Holy Water

Miranda always watered her plants with holy water, and because of this she was a devout attendee of daily mass. It started when she was a little girl. Every Sunday her grandmother would give her a small glass bottle. After communion, while everyone else was silently kneeling, she would slip out of the pew and tiptoe past the painted angels in pink and blue robes to the large golden bowl filled with holy water. She would carefully submerge the glass bottle until no more air bubbled out.  Then she would tiptoe back to the pew and place the wet, cool bottle into her grandmother’s soft palm.

After mass was over they would walk back to the house hand in hand. Miranda would try to skip over the cracks in the sidewalk while keeping pace with her grandmother. Back at the house the aunts would fill up the kitchen, comparing recipes and setting the table. The dull roar of adult conversation would eat away at Miranda’s nerves until Grandmother would break away and take her out to the garden. There in the quiet, among the impatients and the tomatoes and the raspberries, with the honey bees singing their monotone song, Grandmother would sprinkle every plant with a drop of holy water.

“Now they will bear blessed fruit.”

Even when the aunts started having babies, and Miranda had cousins at last, they would always slip out together every Sunday to water the plants.

She started to go to daily mass in college, while she was going through her atheist phase. Sunday mass made her feel uncomfortable so she would go to the quiet and almost empty daily masses instead. She would wait until communion time and collect the holy water in the same small glass bottle and then leave.

“Are you sure you should be watering the herbs with holy water? Don’t you think that’s conflicting energy?” Her roommate Jessica was a big believer in energy.

“This is what Grandma did, and her garden always thrived.”

The herbs did thrive, so despite Jessica’s grumbles Miranda continued. When the two of them parted ways and the herbs that Jessica took with her all died in a week, Miranda chocked it all up to the holy water.

She met her husband at church. The two of them both sat in the back, on opposite sides of the aisle, neither one entirely comfortable with being there. Miranda was slipping out early one Thursday morning. The tall stained glass windows and thick stone walls of the church had blocked out the sounds of the rain storm that had crept up and was now drenching the city streets. She stood in the doorway feeling the wind blow through her dress and trying to keep her new leather purse from getting splashed.  When she decided to step out into the rain she slipped on the stone step. If a large and somewhat rough hand hadn’t caught her she would have tumbled into the wet and crowded street.

“Share my umbrella?” the man offered.

Miranda could tell from his eyes that he was laughing at her and could feel herself blush uncontrollably.

“I’m alright, thanks.” She pulled away and stepped carefully into the rain again. He followed her, holding the umbrella over her head. They walked in silence for a long time. Miranda wanted to take a peek at him but the awkwardness was increasing with every step. She tripped again, and he caught her. This time he laughed out loud and so did she, blushing again but letting herself look at him. He was a little chubby, but tall enough to carry it. He was wearing thick boots, a miraculous medal, and no wedding ring.

“Let’s get some coffee.” he said.

They spent two hours at the cafe, watching the rain and talking. He told her all about his life. He told her about his Spanish mother who raised him and his two brothers all by herself, how she taught them to speak both English and Spanish, and the value of a work ethic. He told her how her worked all through highschool and now was a construction foreman. He told her how he cared for his mother all through her cancer, and promised her he would light a candle for her every day after she was gone.

The next morning at mass he sat next to her and they went for coffee again. They did this every week day for two months when he proposed. And she instantly said yes. They had a civil wedding. They said this was to save money, but truthfully although they met in a church neither one of them was entirely at home there.

They moved in to a studio apartment and were each other’s entire world. So when a beam fell at a job site shattering his neck, it shattered Miranda too. She refused to touch anything in the apartment and spent every spare minute sitting in the pew that they had shared. The only thing that got her through these times was the quiet ritual of bringing home holy water to her window box garden. As time went on the plants started to take over. Carrots and lettuce grew next to each other in the kitchen sink, ivy climbed the living room wall, a small tree pushed its way in through the door.  Everything she touched seemed to grow until she was living in a garden.

