The Blessed

AGNES’s ECSTASY





Agnes gave in.

In the middle of the night. Out in her backyard in the garden grotto by the koi pond. It happened. She felt as if she were leaving her body.

She opened her silk chartreuse robe, slipped it off, and lay bare on the rocks under the dogwood tree. Her auburn hair in a loose braid and wrapped around her head like a crown. One foot and one hand dangling in the water as gold, white, black, and orange fish nipped at her fingers and toes.

“Sebastian,” she whispered in a delicate, vulnerable voice. Calling him. Beckoning him.

She took a deep breath and got lost in the smell of his neck and hair. Spicy, warm—sandalwood, vanilla, frankincense, patchouli. He was not like any other. He knew love. He was love.

A flurry of cross-shaped dogwood blossoms opened up on the bare tree above her as if it were springtime. Then they started floating down as if it were autumn—petals sprinkling over her naked body, adorning her hair.

“You are divine,” she heard him say.

She let out a sigh, closed her eyes, and let the petals float down onto her statuesque body. She glowed in the night, next to the black patent-leather-looking water.

Her lips waited for his, so much so that she could feel it in her whole body. She ached for him.

Trembling.

I won’t hurt you.

She felt him. In every way.

Her spiritual lover.

She grabbed the back of his hair, which was her own.

Trying to get more of him. But the more she got, the more it wasn’t enough.

Her scars, now dripping blood into the water turned it red. The fish rose up and down into its warmth. Slowly.

She put pressure on her healed wrists to staunch the bleeding, but it flowed relentlessly. It was all out of her control.

She placed her lips on the wounds and began to softly move her tongue, stroking them. But the sickly sweet smell of roses emulating from them was too much to swallow. It was so strong that she was sure it would wake up her mother inside the house.

Once she relaxed, it felt good.

She was euphoric.

It had happened.

“Sebastian.”

“I know your weaknesses. I understand your mysteries.”

Agnes believed.

“I am with you always.”

She looked down at the black water and saw his reflection. “I recognize me in you.”

Agnes turned on her side, to face him.

“Each day I love you, I become more of myself.”

“That is what real love is.”





13 “Nature behaving badly,” Cecilia said, eyeing the piles of cicada shells covering the curbs.

Ever since the storm, Brooklyn had been afflicted by plagues of insects and even rodents. Drugstore chains had sold out of insect repellent. Talking heads blamed it all on standing pools of water that allowed mosquitoes and other bugs to breed in greater numbers, flooded basements, cellars, and subway tunnels that drove subterranean dwellers like rats and mice aboveground. The threat of disease was very real and growing.

Everyone was talking, blogging, and tweeting about the unnatural cicada cycle, which was in full force and being aggressively exploited by some local businesses. SHUT THE F*CK UP cicada T-shirts were made and sold and stir-fried cicada was being served as exotic cuisine in local restaurants. There were even cicada pops—carcasses, with their transparent, veiny wings and red eyes, frozen inside red lollies for the kids. It was all anyone could talk about after the tornado and the We’re Not in Brooklyn Anymore campaign.

Brooklynites had pretty much separated into two camps. It either all made sense as a precursor to the end of days—all these unnatural occurrences—or it was beneath their concern. Cecilia was in the second camp for the time being. She’d had her fill of apocalyptic thought unless it had to do with her own day-to-day survival. The only thing on her mind right then was getting a gig. She was desperate to get up on a stage, any stage, and to play plugged into some sort of amp. She had so much inside to get out, and it was the only way she knew how to do that. Her therapy. She took off across the Williamsburg Bridge for Alphabet City in a single-minded quest for a dive bar that would split the door charge with her.

The rumbling sound of cicada nearly shook the bridge as she crossed it, carrying her guitar. She might not have feared the clicking critters as a sign of the Armageddon, but for her it was disturbing on a much more personal level. As if Sebastian himself was shaking the truss work, reminding her of what she was trying so hard to forget. The storm. Him.

Once over the suspended span, she wandered through the Lower East Side up Ludlow Street toward the East Village before ducking into a small, dingy place on Avenue B. Somewhere she hadn’t been in a while, where her fans wouldn’t find her. They’d been texting and posting and wondering about her for days now, but she couldn’t bear to respond, to face them. If they found her, then fine, but she wasn’t going to make it easy.

