Cate Tiernan - A Chalice of Wind

I glanced around. A few windows overlooked the garden, but I felt safe and private. Beneath a crape myrtle tree, its bark hanging off in silken shards, stood an ancient marble bench, and I sank down onto it, burying my face in my arms. I didn't make a sound, but hot tears squeezed out of my eyes and dripped into the crooks of my elbows. I expected someone to come tap me on the shoulder at any minute, telling me the garden was private and I had to leave, but no one did, and I lay hunched over that cool marble bench for a long time, my mind screaming variations of, Someone, for God's sake, please help me.

Finally, after my arms felt numb and one thigh had gone to sleep, I slowly straightened up. I felt waterlogged and puffy and sniffled, wiping my nose on my shirtsleeve.

Try this.

I jumped, startled, almost losing my balance over the back of the bench. To make my total humiliation complete, there was a guy about my age there, holding out a crisp white handkerchief.

"How long have you been there?" I demanded, all too aware of what I must look like: flush-faced, swollen eyes, Rudolphs nose.

"Long enough to know you could use a handker-chiefT he said wryly, shaking it gently in front of me.

Okay. It was either that or blow my nose on my sleeve. Ungraciously I took the handkerchief and wiped my nose and dabbed at my eyes. Then what? Did one return a used hankie? Gross. The guy solved my dilemma by taking it from my hand and standing up. He walked to a small fountain that I hadn't even been aware of. a blue-caped, Nordic Virgin Mary, with thin streams of water running from her outstretched hands.

The guy wet the hankie and came back, wringing it out. I sighed and took it again, and since this situation was already too far gone for me to possibly salvage it, I wiped the cool, damp cloth over my face, feeling tons better.

"Thank you," I said, still unable to look at him.

"You're welcome" Uninvited, he sat down next to me, I was in no mood to make friends, so I just pre-tended he wasn't there. Now that I was calmer, I looked at the fountain, the different flowers growing in the somewhat untidy beds. Narrow walkways of well-worn brick made a knot of paths around the fountain. Small birds chirped in the thick growth of shrubs that hid the brick walls from inside.

The air was still humid here, marginally cooler than on the street. A vine grew thickly on several walls, its shiny dark green leaves surrounding heavily scented creamy flowers.

"Confederate jasmine," the guy said, as though he knew where I'd been looking. He knelt quickly and plucked a crisp white flower off a smaller shrub. Finally taking in his features, I saw that he had dark brown hair, almost black, and was tall, maybe almost six feet.

"Gardenia." He handed it to me, and I took it, inhaling its fragrance. It was almost unbearably sweet, too much scent for one flower to bear. But it was heavenly, and I tucked it behind my ear, which made the guy laugh lightly.

I managed to smile.

"I guess I'm trespassing," I said.

"I guess we both are," he agreed.'But I love to come here in the evenings, to escape the crowds and the heat."

"Do you work at the church?" I asked.

"No. But my apartment is right up there." He pointed to the third story of the building next door. "I didn't mean to spy on you. But I thought you might be sick."

"No," I said glumly, thinking, Sick of New Orleans,

"I understand" he said gently. "Sometimes it's all too much" He had a precise, crisp way of speaking, as if he'd gone to school in England. I looked at him, into his eyes, and wondered if he could possibly understand.

No, Of course not. I got up and rewet the handkerchief in the fountain. I knelt by its base, wrung out the thin cloth, and wiped my face again and the back of my neck.

“I’ll have to start carrying one of these,” I said, pressing the wet cloth against my forehead.

"You're not used to the heat," he said.

"No, I'm from Connecticut," I said. I've only been here a couple of weeks. I'm used to my air actually feeling like air."

He laughed, putting his head back. I realized that he was actually really good-looking, his throat smooth and tan, and I wondered if his chest was that color. I felt my face heat at that thought and looked down, embarrassed. When I looked up again, he was watching me intently.

"They say the heat makes people crazy" he said, his voice very quiet in the private garden. "That's why there are so many crimes of passion here-the unending heat works on you, frays your nerves. Next thing you know, your best friend has a knife to your throat."

Well, I was a little creeped out, but mostly his voice worked slowly through my veins like a drug, soothing me, calming me, taking away my raw pain.

"What did you do?" I asked seriously, and a glint of surprise lit his eyes for a moment.

He laughed again, and there was no mistaking it-I saw admiration in his eyes. Attraction. "I was speaking metaphorically. Fortunately, so far I haven't stolen my best friends girl."

For just an instant, I pictured myself, going out with some unnamed best friend and then meeting this guy, feeling this electric attraction, and knowing that soon he would steal me away. I shivered.

"What's your name?" he asked, his words falling as softly as leaves.

"Thais," I said. Tye-ees.

He stood and offered me his hand. I looked up at him, his even features, the dark eyebrows slanting over incredible eyes. I took his hand. Unbelievably, he pressed my open palm against his lips, leaving a whisper of a kiss. "My pleasure, Thais," he said, awakening every nerve ending I had. "My name is Luc"

Luc, I repeated silently,

"Come here again soon," he said, looking at me as if to memorize my features.Tll watch for you"

"I don't know when it will be," I hedged.

"It will be soon," he said confidently, and I knew that he was right.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned" Marcel whispered, the familiar words, anticipating the comfort of absolution. In this dark cubicle he was completely himself, and. everything was all right. "It's been one week since my last confession."

"Have you any sins to confess, my son?"

Brother Eric. He was always understanding.

"Yes, Father" Marcel murmured. “ I have… felt anger. Great anger."

"Feeling anger in itself is not a sin, Marcel," Brother Eric said. "It is only when you enjoy the feeling of anger or act upon it?

"I fear… were I to confront this anger, it could lead to… violence." There, it was out.

"Violence?"

Marcel took a deep breath. "I have been contacted by former… associates. I've tried to leave these people behind, Father. I've tried to escape them. I've come here These people do not acknowledge the Lord our God. They play with… fate. They have unholy power." Marcel felt his throat close. He shut his eyes, remembering that power, how it had flowed from his hands, how beautiful the world seemed when he held it.

"Explain about the violence, son," said Brother Eric.

"If I see them or one in particular-I'm afraid I will do him harm." A cold sweat broke out on Marcel's fore' head. Yes, God was listening-but He might not be the only one. What a risk he was taking,… He looked around himself, contained in this dark cubicle.

"Do him harm out of anger?"

"Yes. said Marcel. "For trying to make me renounce what is good."

"Does he so threaten you, lad, that in order to protect yourself, you'd destroy him?"

"Yes," Marcel whispered.

"You don't see another path, Marcel?"

"I can never see him again," Marcel offered. "I can refuse to go to him, to help him."

"He's asked for your help?"

"Not yet. But I think he might. He's asked to see me."