the decorative cornices topping the three-story buildings and the trolley tracks at the end of the block. The street was deserted, empty of pedestrians, cars, or any other signs that people had inhabited the apartments in the recent past. Evelyn was dropped into the scene mid-chase. She didn’t know what she had done to anger her perpetrator, or who he even was, but she knew he was only several feet behind her, and she was petrified. Her legs gave out from under her. She fell to the concrete, and her body became paralyzed. She couldn’t push herself up. She couldn’t crawl forward. She couldn’t even scream for help. She was frozen. Helpless. Then his fingers laced through her hair.

  The dream cut to Mercy House. Its rooms were vacant—shadowed, dusty, and frigid. She was troubled by the absence of the house’s inhabitants. She searched the first floor and then the second, screaming the names of the residents and the nuns, but nobody answered. She climbed into the attic and found it bare, save for a note taped to a plank in the middle of the floor. She knew the note explained what had occurred in the house, but she couldn’t read what it said. All she understood was that they were gone, all of them.

  The final scene was in the convent in upstate New York where she trained to be a nun. She sat cross-legged on the floor in the darkened visitation room. Before her was a small crowd of people seated in chairs. Their faces were too shadowed to recognize, but their presence was both familiar and strange. She felt their anger, and suspected they were members of her family. “Why are you here? What do you want from me?” she asked. “You abandoned me. I was hurt and you didn’t see it. You didn’t see me. I’m the one who should feel wronged.” And when no one responded, she begged, “Say something!” She felt judgment emanating from them, pricking her like so many fishing hooks slicing through the surface of a lake. Finally, one silhouette rose from its seat. Her heart palpitated; she simultaneously dreaded the person’s words and was desperate for them. As she anticipated the message, she leaned forward and her lips parted. “And what did you do?” a voice asked. It didn’t sound like her father, but somehow she knew it was him. Then all the figures disappeared at once. The chairs were suddenly empty.

  Evelyn gasped herself back into consciousness. Adrenaline coursed through her veins and dread swam in her stomach. Her eyelids were fat with tears and the fine skin at her temple stuck lightly to her pillowcase.

  As she shifted in bed, the flesh of her underarm scraped against something sharp. Confused, she patted around her sheets and unearthed the foreign object, the crucifix that had hung over her bed for so many years. She remembered, then, eyeing it before turning in the night before. She’d unhooked it from the wall and brought it into bed with her. Wooden nails protruded from Christ’s hands and feet, there were deep slices in his torso where he was whipped, and a crown of thorns bloodied his head. She’d nestled into her pillow and gazed into the agon
ized face of Jesus, head hanging with eyes cast toward the heavens.

  She clutched the crucifix to her chest and stared at the dark shapes dancing across her ceiling like shadow puppets expressing the story of a battle. She gazed down at Jesus dying in her arms and stroked his bloodied face. “I know what you’re thinking. Enough bellyaching and self-pity. ‘I can do all this through him who gives me strength.’ That includes kicking the ass of an asshole.”

  It was three in the morning, but sleep didn’t feel as important as it used to. She tugged her Mets sweatshirt over her head and tiptoed down the hall so as not to wake anybody.

  Downstairs, a soft light emanated from the kitchen.

  “What are you doing awake?” she asked Lucia, who was bowed over the laptop, her new altar, and the only source of light on downstairs. “I admire your work ethic, but I’m afraid tinkering with that website is wasted effort now.”

  Without looking, Lucia reached her hand inside the gaping mouth of a bag of Lay’s, a provision they’d kept in constant supply since her arrival, pulled out a handful of chips, and crunched down on them. “It’s not that,” she said from around her mouthful.

  “What, then?”

  Lucia chewed, swallowed, and then her chin lifted to Evelyn; for the first time, her eyes weren’t edged with thick black lines. She wasn’t wearing any makeup at all, in fact. Her face looked scrubbed clean. A fresh start. She was beautiful. “I was thinking. My tío Adolfo? He’s a real dickhead, but he’s also kind of a genius. He’s been living up here a long time, even longer than my mom, and he’s never paid a dime on rent. Not a dime. He just wanders around, looking for empty spots, and when he finds one, he moves in. When the landlord finally realizes someone broke the locks and is camped out, Adolfo says he’s a tenant who just hasn’t paid rent. Everyone knows he’s a piece of shit intruder who got way too comfortable, but, by then, there’s no difference. It’s the same fucking thing. It’s mad expensive to evict a tenant because you have to get lawyers and go to court, so the landlords end up paying my good-for-nothing tío to leave a house he shouldn’t have been in in the first place. One sucker paid forty grand to get his ass out. Adolfo took the cash, moved into an empty apartment across the street, and didn’t work a day that year.” Lucia leaned against the back of her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “We’re already here, Sister. If we decide to stay, how are they gonna force us out?”