by Tonya Hurley
Agnes stroked Teresa’s white hair and fevered forehead gently until she completed her prayers. The woman mustered all the strength she had left and pulled Agnes’s arm, sat up, and kissed the heart-shaped milagro dangling from the chaplet. Then she fell back onto her pillow.
“Let go,” Agnes whispered.
The woman closed her eyes and exhaled while Agnes washed her gently, the sound of dripping water as she rung out the rag the only noise in the room now. The woman was immediately soothed and calmed by Agnes’s touch. The aroma of fresh roses grew stronger.
“What is happening?” Manuel asked his mother.
“It is a miracle, Manny. She’s washing away her sins, and her pain,” the mother said, finally at peace. “She’s preparing her.”
The old woman appeared to be smiling. And then the death rattle. The sound of her soul departing. No more moaning. No more suffering.
Agnes stood and spoke. “She is at peace.”
The family knelt before her in homage and thanks as Jude smiled.
“No, thank you,” Agnes said, urging them back up to their feet. “I wasn’t called here so that I could pray for her. It was so she could pray for me.”
13 The joint was packed.
It looked like a sold out show and it smelled like one. Not an inch of space to find between ticketholders in the sweaty, squealing, and expectant general admission crowd. Not on the floor, not on the first balcony or on the second. Burly bouncers pulled double duty. Not only were they hired to keep watch over the headliner, but to keep the aisles and fire exits clear.
Cecilia had on skin-tight leather leggings and mile-high black ankle boots. Her hair was poker straight with the very tips of it evenly dyed a blood red. Her bone chaplet and milagro dangled around her wrist. She was both street and divine. The top she’d chosen for the performance was a rusty, elaborately sculpted wrought-iron corset. It was old, an antique, looked Victorian. But it fit over her slim midriff perfectly. A gift from Bill not long after they first met. He said he’d had a writer friend in Paris ship it over. Cecilia was never absolutely sure if it was a kind gesture from a friend or a payment for a drug debt, but it didn’t matter. To her, it was a one-of-a-kind gift from a man that always supported her. Like Sebastian, a man she hadn’t seen for much too long.
Cecilia leaned against the backstage wall. Some of the crowd caught a glimpse of her behind the red velvet curtain and began to scream. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. She was anxious, but instead of sweating, her hands throbbed, on the verge of bleeding like they had in the tattoo parlor.
“They really want you.” She opened her eyes at the sound of a familiar voice cutting through the screams, calling her from the door of her dressing room at the end of the narrow hallway.
Cecilia knew that voice. She knew it in the deepest part of her.
It was Lucy.
She was in a black pantsuit. The only visible makeup on her face was real gold leaf eye shadow, which matched her gold double-eye milagro that Sebastian had given her. She was carrying a crushed-velvet gold clutch.
“How did you get back here?”
“One of your bouncers knew me from my party girl past,” Lucy said nonchalantly, holding a ticket. “Comped.”
“And here I thought you’d burned every last bridge.” Cecilia smirked.
“Hey, those burning bridges are the only things lighting my way right now,” Lucy said.
“I should’ve known you wouldn’t pay.”
“That way I always get my money’s worth,” Lucy joked.
“Probably spent all your money on that eye gold,” Cecilia said.
“All that glitters,” Lucy joked, pointing to herself.
“How did you know I would be here? I don’t remember sending up the bat signal?”
“No, just a sniper flyer.” Lucy held up a tattered and rain-soaked piece of 11 x 14 paper announcing Cecilia’s last-minute gig. They walked toward each other, slowly at first, and then ran into each other’s arms. “You look divine.”
“I can’t believe you’re here,” CeCe said.
“Me either,” a third voice chimed in.
“Agnes,” Cecilia whispered.
“Surprise,” Agnes said, her eyes welling with tears of relief.
The only two people in the world who really knew her, staring right into her own eyes. In the flesh. Agnes looked otherworldly without any effort. She wore a bohemian skirt and her lamb’s-wool cowl. The front of her hair was twirled into messy pin curls, bright green and turquoise chandelier earrings dangled from her mane like Christmas decorations in an auburn tree. The dainty above-the-knuckle gold-band rings she sported on one hand with her chaplet perfectly complimented the mourning ring on the other.