Around there, club doors were frequently left open onto the street and you were just as likely to be playing in a place with power as not, which was more a function of the bar owners’ bad personal finances than bad weather. She walked purposefully past the door guy and directly up to the stage and sat down on the lip of it. She slid her guitar case down next to her and opened it, revealing not just a beaten up blond wood Telecaster but some spare clothes and an awesome pair of shoes.

Cecilia kicked off the biker boots she’d walked in and replaced them with a pair of white suede platforms that zipped up the back with eight-inch heels made of what looked like actual bone. Two tiny skulls peered out from each one, sculpted into the back of the heels. Her idea, Mrryah’s art project. How she planned to stand on them was anyone’s guess, including hers, but she felt compelled to wear them nonetheless for this one-off gig. She wore a slicked-back ’do with spackles of white hair paint on each side, giving an illusion of a virgin Mohawk. She wore a vintage gold-sequined backless minidress, and in her ears, a pair of large hoop earrings that she fashioned out of some old barbwire that she found on the roof. She gave the impression that she belonged there, so no one said anything; they just watched.

“This one’s for you, Alphabet shitty,” she said into the mic, nodding to the house drummer on stage to get behind his kit.

She plugged in and let her guitar feed back for a while, and that’s when it all started.

Cecilia strummed and sang softly at first. She was vulnerable. Her voice cracking in a beautiful mournful tone through the amplifier static.

The lights were flicked on.

She started sweating and could see her hands starting to bleed in the exact places where she was pierced by the iron maiden. Something was coming over her.

The house drummer immediately joined her on stage.

She put a towel over her head and started stomping around to her own slow, dragging beat. Then she motioned to the drummer to kick in double time.

It was like she needed a soundtrack to coax out what was inside of her.

Feeling like she was on fire, she threw off the towel.

She could have sworn that she saw it burst into flames.

She started screaming as loud as she could. Screeching like an angry banshee or a feline in heat. It looked like an exorcism more than anything, and CeCe had more than a few demons to release.

The song was unrecognizable at first. A gritty, intense, punk reading of something bluesy. Presented in Cecilia’s style. Spare and violent.

This was a place where music mattered. And Cecilia was a girl to whom music mattered. A match made in heaven. It was her heart, her soul, and her reality.

And then the song revealed itself, or was revealed through her.

“Whipping Post.”

The tiny crowd of blasé music types gasped and a murmur built in the room. As live songs go, this was sacred.

Guest-listers from the bar started to pay attention.

She clawed and screeched, doubled over on the matchbook-size stage.

People, a mix between cool downtowners and hipster music geeks, immediately started pouring in from outside—either there was a murder in progress or one killer show. In this case it was both. Witnessing either would have been worth the money to them.

Cecilia scratched at her guitar and wailed:

My friends tell me

That I’ve been such a fool

And I have to stand down and take it, babe

All for lovin’ you

Cecilia and the room were at fever pitch. Whatever was happening inside of her was becoming unbearable to her, but was apparently entertaining as well. The curse of the performer. Creating an I was there moment for the audience. And an I’m in hell moment for herself.

I drown myself in sorrow

As I look at what you’ve done

Nothin’ seems to change

Bad times stay the same

And I can’t run

The club quickly filled to capacity, word of mouth spreading from dive to dive all over the neighborhood. She was raw, oozing sensuality, vulnerability, defiance, and anger all at the same time. It was as if she were being channeled by greatness, being used as a vessel for something or someone else.

Sometimes I feel

Sometimes I feel

Like I’ve been tied

To the whipping post

Tied to the whipping post

Tied to the whipping post

Oh Lord, I feel like I’m dyin’

She screamed and began to roll around on the ground. The wounds from the chapel were still raw and unhealed. The more she rolled and scraped herself against the craggy floorboards, antagonized them, the more they swelled and broke open. She felt something strike her back. Thinking it was a wayward guitar string, she checked her weapon, but all six strings were there. She looked up on the ceiling into the cracked mirror mounted on it and thought she saw a welt appear on her back.

Something was happening.

Cecilia looked out in pain, at the mosh pit, but she didn’t see people—only pieces of them through her winces—hands, teeth, tattoos, elbows, hair, shoes.

She moaned in agony, getting verbal lashes from the crowd, typical of an otherworldly performance, and physical lashes from what seemed like thin air.

