The Blessed

by Tonya Hurley

  “That guy Sebastian is a lunatic,” Jesse rambled, averting his eyes from the doctor’s gaze. “Raving. Just like you said. And he’s wearing off on the others.”

  “How so?” Frey inquired, both his curiosity and his analytical self now entirely engaged.

  “Stockholm syndrome. Totally. Wild-eyed. I’ve never seen Lucy like that. So protective of someone else.”

  “Impressive,” Frey admitted. “I’ll confirm your diagnosis for the updated story. Off the record, of course.”

  “The police are anxious to know where I’ve been getting such detailed information,” Jesse said. “I’m not sure how much longer I can avoid them.”

  Jesse was looking for a reaction.

  “Now that you know where they are, it’s game over. The police will be satisfied to find them, and you will share the credit. A win-win.”

  “You’ve got it all worked out, don’t you, Doctor?”

  “It’s not brain surgery, is it?” Frey said straight-faced. A psychiatrist joke. And not a very funny one. The unspoken beneficiary here, Jesse surmised, was not the girls, or the police, or even him. It was Frey. He’d deftly kept his fingerprints off this whole thing but gotten exactly what he’d wanted. Almost.

  “So. Where are they?”

  “Here’s the thing,” Jesse said, a bit self-righteously. “I’m not going to tell them. Or you.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?” he asked. “If you’ve seen him, you must know firsthand how dangerous he is.”

  “Dangerous to who? I saw Sebastian. Talked with him. He could’ve killed me if he wanted on the spot. But he didn’t. You are the psychiatrist. Why would he do that?”

  “He is brazen. Unpredictable. Just because he didn’t kill you doesn’t mean he isn’t a killer. Don’t be fooled.”

  “Good advice, Doctor,” Jesse answered. “I won’t be again.”

  “Are you accusing me of lying?”

  “No,” Jesse answered deliberatively. “I’m accusing you of much worse than that.”

  “I hand you the opportunity of a lifetime and this is what I get,” Frey said scornfully. “Perhaps that’s quite predictable from someone with your background.”

  “I didn’t realize I was being profiled,” Jesse quipped. “Do tell me about myself, in your professional opinion.”

  “In my professional opinion, you are snotty, deceitful, self-serving, untrustworthy, and greedy. In medical terms, a starfucker, Mr. Arens.”

  “I see you’ve been talking to my friends.”

  “If you’re holding out for a payday, forget it,” the doctor said. “I’m not one of your classmates you can blackmail.”

  “Former classmates,” he puffed, proudly confirming his lack of higher education. “I’m an entrepreneur at heart.”

  “It shows,” Frey noted, coldly critiquing Jesse’s abbreviated academic career.

  “Yes, I am the curious type, among other things,” Jesse responded. “Curious as to why such a respected physician would risk his reputation and trash his oath to help someone with my, ah, profile as you say.”

  “I wanted Sebastian off the street before he hurt himself or the others.”

  “How magnanimous.”

  The doctor was clearly irritated, but quickly gathered himself. “Well, no matter. We’ll find them.”

  “We?” Jesse asked.

  “You know, you don’t need to trouble yourself with this any further or even worry about avoiding the police, Jesse,” Dr. Frey said offhandedly.

  “Why’s that, Doctor?” Jesse said skeptically.

  “Because they are waiting for you in the lobby. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Jesse’s heart began to pound. He knew instantly he’d been set up. A classic double-cross. No matter if he told Frey or not. His purpose was served. He was going down.

  “I can’t wait to tell them everything,” Jesse threatened.

  “Please do,” Frey said, smiling slyly as he left. “They might even believe you.”

  3 “Mother!” Agnes yelled, making her way through the rubble in the hallway. “Are you here?” She worried that something had happened to her. That she was injured in the tornado, or even worse. “Mom!” she called again, desperately. Martha came running down the steps, some of which were completely shot, dodging holes and wayward wood. But that didn’t slow her down.

  “Thank God,” Agnes said in relief. “You’re okay!”

