he wiped the last plate over and over with the now- dampened rag, staring out the window, willing her eyes to see despite the darkness.
“Relax, child,” Maureen chided behind her.
“He said he'd be here this evening. It's evening.”
“He's fine, dear. I'm sure of it.”
She reached from behind and took the plate from Gloria's hand and exchanged it for a very fussy Danny, who had been crying all evening. Gloria dropped the rag on the countertop and brought her son to her shoulder, bouncing and shushing him as she walked the circumference of the kitchen. Maureen returned the plate to its place on the shelf beside the window before lifting the basin from the countertop to toss the water out the door.
“It's cold outside,” Gloria said, turning her body to shield Danny from the chill that rushed into the room. “Did he take a coat?”
“I'm sure he did. He's a sensible man.”
The two women retired to Maureen's cozy parlor. A fire burned in the fireplace, casting a warm glow throughout the room. Gloria sank into the rocking chair, opened the buttons of her blouse, and brought the cranky baby—now nearly screaming—to her breast. Danny fell immediately into contented silence.
“I think he misses his sister,” Maureen said softly “He's been much fussier since she…”
“I think so too,” Gloria said, looking into the little boy's half-closed eyes. “You know, the first night he brought her to me, we—well, 1—thought she was dead. But the minute 1 first heard her cry, 1 just had this needfor her.”
“And she needed you.”
Thirty minutes passed and Danny fell asleep. Gloria gathered him up and laid him in the bed he had shared with his sister.
Maureen's little clock continued to tick, tick into the night, emitting its low chime every half hour. The darkness outside became deep and complete, the light inside flickered with the flames of the fire.
“Well, we won't do any good sittin’ up and worrying,” Maureen said. “All kinds of things mightVe happened—a delay at the mill, a broken wagon wheel. He may have stopped for supper with Anne and Phil.”
“He wouldn't do that.” Gloria spoke with certainty “He knows we'd be worried.”
Maureen had no reply and the two sat in companionable silence until the clock struck again.
“We should go to bed, child,” Maureen said finally.
“You go on,” Gloria said, her eyes fixed on the window where they had been all night. “1 won't be able to sleep.”
“He wouldn't want you up worrying, you know.”
“Do you think he would stay up worrying about me?”
“That he would, dearie. But he'd be praying for you, too.”
“So pray”
“Come join me,” Maureen said, patting the seat of the couch beside her. “Come, Gloria, and pray with me.”
Gloria got up from the rocking chair and crossed the little room to sit beside Maureen. Maureen turned towards her, their knees touching, and took Glorias hands in her own.
“Father God, we pray Your guiding hand on John William tonight, that he is safe on his journey, traveling under Your protection.”
We pray? Gloria had never prayed for anybody. She'd been an observer of many prayers—for safety, for blessed food, for healthy children—but she'd never been named as an active participant. How cold was her heart, she wondered, that this prayer for John meant nothing more to her than those other ramblings? How could she not join Maureen's sincerity, her obvious ability to be an agent of safety between John William and the evils and dangers that awaited him? She remained lost in this reverie until one phrase of Maureen's prayer startled her back to attention.
“And please, dear Lord, bring him back to Gloria…”
Of course. Back to Gloria. Back to that sin-filled woman who could only bring him to the brink of lust? Back to that woman who would steal his thoughts away from the godly woman who died giving birth to his child? Back to that woman who has known more men than she could ever count? That woman?
Maureen had stopped praying at some point, and in the settling silence, she gave Gloria's fingers a slight squeeze.
Gloria sat, still as stone.
“Gloria, dear, would you like to pray now?”
“I can't.”
Maureen opened her eyes and met Gloria's gaze. “Why do you think that?”
“Because I've never…1 just don't feel it. When 1 listen to you, I know I should feel something,shouldn't I? And it just seems that if I don't feel anything, He doesn't hear anything.”
“I think He hears more than you can ever imagine.”
Gloria took her hands from Maureen's grasp and began twisting a lock of her hair. “Go to bed, Maureen,” she said, smiling softly “I think your prayers would be more powerful without me.”
