by Tim Lebbon
Father Brian’s hands had grown warmer and softer around hers. Do they object to your coming here to see us?
Oh, no, they don’t mind at all, Mig said. (Him: Church? You? Did lightning strike the building when you walked in? Her: Don’t expect any money for the collection plate.) And I really like it here, she continued. It’s the first place I’ve ever felt at home.
The warm soft hands gave hers a gentle squeeze. I am glad to hear that, Father Brian said. God’s love makes a home for us all.
He was not that much older than her, really, and priests must be lonely. And he was always so kind to everyone, kindness poured out of him, she saw the devotion in his eyes as he gave the sermon and she wanted it all to herself, she wanted Father Brian to devote himself to her. He had already devoted himself to Christ but she was willing to share. Christ said, love one another as I have loved you, didn’t he? Father Brian could love Mig, then. He could bless her and keep her and all the rest. They didn’t have to sleep together, even, but probably they would. Probably that would be fastest.
Father Brian vanished from Mig’s thoughts when she met Karen.
It made no sense. Karen had nothing to offer. Karen lived with her parents and wanted to be a nun someday—which, like the gloves, was a thing Mig didn’t know anyone still did, but she supposed all the nuns in the retreat and the ones Mig saw in the city protesting the war in Vietnam had to come from somewhere. Karen looked at the nuns the way Mig looked at Father Brian, or the way Father Brian looked at Jesus. Karen named all of the swans and could tell them apart. (Karen had a birdfeeder in her backyard, now, and sometimes Mig crept out of the trailer and peered through the fence slats as Karen refilled it, twitchy little birds zooming around overhead. Mig didn’t know the names of the twitchy little birds but she was sure Karen did. If Karen stood still they probably gathered on Karen’s shoulders and arms like she was a blonde female satin-skinned St. Francis.) Karen and Mig walked the convent grounds in their free time, sometimes speaking quietly—which they were allowed to do, as long as they were outside—and sometimes just walking together, Karen probably thinking about Mary or sainthood or something and Mig lost in Karen’s sunlit hair, her pretty wrists.
Mig had never loved a girl before but Mig had never really loved anyone before. There was something about the way the air felt when they were together. When Karen walked into a room Mig felt as if a television had just turned on and the show had just started. And she didn’t think it was entirely one-sided: she turned her back modestly when she dressed, because it was what Karen did, but sometimes when she turned back she thought she caught a faint flush on Karen’s cheek.
What is that scar? Karen had asked, on the third day of the retreat.
Mig had pulled up her blouse, looked over her shoulder at the wide seam that crossed half of her lower back. I had surgery when I was a kid, she said, although the scar was from a belt. She couldn’t remember the face of the man who had wielded it but she remembered the belt: wide red leather, with a weird spiky buckle that he’d shaken in her face. Be grateful I’m not using this end on you, he’d said, and Mig had been.
Karen had shuddered. I hope you don’t remember it.
I don’t, Mig lied. Then, in a burst of inspiration: Do you want to touch it?
No! But Karen giggled as she said it, and blushed not at all faintly. She did want to touch it. Mig wanted her to touch it, there in their austere but comfortable room at the Catholic girl’s retreat. Hell of a place for it.
(Hell. Ha.)
In Clifton, Mig bought a slice of pizza for dinner. She was almost out of money. She would have to break into the old man’s house to get more. She was sorry about that; she had hoped she wouldn’t have to do it again. She had come to think of the old man as a kindly uncle, even though they had never spoken. But Mig’s special secret travel trailer was in the old man’s back yard and so in a way he was her benefactor, even if he didn’t know it, and she was sort of his house guest, even if he didn’t know that either. He was old and sick and in a wheelchair. From the front window of the travel trailer she could see into his bedroom and she could see his television with a foil-wrapped rabbit ear antenna on top, and she could see when his friend brought him pornographic movies and they played them on a tiny projector and watched them in silence without doing anything at all even to themselves, and she could see when he settled in to watch Gunsmoke and Marcus Welby, M.D. And when that happened he was not going to be rolling through the house for at least an hour so she could creep in through the sliding glass door, which was always unlocked, and take some—but not all—of the money from his wallet, and also make herself a peanut butter sandwich if there was enough bread. A van came and picked him up every Wednesday and then he was gone for three hours, so Mig went inside and emptied the bucket she used as a toilet and also took a shower, careful not to leave any hair on the soap.