“Don’t tell me you snuck in too?” Cecilia asked.
“She dragged me in.” Agnes laughed, pointing at Lucy.
“I couldn’t leave her waiting at the stage door like some pathetic groupie, could I?” Lucy said.
“You didn’t have to come,” Cecilia said.
“But we did,” Lucy replied.
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Agnes added.
There was a knowing silence between them.
Cecilia’s preshow anxiety melted away with the two of them there.
“Can we duck back into your dressing room?” Lucy said. “I don’t want anyone to think this is some kind of cheap publicity stunt.”
Cecilia felt Lucy’s head to check for a fever. Lucy laughed and then smacked her hand off. “I’m serious.”
The three of them went into Cecilia’s dressing room. It was the coolest place Agnes had ever seen. Rock ’n’ roll at its cheapest and dirtiest. A sacred space for musicians.
“So, this is what it’s like,” Agnes said in amazement. “I always wondered.”
“Yeah, this is the good life,” Cecilia jibed. “A makeup mirror, a filthy toilet with no seat, and graffiti covering every inch of a cubicle coffin.” Cecilia was only partly joking. Agnes could see this is where she really lived. Where she thrived. Agnes took a minute to read some of the “markings.” The sayings that people wrote before walking out onto the stage. Last words. It was like a motivational cemetery of angst and anger, filled with the most creative combinations of swear words she’d ever seen. If you don’t like my music, then you just don’t fucking get it.
“I like that one,” Agnes said. “Reminds me of you.”
Cecilia smiled. “Church of the poisoned mind.”
“I didn’t even know that was anatomically possible,” Agnes joked, pointing innocently at another particularly acrobatic demand.
“You’d be surprised,” Cecilia ribbed back, calling their attention to a pithy maxim above the ratty couch. “This one’s a favorite too.”
Misbehave to the grave!
“Looks new. Like your handwriting,” Lucy quipped. Cecilia didn’t deny it.
The one that stood out most to Agnes was the least abrasive. It read simply: Better to burn out, than to fade away. At that, Agnes handed Cecilia a large plastic bag filled with gold medals.
“What’s this?” Cecilia asked.
“A bag of belief,” Agnes said. “Thought you could use it tonight.”
Cecilia opened the bag and rummaged through hundreds of milagros. Little miracles that people held onto for hope and strength.
“Antiques?”
“I’m sure most of them are,” Agnes said. “People hand them to me wherever I go. I was saving them for a special occasion. They have so much energy.”
“Thank you,” Cecilia said, placing the bag delicately on the vanity. They glowed like disco balls in the bulbs shining from the makeup mirror, throwing waves of rippled gold light onto the walls and the girls.
Cecilia placed her hands on Agnes’s cheeks and kissed her forehead.
“And, what’d you bring me?” Cecilia asked Lucy.
“Myself,” she said sarcastically. “The gift that keeps on giving.”
“I’ve seen you on TV and in
the papers,” Cecilia said.
“Just doing my thing,” Lucy responded. “Getting the word out, so to speak.”
“Keeps you busy,” Agnes observed, her tone taking on a bit of a sarcastic edge that was more like Martha’s.
“I hope it’s not causing any problems for either of you,” Lucy said. “I know it draws attention to us.”
“No,” Agnes said quietly. “Sebastian didn’t want us to change. Besides, I’m happy to see you online or in person. In person is better.”
“Well, this is as good a place as any for a reunion,” Cecilia observed.
“In my mind, we’ve never been apart,” Agnes said. “I’ve been thinking about both of you constantly. About him. It’s hard to explain . . .”
“I know,” Cecilia said, reaching for her hand.
“I feel him more now than I did when he was standing in front of me,” Lucy added.
“Now he’s inside,” Agnes said. “I don’t think anyone but us can understand that kind of relationship. That kind of love.”
