The Mirror Apocalypse

by John Ayang

  “Good morning.” Jennifer’s cooing voice woke Fr. McCarthy from his brief revelry. “Or should I say, ‘Buongiorno, Padre’, as they say here. Aren’t you going to get up?”

  Fr. McCarthy turned over and hugged the warmth of the cotton-insulated comforter of the brocade-canopied bed. He felt like he could wallow in its warm fluffiness forever. Moreover, he thought they had no plans for the morning and it was going to be a dull day, coupled with the fact that he needed time to think and make sense of what had happened the previous evening.

  “No. I plan to get lost in the folds of these bed sheets,” he protested, feebly, like a difficult child irritated at his mom’s trying to wake him up to get ready for school. He purposely restrained himself from looking a second time at Jennifer’s body silhouetted against the window because he was confused about what had happened. Curiously, though, he felt no pangs of guilt, which accentuated his need to take time and sort things out and get a good handle on what was going on in his life. And Jennifer, standing with arms crossed under her bosom, head cocked slightly to one side, and in a short nightgown that was so flimsy and transparent that he wondered why she bothered to wear it at all, was a paragon of beauty, ‘the kind that Michelangelo would like to paint’, he thought. Perhaps, some day, he himself might like to try his hand at painting. “I need a few minutes to think and get my thoughts together. I feel like I’m falling apart.”

  “You’re not falling apart,” Jennifer countered, and went to sit on the bed. “You’re unfolding out.”

  “I don’t know why I don’t feel guilty. That’s not right!” Fr. McCarthy said, abruptly, suddenly bolting upright on the bed. “I did something wrong; we did something wrong. I should be feeling guilty.” He looked at Jennifer, creasing his forehead in a mood of seriousness.

  “I don’t feel guilty, either,” Jennifer said, looking calm and almost amused at his vehemence. “If I don’t feel guilty and you don’t feel guilty, then I refuse to share your sentiments that what happened between us last night was wrong.”

  “But we’re related!” Fr. McCarthy pursued his self-excoriation.

  “Correction,” Jennifer interjected. “We’re family, but we’re not related in the sense you’re talking about. My mom is your mom’s adopted—not blood—niece, remember?”

  “Yeah. Such is the sordid history of the McCarthys—a bunch of hopeless adopters and adoptees,” he sneered.

  “If I were you, I’d go easy on myself,” Jennifer said, patronizingly. “But knowing you as well as I do, you’re probably going to judge, condemn, and banish yourself to Hell before God Himself knows you’re gone.”

  “I’m a priest!” Fr. McCarthy protested, against nobody in particular.

  “Not news,” Jennifer mocked, mildly. “Even so, maybe what happened was necessary to get you in touch with your human side. You know, it’s always intrigued me that Jesus had to die in order to conquer death. Maybe you had to do what you did to rediscover your humanity. If I were you, I’d calm down. What happened between us is called ‘love’. It might have been a little inappropriate, but that was it: L-O-V-E.”

  “False theology,” Fr. McCarthy smirked.

  “It could be a springboard to the true one. And if you don’t mind, Cousin, while you are busy flogging yourself, I’m gonna take a warm, comfortable shower,” Jennifer said and wiggled gracefully in the direction of the bathroom.

  “Don’t call me ‘Cousin’,” Fr. McCarthy protested, slightly edgy. “I’m not your cousin.”

  “See? Now you agree with me that we’re not related.” Jennifer put a spin on his protest and then disappeared behind the bathroom door.

  “I agree with you over nothing,” he called after her, vexed. Then he said stiffly, under his breath, “Always putting a spin on my words to your advantage.” He sat on the edge of the bed, wondering why he permitted himself to get so agitated. He reached and grabbed his bathrobe from the side of the bed, put it on, lapped it over, and tied it. He moved to the window and stood looking out at the slowly waking city of Venice. Again, he wondered at the curious feeling of not feeling guilty about the previous night. He rather felt calm and relaxed. He knew his pretended outburst was a ruse for time and space to think. He knew that Jennifer saw through it, too, since she kept teasing him and didn’t get riled at his crankiness.