In a letter to Karen shortly after Mig found the trailer, she wrote, I am coming to Clifton next Wednesday! Shall we get lunch? I will meet you at the Good-n-Hot Diner at eleven if you can make it, if not maybe next time! Karen hadn’t come but that was okay. Karen took classes in typing and religion and she had school on Wednesday. And Mig had not left a return address, so Karen couldn’t contact her with regrets or alternate arrangements or anything. But Mig sat in the Good-n-Hot for three hours, anyway, because maybe Karen wanted to see her enough to skip school. Maybe Karen, like Mig, could not sleep the night before, for excitement. It was okay that Karen hadn’t come, really it was. Plenty of time.
Cancun is beautiful. I wish you were here, she wrote now, on the postcard.
Oh, how she did. The slat in the fence between the old man’s backyard and Karen’s wasn’t big enough, or wide enough. It was not enough. She copied over the boring facts about Cancun and shopping and money. Signed the postcard.
The next day she took the bus into Manhattan with her last few cents and mailed it. Just in case Karen checked postmarks.
Every week Mig had made an appointment to speak privately with Father Brian, at the end of the day so they wouldn’t be interrupted. In his office she would ask him about faith or hope or something else huge and vague that he could talk about for hours. The Thursday before she left for her retreat, she burst into tears. I’ll miss you so much, she said, when she could speak. I know it’s only a week. But I feel like I’m a better person, when I just think of you.
That’s faith, Father Brian said, with a smile that was perhaps a little wry. But you’re a better person because you’re thinking of God, not me. You just think it’s me because I’m the one you see in the pulpit.
No, it’s you, Mig said, and blushed. Then, quickly: I mean, of course it’s God, too. But—He’s working through you, isn’t He?
Father Brian had cleared his throat. I think this retreat will be very good for you, he said. You’re such a nice girl, Mignonette, but you’re vulnerable, and easily distracted.
I’m not that easily distracted, she said. I’ve been coming here for nearly six months.
That’s true. And it’s been inspiring to see you build your faith.
It’s all because of you, she said, and wide went her eyes, and zing went his, and then he told her he had to go to a meeting but he let her hug him before she left, which he had never let her do before, so she hugged him like he was long and lost and pressed her face against his crisp black shirt. He smelled like shaving cream and incense. Mig let her fingers brush the nape of his neck, just gently, the barest of touches, where the short soft hairs were new like a baby’s. He pushed back quickly but she knew he was hers, if she wanted him. The week away would be good, it would give him time to replay that finger-brush in his head. Late at night. When he was alone.
She was tired of telling people that she lived in a foster home. She told Karen that her father was a businessman, that she had lived all over the world, but right now her parents lived in Greece. She would join them after the trip to Israel. She lied and lied and lied. The nuns knew better but
the nuns did not converse with the retreat members. Karen looked dazzled.
You are so lucky, she said. I’ve hardly ever even been out of New Jersey.
They were walking by the lake.
I bet that’s why your scar looks so different, Karen said. You must have had your surgery in another country, didn’t you?
Egypt, Mig said, for no reason whatsoever.
Karen sighed. I would love to go to Egypt. I would love to see the pyramids.
We should go someday, Mig said.
We should, Karen answered, and smiled, and Mig had never been smiled at like that before. Like everything was good and Mig was good, too. Karen slid her arm through Mig’s. I am so glad I came here, she said. I am so glad I met you, and Mig’s heart felt like it was about to pound out of her body, and Mig thought, I have a heart and that heart loves you.
