A Tale of Beauty

by Patrick Balzamo

  It took me a moment to recognize the hoarse voice on the other end as Gertrude’s. “I’m at the hospital,” she said. “Come and see me, Isabella.”

  Gertrude appeared to be sleeping when I arrived, but I only had to wait a few minutes before she opened her eyes and said: “You came.”

  “Of course.” I took her hand. “I would have come faster, but my mom —”

  “It doesn’t matter. Listen.” She squeezed my hand. “I am dying, Isabella.”

  “No, you’re —”

  “I am. Listen.” Her voice grew firmer. “When you leave here, go to my apartment. In the bottom drawer of my dresser, under the photo albums, there’s a binder. Take it, study it ... keep it safe.”

  I nodded. “Okay. I will. But Gertrude, you can’t ...”

  “It’s alright. I’ve been preparing for this for some time.” She forced a smile. “You will be fine.”

  A nurse came in and gave Gertrude something that made her fall asleep again. I stayed a while longer before going to Gertrude’s apartment, where I found the binder. On impulse, I also took the picture of Emily out of the photo album, slipped it into the binder, and hid it under my bed.

  Gertrude died a few days later, but it was nearly a week after that before I felt ready to open the binder. Most of it consisted of Gertrude’s Book of Shadows, her notes on magic, but there was also a section of diary entries and memoirs. These, I read over and over again: most of them were about Emily, but there were a few written in shakier handwriting that mentioned me. In the final one, Gertrude refers to me as her daughter, and I remember crying the first time that I read it.

  Absently, I flip through the binder, which I’ve come to think of as the Tale of Beauty. I’ve been adding to it, mostly diary entries but also some spells, and now it’s nearly overflowing. I’ve pasted the photograph of Emily on the inside front cover, and I turn to it now.

  “You never knew any better,” I murmur. Though I never met her, Gertrude loved her, and so, therefore, do I. “You did the best you could, and it turned out to be a tragic mistake. It wasn’t your fault.” I close the binder, then my eyes. “None of my Sisters will follow in your footsteps. I promise.”

  Denise

  THE ALARM BOX begins beeping as I walk into the office, which tells me that, once again, I’m the first one to arrive. I fumble for the light switch and disarm it. “One crisis averted already,” I tell myself.

  I started working as an administrative assistant at this accounting firm three years ago. For the first few months, I was replacing someone who had gone on maternity leave; then, another person quit, and I was offered her position. At the time, I hadn’t exactly been looking for something permanent, but the pay is good and I hadn’t had anything else going on.

  I look at the pile of paper in my inbox, but I just can’t focus on it. Instead, I rearrange the pens in their container and flip through the documents that are waiting to be filed. Some dust on top of my computer monitor catches my eye, and I wipe it away with a Kleenex, which I then use to dust the two framed photographs on the cubicle wall above it.

  The one on the left is of me with my mother, taken last summer. I’ve always had a good relationship with her. But I sometimes feel as though I have to make her believe that I’m happy, even when I’m not. And it’s not because she wouldn’t want to deal with me on those terms; on the contrary, she would be only too eager to help. But she would expect a few magic words to fix everything, and would feel like a failure when they didn’t. Then she would need comforting, and I wouldn’t be in any position to provide it. It’s easier to just keep smiling.

  On the right, there’s the Sisterhood. It was taken last month, on our first anniversary, in a secluded park that Chastity recommended. I remember how Belle made us do retake after retake, until she was satisfied and we were exhausted. At the time, it was annoying, but I have to admit that it turned out very well, and it comes in quite handy. When things start going badly around here, it makes me feel that much less alone.

  As my co-workers trickle into the office, I watch them, fascinated, and I listen to the misadventures that their families, particularly the children, and friends seem to experience daily. It always amazes me how eager some of them are to share things that I find so personal with people who, for all the time that we spend together, are still relative strangers.

