EQMM, December 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  She nodded distractedly, all the while staring past them. “Sweetheart,” she called out impatiently to their waitress, “there's people at your tables! Shake a leg, honey!” She patted Father Gregory on the cheek and said, “You just keep prayin’ for us and you can have a napkin every time you come in.” The middle-aged priest beamed at the older woman like a child.

  As the policeman and the priest walked out onto the boardwalk together, Chief Hall muttered, “Payment for prayers, is it? I begin to see Martin Luther's point."

  * * * *

  As it was a weekday, Father Gregory was able to retire to his tiny room in the rectory by eight o'clock that evening. The pages of the journal, which had rested in the open position on his window sill all day, fluttered to and fro in the dry September air, and now felt only slightly damp to his touch. The paper, he noted, was thicker than normal writing paper, almost as if it were expected to be used out of doors; perhaps this explained its miraculous salvation from the sea.

  Taking it carefully into his hands, he sat down in the room's single armchair and turned on his reading lamp, creating a cozy cone of light in the darkening room. A cup of chai tea rested on the small table at his elbow and released the aroma of cloves and ginger into the soft fall air, and he thought briefly and longingly of home. Then, after a whispered prayer that he might be granted wisdom and understanding, he opened the journal and began to peruse its pages.

  His first reaction was one of disappointment.

  On the very first page, within a small rectangle drawn expressly for the purpose, was written the name of the journal's author—Erin. The lettering was in a childish script and written in pencil. An exuberant star capped the letter i.

  Chief J was correct, he thought sadly, I have discovered a young woman's diary and nothing more; no adventure awaits within these pages, no map to buried treasure. With a sigh, he riffled through the pages like a deck of cards and was rewarded with page after page of inconsistent penmanship, sometimes in pencil, sometimes in ink, slanting and sliding across the yellowed paper and often sharing the cramped space with talented, if immature, sketches of elfin females in poses and attitudes that ran the gamut from rapture to melancholy. He closed the book, took a sip of his tea, and considered anew whether he should continue.

  As he had grown up with several sisters, he knew how silly, hopeful, dreamy, and, yes, fiercely private, young girls could be—their hearts glowed into life long before the boys they were smitten with grew hearts at all, he reflected. Perhaps, he thought, I should put this journal away unread; it is, after all, truly none of my business. In the silence of his room he became aware of the distant booming of the surf on the nighttime shore but a short distance away.

  He picked the book up again and flipped through to the last twenty or so pages. They were blank—the ruled lines empty of Erin's thoughts and words. Why did she not finish out this journal? he wondered. What had made her abandon her effort? Had she meant for it to be discovered and read, or had she consigned it to the sea and the obscurity of its depths? There is a mystery here, Father Gregory decided, if only in how the journal and he had come together. Additionally, he reasoned, he might gain insight into the youth of his American parish. Though Camelot was sparsely populated from November to April, and those citizens remaining were mostly of the retired ranks, come the warmer months the island was invaded anew by vast hordes of the young in search of sun and romance. I will read it after all, he concluded, and once more opened its pages.

  The first entry was dated April 22 of the previous spring and opened the journal without introduction. It read: This is what my mother does when I try to help. She tries to turn the situation around so that I'm the one who needs help. I clam up on her when she does this.

  That was all for that date. Father Gregory shook his head—the writing was crabbed and hasty. The next entry was almost a week later and revealed the author's home town: It's an overcast, chilly day in Manhattan today. I just stuck my tongue out at some assholes walking by my window, harassing me on my newest bad habit. Father Gregory winced at Erin's casual profanity and nonchalant provocation of strangers. It seemed a risky thing to do in a large city; perhaps any city. The rest of the entry spoke of a protracted effort to actually clean up and go out and find something worthwhile to do. A short and badly rhymed poem (Bess/mess/lazy/crazy, etc....) completed the day's efforts.