The slats in the fence opened on Karen’s backyard. When the mail truck came Mig hid herself behind a bush across the street, squeezed down between the grimy white siding of that house—not nearly as well kept as the one where Karen and her parents lived—and peered through the branches. Three days a week, Karen came home from her classes just after the mail came, and Karen would come out and get it. The postcard would take two days to arrive from New York, probably. The water in Cancun was bright turquoise. Mig wished she had been able to think of a way for Karen to contact her. She was supposed to be at a summer job in Boston, and it was easy enough to say I quit my summer job in Boston but hard to figure out another story. She wished she had one of those telephones in her shoe like on Get Smart so Karen could call her any time. They would whisper late into the night, Karen in her gingham bedroom and Mig tucked away in the trailer.
The first day the postcard could conceivably have come, it didn’t.
The old man’s friend came to visit. During the day, which was strange. He was a big man, tall and broad, with slicked-back hair. He walked through the house three times, and then circled the yard. He tried the door of the trailer, even, but fortunately Mig had locked it behind her. There was undisturbed dust on the trailer steps. Mig never used them, she hoisted herself up without touching them. The thick, weedy grass would not show her footprints.
I don’t know, Bill, the slicked-back man said, loud enough for Mig to hear, as he pulled the sliding door closed behind him. I don’t see anything.
Mig came and went more carefully after that.
Kneeling in the convent chapel, Karen contemplated the statue of Mary, sky blue and benevolent.
Mig contemplated Karen. Her tiny feet, her delicate ankles. The smooth line of her waist. They had known each other for six days. They were best friends. Even Karen said so. We’ll write so many letters, Karen said, because they were leaving the retreat the next day. We’ll write all the time. We can visit each other! I’ll come see you in Greece.
And I’ll come see you in Clifton.
Oh, Clifton. Karen laughed. Some vacation for you.
Not if you’re there, Mig said.
Karen looked at the dorm room floor. Blushed.
I think it will be good for you to get away for a while, Father Brian said, as they waited for the bus that would take Mig to the convent. I worry that you’re becoming…overly attached.
Mig laughed. That’s silly, Father Brian.
Maybe. But others might not think so.
I don’t care what others think, she said. I only care about you.
Father Brian looked at the bus station floor. Blushed.
Father Brian was a kind man and Mig knew he would be kind to her and she thought she could give him reason to be. She thought perhaps he would rent her a little apartment, not unlike the travel trailer she found later: just a little space that could be hers and hers alone, except for when he was there. She felt so serene and orderly there in the church, in his office, in his life. She wanted that. She thought Father Brian would take care of her. She wanted that, too.
But Karen…the way Karen folded her clothes was serene and orderly, but the way Mig felt about her was chaotic, vivid with color. Karen slipped on a rock by the lake and Mig caught her arm. Karen was startled by a bee landing on her shoulder and Mig blew it gently away. Mig wanted to take care of Karen, to build her a world as serene and orderly as Sacred Blood. Because Karen spoke sadly of Clifton, of her parents who didn’t let her date or see friends or even go many places, other than church and her classes. Someday Karen would be a nun and live in a convent like the one where they had their retreat. Mig found that unnecessary. If Karen wanted to travel, Mig would travel with her. If Karen wanted to pray, Mig would kneel by her side. If Karen wanted to be safe, Mig would keep her safe. Mig knew a lot about being safe, about building walls around the most sacred part of you so it couldn’t be hurt. She wanted to build those walls around Karen, too. She wanted to take Karen inside her the way she had once wanted to be inside Father Brian. Karen worried about parents, about neighbors, about ladies from church. Mig knew how to protect her from all of those things.
On the last possible day, the postcard came. Mig watched from the bushes as Karen, still wearing her school dress and sensible low heels, opened the mailbox with her delicate hand and took out the mail. The wind blew Karen’s hair into her face. Mig wanted to push it back. Karen flipped through the stack of envelopes and Mig’s heart stopped as she caught a glimpse of bright turquoise: as Karen picked up the postcard, flipped it over.