  Fr. McCarthy could have blamed the seductive Venetian evening, the movie they watched at the theater, and the wine and gourmet seafood and pasta they enjoyed together before returning to the hotel that fateful New Year’s Eve. He recalled that, despite the cold and the fact that it was snowing lightly as they arrived back at the hotel, they felt good, all bundled up and milling with the few people who could brave the cold evening. He had felt a substantial measure of freedom from the stress of the previous two weeks. They had arrived in Venice early in the afternoon of December 30th, and checked in at the Ai Cavalieri di Venecia. It was a difficult decision to make because of the prospect of its being too cold in Venice at that time of the year for them to enjoy a part of their vacation there. In the end, they decided by tossing a coin, and going to Venice for three days won. They didn’t regret the decision too much because, even though the atmosphere was somewhat dreary, there had been a break in snowfall for two days before they arrived. Fr. McCarthy was happy because it allowed them to visit the great Basilica di San Marco, and the Museum—Doge’s Palace right across the plaza of San Marco—and the Church of St. Mary of Salvation (Chiesa di Santa Maria di Salute), so named because the natives believed a devotion to Mary in the 17th century had saved the city from a plague that had decimated almost one-third of the population. They couldn’t take a gondola ride, though, since parts of the Great Canal were still frozen, although some boat owners could be seen plying short distances, deftly navigating between frozen portions of the water in small boats, probably for errands rather than entertainment. Due to the inclement weather, there were not a lot of tourists in Venice at that time of the year. The Venetians were nice and easy-going people and Fr. McCarthy thought they knew they had better be nice, since a chunk of their economy depended on tourism. It wouldn’t help matters if people stayed away from Venice because the locals were mean-spirited.

  Their New Year’s Eve outing on December 31st took them to the Theatro la Fenice, where assorted opera and concert performances were given to celebrate the death of a year and the birth of a new one. Then it ended at one of the numerous taverns that lined the Rialto Bridge, for a gourmet sandwich of trout fillet and hot Venetian wine. Fr. McCarthy couldn’t tell whether it was the warm tipsy feeling from the wine, or the romantic euphoria that clung to them after watching a superb performance of Venus and Adonis, by local artistes, or even the need to just exercise some rebellious freedom, but things began to change as soon as they got back to the hotel. Again, he would forever wonder, later, why they had settled, in the first place, for a suite with a master bedroom and a guestroom instead of separate rooms as they had done in Rome. Apparently, most things that create a turn of events usually don’t make sense. So, he quit wondering and started dreaming back, replaying in his mind the events of the previous evening.

  After their supper of trout fillet sandwich, they had decided to walk the short distance from the tavern to the hotel because they wanted to enjoy the fluffiness of the falling snowflakes, which, washed in the streetlights, created a scenery that looked like a zillion fireflies gently descending on the city. From the Rialto Bridge loft, the Canal Grande was exquisite to behold. It reflected lights of assorted colors from the esplanade lamps and the windows of the tall buildings lining the esplanade. It was such a night that made free hearts and minds wax poetic. And that was what Fr. McCarthy and Jennifer did.

  “It is such a beautiful winter night,” Jennifer said, feeling euphoric. “With the hazy light from the moon washing the misty clouds in the sky.”

  “In such a night, young Jessica and Lorenzo prattled with each other about the
ir everlasting love,” Fr. McCarthy said. Then noticing Jennifer throwing him a sideways glance, he added, “The Merchant of Venice. Act 1, Scene V, in Florence.”

  “Correction,” Jennifer replied. “Act V, Scene 1. And it was not in Florence. You’re mixing up your Shakespeare.”

  “Where was it then?” Fr. McCarthy asked, somewhat querulously. “I bet you don’t know.”

  “Belmont, along the avenue of Portia’s house,” Jennifer replied. Then she continued with a teasing jab, “In such a night, did Cousin Cletus try to impress poor Jennifer with his knowledge of Shakespeare and botched it.”

  Fr. McCarthy stopped and looked at Jennifer and she stopped and looked back with a challenging smile. “In such a night did arrogant Jennifer, forgetting I acted Antonio, the Merchant of Venice, in high school pretend to challenge my knowledge of Shakespeare.”

  “In such a night did an ungrateful Cousin, forgetting I paid for his meal and wine, call me arrogant without any qualms,” Jennifer replied, warming to the fight.