Lash after lash, whip after whip, she endured it in front of everyone. It was as if she was being beaten up by her own self. An invisible Inquisitor.

Tied to the whipping post

Tied to the whipping post

Good Lord, I feel like I’m dyin’

Singing those words was the last thing she remembered.

Cecilia woke up.

On the roof next to Bill.

“What happened?” she asked desperately. “What is happening?”

“Things are different now,” he replied.

“I have to leave here,” she said.

“I know,” he began. “What can I do for you?”

Cecilia gathered up some of her costumes that she had hanging to dry in an air duct vent and shoved them into her guitar case before disappearing down the stairs.

“You can write it all down.”



7 The Brooklyn Museum Gala, or “Da Ball” as insiders called it, was the social event of the year in the borough. Lucy never missed the opportunity to walk the red carpet, and this year was no exception. With Jesse in the House of D, Lucy went stag, which felt strange. They’d gone to the event together for the last few years—it guaranteed her coverage and him a ticket. It also guaranteed her someone to talk to. She was getting to be one of the best-known faces in town, but not the most popular.

She wasn’t sure how her recent “hiatus” would be perceived, but the key to being a successful It Girl was to never miss an important function. No. Matter. What. It was an obligation she had. To herself. Attending this event would be like getting back on the horse in the most public way. She still wasn’t sure what she wanted going forward, so sticking to what she knew best seemed like the right thing to do.

The show must go on, she figured. And for Lucy it went on in an haute couture John Galliano black silk taffeta gown—off the shoulder with fitted corset and billowy bottom of intricate black taffeta swirls and train. Her face was flawless—pale and plain, even her lips were patted with concealer like the rest of her face, all except for her eyes, which were covered from top to bottom with pink shadow, camouflaging the slight discoloration that remained from the wax burns in the chapel while, at the same time, creating the next high-fashion trend. Besides, she wouldn’t be the first girl to walk the red carpet who looked like she’d just had a peel.

Lucy’s reasons for attending were more than selfish or self-promotional for a change. She’d offered herself to be auctioned off for charity at the gala dinner, an excellent way to meet influential people, she’d thought initially. But now, given the devastation from the storm, and everything else that had happened recently, she was genuinely excited about it.

The ball was known for its outlandish ways, and this year they outdid themselves, literally mixing things up. The red carpet followed the cocktail hour and dinner, an effort, the organizers explained via press release, to encourage attendees to mingle and, most of all, stick around to bid at the charity auction rather than cut out after they’d taken a few pictures. The celebrities on the other hand, suspected that this was actually a great way for the gala committee to assure the press pictures of some tipsy boldface names tripping, falling, or nip-slipping their way down the carpet and into their limos.

Lucy couldn’t have cared less. Whatever the motive, she figured it was much more interesting to spectators and newsworthy to the media to see celebrities on a drunken food baby alert, after they’d gorged themselves on hors d’oeuvres and alcohol. She noted the size of the peanut gallery of professional fans, held at bay by rent-a-cops and velvet ropes, as she arrived, all waiting patiently to roar their indiscriminate approval at the party’s conclusion, and knew it was going to be a successful night for her ego and her brand.

“You’re late,” a snippy, tuxedoed minder with a clipboard and walkie-talkie headset chastised.

She was. Her sense of time was definitely not the same since the storm and without Jesse to wrangle her, she was lucky to have gotten there at all. Lucy went for the default excuse.

“My car was late.”

From the exasperated look on his face, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard that one tonight.

“Rich-people problems,” he sniffed, and pressed the talk button on his headset mic. “I’ve got her.”

Lucy felt like one of those animals that occasionally escaped from the zoo and wreaked havoc. Rounded up.

Captured.

“What, no tranquilizer gun?”

“Dinner is almost over,” he said dismissively, taking her forcefully by the forearm. “You’re first up for the auction.”

As she was led around like an amateur dancer on a ballroom TV show toward the curtained back of the stage, Lucy noticed a line of heads dangling upside down under the lights above the hors d’oeuvre stations inside the dining area. They were all molded in the likeness of the city’s most rich and famous. As the heat lamps above were switched on, the heads, made of actual cheese, started to melt slowly, drizzling onto the crackers of the patrons positioned expectantly below. The heated heads gave the appearance of a fire at Madame Tussauds.

Lucy noticed one of the heads was in her likeness.