Father Michael had been at his first parish assignment one month. The older parishioners viewed him with scepticism and blatantly prayed the rosary through his homilies. No one would shake his hand as they left. And then there was the old lady who took gallons of holy water every day. He rubbed his temples furiously but the headache persisted. What on earth was she doing with all that holy water? And why when he tried to ask her had she snarled at him? When he had imagined tending a flock he had imagined young happy parishioners who listened respectfully. He had been trying to read the Bible but he couldn’t focus. The snow outside was starting to turn to slush and his new rectory was actually old and drafty. He turned on the tv.

“E.M.T.s responded to a nine one one call and found an old woman unconscious in the middle of what seems to be the biggest indoor garden in the city, complete with two apple trees, five tomato plants, and a pumpkin. It’s unclear how all these plants were able to grow indoors or why the old woman is unconscious.”

Father Michael was already out the door. He knew that face. His first parishioner needed him.

No one questioned the priest as he walked through the halls of St. Joseph’s hospital, so Father Michael was able to find Miranda’s bed fairly quickly. The hospital was far warmer than the rectory and her bedside was calm. He opened his small black briefcase that held his oils and began to pray. It wasn’t until his prayers were done that he opened his eyes and noticed a handful of his parishioners watching him. Silently the older men and women joined him around Miranda’s bedside. One of them pulled out a crystal beaded rosary and began to pray, silently mouthing the words. And together they waited. They waited when her heart stopped. They waited when the doctors tried to restart it. They waited when time of death was pronounced. And they all waited while Father Michael placed a drop of holy water on her forehead.

The House

I am on top of a hill, looking down on the town. Down there all the houses are new. They popped up almost overnight with their square corners and brilliant white paint. They look so stalwart, but I know in fifty years they will be in worse shape than I. They will sag and droop and someone will board up their windows and paint a large red ‘x’ on all of their doors. And one gray day a giant yellow truck with arms and claws will roll into the town and one by one all the square white houses will disappear into heaps of splintered wood. Then they will all be replaced. And I will see them built, and lived in, and destroyed. Because I am timeless. I was not built by a machine but with human hands. A man who wanted to protect his family cut down the trees for my walls and collected the stones for my foundation. He worked hard for many months, chopping, sawing, hammering, and placing. His hands became rough and he became sunburnt, and together the two of us took shape.

When he was finished he moved his family in. The life of a human is a strange thing. They are always changing and growing. I watched as his wife gave birth, one human becoming two. I watched while his three sons learned to walk and then to run and then leave. And then they came back with their own children. I watched the sons leave for war and their children wait for their fathers to return, still growing in their absence. And this cycle went on. Birth, growth, war, death, until one day a father and a mother and a daughter packed everything that would fit into their car and left.

Then I stood empty, but not for long. Two sparrows built a nest in my chimney. They worked hard on their little house, as hard as the man had worked on me. And I watched the cycle again in miniature. But this time it was different, quieter. Instead of watching in curiosity I let the sensations fill me. Never before had I felt the fluttering of wings or felt the tiny lightness of the sparrows straw-like feet.

Other animals followed the example of the sparrows. First it was a family of mice that moved into what used to be my kitchen, burrowing into the corner of the cupboard. A squirrel started to hide his acorns in my attic and one feral cat slinked around just outside, waiting for the mice to venture forth. I watched the menagerie grow as the moss grew thicker on my stone foundation and on my shingled roof.

Then one day I felt the old familiar feeling of human feet on my front steps. It was a boy and girl, holding hands.

“Are you sure you want to go in?” He said. “People say it’s haunted. She squeezed his hand a little tighter.

“Yes.”

They stepped inside and stood in silence. The girl screamed when one of the mice scurried across my floor, and the boy laughed

“Watch out for the ghost mice.”

She slapped him, but didn’t let go of his hand.

“It’s kinda beautiful in here. I like the way the light looks coming in the dirty window.”

“Here, have a beer.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two beer cans. She took hers and started walking slowly around my large front room.

“I wonder if it’s safe in here. It’s so old, maybe the wood it rotten.”

He watched her, studying her and she studied me. She ran her fingertips slowly along my window sill and took a small sip of her beer.

