Anastasia's Grail

by Mary Pearson

would not have wanted to live his life. She was glad she was not that holy. Her head was beginning to throb from so much reading, especially reading while riding in a vehicle. She pushed both books back into her pack and closed her eyes.

  “How did it go, George?” Stacy’s mother looked up from throwing suitcases and bags out of the trunk of the rented van and onto the pavement in front of the factory.

  “It went,” her uncle grinned. “There isn’t much left in the freezer and I took another ten mail orders. You all are gonna have to get baking.” Striding back toward the bakery, he yelled over his shoulder, “If you need me, I’ll be taking a nap.” Grandma Annie grimaced.

  “I’ll help you carry your bags in, Gram.” Stacy bent to pick up her grandmother’s satchel and suitcase. As they threaded their way through the hallway towards the back of the building where the stairway to the upper floor was located, Stacy noticed, as if for the first time, the six stained glass windows that looked down upon the west side of the building. The setting sun glinted through the depictions of first John the Baptist, (the plaque below his image read circa 30 AD: Beheaded), then Stephen (circa 33AD: Stoned to Death), Polycarp of Smyrna (circa 155AD: Stabbed,Burned on a Pyre), then Joan of Arc (circa 1431AD: Burned Alive at Stake), then the North American Martyrs—eight men (circa 1600sAD: Killed by Aborigines), then finished off with Maria Goretti (circa 1902AD: stabbed, died as the result of attempted rape).

  She had never thought much about these windows—they had been a fixture of the place since her childhood but, looking at them now with more grown-up eyes, she could see why the local church had not chosen to recycle these particular images, however beautiful they were. They were a bit on the gory side. Stacy shuddered and hoped she would not have to die for her new found faith. She doubted that she was up to their standard of dedication.

  Carrying the bags, she ascended the stairs. She passed by the bathroom and the chapel that George had installed in a spare room. She passed the workout room where she and the other kids, and even some of their friends, would do workouts—aerobic and weight lifting—with Uncle George as personal trainer. She finally deposited the cases in front of the bedroom at the end of the hall where her grandmother slept. “See you tomorrow after school,” she said, kissing her grandmother’s cheek.

  Stacy always met her friend, Libby, for breakfast. Libby, she knew, was agnostic. She said she was unsure what to believe, that she was still searching for the truth. The one thing she was pretty sure of was that her parents and the other adults she knew didn’t have it. Actually she and Stacy were a good match before Stacy’s trip to the conference. They had always been able to share secrets. Stacy decided to tell her about the Padre Pio thing.

  “Wow,” Libby said, after hearing the story. “So you think you did this confession thing with some guy who’s been dead for forty years. Whatever you were drinking at this conference, I want some of that stuff!”

  “I ‘m serious, Libby.” Stacy was starting to regret having chosen Libby to share her secret. “I feel like I am seeing my family’s faith in a whole new light. I think it might be real, after all. I could show you some stuff--”

  “Whoa, girl!” Libby cut her off. “Sounds to me like you’ve been brain-washed. Maybe I don’t want to drink that happy juice they gave you. I mean really, Stace. You’re talking about THE CHURCH. This is quite possibly the most war-mongering institution that so-called civilization has ever produced. Have you forgotten about the Crusades? Does it mean nothing to you that people were forced to become Catholic or they would have been put to death?” Libby got up and shook her head, apparently lamenting the loss of her friend’s brain. “Think about it. You are not being rational.”

  After she left, Stacy had to admit she was right. They had studied many wars in history and most of them had started over differences of religion. “Where’s Lib?” their friend, Chad, sank down into the chair she had so recently vacated. Chad had a crush on Libby so he often found his way to their table to smack her in the head and mess with her stuff in the hope that she would actually notice him. Libby was one of these crinkly-haired model-thin blonds the guys always go gaga for.

  “She left me.” Stacy sighed. “She told me my new found faith in Christianity is mis-placed because the Church is too war-mongering.”

  “Is she nuts?” Chad pushed his books to the side and hunkered in for the argument. “Are we talking about the same turn-the-other-cheek religion my Mom wants to push on me? If you ask me, the problem with Christians is they are too meek. They never want to offend anyone, they’re always fighting to abolish the death penalty, it’s like pulling teeth to get a real Christian to fight for his rights, or to fight at all—they’re so damned pacifist. If Libby were here I would say-- I don’t know what I’d say-- she’s nuts!” And he left in a huff, the same as Libby. Stacy had to admit, they both had a point.