  My phone rings, in the flat chime that denotes an intra-office call, and I pick it up. “Yes?”

  “Denise.” Jennifer, my boss. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. And you?”

  “Wonderful,” she says. “Listen, a bit of a problem has come up. Allen’s called in sick. Could you possibly take on some of his work?”

  I close my eyes, but don’t sigh. There’s nothing that Jennifer abides less than a worker who doesn’t display the appropriate level of enthusiasm. “Is overtime an option? I’m a bit behind today.”

  “I shouldn’t think it would be necessary,” she says. “I was under the impression things were slow.”

  Maybe for you. It’s never slow for me. “Okay. I suppose I can help out.”

  “Great! I really appreciate it, Denise.”

  “Not a problem,” I say before I realize that she’s already hung up.

  I return from Allen’s desk with four bulging folders and set them down in a clear corner of my workstation. A quick glance through the first tells me that the papers within are hopelessly messed up, and I shake my head. What was I expecting, color-coded tabs?

  I’m in the process of dealing with some of my own more urgent work when I hear someone coming towards me. The heavy footsteps are barely muffled by the thin linoleum, and I can tell who they belong to several seconds before Rose makes it close enough to stick her head around my cubicle wall. “Hey, Denise.”

  “Good morning.” I glance up very briefly. “What can I do for you?”

  “You know if we’ve got any of those big envelopes left?”

  “I have no idea.” I bring up my e-mail inbox. “You might ask whoever’s on duty in the mailroom.”

  “Right. Good thinking.” She turns to leave, but doubles back immediately. “Who’s that?”

  I look up at one of the papers tacked to my cubicle wall. “Karen.”

  “Karen. Right.” A pause. “Is she in today? I didn’t see her yet.”

  “She starts at 9.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks.”

  No more than five minutes later, I hear someone clear their throat, and swivel my chair to see Steve standing there. “Good morning,” I say as I hit the Save button on the letter I’m in the process of composing. “What can I do for you?”

  “Hey, Denise.” He always speaks slowly, and it can be an effort not to demand that he get to the point. “Um ... there’s some guys at the door. They have a delivery.”

  “A delivery of what?”

  “Uh ...” He cranes his neck, though the door is not visible from my desk. “Paper, I think.”

  “Alright. Have them bring it through to the storage room and put it with the rest.”

  “Cool. Thanks.” He grins and leaves.

  I glance at the untouched pile of Allen’s work, and then at the clock, which already reads 8:45. It’s going to take a couple of hours, at least. I need to get started on it soon, or I’ll have to work overtime to finish.

  “I’ll get to it eventually,” I tell myself, and resume typing.

  A few minutes after noon, I set the second of Allen’s files aside, open the Wikipedia homepage, and unwrap the thin sandwich that will serve as my lunch. When I first started, I made an effort to eat in the kitchen with everyone else. Two weeks of that, however, was more than enough. Most of my co-workers are so much older than me, with children, spouses, and mortgage payments. Trying to relate to them is a losing battle.

  I hear footsteps approaching, and set my sandwich aside seconds before Clyde comes around the cubicle wall.

  “Hi. How’s it going?” he asks with his usual cheerfulness.

&nb
sp; Clyde is the only one who hasn’t understood that I prefer to be left alone. I suppose I could get rid of him if I were more direct about it, but I’m not sure that I want to. When he’s not saying anything particularly stupid, he’s sweet, almost charming even, and even though I hate to admit it, part of me does enjoy his visits.

  “I’m alright, and you?”

  He grins, as though my response is a victory. “I’m good.” He looks at my sandwich and shakes his head. “Again?”

  “What’s wrong with it?” I look away from him, and back at the computer screen.

  “It’s so ... boring. And don’t you get hungry later?”

  “Of course not. If I did, I would bring more to eat.” I glance back at him. “Do you think I’m anorexic?”

  “Anything’s possible.” He’s still grinning. “Hey, I just wanted to let you know a bunch of us are going out for drinks tomorrow night. You’re welcome to come along.”

