Pray for Us Sinners

FICTION

by Daniel Southwell

          Keith was sure she would have said it was a very nice date up until the car accident. It started at a candlelit restaurant downtown, progressed back to Keith’s house, and then in the morning he was driving her home when he ran a red light. The impact was on her side of the car and threw them sideways. When the screeching and rending of metal were done, she was lying silently against the concave car door, hair full of glass. Her name was Sofie. She was blonde and a few years younger than Keith, but not so many that it was a big deal. She worked in quality control for a call center. When the message said Your call may be monitored, it was her doing the monitoring. At dinner she had lifted each bite on her fork and inspected it curiously before she ate it. When he’d told her he was a widower, she was sympathetic but didn’t act like it made him pitiful to her.
         Oh no, he whispered. Oh no oh no oh no.
         She murmured and a trickle of blood ran out of the corner of her mouth. He hoped it was just from a bitten tongue.
         I’m going to call 911, he said. Don’t worry. We’ll get you to the hospital. And I’ll stay here with you until they get here.
         She murmured again.
         He stepped out of the car while he dialed. As he waited for it to ring, he realized he was in the shadow of a towering Catholic church, and a stained-glass window of the Virgin Mary was looking down on him, placid and smiling. I’ve been in a car accident, he said into the phone, still looking up at Mary. By the Catholic church. My date is hurt.
         Then he climbed back into the car and sat in the passenger seat. She turned groggily toward him.
         You pulled out, she said. In front of them.
         I know, he said. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’m going to make it right. I called an ambulance and I’m going to stay with you until they get here.
         She closed her eyes.
         I’m sorry, he said. So sorry.
         More blood ran out of her mouth.
         Please forgive me, he said. Please.
         When she tried to talk, still more blood came out. She leaned forward and spat it in the console of the car.
         Please, he said.
         She nodded, and then laid her head back, and looked peaceful. Keith laid his head back too.
         Don’t go to sleep, he said.
         She murmured.
         Together they waited for the sirens.
         The ambulance came and took her, and the driver of the other car. Keith declined the ride because he knew he couldn’t afford it. But as they loaded her up, he took her pale cold hand and squeezed it and said, I’ll come check on you. As soon as they let in visitors. You’re going to be ok.
         And then he was alone on the sidewalk with the lights of the police cars reflecting on the stained-glass window overhead. He looked up at Mary and said, She’s going to be ok. She’s going to make it.

         He came into the office an hour late with specks of blood on his shirt.
         You didn’t get here until ten, his supervisor said when he came by Keith’s cubicle. He was a small man with a goatee that made him seem more middle-aged than he was.
         I know, Keith said. I’m sorry. I was in a car accident.
         Oh god, his supervisor said. Are you ok? Is that . . . your blood?
         No, Keith said. I was with a young lady. She went to the hospital.
         Jesus, his supervisor said. Sorry for cussing. That’s scary, I’m sorry.
         Thanks, Keith said. You’re sure it’s ok I was late?
         Under the circumstances, of course, his supervisor said.
         Ok, Keith said.
         What?
         I think I’d like to clear it with Cindy upstairs. Just to make sure it’s ok.
         I said it’s ok, man. You’re good. I’m just glad you’re alright. Take off early if you need to, go make sure your lady is safe. I’m sure this is hard for you . . . after . . . you know.
         Ok, Keith said. I guess I will. Thanks.
         You’re dedicated, his supervisor said. To the job. I appreciate that.
         Keith thanked him and sat for a moment longer, idly handling his stapler and watching his screen saver bounce slowly around the screen.