“Oh, child. I'll go to pray alone, but I leave you in here to do the same.”
She kissed Gloria softly on one cheek, then the other, and took herself off to the bedroom.
Gloria saw the dim line of candlelight coming from under the door for a few minutes, and by the time the clock struck again, she heard little snores coming from Maureen's room.
The rest of the righteous.
She put another log on the fire and stood beside it, watching the flames take hold.
Pray, pray, pray, she willed herself, but the words would not come. She tried them in her head—Dear Father, Heavenly Father—but the concept was still out of reach. She wrapped her mouth around the words, “Dear God, Dear Heavenly Jesus,” but the use of His name in reverence was still too tainted by the years of coupling it with curses hurled through filthy streets.
She sat back on the sofa and tried to access memories of her innocence. Surely she had prayed as a child. She remembered kind women talking to her and her mother about Jesus Christ before her mother brusquely sent them away She remembered the mission churches in California—their imposing crucifixes and the tragic figure of a dying Jesus—and wondering who was that man and why did He have to die like that.
Now she knew. He did it for her. He died for this miserable prostitute. For Gloria. For her sins. Confess them, Maureen had said. Confess them and be made clean. Be made new.
But where to begin? Perhaps it was the night the thirteen-year-old girl—under her mother's watchful eye—felt her body seared in pain, felt her own blood drip through her torn flesh. Had she sinned that night?
Gloria slid off Maureen's sofa, falling to her knees beside it. She clutched at her body, feeling anew the pain of that night, the shame of it all. How, she thought, could she face the God who would allow that to happen? Why should she ask forgiveness for something that had caused her such pain? In her mind and in her heart she was back on that filthy mattress on the floor, back with the landlord who raped his rent, wishing she could scream and kick and send him flying straight to hell.
Here, this night, on her knees in Maureen's home, her body contorted in the pain from that first night, from every night, from the men who beat her, from the ones that held her throat, bound her wrists, cut her flesh. Her skin crawled with their filthy touches. Her mind filled with their faces, their breath hot and rotten on her face. For a moment she thought that if Maureen were to walk into this room right now, she would see them—ghosts all—and she felt a need to beg forgiveness for allowing them into this house.
But then, no.
God, she prayed. Holy Father God. Forgive me for allowing them into myself. Into your creation.
In her mind she saw her outstretched hand, covered in silver, the wealth derived from peddling her charms. Then, one by one, the coins were taken away, dissolved and scattered like sifted sand, leaving only her palm, tainted with the stain of them.
I give it all to you, Father. Wash me. Make me clean.
She saw her hand disappear within another. This hand, covered in blood, held her own—tightly as if for dear life. And just when she felt she could endure the exquisite pain of this embrace no longer, it released its grip, leaving her skin soft and without stain.
Thank you, Father, for the blood of Christ Your Son.
So this was peace. This was the comfort she'd heard about. This was the reason John William had said that Kate was safe, and now Gloria believed it, too, because for the first time in her life God was real and heaven existed and Gloria knew with a certainty that she would see the baby girl again. The power of her love for that child while she lived was just a hint of the powerful love a Father in heaven had for her now, and would have for an eternity
The grip of her own mothers indifference, the blame and resentment Gloria had carried for so many years, melted, replaced with a brief and gentle mourning for the woman's own wretched life.
Tears, like she had never felt before, streamed unchecked down her face as Gloria released the despised life she had lived, making way for new visions, new direction and desire. Her hands clenched and unclenched, clutching the fabric of her skirt; her forehead rested on the cushion of the sofa.
So engrossed in her prayer was she that she didn't hear the creak of the door opening in the kitchen. Didn't hear the heavy footsteps cross the room. Was unaware that the strong arms that embraced her weren't the arms of Christ Himself, holding her tight and keeping her safe as she leaned against those strong shoulders, saying, “Father. My Father.”
Later, she would open her eyes and turn to look at him, and he would know, they would know, that she wasn't the same woman.