She had been beheaded.

And set on fire.

Her features slowly disappearing under the lamps and dripping down in long strings into the hungry mouths.

She couldn’t have been more honored.

Lucy came to an abrupt stop and the minder released her at the foot of a small staircase. “When they say your name, step up and out onto the stage.”

“Then what do I need to do?”

“Just stand there,” he said, resuming a crackly conversation on his radio with a colleague at some unknown location in the museum. “You’re good at that.”

A pack of obviously supercompetitive, well-married thirtysomethings, all members of the donor class, sneaked peeks at her over the rims of their half-empty champagne flutes, whispering. The knives were clearly out. Lucy became increasingly uncomfortable as she waited to be introduced. She felt their eyes on her, glaring savagely, picking her apart, appraising her outfit and calculating her worth. Covetous of her youth, her look, her ambition, her success. Lucy tried to hold her chin up high, but her head still hurt. She could count the beats of her heart by the throbbing in her scalp.

“ . . . Brooklyn’s own Lucky Lucy Ambrossssse.”

She’d become so fixated on the pain, which instantly brought back thoughts of Sebastian, that she barely heard her name mentioned by the MC and the polite applause and catcalls that followed.

The minder came up behind her and gave her a shove. “Go!”

Lucy burst through the curtain and practically galloped to the lip of the stage, hands on hips, ready to void the warranty. It was a confrontational pose, seductive, but if she knew anything, she knew how to sell herself. And on this night, she had literally offered herself up to the highest bidder. The crowd ate it up.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen, how much for a private dinner date at the River Café with this lovely young lady?”

Bids came in fast and furiously, one higher than the next, table by table, along with whoops and hollers, all decorum tossed to the wind. Well-to-do men, mainly, put down their utensils, wiped away the runny au jus from their chins, loosened their ties and shirt collars at the sight of her, and reached for their checkbooks. Husbands and boyfriends were watched closely by disapproving wives and green-eyed girlfriends. It was a primal scene as even the smell in the room changed subtly from a floral-laced scent thrown off by the table centerpieces to the raw musk of a hot, sweaty gym.

“The food pantries need filling, folks. We can’t do it without you!”

She wondered what it must look like from the outside. All these people making offers for her time, her attention. It was all so transactional. Did they even know what charity they were supporting? She barely did, but like the bidders, she wanted to win, she wanted to be the most valuable, the most prized of the night. And besides, it wasn’t up to her who paid the price.

“Make it rain, gentlemen!” she shouted brazenly. “Give until it hurts.”

Lucy was caught up and she worked it. The higher the bid, the farther she retreated from the front of the stage, teasing them, coaxing them along with the MC to go bigger. It was demeaning and oddly empowering all at the same time. To have such control, such influence. To command such attention.

“Let’s not have any short arms, deep-pockets people,” the MC barked. “It’s all for a good cause!”

With that challenge, a huge bid, double any other, came from the floor. The crowd was silenced as the MC called for a higher bid.

“Once.”

“Twice.”

“Done!”

“Miss Ambrose, please make your way to table six and meet the winning contributor.”

Lucy stepped down into the darkened dining room carefully, worried that the headache that was suddenly returning was affecting her vision. She stumbled past a few tables and arrived at her table, which was empty, except for a man seated at its head.

“Hello, Miss Ambrose.”

“Hello.”

“Wonderful event. And very magnanimous of you to put up with that. Even for charity.”

“Anything for a good cause,” she said and smiled. “Congratulations, by the way.”

Lucy squinted for a name tag he didn’t seem to be wearing.

“Dr. Frey,” he said, standing and extending his hand formally for hers. “Please sit down.”

Her hand went suddenly limp as she placed his name and withdrew her hand from his. She appeared ill to the doctor. Unsteady, she positioned her hand on the table to keep herself upright.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“So many were caught in the storm and got sick,” he said, looking at her closely. “Headache. Red, puffy eyes. Bad flu. We’re seeing a lot of that at the hospital.”

He was clearly probing her.

“I was inside.”

“Of course,” he said. “That explains why we haven’t seen much of you in the news lately.”

“I wouldn’t think a man with your responsibilities would even know who I am.”

“Quite the contrary. I know exactly who you are.”

She swallowed hard.

“Doesn’t everyone?” he concluded with a smile.