  “Thank you. Unfortunately, I have plans already.”

  Clyde raises an eyebrow. “The last six times I’ve invited you somewhere, you’ve been busy.” His grin begins to transform into a smirk. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

  “I’m dining with some friends.”

  “Fair enough. Next time, maybe?”

  “Yes, maybe.”

  “Cool. Gonna hold you to that.” Clyde turns to leave, but stops before he’s taken more than a few steps. “Hey, by the way, how busy are you today?”

  I glance at the pile of Allen’s work, just a bit over halfway done, and the pile of my own next to it, not even started. “Not much busier than usual,” I reply with a half-smile, but he doesn’t seem to get the joke.

  “Okay. It’s just that I’ve got back to back meetings today, and I’ve got a ton of filing to do.” He comes back to the cubicle wall and rests his chin on it. “You think you might have a few minutes to give me a hand with it?”

  I sigh. “How many weeks have you been stacking it up this time?”

  “A couple.” He seems to be trying to look ashamed, but the sparkle in his eyes gives him away long before he breaks out in a grin. “What do you say?”

  “Just bring it over and I’ll try to find time for it.”

  “Awesome. I’ll get it after lunch. Thanks, Denise!”

  As I return to Wikipedia, I wonder why I seem to find it so much more difficult to refuse to help Clyde with his work than I do to turn down his invitations to social events.

  Chastity

  ALTHOUGH PULLING THE church door open makes my shoulder ache, the weight of it is very comforting. The effort reminds me of the struggle that we, His children, face daily, what He requires of us in exchange for the salvation that He gave so freely. The smoothness of the handle reminds me of how many of us have taken the first step on the journey to answer His call, and the rows of empty pews remind me how many of us wind up failing.

  I hold the door for my mother. Her head is bowed, and her rosary wound so tightly around her hand I worry she might be cutting off her circulation. Her faith is such an inspiration to me; I only wish that my own were so strong.

  People smile at us as we walk down the aisle toward our usual pew. Their acknowledgement always gives me the most beautiful sense of community and belonging. Father Jouvart speaks, sometimes, of the Mystical Body of Christ, but I’m not sure that things need to be that complicated. We’re all family, united by bonds of faith rather than blood.

  If only Matthew could experience this feeling, just once, I’m sure he would come to love it as much as I do.

  I leave my mother in our pew and make my way to the small side altar where votive candles surround a statue of Mary. I slide my donation into the change slot, light a candle, and kneel, crossing myself as my knees touch the hardwood floor.

  I think of the world as a cohesive whole, as I believe God intended it. I imagine all of us, basking together in His light, a new species of angels, and then remind myself of the many ways in which we’ve deviated from that ideal. I recall the beggars in the subway stations, and the people who, even as I kneel here, are dying alone in hospitals all over the world. I think of all the many ways in which people I don’t know require comfort and support, and touch my forehead to my clasped hands. God, I do not know what Your reasons for allowing Your children to suffer might be, but I will not question Your wisdom. I ask only that You teach us to help each other through our pain, whatever form it may have taken.

  Finally, I think of my friends, my Sisters, and give thanks for having met them. Please, sanctify our union, so that it bears only good things, only things which are pleasing to You, and which support the fulfillment of Your plan. I think of my family, and give thanks for their presence as well. Make me truly grateful for every moment that we are privileged to spend together. Last of all, Matthew’s face appears, and I feel my brow furrow in concentration.

  Father, I pray, help me to help him. Help me to make a difference in his life; help me to turn his soul back to Your light. I open my eyes, and lift my head to meet the Virgin’s gaze. Please, empower me to do this. Make me into the person that he needs me to be.

  No sign is forthcoming; no thunderclaps sound outside the church, and each of the votive candles remains lit. Nevertheless, as I cross myself again and rise to my feet, I am confident that my prayers were heard, and will be answered in due time.