“It’s the deepest kind. I’m sorry I haven’t contacted you,” Cecilia said. “I just needed some time to myself after the investigation.”
“It was more like an inquisition, if you ask me,” Lucy added.
Agnes noticed the glint from the Vaseline spread over Cecilia’s forearm. She reached for CeCe’s wrist and raised it gently.
“I don’t even know how to mourn him,” Agnes said, studying Cecilia’s gorgeous black sacred heart and arrow ink. “I can’t let go.”
“Then don’t,” Lucy interjected.
Lucy looked around at the small crowd of assistants, press agents, promoter’s reps, and roadies gathering in the hall, craning their necks to get a look at Cecilia, Agnes, and Lucy together. It was the first they’d been seen together since the night they left the church, and people were naturally curious. She could almost see the publicists crafting their items for the gossip rags.
Agnes pulled her hand away from Cecilia’s and noticed a stain of blood on her palm. She looked at Cecilia and Agnes.
“Can we shut the door?” Lucy asked.
“Your stigmata, it’s bleeding,” Agnes said.
Lucy shut the door and leaned up against it. She shut her eyes and then slowly opened them.
“What?” Agnes insisted.
“Cecilia, why are you playing a gig now? After so long?” Lucy pressed. “And why are you here?” she asked, pointing a long manicured nail at Agnes. “Why are the three of us here?”
“We’re supposed to be martyrs, not mind readers,” Cecilia chided her. “Spit it out.”
“A priest that follows me around told me something. It’s so crazy, but I can’t get it out of my head. I needed to tell you. Both of you.”
“A confession?” Cecilia asked. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”
Lucy smiled weakly and turned her back to them.
“What?” Agnes asked firmly.
“They did an autopsy on Sebastian before he was cremated.”
“Are you trying to say he was high or something?” Agnes quizzed.
“No, nothing like that,” Lucy responded tentatively. “It’s worse.”
“He’s gone,” Agnes said. “What could be worse?”
“That’s just it,” Lucy said enigmatically. “He’s not.” She paused. “Not all of him, anyway.”
Agnes and CeCe stared at her. Dumbfounded. Distraught.
“Now you’re scaring me.” Cecilia winced. “Just say it.”
“His heart,” Lucy began.
“What about his heart?” Agnes asked, trembling.
“It’s been taken.”
Agnes and Cecilia were shocked. Frozen in place.
“Do you really believe that?” Cecilia asked.
“Yeah, I think I do,” Lucy replied.
“You think or you do?” CeCe pressed.
“I do,” Lucy admitted.
Lucy’s certainty was persuasive.
“Who would do something like that?” Agnes cried.
The answer was clear to each of them, but only Cecilia spoke his name. “Frey.”
Agnes doubled over in anguish. “Frey killed him. Isn’t that enough?”
“It’s never enough for him until we’re all gone,” Lucy said.
“And he wins,” Cecilia agreed, her expression turning from sadness to anger. “Well, if he wanted our attention, he has it now.”
“We need to know the truth,” Agnes insisted.
“I’m going to ask Jesse for help,” Lucy said. “We’re going to need him to get to the bottom of this.”
“You really think he’ll help?” Cecilia asked. “He’s still shell-shocked from Precious Blood.”
“I’ll throw myself on his mercy,” Lucy said only somewhat convincingly. “He won’t be able to resist that.”
A loud knock at the door startled them.
“Thirty minutes to stage,” house security informed.
Lucy paced the room anxiously, then cautioned Cecilia. “I don’t think you should go out there tonight,” Lucy warned. “It’s too dangerous, especially now.”
“I have to,” Cecilia said, bringing her hand to Lucy’s cheek. “Especially now.”
“Cecilia, don’t,” Agnes pleaded.
“If you don’t want to stay, I totally understand,” Cecilia said to her sincerely.
“If you’re playing, I’m staying.” Lucy smiled sadly. “I came to get my money’s worth, remember?”
Agnes nodded.
Cecilia grabbed the doorknob and ushered them out with a hug.