Lucy’s knees were starting to weaken, to buckle.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well after all. Perhaps I can have a rain check?”

“No worries,” Frey assured her, reaching into his pocket. “Here is my card. Feel free to call and set up that dinner when you are feeling better.”

“Thank you.” Lucy turned to walk away, looking to see if he was following her, but he wasn’t. He let her go. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.

“Oh, Miss Ambrose?”

Lucy froze. She had to acknowledge him. Others were watching. Listening.

“I’m surprised that you’re not wearing your bracelet,” Frey said. “For such a unique event, it would have been the perfect accessory.”

“Bracelet?” Lucy asked, knowing damn well what he meant.

“Oh, forgive me. I was referring to the white beaded one you had on in one of your photos online. Where did you get such a thing?”

“It was a gift.”

“Well, whoever gave it to you must know you well,” he said. “It suits you.”

Lucy turned and flashed Frey a tense half smile, keeping it together for just a few seconds longer. “On behalf of the sponsors of the Brooklyn Museum, thank you for your generous contribution, Doctor.”

“You are worth every penny, Lucy,” Frey responded.

Lucy felt her head about to explode. She dropped his card to the floor and stepped on it, wiping her hand as she bolted for an exit, any exit, but found her path blocked by a table, a waiter, an admirer, a hater, at every turn in the busy room. Half-seated tables with papier-mâché Warhol head centerpieces vomiting roses sat surreally among litter and leftovers, lipsticked glasses and dirty plates holding the remains of roasted suckling pig and rabbit savagely devoured by savage beauties and their overfed dinner dates. It was like the storm fund-raiser had turned into a fun house. She was overwhelmed.

“Please,” she begged, pushing her way through the crowd. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

As Lucy made her move toward an open door, she was grabbed and pulled sideways, nearly out of her six-inch heels.

“The red carpet is this way.”

The minder assigned to her was not taking no for an answer. She was pushed out an exit and directly onto the walkway just as she’d been pushed up the stairs earlier.

Delivered.

Cameras flashed. Dozens of them.

“Lucy!”

The photographers screamed for her and so did the fans. All begging for acknowledgment like ardent lovers. It was loud and chaotic. Disorienting. Maddening. What was once such a pleasure seemed now a punishment. The flashbulbs kicked her migraine into overdrive and she began to claw at her brow in pain, dizzy and panicked.

“Help me!” she screamed.

In the black spaces between the strobing flashes, Lucy swore she could see Sebastian, breaking through the media throng, trying to get to her. Lucy called out to him to no avail.

“Sebastian!”

She ambled awkwardly down the never-ending carpet, all alone, on display, still scratching and still self-aware enough to realize that the photo editors just might get that humiliating picture they were looking for at her expense, when a frightning cry rang out.

“Oh, my God,” a blogger girl cried, pointing at Lucy’s knees.

Sanguineous drops stained her legs as they formed a puddle of plasma on the carpet beneath her. At first, there was a collective gasp of embarrassment. It appeared to them that she had gotten her period, but when she removed her hands from her face and looked up, the true source was revealed to them.

Her tears were of blood.

The flashes went into a frenzy once again.

The whites of her eyes shone bright red in the bloodstream. She gazed up at the white tent above her and felt it fall further and further out of focus, until she could barely distinguish the massive canopy.

“My eyes,” she said, over and over.

She could see nothing until she closed them. And then all she could see was him.

An older woman, a waitress at the gala, had seen enough and ran toward the girl she’d watched bear the brunt of this full-frontal media assault. She helped Lucy behind the backdrop, out of view of the photographers, where the girl collapsed in her sympathetic arms. The event personnel began to crowd around, more concerned with their potential liability than with Lucy. A single look from the waitress was enough to disperse them.

“Should we call an ambulance?” the minder asked as he backed away.

“No,” the woman said authoritatively.

She pulled out a white linen and lace hankie and placed it over Lucy’s face, absorbing the blood and tears into the fabric. As she removed it, she noticed that a replica of the girl’s face, outlined in her blood, had been transferred. The woman tucked the cloth in the front pocket of her smock carefully, respectfully, and proceeded to comfort her, wiping the matted hair away from her face.

“Oh, my head,” Lucy moaned. “It’s splitting.”

The woman gently took Lucy’s hand and ran her fingers along her wrist in the exact place where the chaplet had been, and began making tiny crosses as she whispered prayers in Lucy’s ear.