  So, her home is in New York City, he reflected. Even so, she must be here now, he reasoned, for surely it was impossible for the journal to have traveled the currents intact all the way to southern New Jersey. Also she fancies herself something of an artist and a poet, Father Gregory reflected, and is bold. Likely she lives on one of the lower floors of her building, otherwise how could the passersby harass her, he concluded.

  But, what was her newest bad habit? he wondered. He might have thought it odd that she should fail to disclose such an enticing tidbit until he remembered that he was reading her diary; it was not intended for anyone's eyes but her own, and she already knew her own habits. Still, he was disappointed to be cut out and could only conclude that she had taken up cigarette smoking, which would explain her sitting in the window to indulge it—she was attempting to keep the smoke out of the apartment and her mother unawares.

  Though he read nothing that could yet decide the issue, Father Gregory felt the circumstances so far appeared to place his mysterious writer in her teenage years, or early twenties, at most. He could also guess that she was, perhaps, not unattractive—would the passersby have really concerned themselves otherwise? His experience with human nature, sadly, convinced him otherwise. Feeling pleased with deducing so much from so little, Father Gregory sipped his tea and flipped to the next page.

  Here he found a terse entry regarding the pomposity of the patrons at the “New Dawn Restaurant.” It was impossible to tell from the few lines she devoted to this subject whether she was a patron herself or, possibly, a server.

  From somewhere deep in the rectory, Monsignor Cahill could be heard coughing and Father Gregory reflected that the old man had not looked well of late. It was too bad, he thought sadly, that being a reformed drinker, the monsignor could not even avail himself of the comfort of a snifter of brandy.

  He came to the next passage; it was dated April 26: I learned something at work the other day, which is: When in doubt, kiss ass. It's an important lesson in survival in the work force. If Rafe yells at me, just apologize and try to do better. I need to be able to take constructive criticism without having a meltdown. I really am too defensive. I have to stop freaking out so much. It's freaking other people out, too. Then they look at me funny. Look what it did to me and Adam!

  It continued: Work really is boring because no one ever talks to me. It's not like I'm uninteresting. I wonder if it's just because I'm the prettiest here ... ha, ha! So bored.

  A series of passably good flower sketches occupied the next several pages followed by lists with such headings as Diet, Exercise, and Medical. Under this last she had written: Get teeth bonded, get check-up. Next came page after undated page of exhaustive descriptions of semiprecious stones and their purported benevolent influence upon human nature, decision-making, sexual function, health, confidence, etc.... A number of them, such as aventurine and carnelian, Father Gregory had never heard of before and he shook his head at faith in such baubles. A small worm of worry for Erin began to make itself felt behind his eyes.

  The following page bore a startling burst of color that appeared to Father Gregory to be a drawing of a purple flower, or, perhaps an explosion of some sort. Written next to it in the same bold hue were the words, I see this when I close my eyes. It was dated May the third.

  A narrative followed that might have been apropos of the artwork. It read: I tried to hypnotize myself today. This is a new interesting world to explore, tinkering with my mind and seeing what's in there. I find if I concentrate very hard on a tiny spot, and let my mind go blank, that my vision changes and I can just feel it, a hint of a ta
ste, a new way of seeing.

  Just visible within the writing, like a ghost barely manifest, was the pale inked drawing of the elfin female figure Father Gregory had noted earlier. It appeared to have bled through from deeper within the journal and now regarded him with a resolutely inhuman quality in its first appearance within these pages. He examined it uneasily.

  The passage concluded with a quote that did not credit the author: "Turn your mind away from things which are not permanent." Father Gregory could think of no better advice for Erin than this, nor more inappropriately placed. It was apparent that its irony within the context of her written thoughts was lost on the girl. He brought his cup to his lips only to find it empty and set it down once more to continue his reading.

  May 5: Well thank god (literally), my plumbing problems have sorted themselves out. Whenever I decide to stop thinking about something, good things tend to happen. That is living life. I prayed and meditated for a long time about it, too. Another note to self: Prayers are powerful!