“Do you want to explore the attic?”

She turned around quickly. “What about the ghosts?”

“That’s the whole point silly. Come on. Let’s find the stairs.”

They looked for a long time, not realising that I don’t have stairs, only a trap door with a ladder. I felt the first rain drop on my roof. It was cool and the moss soaked it up. About the same time that he found the trap door she noticed the rain.

“It’s raining, do you think we should still go up?”

“Of course.” He reached up and pulled down the door showering them in dust. The ladder creaked loudly and landed with a thud, but it was still solid. I was still solid. He took her hand again. “Let’s check it out.”

The rain was loud in my attic. The two spent some time sifting through the relics of previous inhabitants, things no one wanted to take with them. She spent some time with a broken rocking horse, while he studied the craftsmanship of my roof.

“It’s amazing the roof isn’t leaking. Someone built this incredibly well.”

“It’s kinda sad up here. Can we go? I think the rain is letting up.”

“Yeah, but I think I heard thunder. Let’s go see if we can see the storm from out front.”

The two made their way back down and closed my trapdoor. He took her hand again and they sat on my front steps.

“There it is.” He said. “I think it’s coming closer.”

I waited with them. As the thunder got louder and the lightning got brighter she seemed to cheer up, squealing in delight with each roll of thunder. It grew louder and louder until it cracked above me splintering my wooden frame and sending a sudden heat through my body. The boy and girl sprang to their feet and started to run. The heat was building up behind my windows and spreading through my walls. I felt every flame as it roared within me devouring hard work and memories. Just as I was about to collapse the rain started again. It rained hard this time, each drop quenching and soothing the heat. It continued to rain long after the fire was gone, soaking my timbers.

I am on top of a hill, looking down. My roof is cracked and my walls are charred. In my attic is half of an old broken rocking horse. But I am still here, part of me will always be here.

Ghost Train

We take the orange line to school every day. It squeaks and rattles noisily as it crawls on its path of metal. The lights always flicker and even on the hottest days icy drafts will waft in from nowhere. We all sit close together even though we are usually the only people in our car. Jane always tries to get us to sing songs mom taught us when she was alive. Billy hardly remembers mom, he was so young when she died, but we all remember the songs. We feel somehow safer when we belt out ‘the water is wide’. Once we get to school we all go our separate ways and go about our day silently dreading that moment when that last bell rings and we have to step back on the empty train.

This day it was a hot day, very sunny and lazy. I had spent the whole math class watching a fly crawl up the window sill and then slip back down on the drops of condensation. When the bell rang I jumped, hitting my knee on the metal bar on the underbelly of my desk. My heart was still beating a little faster when I met Jane and Billy at the playground. Jane looked pale today and her eyes were red and puffy. She was holding tightly to Billy’s hand. He was trying desperately to wiggle free.

“Have you been crying again Jane?”

“It doesn't matter.” She quickly avoided my gaze. “Let’s go home. I’m starving.”

“Did they take your lunch again? Those bitches. Here I saved you half my granola bar.” I grabbed Billy’s other hand before he could break away. “Let’s go.”

We walked slowly today because of the oppressive heat and to let Jane eat her food. She looked so thin, especially in my old hand me down sweatshirt. “I wish you would let me punch out at least one of those bullies. Then they would leave you alone.”

“Punch the bitches Jane!”

“Don’t swear Billy. And don’t punch anyone either. That’s not the way to deal.”

The streets were pretty empty. No one wanted to be outside today. There was one old dog lying on the sidewalk with his tongue out panting slowly. He didn’t even lift his head as we walked by or seem to be bothered by the fly that was buzzing around his nose. The train station was deserted too. We all sat in silence waiting for the train to arrive. Every little sound seemed louder and more ugly today. Usually it would be this time that Jane would start singing. But not today. Today she sat still, licking the last of the chocolate off her lips. Billy’s eyes kept closing and he kept jerking himself back awake. Poor kid let out a little yelp when the train screeched to a stop in front of us. The doors slid violently open and I hesitated for a minute. I had a strange feeling we were about to enter a giant mouth and be slowly digested.