  They entered the narrow foyer of the hotel and headed for the elevator to get to their suite on the third floor. Once in the elevator, they held their ‘fire’ because an elderly couple and another man rode it with them. Then the doors opened and they got out and turned right, heading down the hallway toward the fifth door on the right, which opened into their suite.

  “And in such a night did the self-styled do-gooder, Jennifer, call me ungrateful, even though I had wanted to pay for my meal and wine and she insisted on picking up the tab.”

  They got inside and started removing their coats and garments. The suite was warm and Fr. McCarthy was already looking forward to a good night’s sleep. Jennifer also went into her bedroom, but quickly emerged again for one more counter jab. She had removed all her clothing, except for her long-sleeved blouse, which looked more like a man’s shirt than a lady’s blouse. She headed straight for Fr. McCarthy’s coat hanging in the open closet and pulled it off the hanger.

  “In such a night, did self-willed, independent Cousin Cletus eventually pay for his meal and wine so he can quit whining as if he had lost his manhood because a lady paid for him,” she said, proceeding to extract Fr. McCarthy’s wallet from the coat pocket and pinching a wad from it.

  “Hey! What are you doing?” he asked, abruptly, coming around from the opposite side of the bed. “Give me that. Put back that money. Thief!”

  “That’s not very poetic, Cousin,” Jennifer said and ducked him, moving briskly to the opposite side. “Not very gentlemanly, either, calling a lady ‘thief’.”

  “If the lady is stealing, it’s appropriate to call a spade a spade. Put back the money and give me the wallet. You insisted on paying, so you can’t turn around and rob me in broad…well, night light,” Fr. McCarthy concluded, lamely, and made another dash for his wallet, which Jennifer artfully dodged, giggling.

  “Daylight, Cousin,” Jennifer replied. “The phrase is ‘broad daylight’. I see I still have to teach you everything. Pay for your meal and wine first so you can quit lamenting.” She fisted the wad of notes and, putting the wallet back in the coat pocket, threw it on Fr. McCarthy’s bed and scuttled toward her room.

  Fr. McCarthy jumped, hand first, on the bed and did a baseball-batter slide that brought him to a standing position on the other side, straight in front of Jennifer, blocking her way to her bedroom door. She gasped in surprise and broke out laughing, mesmerized by his unexpected acrobatic feat. She tried to duck and run into her room, but he blocked her and reached to grab her hand.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Ms. Bonnie Parker, robbing me in broad nightlight?” Fr. McCarthy asked, mixing humor with seriousness and throwing Jennifer into jubilant laughter as she kept trying to dodge him. Eventually they tangled, Fr. McCarthy trying to retrieve his wad of money, Jennifer trying to duck her way into her room and shut the door. The struggle moved, of its own accord, back into the center of Fr. McCarthy’s bedroom and, eventually, amidst the laughter and exuberant abandon, they fell into the bed still struggling and laughing. If a spectator had been in the room, it would have been very confusing and difficult to tell if it was still a struggle for the money or whether, by an unplanned consensus, both had given in to just savoring the body rubbing and grappling. It would seem it was the latter, since at one point, Fr. McCarthy was making only half-hearted attempts to retrieve his money while Jennifer was making an equally half-hearted attempt to prevent him from taking it. The only earnest thing that went on between them was the grappling and rubbing and rolling over, with Fr. McCarthy repeatedly chanting, almost, “Give it to me,” and Jennifer responding on cue each time, “Try and get it if you can,” in between giggles.

  Nobody knew who initiated it—though years later, each would argue vociferously to own the blame and claim the credit—but their lips were locked in a wet kiss that ignited a point of no return. And, again, nobody knew how and when it happened, but whatever remnants of clothing were left on their bodies were either lying on the floor or strewn across the bed. Reason disappeared faster than a comet and caution flew out the window as their bodies wrapped and entwined each other, and Fr. McCarthy and Jennifer passionately ravaged each other, powerlessly surrendering to the charming magic of Aphrodite as they tested the sweetest taboo they had ever experienced. Capped off, at last, by the most ecstatic and prodigal distribution of the flesh, they had sunk helplessly together into the cozy bosom of Morpheus.

  “Mass is at 9 a.m. at the Chapel of San Marcos,” Jennifer’s voice woke him from his revelry. “If we get there early enough, we can go to confession.”