Lucy yawned.

Again and again.

“Good, let it out,” the woman said.

The pain seemed to escape through Lucy’s open mouth.

She relaxed as the woman cradled her head in her arms.

“What was that?” Lucy asked, after her headache vanished.

“A fatura,” the woman said in Italian-accented English. “The malocchio.”

“I don’t understand.” Lucy said, wiping at her eyes and face.

“It’s like a curse. The evil eye.”

“Oh, I don’t believe in that stuff.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you believe. The truth is what matters.”

“I don’t know what’s true anymore,” Lucy said, rising to her feet. “Thank you for helping me.”

“No,” she said. “I thank you.”

Lucy was flattered that she’d had such an impact on the woman. She never imagined her celebrity had trickled down so far, especially in her own neighborhood, where she tended to be the least popular and most resented.

She hugged the woman tight, as she imagined she would hug her mom if she ever saw her again. The waitress reached into another pocket of her smock and pulled out a gold charm in the shape of a horn of plenty and placed it in Lucy’s hand.

“Who are you?” Lucy asked.

“Perpetua.” The old woman smiled. “I live in the area. Near Precious Blood. I took him in after his escape, so they wouldn’t find him when they looked in the church.”

“Sebastian?” Lucy asked, stunned.

They lived in different worlds. Until now.

“One has overlooked you. Three can save you. You understand me?”

“Yes,” Lucy replied. “I think I do.”

“Then go back to him.”





3 “You must think I’m some kind of a psychotic, don’t you?” Agnes blurted out as she gathered her things and headed for the door, her paranoia reaching new heights, feeling as if she were being watched, even inside the house.

“I only know what I see,” her mother responded casually, showing neither disgust nor sympathy as Agnes prepared to leave her again.

“Do I look crazy to you?” she asked, trying to prompt some kind of reaction.

“You look like,” Martha said frankly, looking her only daughter up and down, “a girl with nothing to lose.

“I’m praying for you,” Martha called out to her as she walked out the door.

“No, Mother,” Agnes began, putting on her lambswool poncho. “I am the one praying for you.”

Agnes ran down her block and was stopped in her tracks at the sound of children playing and the sight of a little boy in the St. John’s schoolyard. It was Jude.

She hurried to the towering silver cyclone fence surrounding the playground and grabbed hold of it for dear life, hoping to get some acknowledgment from him—a smile, a glance, anything—without much luck. He was standing with a middle-aged woman, a nun, before a handmade hanging figure. Agnes wanted to scream out to him, but checked herself and listened in on his lesson instead.

“The seven points on the piñata symbolize the seven deadly sins,” the sister explained, pointing a thin wooden rod at each. “Greed. Lust. Pride. Despair. Wrath. Sloth. Envy.”

The nun raised a strip of cloth in front of the boy’s face, folded it over, and began to tie it around his head. Once it was secure, she gently turned him in a circle a few times, explaining to him the deeper meaning to be found in this traditional game.

Agnes swallowed hard. The image of the blinded child disturbed her.

“The blindfolded person represents faith. Turning symbolizes the disorientation of temptation.”

She placed the stick in Jude’s hand and instructed him to begin. Agnes was nervous for him. She’d played this game countless times at birthday parties. It was hard and he was not “typical,” from what she’d seen.

“Striking the piñata recalls the battle against evil. Defeat it and the reward is revealed.”

Heavy shit for a kid, was all Agnes could think as she listened.

Jude held the rod in front of him and grabbed it with his other hand, steadying it. He tapped the piñata once, taking a measure of the distance between him and the suspended object. He drew the stick back up and over his head like a knight with a broadsword. Agnes could almost see how badly he wanted the candy inside from the grimace on his face as he swung at the piñata. He smacked it top and bottom, side to side. Agnes was surprised at how on target he was, but there was no sign of damage.

Jude was obviously frustrated and getting upset the longer the game went on. The nun removed the stick from his hand and struck the piñata herself, also without result. She handed it back to him.

“Again,” she said, counseling both patience and perseverance.

The boy swung and turned the stick over to the teacher, who did likewise. Over and over.

Agnes marveled that this was possibly the first combination of religious instruction and occupational therapy she’d ever seen. Other children began to turn their heads toward Jude, counting the strokes and licking their lips impatiently in anticipation of the sweets they hoped would eventually escape. For her part, Agnes was beginning to feel bad for the piñata.