“Come on.” I said, dragging the others to their feet. They seemed more reluctant than me but I knew my job as the oldest was to get them home every day. As we boarded the train we were met by an icy blast. It wasn't pleasant. It was the kind of cold you feel when you have a really bad fever and all you want to do is lie out in the sunshine for hours. Billy gripped my hand tighter and we all sat cautiously down. The doors stayed open just long enough to taunt us and then they slammed shut. I could hear Jane breathing heavily. I looked up and that was when I noticed that we were not alone in the train. The old man in the corner was staring at us and my eyes locked with his. He smiled a very yellow lopsided smile. I forced myself to look away. “Twenty minutes.” I whispered to Jane, although she knew as well as I did how long the train ride was. None of us wanted to let go hands.

That was when the train stopped and all the lights flickered out. I could hear Jane’s breath get caught in her throat and she started to cough. Pale emergency lights illuminated the edges of the car and gave enough light so I could see the old man’s face. He was still looking at me, and still smiling.

Billy’s palm was sweaty in mine, but i gripped it even tighter. I forced myself to look and make sure the others were all right. Billy’s eyes were wide and filling with tears. “It’s ok Billy. It’s just a minor hiccup. The train will start again soon.” My voice sounded loud and strange even though I was whispering. I glanced over at Jane. She was staring straight ahead. I followed her gaze to see what she was looking at. The space in front of her was empty.

“Jane.” I hissed. “Jane. What should we do?”

“I can’t look away.” she said so softly.

“Jane there is nothing there.”

Billy let out a little whimper. The tears were running down his cheeks now. “It’s ok, it’s ok.” I said over and over. I looked back at the old man. He was starting to stand up. I knew what this was. This was a mugging. We had very little with us, but it seemed like he had even less. “You stay back!” I said as loudly as I could manage.

“It didn't work, she’s still coming.”

I looked over at her again. She was still staring into space.

“Jane. He’s going to mug us I need your help.”

She finally turned and looked at me. “She’s not going to mug us.” her voice was shaking audibly. “She’s going to kill us.”

“Shut up Jane. You’re scaring Billy. No one is going to kill us.”

Billy buried his face in my arm. And then we all heard it. The slow scratch of a blade being dragged along the window. The old man stood still for a minute, listening. Then he took another step forward.

“I want mom.” Billy sobbed quietly. “I want mom.”

Mom used to come into our room every night. She would take a flashlight and shine it into every dark corner. “Monsters don’t like light.” she would say with a smile. Then she would sit on the floor and sing to us until we all were asleep. It would take me longer to fall asleep than the other two. I would stay still and quiet, but somehow mom always knew I was not sleeping. And she would stay and sing. I think she loved it as  much  as I did.

I cleared my throat and started to sing, putting my other hand on Billy’s head. “The water is wide, I cannot cross o’er. And neither have I wings to fly.” I looked at Jane forcing myself not to look at the smiling old man. She looked back at me and joined it. “Give me a boat that can carry two. And both shall row, my love and I.” Billy lifted his little head and started the next verse, his voice still a pure soprano. “A ship there is, and she sails the sea.” The window in front of us was suddenly illuminated by a small beam of light. It grew brighter and brighter until we were all forced to close our eyes. We kept singing louder and louder holding each other tightly. We were singing so loudly I almost missed it but I thought I heard something familiar but faint. A fourth voice was singing softly with us. I forced myself to open my eyes and although the light stung my head and caused tears to roll down my face in the center of the train was beautiful silhouette. I closed my eyes again and kept singing. At some point the train must have started back up because when I opened my eyes again we were at our stop. The old man was lying in the corner and he wasn’t breathing. Everything else was the same. The lights were flickering, and the air was cold.

We walked the rest of the way in silence. I didn't tell them I thought I saw mom, but Jane told me years later she was sure she heard mom’s voice that day. As for Billy I hope he forgets the whole thing, We all pretend it didn't happen. But that night Billy started to go to bed with a flashlight,