         At home the sun was shining through the window onto the few plants he’d managed to keep alive. He watered them. The droplets on their leaves caught the sun. He sat beside the plants and breathed a deep sigh. After a while he went out to water the flowers in the front yard and when he was done he sat there for a bit, too.
         Are you alright? someone asked.
         He looked up.
         It was a young man talking, lanky and barely more than a boy. He had one of those haircuts that younger men had, and a baggy white T-shirt and an earring.
         Just sitting there in the yard, I wondered if you were ok, he said.
         I’m ok, Keith said. Just watering the plants.
         Great, the young man said. I’m Brixton. Me and my partner just moved in next door. We share a wall. If we ever get too loud, just let us know, ok?
         Ok, Keith said.
         At that moment, a young woman poked her head out the door of the unit beside Keith’s.
         Oh, she said. Hi.
         Keith had thought the young man was gay when he said he had a partner, but it looked like the partner was a woman. She was lanky like Brixton and had a bowl cut like Keith’s mom used to give him when he was a child. She smiled.
         This is our neighbor, Brixton said.
         Keith stood up. I’m Keith, he said.
         Good to meet you, the young woman said. They were both friendly and polite in a way that felt experimental, like it was the first time they were meeting the neighbors as adults out on their own, and they were playacting a little bit.

         He’d come to the hospital enough times that he recognized some of the nurses and wondered if they recognized him too. Sofie was up on the second floor.
         There you go, the nurse said as she left him at the door.
         Sofie was lying peacefully in bed. Other than a small bandage on her eyebrow, she looked healthy. Keith knew all her injuries were under the sheet.
         Knock knock, he said gently, and came in. It was a double room, but no one was on the far side, and the curtain was pulled back so Sofie could have sunlight from the window. Beautiful day outside, he said.
         She sighed when she saw who it was. Just softly. But it was a sad, weary sound. He sat beside her bed. There was a tract or pamphlet by his elbow, with a painting of Mary on the cover. A different Mary than the one on the window, a beatific Renaissance Mary, but he still turned the pamphlet over so she was facing down.
         Hello, Sofie said.
         I’m sure me being here reminds you of the accident, he said.
         I didn’t forget.
         He chuckled. I’m glad you kept your sense of humor, he said. That’s one of the things I liked about you. On our date. Which feels so long ago now.
         Sofie adjusted her sheet with a wince. You slowed down, she said.
         What?
         At the red light. You must have seen it was red because you slowed down.
         I’m sorry, he said.
         Did you see it?
         No.
         Then why did you slow down?
         I don’t know, he said. It’s all a blur. And I’m so, so sorry.
         She just looked at him.
         At any rate, Keith said.
         At any rate?
         I’ve visited people in the hospital a lot, he said. So I think I’ve learned what’s comforting to them. I can walk you through it if you want.
         But it’s your fault, she said.
         It is. And I’m sorry. That’s why I’m here. This is my mess to fix.
         The TV across the room was muted, but she seemed distracted by the old sitcom playing silently.
         Sofie, he said. You don’t seem like you’re at peace.
         On the TV, a woman in a suit was running down a hallway, scattering paperwork.
         Sofie, he said.
         I’m on a morphine drip, she said.
         And that’s helping?
         I think so.
         You know what would help even more?
         Religion or something? Just tell me.
         Forgiveness.
         People were chasing after the woman on the TV.
         You have physical wounds, Keith said. He tried not to let the speech sound prepared, even though it was. But you have spiritual wounds, too. Because you feel you’ve been wronged. You have been wronged. By me. I’ll admit it. I was distracted.
         You didn’t admit it to the police. You said the light was green.
         So forgive me, Keith said. And be healed.
         That’s not going to heal me.
         Emotionally, he said. You’re all knotted up with blame. But if you release that blame, you’ll be free. Forgive me.
         The show went to commercial, and she finally turned to look at him again. As she did, she made a tiny resigned sound, like she was unclenching something, and she said, Alright. I forgive you.
         And she lay back deeper into the pillow and did look more peaceful.
         He put a hand on hers. Do you feel better? he asked.
         She nodded. And then before she could reconsider, he gave her a pat on the hand and said goodbye.