The nun’s next swing was a productive one. She made a dent. But then Jude took his turn and cracked it wide open with a mighty whack. The candy spilled and children came running.

“See, Jude,” the nun said, kneeling to help the children collect their sugary treasure. “You can’t always do it alone. Everyone has a part to play.”

Agnes smiled, not just at the boy and his achievement but also at the thought of Sebastian, Cecilia, and Lucy that came to her in that moment. There was more than a lesson in the game, Agnes felt. There was a message. A message for her.

To her surprise, Jude removed his blindfold and looked directly over at Agnes as if he’d known she was there all along. She beckoned him, and the boy, taking the opportunity while the nun was distracted, ran over to her, forgoing the candy he’d earned.

“I told him,” Agnes said.

The boy kissed her through the chain link.

“There are snakes behind the rocks. You might not see them. But you know they’re there,” Jude said in a whisper.

Just then the nun ran over and grabbed Jude’s hand.

“You shouldn’t run away like that,” the nun said sternly, looking him directly in his eyes.

“I think he wanted to tell me something,” Agnes offered, hoping to keep the boy out of trouble.

“I’m sorry, but that’s impossible,” she said to Agnes. “He’s nonverbal. He doesn’t talk.”



13 Cecilia awoke to piss-warm rain leaking through the street grate above and onto her in the filthy, white-tiled corner of the subway station she presently called home. She opened her eyes to confirm that it was indeed rain and not some pervert or bum getting his jollies by relieving himself on her. Or something worse.

She’d ducked into the subway for a nap the night before and had the eerie feeling she was being followed. The subway wasn’t exactly the best place to hide, but it was the brightest place at that time of night, and that was a plus. Turns out she wasn’t entirely wrong. There was a person, scrunched up in a fetal position, lying at her feet. Way too close for comfort.

“Hey,” Cecilia said, nudging the girl with her foot. “Get up!”

The girl just moaned, turning over slowly and rising to her hands and knees.

Cecilia recognized her immediately, even though her long straggly hair was hanging down obscuring most of her face.

It was Catherine. The fangirl from Pittsburgh. What was left of her.

“Was it you following me?”

“No,” Catherine said quietly, lifting her head into the harsh light.

She was obviously badly battered and bruised. Her hair was matted. Her clothes stained and weather-beaten. This clearly wasn’t her first night on the street. How long had it been since she’d seen her outside the club? CeCe pondered groggily. A week? Two? By the hollow look in Catherine’s eyes, it might as well have been years.

“Who in the hell did this to you?” Cecilia asked, taking the girl’s head in her hands.

“Does it matter?” Catherine responded through swollen lips, barely able to muster the strength to form words.

“Yes,” Cecilia said, already suspecting the answer. “Tell me.”

“Ricky’s band. They said I could sing a song in their set,” Catherine said. “They said we were going to their rehearsal space in Williamsburg. That I could stay there with them.”

Cecilia didn’t need to hear the rest. She knew.

“New York is not a place for someone like you.” Cecilia railed at the girl’s naïveté. “I told you. You need to go home.”

“I believed them,” Catherine responded sadly. “I’m so ashamed.”

Cecilia stopped preaching at her, stopped trying to solve her problem. She’d been there too once. Made her share of mistakes. It was like looking in a mirror. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped at the girl’s eyes and face. “We all put our trust in the wrong people sometimes.”

“What would you do? Would you really leave? Just give up on your dreams?”

Cecilia did not respond.

“That’s what I thought,” the weary girl said through cracked and scabbed lips. “That’s why you’re great.”

Cecilia unpacked her guitar, plopped a few coins into a used coffee cup, and began to play.

“Still wanna be like me?”

“What happened?” Catherine asked.

“Reality. Sucks, but life is full of it.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Cecilia asked, putting down her guitar.

“Yes, I still wanna be like you.”

“Why? So you can sing for your supper, live on the streets, and drown in all the abuse?”

“I can’t leave, just give up.”

Cecilia heard her words and thought of Agnes. She knew there was no way she could convince Catherine otherwise.

“Up to you, Catherine. You’ve paid your dues.”

“I don’t even feel like I have a choice. It’s like fate.”

Cecilia stared blankly ahead, thinking of Sebastian.