  Martha ran over to Agnes. She looked her up and down, and then slapped her across the face. “Where the hell have you been? I thought you were . . . do you know what you put me through?” Agnes felt the sting of her mother’s hand long after it left her face. “I can’t take any more, Agnes.”

  Martha broke down in tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Agnes said, cradling her as she cried. For the first time in a long time, she let Martha hold her back. After a few moments, she let go. “I need a hot shower,” she said before heading to her room.

  The phone rang. Martha answered it mid-ring.

  “She’s home. Went straight to her room,” Martha said into the receiver. “No, I have no idea where she’s been. I don’t want to push it right now.”

  As usual, the conversation was loud enough for Agnes to hear, but unlike usual, she didn’t complain. Compared to what she’d just lived through, a little neighborhood gossip was a welcome change. It’d been only three days, but it felt like an eternity. Besides, this was just the beginning. She knew what would be coming tomorrow, she thought as she began to slowly peel off her clothes. Curious “friends” of Martha’s would begin peering through the floor-to-ceiling parlor windows or lingering just outside the front stoop. Younger kids from school and from the neighborhood, fascinated by the whole idea of her disappearance, would make things up out of whole cloth. Like how Agnes had been swallowed by the storm and that the girl that had returned home wasn’t really Agnes at all but some sort of a doppelgänger or a robot or a zombie—gossipy ghost stories on autopilot would creep like wild ivy through the neighborhood. They had before, with much less reason. The truth was irrelevant, and who would believe it anyway?

  “Yes, it’s the funniest thing,” Martha said to the caller, “but her wrist wounds are almost totally healed. Wherever she was, it must have been a safe, clean place. She was well cared for.”

  As her mother spoke, Agnes examined her wrists, running her fingers along the fading incisions. There was little to physically connect her to him now besides the scars, her only reminder of what she tried to do to hurt herself and what he did to help her help herself.

  “As long as she’s back safely and not the victim of some crazy maniac,” Martha said, the relieved mother in her finally coming through. “Thank you, dear. I will absolutely let you know if we need anything.”

  “No doubt you will,” Agnes said under her breath as she turned the shower on and stepped in.

  Martha was basking in the attention. The danger had passed, and she was on her way to wringing every ounce of sympathy and whatever else she could think of out of her circle in exchange for satisfying their curiosity.

  Maniac? What an odd thing to say about him.

  Sebastian was a lot of things. But not a maniac. No matter what that blogger said. But then how could her mother or anyone else know that? All they knew about him was what the news reported, and from what she’d read on Jesse’s phone, the details weren’t as important as the headline.

  It made her think about all the people she’d probably misjudged.

  The phone rang again. Martha had her instructions. No friends. No teachers. No one.

  “Agnes!” Martha yelled perfunctorily. “It’s Dr. Frey again.”

  Agnes didn’t respond.

  “I’m sorry, she must be asleep,” Martha offered apologetically. “It’s been a long weekend. I’m sure we will be in touch to reschedule when she’s better . . . rested. Yes, I will keep you informed. Good-bye.”

  Frey was the last person Agnes wanted to see or speak to or keep informed.<
br />
  Martha had notified the police that Agnes had returned and they in turn had notified Frey. He tried to frighten Martha, telling her that if the reports were true, Agnes might be suffering from folie à quatre—a shared psychotic disorder marked by the transmission of delusional belief among people in a weakened emotional state, usually in close quarters. Martha wasn’t buying it anyway. Her cynicism came in handy for Agnes every so often.

  Frey’s call only intensified her thoughts of Sebastian. The things he said. She turned off the water, jumped out of the shower, and booted up her laptop.

  “S-A-I-N-T A-G-N-E-S,” she said as she typed.

  Pages of entries came up, most of them parish or devotional sites. Several for the Legenda Aurea, translated as Golden Legend, which she scanned and recognized from the chapel. She was right, she thought. They were biographies. Lives of the Saints. Legends.

  Agnes. Virgin-martyr.

  “Virgin.”

  One of seven women commemorated by name in the Canon of the Mass. Born January 28 c. 291.

  “So long ago.”