  In the silence following the Gospel reading, I feel a rush of anticipation as I sit down to listen to Father Jouvart’s homily. This is my favourite part of the Mass; I find that the words of God come across so much more clearly through another person, rather than through the murky curtain of a 2,000-year-old book. Belle would accuse me of being a blind follower if she heard me talk like this, but I disagree: isn’t a priest’s function, after all, to make the Gospel clearer to the faithful?

  “My brothers and sisters in Christ,” Father Jouvart begins, as he always does, “we live in a fallen world, a fact that, I am sure, none of you will contest.” He glances down at his notes, then back up at us, over the upper rim of his reading glasses. “Each day, we encounter people who, unlike ourselves, have strayed from God’s path. Their reasons are legion: perhaps they act out of mistaken defiance, or perhaps their ignorance is the most innocent of fallacies. Whatever the reason, they are, in keeping with Our Lord’s analogy in today’s Gospel, the sheep that have gone astray.”

  His voice grows louder, and I move forward in my seat. “As Christians, we have been entrusted with the light of the world. It is our duty to safeguard it, yes, but such a thing cannot be accomplished by keeping it locked away within ourselves. Like a candle sealed beneath a glass dome, it will extinguish itself, and our greatest blessing will be wasted.” He pauses. “No, my friends. To keep the flame within us alive in the world, we must allow it to spread outside ourselves. We must use it to ignite the souls of the unbelievers, the lost sheep, with the love of Christ.”

  He turns a page of his notes. “Our mission is clear, as it has always been. It is as clear to us as it was to the Apostles, when the Pentecostal flame descended upon them.” Again, he looks up, and I am transfixed, as though he’s speaking only to me. “We must convert as many people as we can to the Light of the Word; we must win as many members as possible to the Mystical Body of Christ. The only problem which remains, then, is how we are to go about this task, and it is that very matter with which Our Lord has concerned himself in this Sunday’s readings.” He sets his notes aside, and begins to re-read a portion of the Gospel. “‘If thy brother shall trespass against thee, go and tell him his fault between thee and him alone: if he shall hear thee, thou hast gained thy brother’.” He slides his notes back across the lectern. “On the surface, this passage seems to speak of personal discord of the sort which can occur between friends or family. However, understand this: in the same way as, in the words of Our Lord, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me’, a trespass against Him is also a trespass against us, as int
ensely personal as any other. Therefore, the words of today’s Gospel may also be applied to the unfaithful: we must confront them with their failings, and attempt to become an agent of change in their lives.”

  The notes are displaced once again. “‘But if he will not hear thee, then take with thee one or two more, that in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established. And if he shall neglect to hear them, tell it unto the church: but if he neglect to hear the church, let him be unto thee as a heathen man and a publican’.” A small smile crosses Father Jouvart’s lips as he looks up once more. “These lines are not meant as a literal guide to action. Rather, they are written to reinforce within us the absolute necessity of continually renewed attacks on faithlessness. We must not be defeated by indifference, or denial, or any of the other means in which the unbeliever tries to escape from God. As long as there is an avenue open to us, as long as there is breath in our bodies, we must persevere. Though we may be maligned for our actions, though the foolish may denounce us, we must not lose heart. No price, in pain, humiliation, or any of the Deceiver’s currencies is too great to ransom a soul from the clutches of Purgatory.”

  He folds up his notes, and leans over the lectern. “Take a moment, my brothers and sisters. Take a moment to remember those who have wronged you and, by extension, your Father in Heaven. Consider how you have responded to their sins, and what more you can do to help them to turn from their wickedness.” His voice echoes through the silent church, and I close my eyes. I think of Matthew, of course, and a combination of shame over my previous failings and fresh resolve suffuses me. I must keep trying, I tell myself as I open my eyes, and study the crucifix which presides over the church. In His Holy Name, I must keep trying to save my brother. In His Name, I will succeed.