“I mean, I think our dreams choose us anyway, not the other way around,” Catherine continued. “I’m supposed to stay, to do what I came to do. Whatever that is, you know?”

“I know.” Cecilia reached again for her guitar.

“Back to work,” Catherine said. “Can I stay for a while?”

“Please do,” Cecilia answered, as she began to slowly strum a moody minor chord. “At least I will be sure one person is listening.”

“One is all you need.”

“God damn right.”

Cecilia chanted a few words over the top of the chord changes that she played in the church.

“That’s amazing,” Catherine said. “Is it about a guy you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever sung it for him?”

A bit of the wide-eyed devotee returned to Catherine’s face for just a moment, and CeCe smiled.

“Not yet.”

A train pulled loudly into the station, cutting off the conversation but not Cecilia’s song. She continued to play and sing through the clanging racket, eyes closed, head hung low, as a few passengers ran for the closing doors and the last subway car pulled out. She shook her head and looked up at the emptiness and squalor all around and then up at Catherine.

“Does this look like a dream to you?” Cecilia asked, searching herself more than Catherine.

“No,” the girl admitted. “It doesn’t.”

“Well, what does it look like?”

“A calling,” Catherine responded.



7 “Decaf or regular, hon?” the waitress asked.

“Regular,” Lucy answered reflexively.

She filled the white ceramic cup in front of Lucy, who was out of sorts from her experience at the museum. She found herself at a diner on Cadman Plaza in the wee hours. Alone. As usual, she couldn’t remember how she got there. Except this time vodka or Vicodin weren’t the reason; it was a supernatural one.

She could feel herself being watched, but not by the regular gawkers and stalkers that followed her around.

“Need to wake up?” a nasal female voice asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

Lucy was startled. In the neighborhood, she was usually left alone.

“The coffee?” the girl asked.

Lucy looked up. It was Sadie. She hadn’t seen her since the ER that night.

“Sadie?” Lucy said, sheepishly standing up. “Ah, how are you?”

There was a sadness in the girl’s eyes and Lucy girded herself for the accusations she certainly had coming and the judgment she most certainly deserved. She prepared her defense quickly. Jesse made me do it was the first thing that came to mind. It was the truth but a very thin excuse for ratting out Sadie to him. She should have been able to keep her pregnancy and what she had done private. Lucy looked down at the girl’s belly almost reflexively, but there was no sign of life that she could spy.

“I just want to thank you,” Sadie said.

“For what?”

“For helping me turn my life around.”

“Really?” Lucy said, genuinely shocked. “How?”

“You exposed me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When the story ran with the picture you took, and the nasty looks from everyone started, the gossip, I realized what my life had become. Who my true friends really were. What was really important to me.”

It didn’t sound much like a compliment to Lucy, more like a cleverly crafted dis, in fact. Something Sadie had been expert at.

“I still don’t quite see . . . ”

“I didn’t have an abortion, Lucy. I had a miscarriage.”

Lucy bit her lower lip to keep it from shaking. Could she have been more wrong?

“I’m so sorry,” Lucy said, genuine concern and remorse welling up in her face.

She was sorry. Sorry for making the abortion joke, for taking the picture, and even more sorry for the tremendous loss that Sadie had to bear either way.

“It’s okay,” Sadie said. “I’m out of that world now. For good.”

“What about Tim?” Lucy asked. “How’s he taking it?”

“He’s fine,” Sadie explained, forcing a smile through her tears. “He is back with his girlfriend. He did tell his grandmother. She said that the baby would have been so beautiful, the angels wanted to keep it for themselves.”

“I’m sure she’s right,” Lucy said, reaching for the girl’s hand. “I know she is.”

Lucy looked down at her cooling cup of coffee only to realize she’d lost her appetite.

“Just talking about it with you is making me feel so much better. I haven’t told anyone yet outside our family. I don’t care what everyone else thinks. Their minds are made up already anyway.”

“You know it’s nothing to be ashamed of, right?” Lucy queried sympathetically. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not your fault.”

“Thank you.” Sadie sniffed. “I’ll try to remember that.”

Lucy cringed at how easily she’d betrayed the girl in her hour of need, just as she had Sebastian. The tears began to come and she knew she had to make it right.

“I’m so sorry,” Lucy said again, hugging Sadie as tightly as she could.

“I forgive you.”