  Martyred January 21, 304. Age 13. Beheaded and Burned.

  “Thirteen. My God. For what?”

  Refused to marry a member of Roman nobility . . . dragged naked through the streets, sent to a brothel to be repeatedly raped . . . as she prayed, her hair grew to cover her body . . . to protect her . . . then tied to a stake to be burned, but the flames parted away from her . . . finally killed by a soldier’s sword to her throat.

  Patron saint of virgins, girls, gardeners, rape victims . . . depicted most frequently with a lamb, symbolizing chastity.

  Agnes found herself on the verge of tears. “I had no idea.”

  She searched for Saint Cecilia and Saint Lucy and found their stories to be equally awe-inspiring and brutal. Both martyrs. Both among the seven.

  Lucy, denounced for her faith by her own husband . . . could not be moved or burned when sentenced to die . . . gouged her own eyes from their sockets . . . to make herself less attractive . . . rather than compromise her chastity. Patron saint of the blind.

  And Cecilia. They tried to cut off her head, but they couldn’t. . . . She sang faithfully for three days as she lay dying. Patron saint of musicians.

  Finally, Sebastian. Saint Sebastian. Martyr. Patron saint of athletes and soldiers. Captain of the Praetorian Guard who secretly converted to Christianity. Sentenced to death for converting others.

  Agnes was stunned.

  Martha knocked.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Can I get you something to eat?”

  “No, thanks, I’m not hungry.”

  It was all just chitchat. Agnes knew her mother had something on her mind.

  “Agnes, what were you thinking?”

  It was a fair question and not asked in the judgmental tone she was accustomed to getting from her mother.

  “I wasn’t thinking. I was feeling.” A nonanswer but the most honest one she could give.

  “The news reports said you might have been taken in by some kind of psychotic boy with two other girls?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother. Do you believe everything you see on TV?”

  “I was terrified.”

  “It’s over, Mother,” Agnes said. “I’m here now.”

  To her surprise, Martha let it go. No lecture. No fighting. No apology demanded. No guilt trip. Passive-aggression or passive-compassion? It was hard to say. Maybe the storm had even swept some bad blood away. Whatever the case, it was the best “welcome home” present she could’ve received. The truth of her leaving would remain unexplained and unresolved, at least for now.

  She flopped down on her bed and found chamomile tea in her favorite garnet and gold Moroccan glass that she got on Atlantic Avenue. It was sitting on her nightstand, piping hot.

  Thanks, Mom.

  Agnes lay there, appreciating the softness of her bedding, cuddling with Elizabeth of Hungary, unable to sleep. She was thinking about the night he had bandaged her. Cared for her. Duped her.

  All night, until the dawn, until the rising sun rose over the rooftops and crowned her head with a yellow-orange halo of sunshine . . .

  She thought about him.

  13 Cecilia was not only homeless now, but she was also jobless. The club on the Bowery was flattened by the hell storm and Saint Ann’s Warehouse had canceled all shows due to the flood overflow of water from the East River. Lenny, the promoter, was an unfortunate casualty, so there was no following him to another club to get gigs. Apparently, he died trying to salvage however many bottles of cheap liquor he could, but overstacked the cases in the tiny back hallway and they collapsed on him like one of those unlucky hoarders on cable. He always said he’d die in that place. Lenny turned out to be a prophet. Even though Cecilia couldn’t stand him, he did give her a place to play, a chance, and for that, she was saddened by the news. Maybe because she realized she was the one who probably knew him best. A sad circumstance for them both, she concluded.

  That night, the night she left Sebastian, she squeezed into a turnstile with a guy, piggybacking his Metrocard, gaining access, and a bruise on the ass, at the Jay Street station. She played guitar for change and then maintained her routine of buying a bottle and sandwiches for Bill at the corner bodega—he liked their cuts of meat and would eat only from there. He was a beggar, and a foodie. An unlikely combination, but then again, so was Bill. The most sophisticated, fey man she’d ever met, always dressed for something. “You never know when the end will come, or the beginning,” he would say. She grabbed a shower at the Y and popped into her staple vintage shop, owned by a girl named Myyrah, an up-and-coming designer, straight out of F.I.T., who dressed her for shows. She loved Cecilia’s style and often took credit for her design ideas. She used CeCe for fashion shoots, as a muse, and in exchange, Cecilia got handmade, one-of-a-kind clothes. She picked up some things to wear, threw them in her guitar case, and then applied some of Myyrah’s makeup before heading directly home, to the roof, to Bill.