  Father Gregory smiled to himself and silently congratulated Erin. Yes, he thought, in this you are, at last, correct. See how prayer and meditation have healed your ... (here his mind danced away from specifics, as he could only conclude from his own experience with his sisters that Erin's “plumbing” problem was a euphemism for female complaints) afflictions, he settled on. Also, avoid magic stones and self-absorption, he silently advised, and spell God with a capital G: It is more respectful, he could not refrain from adding.

  Father Gregory turned to the next page with more confidence. It was dated May 10: That's it for acting class! I'm not going back. I can't go back and watch Adam and lovely little Lisa another day. He doesn't seem to have any idea whatsoever how it hurts me to watch him flirt! Is it that easy to get over love? It isn't for me. I didn't say anything to my coach, after all, he's the one that told me a few weeks ago I was making everyone uncomfortable and that I should just lighten up some, so I left at the end of class without selecting a scene to prepare. He'll probably be glad when he realizes I'm not coming back. I kept it all together until I got in the cab, then I starting crying so hard that the cabbie got annoyed and asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital. Everything is so easily undone.

  The priest nodded his head in sad agreement with Erin's broken heart. We forget how terrible being young can be, he thought.

  The next page featured spirals drawn in various colors. There was no explanation; only a caption that read, The Tunnels. It reminded Father Gregory of the purple flower drawing and he turned quickly to the next page.

  The elf-girl adorned the next several pages, depicted in various styles of clothing and physical attitudes, her mass of curls tied up for formal attire and let down to cascade wildly across her small shoulders when sporting more scanty, elfin fashion. The theme, if one could truly be discerned, was a certain militant watchfulness, Father Gregory thought—no matter the pose of the imaginary and pointy-eared model, her heart-shaped face was always turned toward the viewer, the inhumanly large, slanted eyes defiant, yet hungrily eager. It was a face replicated in dozens of cartoon characters in both print and film and in this revealed little of originality, yet, a spark of recognition beyond these common renditions hung like a flare in Father Gregory's mind, then sputtered into darkness before he could retrieve the memory. Did Erin resemble this creature? he wondered. Is she depicting herself in this alien form, and have I seen her? He sat up straight for a moment. Is it possible that I have held the Eucharist to this poor girl's lips?

  With the turning of a page, he leaped a month into Erin's future—June 10.

  I had forgotten how much I need nature, how centering it is to stand by the sea.

  Ah-ha, she has come to Camelot, Father Gregory mentally exclaimed.

  It seems ages ago that I finally summoned up the energy to call that number I had pulled off the corkboard in acting class. It's not the kind of thing I normally do, but I just couldn't spend another day lying on my bed listening to Mom talk to me through the door and cry. She even threatened to call Dr. Holland. That's when I promised to take my meds again and opened the door. I spit them in the toilet as soon as I got to the bathroom.

  Danny, Francis, and Harpo (his crazy yellow curls, I guess?) are all film students at NYU and they have to complete a film project by the fall. Danny seems to be the guy in charge and is going to be the director. I guess Francis and Harpo will do sound and camera. The script isn't even finished yet, but I auditioned off a couple of pages and they said I was perfect. From what they told me so far, it's mostly about two girls and their friendship over a summer at the Jersey shore. It's been done before, I know, but it's only a student film and who am I to turn up my nose? There's no money involved, naturally, but we'll (Joanie and me—she's the other girl; she's from an acting class in SoHo) get copies of our best scenes to send to agents and producers. If the film makes any money, we get a percentage, ha-ha, fat chance, I think. So we all went in together on this place and I'm doing what I do best to hold up my end. Once a waitress, always a waitress.

  In any case, it's so good to be out of the city! I wish I never had to go back! It gets a little crowded here sometimes with five of us in one apartment, but Joanie and I, being the only girls, get to share one of the bedrooms. Danny gets the other bedroom to himself as he organized everything. The other two sleep on the sofa beds in the living room. As we all work different hours, have company, and generally come and go as we please, they don't get a lot of sleep. Nobody does, really.

  Everyone here knows me as Erin. I even wrote the name in front of this journal. I'm not sure why, but it just seemed to make the transition real to me. In any case, I just couldn't resist a chance at really starting over, at remaking myself. I definitely need the improvement!