From across the street Mig could not see Karen’s sad eyes move as they licked at the text, but she could imagine them.
Karen sighed, shook her head, and went inside.
What did it mean, the sigh? The shake of the head?
Later that night, Mig crept right up to Karen’s window, which she didn’t dare do often. She looked inside. Karen wasn’t there, but the light was on. The blue postcard in the wire wastepaper basket was as shining and electric as a fallen star.
It was summer, and hot, and all of the windows in the house were open. Mig crept around the outside of the house until she heard voices, the clink of silverware. Conversation. Karen and her parents spoke of boring things: visits to aging relatives, Karen’s classes at school, her mother’s trip to the dry cleaner.
They did not speak about Mig. Not at all.
On their last night in the convent, Mig said, again, Do you want to touch my scar, Karen?
Karen looked at the floor. Blushed.
Mig pulled up her nightgown and turned around, so the thick pink scar faced Karen. Their room was dark. Mig’s feet were cold. She focused on the breath moving in and out of her body. There was no noise.
She felt Karen’s fingers, cool and smooth. Tracing the outline of the scar, all along the top of it and all along the bottom. Then, the flat of Karen’s palm on the small of Mig’s back, sliding up along her spine.
Mig turned around. Karen’s eyes were huge in the moonlight, her soft lips slightly parted.
In the morning Karen would not meet her eyes. Because she was sad, Mig knew. Because she was leaving.
Mig had abandoned most of her clothes from the church ladies but she had one nice dress waiting at the dry cleaner. She had prepaid, back when she’d had some money; the day after the postcard came, she picked it up. She would take the bus to a department store and have her makeup done. There was not much she could do about her hair without washing it, though. So she waited until Wednesday, until she heard the van come and leave again.
She crept into the old man’s house. It smelled like old man, like socks and urine and breath. If she had been the old man’s slicked-back friend she would have done something about the smell. Peeking into the old man’s bedroom she saw an indentation in his bed, the shape of his body, the remote control nearby. A bottle of whiskey.
She made herself a peanut butter sandwich and ate it, quickly. Then she went into the bathroom. She would take a shower. She would wash her hair. She would make herself beautiful.
Goodbye, Mignonette, said Father Brian in the bus station. Stiff-arming her
when she tried to hug him. Looking away.
Goodbye, Mignonette, said Karen. Tense in Mig’s arms when she hugged her on the convent steps. Looking away.
Good fucking riddance, said some foster mother, or maybe it was a foster father, as Mig packed her garbage bag.
My dick sure will miss you, said a foster son or brother or whatever.
Mig undressed, started the shower. The old man had only old man shampoo but it would do, she would use perfume at the department store, too.
She stepped under the hot water, felt the grime and grease of the last week and all the sweat of the airless travel trailer running off her. Closed her eyes for a brief moment, to enjoy the sensation.
The door opened. The curtain was yanked back.
Well, well, said the dirty-movie friend, said the slicked-back man. What do we have here.
Dressed in her best clothes, hair clean, skin scrubbed and polished, she would knock on Karen’s door. Karen’s mouth would fall into a sweet O of surprise when she saw Mig. Karen had simply forgotten, of course. It would all come back to her: the smell of the convent soap on their skin, the feel of the convent sheets on their bodies. Mig.
I was passing through, Mig would say, and thought I’d swing by, and steal you! So lucky I found you at home.
So lucky I found you.
Let’s be bad. Let’s play hooky. Let’s run.
GIVE ME TWO
MICHAEL KORYTA
THOMAS THREW UP OUTSIDE OF THE CHURCH.
It was discreet, he thought, not in the gutter out front but in the alley alongside, and the only person who saw him was a bum with a beard like steel wool clutching a beggar’s tin cup in a hand that consisted of a thumb and one and a half fingers.
As Thomas wiped the bile from his chin, he looked at the man and wondered about his hand.