         When he got home, Brixton and his partner were sitting on a porch swing like an old married couple. The swing looked brand-new and the packaging from the mounting kit was sitting at their feet.
         They waved and said hello, and he nodded to them on his way through the front door.

         The next day he went up to the administrative offices on the second floor, where they had an espresso bar and magazines on little tables with false granite tops. He stood outside Cindy’s office, waiting for her to notice him. When she didn’t, he cleared his throat and said, I’ve been late to work four times.
         She looked up. Excuse me? she said.
         Since I’ve started, I’ve been late four times. And I’ve taken too long to get back from lunch three times.
         She looked around. Can you take this up with your supervisor? I’m sure he has it under control.
         And I’ve eaten other people’s lunches, Keith said. Three days ago I ate a ham sandwich that someone left in the breakroom in a brown bag.
         She finally looked right at him. She was a tall angular woman with very straight brown hair, and she was framed by the big window behind her, overlooking the town. Why did you do that? she asked.
         I was hungry, he said.
         You can’t just do that, she said.
         I know, he said. I’m sorry.
         Tell it to whoever’s lunch it was, she said.
         He nodded.
         Is there anything else? she asked.
         I tampered with my computer, he said.
         What?
         A couple of times when I needed a break. I was so tired and the work never stopped, so I broke the computer just a little bit so I could have a breather while IT fixed it.
         She stood up and leaned on her desk.
         I just thought you should know. Do you forgive me?
         She stared at him. What? No! You’re fired.
         Oh, Keith said. I thought if I admitted it and apologized that you would forgive me.
         We’ll write you a letter of termination, she said.
         Ok, he said again softly. He sat down in the doorway of her office and stared at her wall until she called his supervisor to come get him packed up.
         Are you crying? his supervisor asked.
         Keith didn’t answer.