  Her first class of the morning was history. Ms. Felch was a feminist—card-carrying. Her point this morning, as it seemed to be most mornings, was how Western (and by extension, Christian) culture had oppressed women, dooming them to a life-time of drudgery and childbearing. Until the advent of women in the work place and especially since the marvelous discovery of the pill, only childless women had any chance at using their brain at all, and the childless were mostly pitied for being spinsters. Western culture was decidedly the enemy of women. She pitied those brainless enough to buy into the system.

  Stacy left the class, reproaching herself for spinelessly caving into a system that was designed by men, for men. History class was followed by gym and normally Stacy would have been the most enthusiastic dodge-ball player on the floor, but today, pensive, she sank to the floor by the wall. Her teacher, Mr. Clancy, kicked at her left foot. “What’s up?” His face showed concern.

  Stacy looked up at him. “You’re Catholic, Clance. I saw your family in church when I went to my sister, Clarice’s, baptism. Why is it that you weren’t with them?”

  “What?” He crooked his head to one side.

  “I was just wondering why it is that you didn’t go to church with your wife and kids.”

  “I don’t mean to offend you, Stace, because, let’s face it, you’re almost like a guy.” He kicked her foot again. “That church stuff is for women. All those tear-jerker sermons and stuff, they don’t do them for men. You wouldn’t catch a real man setting foot in a church. You know what I mean? Now get your head into the game! Your team is behind.” He threw her the ball and Stacy dutifully got up, but she was confused. How is it that the Church could be anti-woman and for women at the same time?

  As usual Stacy sat with Libby at lunch, but they didn’t talk much. Stacy could almost touch her friend’s disapproval, it was so solid. Chad had also joined them at their table, still hoping to enter as a blip on Libby’s radar screen.

  “What’s up with them?” A friend of Chad’s--Stacy knew his name to be Frank—nodded towards the girls.

  Chad shrugged. “They’re fighting over religion.”

  Frank raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me, let me guess--” he gestured toward Libby, “She’s Irish Protestant,” then gestured toward Stacy, “and she’s Irish Catholic. No, wait--” He pointed to Stacy, “She’s Muslim,” to Libby, “and she’s Christian.” He sat down between them. “Guess what girls,” he put an arm around each, “we live in a melting pot.” EW! They both shook him off.

  “Actually,” Chad smoothly explained, “Stacy’s leaning toward being Catholic and Libby thinks it’s for the birds.”

  “It is,” Frank agreed with her friend. He faced Stacy. “Who wants to take part in a religion that’s all sack cloth and ashes, no meat on Fridays and fasting during Lent? It’s far too austere. I gave it up years ago.”

  Stacy didn’t need to come up with a defense. “Oh, yeah?” Libby was instantly on her feet, hands on her hips. “You call her church austere with all those Cathedrals and the way the priests dress and, for goodness sake, what about the treasures of the Vatican!? I’ve never seen
such an abomination of opulence this side of Paris Hilton.” She plopped down and crossed her arms. “I rest my case.”

  Stacy knew her friends had definitely said something, but she wasn’t sure what.

  After school, while waiting for her mother to pick her up, a kind of boyfriend Stacy had sort of dated sidled up to her. “Hi, Darius,” Stacy said. He took a puff of his cigarette and offered Stacy a drag. “No, thanks,” she said, but her tone wasn’t judgmental. “I’m kind of trying to give it up.” To be truthful, she had barely started and wasn’t sure she liked it, especially the smell in her clothes, but she didn’t want to seem uncool.

  “There’s a party at Drake’s this Friday.” Darius took another drag. “His parents are out of town. I was thinking you might like to come.”

  Stacy’s nod was non-committal. “Maybe,”she said, but her heart wasn’t in it. Normally she would have jumped at the invitation.

  Seeing her mother’s car pull up, he ran his fingers gently down the inside of Stacy’s arm, provoking an electric response within her. Then he sauntered off. “I’ll call you,” she heard him murmur.

  Stacy’s mother frowned after his departing figure. “Who was that boy?”

  “Just a guy I know,” Stacy said, getting into