  “Confession?” Fr. McCarthy asked, confused. Then he quickly caught a hold of his thoughts. He had not considered the possibility of confessing his sin of the previous night so he could receive Holy Communion at the Mass, as that was a Solemnity of Mary the Mother of God, a Holy Day of Obligation. “Yes. I think I need to make my confession. Do you think we can make it in time for it?”

  “Well, if you shower and dress right away,” Jennifer replied, “then yes, we can make it in time.”

  “I can do that,” Fr. McCarthy replied as he headed toward the bathroom. “It’s you and your lady’s way of taking time to dress that I’m worried about—lipstick, powder, perfume, hair, and God knows what else.”

  Jennifer started to respond, but decided to ignore it and just get dressed. That was not the time to stoke their usual fight. Moreover, she was emotionally disturbed about what had taken place the previous evening, not because she thought what happened was sinful, but because she realized that what had happened was real: she was in love with her beloved ‘cousin’, Fr. McCarthy. And that was scary. Again, it wasn’t as though she suddenly woke up to the reality of it, rather, what happened was like a climax, a pivotal point, confirming what she had suspected all along with their unrelenting verbal sparring and teasing of each other. It was not strictly a breaking of any taboo since they were not related by blood. Her mom was only loosely adopted by Fr. McCarthy’s grandmother, Bernicia. She was an orphan and had struck up a high school friendship with Hannah, Fr. McCarthy’s mom. Soon, an occasional sleepover turned into acceptance into the family. Later, after graduating high school, Jennifer’s mom found herself pregnant, but when her boyfriend refused to marry her, Bernicia took her in fully as family. Jennifer was born a year and four months before Fr. McCarthy. They grew up together and came to refer to themselves as cousins. Again, Jennifer was not so much worried about herself for what had happened, as about Fr. McCarthy and how he would take it, especially given what he was going through at that moment. She started feeling that she may have added to his worries with her uninhibited vivaciousness that led to their passionate lovemaking. That really seemed to be the main reason why she needed to confess and seek advice.

  Fr. McCarthy, for his part, wondered at the two sides of Jennifer. The January 1st, New Year’s Day Jennifer was a somber, pious, responsible woman, wher
eas the December 31st, New Year’s Eve Jennifer was a garrulous, tipsy, flirty provocateur with whom he made love. He didn’t understand. He philosophized briefly, trying vainly to hit on a theory to explain this uncanny ability in women to switch, in a blink, from being the worst sinner to being the holiest angel ever. He ran down his biblical memory lane, from Rachel to Rahab, and from Ruth to the nameless woman who wept at the feet of Jesus and anointed him with a costly perfume. He made a mental note to look into the matter. Women were indeed a species to be studied. After all, one of his seminary friends had flippantly pointed out the curious fact that no university in the United States had any Department of Men’s Studies, but most universities had a Department of Women’s Studies. He thought, too, that the peculiar change in her demeanor was the result of what he would call a ‘post-fall calming syndrome’. She, perhaps, calmed down at the realization that she had seduced him into sleeping with her. He again made a mental note to assure her that they were equally to blame for their unconscionable tryst, with him perhaps even more so. The sound of Jennifer banging her shoes together—a habit she had—before putting them on woke him from the revelry and he turned on the water for a quick shower. He was determined to make the time for their confession.

  Houston, Texas

  January 8, 2013

  “ALL RISE! FIRST Circuit Court in Session. Honorable Judge Anieno Montgomery presiding,” the bailiff pronounced his usual line as Judge Montgomery climbed a couple of steps to her position at the bench. “All sit.” The courthouse was packed to capacity, almost double the number of people who attended the first day. The media had dissected the case, analyzed it, sifted it, deconstructed and reconstructed it from many different angles over the course of three weeks until scarcely anybody in the nation, let alone in the state of Texas and the city of Houston, was a stranger to it. It became a subject of debate in families by the fireplace, in pubs among those drinking their beers, in academic common rooms at universities, and just about everywhere: Now that a priest had been conceived via IVF, would the Catholic Church review its position and retract its teachings opposing the tech procedure as immoral? Would the Church permit couples to legitimately use it to conceive or dig its feet in? Such, and other puzzling questions, made the court session of January 8, 2013, a crucial event in the annals of litigation in Houston and the state of Texas, and the sundry media personnel present were poised to let the people know either way.