“Keep an eye on my friends, okay?” Cecilia instructed the bouncer. “And bring me a hammer and a box of nails from the janitor’s closet.”
“Whatever you say,” he replied, gesturing for a few of his men to escort Lucy and Agnes out to the floor while he searched for a custodian.
As she was leaving, Lucy turned back for a final word.
“Be careful,” she advised.
Cecilia held up her hands so Lucy could see that her palms were dry.
“Frey is doing his job,” Cecilia said. “I’m gonna do mine.”
13 The pounding in Cecilia’s dressing room was loud enough for the security guard down the hall to take notice.
“Everything okay in there?” he asked, gripping the doorknob in case he needed to get in there quickly.
“Fuck off,” Cecilia responded.
“Twenty minutes to curtain,” the bouncer said, knocking nervously on Cecilia’s door.
Cecilia resumed her hammering, ignoring him.
Through the crack of the door, she could hear him take a deep breath and then exhale. Relieved.
“It’s going to be one hell of a night,” the bouncer said, laughing. She could hear his footsteps as he walked away.
It sure was going to be a hell of a night, if she had anything to do with it. And since it was her show, she had everything to do with it. The bag of milagros that Agnes brought were coming in handy, helping her add the last little detail to her outfit. The music was most important, but this was, after all, show business, and she had tremendous respect for her apostles. She was determined to give them a show.
One after another she reached for the milagros in the bag, fixed them each with tiny brass tacks, and beat them feverishly into her boots until they became a metal mosaic of golden crucifixes, burning hearts, body parts, and praying hands—transforming her shitkickers into sacred armor.
Nearly twenty minutes passed. She admired her work, holding the boots up in the vanity mirror and watching the light reflect off them and onto the ceiling. Both black boots were completely covered.
“Fierce,” was all she could say.
Cecilia reached into her pocket for the sword-and-bow charm that Sebastian had given her, deciding whether to add it to her footwear decoupage. Turning it in her fingers like a magic eightball, she cut her thumb on its edge.
A heavy knock at the door drew her attention.
“Sho
wtime,” the bouncer advised. “Ready?”
She sucked the blood streaming from her fingertip. Her eyes lit up. She put the sword and bow milagro back in her pocket.
“I’m always ready,” she responded, slipping her boots on and then zipping them up. The tips of the tacks inside slicing slowly into her skin as she walked to the door. She ignored the pain.
“So are we,” he said.
The lights were turned down. The space was pitch black, not even a floor light on the stage was shining. Cecilia pulled out her pocket flashlight, climbed the backstage steps, and cued the sound engineer to start her opening track, “Seven Souls” by Material and William S. Burroughs.
The crowed roared in unison at the sound of Burroughs reading, his old hoarse and spectral voice crackling about death, and began to sway to Material’s ambient beat underneath. They were anticipating her, conjuring her like a post-punk genie from a bottle.
Cecilia poked her head through the velvet curtain as a single spotlight illuminated her. She pulled her head back, flashing them, teasing them. Giving them a little, before she gave them a lot. Gave them her all. More screams and even tears from the audience followed. The room was already a sweaty sea of Cecilia acolytes, both old-school indie kids who’d been with her from the beginning but also large groups of more mainstream, newly converted fans, and the show hadn’t even begun.
“They adore her,” Agnes yelled into Lucy’s ear, barely audible above the crowd noise and crackling sound system.
“Without a doubt,” Lucy observed, distilling the essence of it all.
Lucy scanned the room, on alert, white-knuckling the moment. She studied the fans, trying to understand their relationship to Cecilia and hoping to gain more insight into her own followers. As the assembled undulated to the beat, anticipating Cecilia’s appearance, Lucy felt the crowd working themselves not so much into a frenzy, but rather a mass hypnosis. There was an inescapable sense of ecstasy in it.
Agnes looked over and saw a familiar guy standing by the bar. Texting. She nudged Lucy, distracting her from her amateur analysis.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Lucy said. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to,” Agnes replied, eyeing the wall of security surrounding her, keeping the over-capacity crowd under control.