         Brixton was out on the porch swing alone when Keith got there. He was rocking slowly, drinking a wine cooler, looking at his phone. There was a box of wine coolers at his feet.
         Hey, Brixton said. You look bad. Are you ok? What’s all that stuff in the box?
         Keith sat on the steps of his own house and sorted through the contents of the box. His stapler that he’d bought with his own money, and his plain white mug.
         Why are you named Brixton? he asked. Are you from London?
         No, Brixton said. My parents just really like The Cure.
         You mean The Clash?
         That might be the one. You want a drink?
         I’d love a drink, Keith said.
         So Brixton pulled the box of coolers closer with his foot and grabbed one out for Keith. Keith drank it in three gulps. Brixton’s eyes got wide.
         Can I have another? Keith asked.
         He drank a second at the same pace and then took a third and cradled it.
         They could hear movement somewhere inside the house. Brixton smiled unconsciously.
         How’d you two meet? Keith asked.
         In college, Brixton said. She was my math tutor, actually. I still don’t know any math, but here we are.
         Here we are, Keith said. You talk like an old person, he said.
         I’m trying, Brixton said. To seem more mature. We’re just getting started in life, you know?
         Yeah, Keith said.
         He drank half of the third cooler. He didn’t drink very much, so it was affecting him faster than he expected.
         She might not be a very good tutor, he said. If you still don’t know any math.
         Brixton laughed. She’s good at other things, he said.
         Like what?
         Like fixing bicycles. She’s a bicycle mechanic.
         Oh, Keith said. Good for her.
         And I’m a web designer, Brixton said. But I want to be a forest ecologist. I’d go back to school for it if it wasn’t for all the math.
         How do you design websites without math?
         I just design the look of them. The layout, you know.
         Ok, Keith said.
         It’s just you, right? Brixton asked.
         What do you mean?
         You’re single?
         Oh, Keith said. Yes.
         But you’ve been in relationships before?
         I have, yes.
         Can I ask for some advice?
         Keith closed his eyes and held the lip of the bottle against the divot of his chin. It was cold. Sure, he said.
         How do you keep from shutting down when you have arguments?
         Shutting down?
         She’s mad because I won’t argue with her. I just shut down. You know? Instead of arguing back.
         Is that a bad thing?
         She says I’m unwilling to engage.
         Do you argue a lot? Or does she want to argue with you a lot?
         No, not really.
         But when she tries, it’s a problem.
         Yeah.
         Is that going on today?
         Yeah.
         Keith sighed and took a very small swig, trying to pace himself.
         What you could do, he said, is make a list. Of the problems to talk about. To show her you take it seriously. And then come back to them later when you’re less emotional.
         That’s a good idea, Brixton said. I’ll start an arguments note on my phone.
         Yeah, do that, Keith said.
         Well, Brixton said. He slapped his knees like an old man. I’m going to go see if she needs some help. She’s repainting our bookshelf. She sent me outside so she could concentrate. And, you know, the fight thing.
         Ok, Keith said. He gestured with the bottle. Thanks for the drink. Actually, wait.
         Brixton stopped halfway through the door. Keith could hear the murmur of his partner’s voice coming from inside. It sounded like she had headphones on and was singing along unconsciously.
         Yeah? Brixton asked.
         I’ve been taking up a lot of your time.
         No, Brixton said. Not really.
         And I want to make sure it hasn’t bothered your partner. I should apologize to her.
         She’s fine, Brixton said. She’s great.
         Still, Keith said. Just to make sure.
         You’re good, bud, Brixton said. He grinned. We’re good.
         And before Keith could say anything else, Brixton went inside. Keith sighed and climbed over the divider to his own porch, but didn’t go inside. After a while he took off walking, holding the bottle close like that would keep anyone from noticing what it was. He sipped it slowly because he wanted it to last. He found himself getting close to the hospital. There was an inch left in his wine cooler. He set it behind a bush where he could come back to it later, and headed for the entrance.
         He stopped on the steps to steady himself. He thought he was handling his alcohol just fine. He just needed to steady himself. Then he went inside and headed for Sofie’s room.
         It’s ok, he told a nurse who asked if she could help him. I’m her date. I was. It’s ok. She knows me. He could see the nurse decide not to challenge him.
         He came to the room and sat heavily in the chair beside her bed. She rolled over and looked at him, half asleep.
         It’s you, she said.
         I’ve been thinking that you didn’t really forgive me, he said. And I think that indicates an older pattern of bitterness.
         I forgave you, she said.
         You might have been failed by some male figure in your life and you feel bitter toward him, and you’re transferring that bitterness onto me. I’m a helpful scapegoat for whoever did you wrong.
         Why are you talking like that? she asked.
         I did some counseling, he said. A while back. And I learned some stuff.
         You pulled out in front of a car, she said. And it seemed like it was on purpose.
         So I did. So I did. And I’m starting to think that I did you a favor.
         A favor?
         By giving you an opportunity to forgive me, I’ve given you an opportunity to forgive whoever you’re clinging to resentment against.
         You’re a piece of shit, she said.
         He stiffened.
         How pitiful can you get? she asked. I knew you’d be back. But I didn’t think you’d be drunk. What a loser.
         He stood up. I demand forgiveness! he shouted. I demand you release me from this burden!
         She pressed the nurse button.
         I’m sorry, he said more quietly. I’m sorry for shouting. I’m sorry for scaring you. Forgive me for that at least.
         She shook her head.
         The nurse came and asked him to leave, and he did.

