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xp_logsPaige and Angelo finally make it to church. Except... not really in Paige's case. Did we mention Paige isn't big on religion? We get a little glimpse into the past where she once was a good little Catholic (Christian? Baptist? What are the Guthries again?) girl and have a visit by the ladies with obnoxious hats.
The door is heavy when she pushes it open and dampens the roar outside to a gentle hum as it swings shut. Heavy like her legs feel, heavy like her chest and her shoulders and her head. Paige doesn’t want to be here, didn’t want to put up with the stares and the whispers. Doesn’t want to be wearing a skirt. But she is.
She’s here, in this tiny room off the main hall used for weddings and sermons like the one that is going on right now. When the priest, pastor, preacher – she’s forgotten what they’re called by now, it’s been so long – asks her to stay and listen to his words she shakes her head at him and doesn’t bother to smile. He looks mildly insulted but Paige doesn’t care and asks quietly where she might light a candle, eyes shifting to find somewhere that doesn’t hold a cross. There is a dawning realization on his round features and he gives her directions without pointing. He understands.
Paige stares back at the old women in their funny hats and makes gentle ‘excuse me’s as she passes so as not to take advantage of their swollen, high heeled feet. They don’t approve of her; the only thing they have not frowned on is her very proper grey sheath dress, gloves and well polished shoes. Her disrespect will not to tolerated in a place like this.
There is no one here, in this tiny room, though, but Paige and a very large Mary and her son, who seem to be waiting for her to do something. “I am not here for me,” she says under her breath, staring back at them defiantly, before making her way to the front. There is a bundle of sticks of which one she takes, lighting from one candle to another and then goes to sit down in one of the pews. Checking once more to be sure she is all alone, she closes her eyes and clasps her hands.
“Hey Cecilia,” Paige says quietly, pausing a moment out of a long forgotten respect. “I know you haven’t heard from me in a while. Not since Josh. He’s Jay now, but you probably know that. But you know how it is. Father ups and dies and you just start not remembering why you needed a God in the first place. Especially since... well. You know the story. I’ve already told you and your friends once or twice.”
“But this time. This time it’s a little different. I have this friend and- well, I guess he’s more than a friend. Maybe I should have gone to the Patron Saint of poly relationships, is there one of those? I suppose not. Just have mercy on my soul, or however it goes, and hear me out, would you? So, this friend of mine. He’s in a little bit of trouble, and I was sort of hoping you could help him out for me. Or for him. Or just out of the goodness of your own heart, one of those sorts of things. He fancies himself a musician too, you see. I was going to use the Patron Saint of boys who wear too much eyeliner as an excuse to angst, but they don’t have one. I looked it up. But it’s okay; I like you better anyway. You’re a tough little thing and I respect that.”
“The trouble he’s going through, the pain, it’s really not his fault and he doesn’t deserve it. He’s gone through enough already, Cecilia, enough for a hundred other men. This just doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t see how any good could come of this, and I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard. So the only thing I can think of is that you’ve got to help him. Help him back to me. I don’t think I could... I’m not sure... well. I suppose you could figure it out on your own, but I’d miss him terribly. Grown rather attached to the boy. If you want to punish someone for my sins, let me be the one to take them. Don’t get to him through me. He doesn’t deserve this. I can take whatever you give me, but just don’t hurt him anymore. Please.”
“I don’t have any more words, Cecelia. You know I’ve never been good at them. Take it under consideration; send word up to whoever’s in charge. I’m counting on you. Amen.”
She opens her eyes to find Angelo beside her, rosary in hand and mouth moving quickly in silent Latin. It’s only now that she realizes that the hum from outside has turned into a louder buzz and the sermon must be over. There’s a warmth on her face that can only be tears, but luckily Angelo believes in letting God figure out the rest of the prayer for himself and looks up, slinging an arm around her to pull her close. She buries her nose in his shirt and tries not to shake to hard, as he buries his own in her hair and tries not to do the same. They’re probably creating a spectacle. They don’t care. Old women in hats be damned.
The door is heavy when she pushes it open and dampens the roar outside to a gentle hum as it swings shut. Heavy like her legs feel, heavy like her chest and her shoulders and her head. Paige doesn’t want to be here, didn’t want to put up with the stares and the whispers. Doesn’t want to be wearing a skirt. But she is.
She’s here, in this tiny room off the main hall used for weddings and sermons like the one that is going on right now. When the priest, pastor, preacher – she’s forgotten what they’re called by now, it’s been so long – asks her to stay and listen to his words she shakes her head at him and doesn’t bother to smile. He looks mildly insulted but Paige doesn’t care and asks quietly where she might light a candle, eyes shifting to find somewhere that doesn’t hold a cross. There is a dawning realization on his round features and he gives her directions without pointing. He understands.
Paige stares back at the old women in their funny hats and makes gentle ‘excuse me’s as she passes so as not to take advantage of their swollen, high heeled feet. They don’t approve of her; the only thing they have not frowned on is her very proper grey sheath dress, gloves and well polished shoes. Her disrespect will not to tolerated in a place like this.
There is no one here, in this tiny room, though, but Paige and a very large Mary and her son, who seem to be waiting for her to do something. “I am not here for me,” she says under her breath, staring back at them defiantly, before making her way to the front. There is a bundle of sticks of which one she takes, lighting from one candle to another and then goes to sit down in one of the pews. Checking once more to be sure she is all alone, she closes her eyes and clasps her hands.
“Hey Cecilia,” Paige says quietly, pausing a moment out of a long forgotten respect. “I know you haven’t heard from me in a while. Not since Josh. He’s Jay now, but you probably know that. But you know how it is. Father ups and dies and you just start not remembering why you needed a God in the first place. Especially since... well. You know the story. I’ve already told you and your friends once or twice.”
“But this time. This time it’s a little different. I have this friend and- well, I guess he’s more than a friend. Maybe I should have gone to the Patron Saint of poly relationships, is there one of those? I suppose not. Just have mercy on my soul, or however it goes, and hear me out, would you? So, this friend of mine. He’s in a little bit of trouble, and I was sort of hoping you could help him out for me. Or for him. Or just out of the goodness of your own heart, one of those sorts of things. He fancies himself a musician too, you see. I was going to use the Patron Saint of boys who wear too much eyeliner as an excuse to angst, but they don’t have one. I looked it up. But it’s okay; I like you better anyway. You’re a tough little thing and I respect that.”
“The trouble he’s going through, the pain, it’s really not his fault and he doesn’t deserve it. He’s gone through enough already, Cecilia, enough for a hundred other men. This just doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t see how any good could come of this, and I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard. So the only thing I can think of is that you’ve got to help him. Help him back to me. I don’t think I could... I’m not sure... well. I suppose you could figure it out on your own, but I’d miss him terribly. Grown rather attached to the boy. If you want to punish someone for my sins, let me be the one to take them. Don’t get to him through me. He doesn’t deserve this. I can take whatever you give me, but just don’t hurt him anymore. Please.”
“I don’t have any more words, Cecelia. You know I’ve never been good at them. Take it under consideration; send word up to whoever’s in charge. I’m counting on you. Amen.”
She opens her eyes to find Angelo beside her, rosary in hand and mouth moving quickly in silent Latin. It’s only now that she realizes that the hum from outside has turned into a louder buzz and the sermon must be over. There’s a warmth on her face that can only be tears, but luckily Angelo believes in letting God figure out the rest of the prayer for himself and looks up, slinging an arm around her to pull her close. She buries her nose in his shirt and tries not to shake to hard, as he buries his own in her hair and tries not to do the same. They’re probably creating a spectacle. They don’t care. Old women in hats be damned.
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