They huddled and whispered.
“Consider this: the ecstasy takes it to a whole new level. Out of his hands, maybe. So, perhaps he’s paralyzed. He simply doesn’t know what to do next,” said Mira.
“It’s true that I’ve told him I’m not ready to share it with anyone. It’s our secret,” Francesca said. “His and mine.”
“That’s right. Your special secret,” said Mira.
“But what if it’s too much for him to bear alone?” said Francesca.
“Then you tell him I know. Not Connie, though. Just me. Four makes it … less special,” Mira replied.
Francesca’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away and focused on the old woman’s hands, painfully slow. Fold, flex, knead. Fold, flex, knead. Francesca shook off her annoyance and came back to Mira. “But what if my ecstasy is some kind of turnoff?”
“But that’s his thing. I mean, it’s his ‘field of interest.’ It’s precisely what makes you special to him.”
“He needs more proof. He doesn’t yet believe.” Francesca’s voice was coarsened by the tears burning the back of her throat. Her eyes cut to Donata. “Oh for God’s sake. You’re never going to finish at that rate. Let us do it.” Francesca spread her fingers over the old woman’s gnarled knuckles. Confused, Donata raised her head slowly, her baleful milk-eyes searching Francesca’s face. Francesca snatched the green napkin from Donata’s hand and took over folding. “We’ll never get done otherwise,” she said sharply.
Mira folded napkins absently, ignoring Francesca’s angry mutterings and watching Donata. The old woman stared wondrously at the backs of her hands, opening and closing them easily, almost elegantly, Mira thought. Like a younger woman. Donata looked up, sparse eyebrows stretched high, beseeching Mira for an explanation that Mira didn’t have. She searched Mira’s face wordlessly, though as always, Mira doubted that she saw her, the woman’s eyes swimming in their murky pools. As she opened her mouth to speak, Mr. Falso stuck his head in the door.
“Sorry to bother you, ladies. But the kids at the front of the house need your help.” He retreated quickly, almost desperately, and Francesca beelined after him. Mira tried to follow, the dish-room door slamming before her nose.
Mr. Falso didn’t realize Francesca was on his heels until he stopped short. She crashed into his back, a face-plant into a patch of back sweat. She straightened herself out, undignified and doubly pissy.
“Whoa! I didn’t know you were there!” Mr. Falso said.
Francesca threw her hair defiantly over one shoulder. “Can we talk?”
Mr. Falso backed away from Francesca with raised hands. “It’s a tough time, don’t you think? The last shift of patrons comes in five minutes, and we’re way behind in the dish room.”
“You said you’re always available to talk, Nick.” Francesca said his name like it was a swear, and it felt right. The director of the soup kitchen, a heavy-bottomed woman with a severe bob, walked past and looked them up and down.
Mr. Falso slipped his hands out of the plastic gloves, stuffed them in his apron pocket, and snapped off his hairnet. “Come with me,” he said, leading her to the closet that housed brooms, mops, buckets, and trash barrels, along with bottles of disinfectants and cleaners meant to tidy after the perpetually unclean. Francesca breathed in the antiseptic smell. She thought of Saint Veronica Giuliani, whose confessor ordered her to clean the walls and floor of her prison cell with her tongue, swallowing the spiders and their webs. She thought of Angela of Foligno, who drank water contaminated by the putrefying flesh of a leper.
It helped her refocus.
“I wanted to thank you for bringing me here. It means so much to me to be able to toil for people who need it most.”
Mr. Falso raised his eyebrows. “It’s one of the most special parts of youth ministry, the experience of being in service to others.”
“I want to devote my whole entire life to making restitution for the sins of others. By performing works of charity. Like this.”
“The sins of others?”
“That’s right.”
“I see. Like Jesus, then?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s a … that’s a noble undertaking. A big undertaking.” He clapped his hands loudly in front of his waist. “Those plates must be piling up out there! Let’s save this good talk for dinner at the restaurant. After the work is done.”
“You haven’t talked to me since you came to my bedroom that night.”
Mr. Falso’s head snapped to the dish room. He closed the door halfway and leaned in to Francesca. “At your father’s request.”
“My father requested your expert opinion. Now it’s only fair that you share it with me.”
Mr. Falso looked at Francesca sideways. “Only you know what happened.”
“I know that I was filled with light and peace and satisfaction. It was incredible. And when it was done, I was more spent than if I’d run a marathon. Yet I wanted to experience it again and again.”
It felt like what I think sex is supposed to feel like, she thought. With you.
Francesca wondered if she had spoken out loud, as Mr. Falso squeezed the back of his neck with one hand, his eyes sweeping the tiny room. Finally, he faltered, “It’s beyond my scope.”
“I heard you tell my father what you thought it was. I heard you call it an ‘ecstasy.’”
“An ecstasy,” he repeated, clamping his mouth in distaste.
“You can’t tell me you didn’t say it.”
“Your father was looking for answers. I was postulating.”
“You think I’m on the path to becoming a saint. Admit it!”
“I’m not going to ‘admit’ anything.”
“How many sixteen-year-old girls bleed from their hands?”
The bobbed director gave a darting glance as she passed the utility room. Mr. Falso’s face darkened. He popped his head to the side like a boxer.
“There are other things,” she said breathlessly. “There have been for years. When I was five years old, I spoke in tongues. Do you know what that means? Ancient languages. Birds follow me. I’ve woken up every morning with the same birds at my window for sixteen years. You can ask my sister. Like Saint Francis of Assisi. It was documented on numerous occasions how the birds flocked to him, and landed on his arms and shoulders, singing sweetly all the while. This happens to me. I’m freaking Snow White!”
“Honestly, I don’t know what you are,” he huffed.
Francesca weaved slightly. His words echoed in her head, banging against the sides of her skull. She stepped backward, and her cheeks grew cold.
“Oh, Francesca.” He reached out and held her shoulders, restraint flung away. “That didn’t come out right. You are a beautiful girl with a beautiful heart. But I’m just a spiritual director in a church. I have my talents, but not the scholarly background, no expertise. Until you allow us to share what’s happening to you with the true Catholic scholars, we can’t begin to understand. Are you hearing me?”