  Father Gregory repeated the words in his mind to make sure he had the sense of them. “Everyone here knows me as Erin," and a chill ran down his spine. “Oh foolish girl,” he whispered. “Oh foolish, foolish girl.” He returned to her words.

  June 15: Everything is fitting together too perfectly to be merely coincidental. This is my quest, I've worked so hard and suffered so long. Now I get to find out if it was enough, and I'm a good person. I pray for the strength to grab this opportunity with both hands.

  Father Gregory flipped ahead for an explanation, but found the passage ran on in the same giddy but unenlightening vein. She must be referring to the film project, he thought. Had they begun filming already? He scanned through until his impatience was arrested by a sentence.

  Do I believe in magic? Yes, of course. I always have. I lost it for a bit there, but I know there's magic now. I'm shaking this morning I'm so excited. My acting teacher will feel his foot in his mouth and my success will make others happy. I believe in magic. I believe in divine grace.

  The little priest winced at Erin's careless use of words, tumbling Grace and magic together as if they were related and one the flip side of the other. My dear child, he thought, how did you ever become so confused? He wondered fretfully if she had taken her medications with her to her new address. If the roller-coaster nature of her entries was any indication, she had not.

  I'm so relieved to be awake all the time now! I've been sleeping for so long. I feel it getting ready to burst through its restraints. I feel so at peace. I'm not going to be the broken bird. I'm not going to be the broken bird. I always knew that life is good, I've just wanted to feel it.

  Danny says the grant has come through for our film! Things are coming together now and I'm ready!

  Ah, Father Gregory, sighed. So that's it after all.

  June 17: Shooting started two days ago, and things have been great and so much fun since then.

  June 26: Things are going to happen for which I need to be prepared. We're shooting today in Savannah's sweltering apartment. I've been having the utmost restraint in my more animalistic inclinations. Why are things so complicated? I know everyone wishes they could just take what they want. I'm going to be professional
about it. Besides, the last thing in the world Danny needs right now is another girl making over him. What is it with us females? Why do we always go for the stuck-up, arrogant ones? He's not even that good-looking, really. It's just that air of command about him, I think. Yum, yum. I can see others feel the same way.

  She closed the entry with what Father Gregory thought could almost pass as a prayer: God help me take what I want out of life, so that I can give even more back.

  "Amen,” he said aloud. From beneath his feet he could feel the rumble of Monsignor Cahill's recitation of the Rosary, interrupted occasionally by coughing spasms. If he grows worse tonight, I will insist on the doctor tomorrow, Father Gregory promised himself.

  Now, what am I to do with this little girl who calls herself Erin? he wondered. Of course, he understood his own question to be rhetorical, as he had no idea of her true identity or current location. Most likely, she has long ago returned to New York City, he guessed. Even so, the clues and tidbits of information and emotional monologues were as worrisome to him as if they were occurring before his very eyes. It seemed that Erin's assumption of a new identity, and the rejection of her own; her choosing to dwell amongst strangers rather than with her own mother; her abandonment of her medications; and finally, though certainly not least in Father Gregory's estimation, her confused approach to spirituality, were all unsound planks in what must become a dangerous home for her mind and soul. And now, he fussed unhappily, a new love interest that was probably both unwise and too soon after her emotional breakup with Adam. Irrationally, as he knew neither young man, he found himself disliking both, and regretting his decision to read the journal that had washed up at his feet, even as he reluctantly turned to the next page to continue. It was dated June 30.

  Do I see with my sight or with my mind? Yesterday, while we were shooting, I had a visions attack. I started feeling dizzy and out of it. When I closed my eyes Images and colors were flashing like a strobe light and people and faces, disembodied expressions, stared at me through the electric purple, strobing well. Tunnels, tunnels everywhere. My mind was flying through like a hawk through clouds. Danny and Harpo sat next to me as the images were overwhelming me. It felt nice to actually have people around. It felt safe.