Stained

by Jennifer Richard Jacobson

  Benny gives me a puzzled look, but so far my urgency has prevented him from asking too many questions. We pull up in front.

  Benny turns off the headlights, and there is Father Warren coming out of the house, suitcase in hand.

  “Is he meeting Gabe?” asks Benny. Insight flashes over his face.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”

  Another priest steps out of the driver’s side of a black car parked in front of us. He takes the suitcase from Father Warren and puts it in the trunk.

  “I guess not,” I say.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?” asks Benny.

  I look down at my hands. Where to start? “Benny,” I say.

  Benny studies my face.

  “Has Father Warren …” I look up. “Has he ever come on—”

  “Oh,” he says. “Has he been trying to get in my pants?”

  I nod.

  “It’s occurred to me, yes.”

  I’m measuring how much is right for me to share.

  Benny says, “I guess it occurred to Gabe, too.”

  I nod my head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve been so confused about everything. I feel like God’s been giving me this massive test and there’s no way I can pass.”

  “Especially when you’ve been hanging out with cheap girls like me?” I say.

  Benny looks out the window. When he turns back, I can see that his eyes are moist. “Every time I was with you, I felt guilty. So guilty, so scared—when Warren wanted to interrogate me, I couldn’t say no. I needed to set things right for my mother, but I also needed to keep a safe distance from him.”

  I reach out and take Benny’s hand. “Do you get this?” I say. “Nothing about this summer has been cheap, Benny. Nothing.”

  POSTLUDE

  The church is full by the time I arrive for the funeral. I search for a single person whom I might cling to, but other than the baseball players who give me awkward smiles as I pass, most of the solemn people sitting in the pews are strangers. A woman in front of me stops in the aisle to chat, giving me a moment to scan the faces.

  I see Benny’s. He waves me to the front where he’s sitting, and I’m overwhelmed by his generosity. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, kissing my forehead.

  “Of course I’m here! My heart is breaking for you, Benny,” I say, holding him tight.

  Benny and I haven’t seen much of each other this summer. He decided to stop avoiding his mother’s illness and to stop bartering with God to make her well. Instead, he stayed close by reading her books, helping her to write letters. She died two days ago, on a brilliant blue August day, with Benny and his father at her side.

  That’s not to say that Benny and I haven’t continued talking. We have. Mostly late at night by phone—it’s easier that way. It’s been good to realize that even when I can’t see my reflection in Benny’s eyes, I still exist.

  A moment later my own mother slides into the pew next to me. She smiles at Benny and his father and then takes my hand in hers. “I didn’t know you were coming,” I say.

  “I thought you might need me.” She looks forward, implying that says it all.

  The organ plays, and the young replacement priest proceeds down the aisle behind the cross. I look at him and whisper a thank-you to God for the hundredth time.

  And I think of Gabe. How can I help it? I slip my hand into my skirt pocket and feel the tattered edges of his envelope—postmarked from Jacksonville, Florida. Inside is a single scratch-and-win ticket. That’s it. Just a ticket. I showed the envelope to Margo, and she hugged me until my shirt was soaked from tears. “He’s alive,” she said like a prayer. I wish Gabe had sent his mom a ticket. Or maybe he did—trusting that I would bring it to her. I haven’t scratched the ticket’s silver circles to see what lies beneath. Sometime maybe.

  A gust of warm air flows into the church. Mrs. Desanctis would have liked this summer day, I think. The odor of incense mingles with flowers and burning candles. I listen to the sounds of chants, of bells, of prayers in song. When the priest holds the host high in the air and then bends to kiss the altar, I grasp the cross at my neck. I remember the day that Margo gave it to me. How I believed in the magic that would transform me from an ordinary girl into something sacred.

  The service is nearly over when the sun suddenly rises over the mountains and beams shine through the stained-glass windows. Rays of reds, oranges, and blues scatter across the congregation.

  I look down at myself, stained by color. No. Not stained. Celebrated. And it occurs to me that perhaps souls are like prisms. Prisms that allow us to see clearly into the soul of another and, at the same time, recognize our own glorious light.