  “Well, look what the dubious devil dragged in,” Bill said, looking up and seeing Cecilia standing there like a long lost soul mate that he thought he might not have ever seen again. “Our Lady of Snow.”

  He didn’t ask her if she was holding, aside from the snow reference, which he knew she’d pick up on if indeed there were anything to give. He was relieved to just see her. For a junkie, that meant everything.

  “How did you survive the tornado up here?” she asked, but what she really wanted to know was How did you survive without me?

  “Cockroaches and junkies,” he said in his slurry, crackled voice, “always survive.”

  She was comforted by that, as he knew she would be.

  “They’ve been looking for you,” he said stoically, sincerely, concerned.

  Cecilia was used to this kind of “out of mind” talk from him, but what she wasn’t used to was his sincerity and intensity when he said it. It was like he was twenty years younger and completely sober. A flash of a man who used to be. Someone who cared for her beyond his exterior and weaknesses. Beyond drugs.

  “They won’t find you here,” he said. “I’ll make sure of that.”

  She gave him his sandwich and then a bottle of cheap whiskey. He barely came up for air, thirsty for the bottom of that bottle.

  “Easier to get a camel through the eye of a needle than to get a rich man into heaven,” he said, realizing that Cecilia didn’t have any money but still managed to bring him food and drink. It always meant something to him, but now, it meant even more.

  As the night fell, she told him everything. She confided in him, every intimate detail of what happened in the church. What they saw, what she experienced, what she felt. About Sebastian.

  He hung on her every word. Every detail, as if he were taking a verbal shoot-up through his veins. He dared not ask anything, for fear that she would lose her train of thought and forget a morsel of det
ail. He watched her lips and felt butterflies in his stomach as if they were two girls talking at a sleepover.

  “Why didn’t you bring some of that shit home?” Bill asked at the end of the story, insisting that Sebastian had likely slipped the three of them some major hallucinogens like the ones Bill once got on the street right across from the hospital that housed Sebastian in the psych ward. Cecilia felt betrayed by Sebastian, but at the same time, she couldn’t help but think of him. She got out her guitar and sang to him.

  Every word.

  For him.

  7 Lucy signed the contract for a new cell phone, paid, and walked out of the wireless store activated. Within seconds it was buzzing. Jesse, of course. Leave it to him to christen her smartphone. Her first episode of ring rage since the storm. She hit mute and put it in her bag, determined never to speak to him again. And pulled it back out just as determined.

  “What?”

  “You’re my one phone call,” Jesse said desperately. “Don’t hang up.”

  Lucy knew exactly what that meant. “Where are you? And why are you calling me?”

  “House of D,” Jesse said as he was being hurried off the phone. “You have to get here now. I need to talk to you.”

  Click.

  “Jail?” she screamed out loud enough for everyone on Gold Street to hear. She growled in frustration, already angry with herself for what she was about to do. But she was within walking distance. And curious. Lucy knew that whatever Jesse did, or didn’t do, to get into the House of D, it was serious. Dead serious.

  He was an asshole. But he was an asshole who meant well. Sometimes.

  She made her way through DUMBO just as the subway went barreling across the Manhattan bridge, on her way from her apartment in Vinegar Hill. Her head pounded as the train shook the inside of her brain along with everything else. She walked by Sacrifice but on the other side of the street. The club was still boarded up and closed down like much of the neighborhood. Destroyed, pretty much. As she looked around at the downed trees, flooded cobblestone streets, abandoned vehicles, and dead power cables littering the neighborhood, she realized that the storm that changed her world had truly changed her as well. It wasn’t just the infrastructure that had been shredded.