         He got his bottle from behind the bush and sipped it sadly as he walked, and then eventually looked up and saw the Catholic church looming over him. He’d never been inside.
         He finished the bottle and set it carefully on the sidewalk and went inside. It was dim, and light fell in colored patches below the stained-glass windows that loomed over everything. For a moment he was alone among the pews. Then a priest came from the back in his long robe and his collar.
         Are you looking for the AA group? the priest asked. He was a plump, comfortable-looking man.
         No, Keith said.
         The priest stopped and regarded Keith with his wine cooler breath and his terrified face.
         What can I do for you? he asked.
         I want to tell my sins.
         The priest nodded. He was balding slightly and he had laugh lines even though he wasn’t at that moment laughing. A confession, he said.
         Keith nodded.
         Are you a member of the church?
         This church?
         The Roman Catholic Church.
         Yes, Keith lied.
         The priest looked at Keith gently, like a Father. I suppose I can take a confession now. Come with me.
         Keith didn’t move.
         What’s wrong, son?
         Are you the only priest?
         The only one here right now. Brother Michael is leading the AA meeting downstairs.
         Is Michael a first name?
         The priest tilted his head. Yes, Michael is his first name.
         You don’t have any other other priests? Who I could come back and see?
         Is there someone here you know? Who you’d be more comfortable with?
         There were little padded stools tucked under every pew for kneeling on. Keith pulled one out and sat on it. Have you ever gotten a massage? he asked. And they ask you if you’d be more comfortable with a man or a woman?
         I can’t say I have, the priest said.
         I think confessions should be like that.
         The priest smiled but not genuinely. His laugh lines didn’t engage. I’m afraid our church doesn’t permit women to be priests. That’s not up to me to decide, but . . .
         Is there one that does?
         The whole Catholic Church doesn’t, I mean.
         Keith started crying.
         The priest took a careful step closer. Some people have trouble talking to men. If, maybe, they’ve suffered something at the hands of a man.
         Keith shook his head.
         Would you like to talk to someone? It doesn’t have to be an official confession, the priest said.
         I’d like to be alone, Keith said. Can I just sit here for a while?
         For as long as you want, the priest said. And he retreated back out of the sanctuary. Once the priest was gone, Keith walked a slow circuit of the room. He watched the colored light on his shoes and pantlegs. Sometimes he thought he could hear the murmurs of the AA group in the basement, but mostly he heard only his own hard-bottomed shoes and the passing of traffic outside. A single fan was spinning high overhead, but it moved smoothly and didn’t make any noise. He came full circle, to the entrance, where the two tallest windows flanked the doors. The first one was Jesus, placid and smooth-faced, raising a hand in blessing, sunlight pouring through his white robe and making a bright patch on the church floor. Keith passed by Jesus. The second window was Mary.
         He stopped at the foot of her window and was bathed in her soft blue light. She was even gentler than her son but more distant. He couldn’t read her face.
         Mary, he whispered. I’m a Protestant. Or not religious. I don’t know. Point is, I don’t know how to do this.
         Mary remained unchanged. A cloud crossed the sun outside and her light dimmed but then returned. Keith breathed harder and harder. He heard the priest come out softly to check on him, but he didn’t move, and eventually the priest retreated again to wherever he was waiting.
         Mary, Keith whispered. He reached up and put a hand on the hem of her blue robe. The glass was warm from the sunshine on it.
         Mary, Keith whispered. He pressed her hand harder against her and began to cry.
         Some papers on the pulpit rustled in the slight breeze from the fan overhead.
         Mary, Keith whispered. He pushed as hard as he could and his hand went through the window with a crack. He pulled back through the hole and didn’t even look at the cuts on his palm and fingers. He heard the priest running toward him. Almost idly he turned and retrieved the closest kneeling stool and threw it through the window. Blue shards showered the sidewalk outside. Only the top half of her face remained and without her peaceful mouth, her eyes didn’t look gentle anymore. He would have gotten another stool and aimed for her eyes if the priest hadn’t been on him by then, with the drunks from downstairs right behind him. He looked at his hand as they grabbed him and saw that he was cupping it, like he was trying to hold on to the handful of blood.

         He was sitting subdued on the steps of the church when the first police officer arrived. His hand was bandaged with gauze and tape from the church first aid kit, and the officer was careful when she put the handcuffs on him. She led him to the car and put him in the back seat.
         I’m sorry, he said as they drove away.
         I’m sure you are, she said.