Бри Деспейн - The Dark Divine

"Got any more of that tea?" Dad asked.

I jumped at the sound of his voice.

He pulled off his leather gloves and unbuttoned his wool overcoat. His nose and cheeks were bright red. "I could use a pick-me-up."

"Um, yeah." I mopped up the puddle I'd spilled on the counter. "It's chamomile, though."

Dad crinkled his Rudolph nose.

"I think I saw some peppermint in the cupboard. I'll get it for you."

"Thanks, Gracie." He pulled a stool up to the counter.

I took the kettle off the stove and poured him a cup. "Bad day?" He'd been so busy with the charity drive and the endless studying in his office for the last month; it had been weeks since we'd really talked.

Dad wrapped his hands around his mug. "Maryanne Duke has pneumonia again. At least I think that's what it is."

"Oh, no. I just saw her last night. She looked tired but I didn't think ... Is she okay?" I asked. Maryanne was my dad's oldest parishioner. I'd known her forever, and Jude and I had been helping out around her house ever since the last of her daughters moved to Wisconsin when I was twelve. She was practically our surrogate grandma.

"She refuses to go to the doctor. All she wants is for me to pray for her." Dad sighed. He looked worn, crumpled--as if the parish itself rested on his shoulders. "Some people expect miracles."

I handed him a peppermint tea bag. "Isn't that why God invented doctors?"

Dad chuckled. "Now, would you go tell that to Maryanne? Your brother can't even talk any sense into her, and you know how much she loves him. He told her that if she'd gone to the doctor last time, she'd probably be well enough to sing her solo tomorrow." Dad hung his head low; his nose just missed the brim of his mug. "I don't know where I'll find a replacement this late. And tomorrow is the kickoff for next semester's scholarship drive."

Dad believed that everyone deserved a quality Christian education, so he sponsored a biannual scholarship fund-raiser at the parish for Holy Trinity Academy. Eighty-

something-year-old Maryanne Duke would always sing her infamous solo of "Holy Father, in Thy Mercy," and Dad and the principal and other members of the Board of

Regents would give talks on charity and "doing unto others." Mom thought that Dad gave so much to the community that Jude and I should qualify for the scholarship fund.

"Maybe I should have opted for a children's choir this year," Dad said before taking a sip. "Remember how much fun you and Jude had singing with your friends? That was the best children's choir in the state."

"Yeah, it was great," I said softly. I picked up a spoon and stirred my tea. It had grown cold unusually fast or maybe that was just me. I was surprised that Dad would bring up the children's choir. Jude, Daniel, and I started the singing group while Daniel was living with us. But it had lasted only a few months before we lost our lead tenor. Daniel had had the voice of an angel surprising depth and clarity for such a mischievous boy--before it turned raspy and bitter, like what I'd heard last night.

When Daniel's mother took him back, it was a blow not only to our choir and our family, but to Daniel most of all.

"You could do it," Dad said.

I spilled my tea again. "What?"

"You could sing Maryanne's solo." Dad grinned, his eyes lighting up. "You have a beautiful voice."

"I'm out of practice. I'd sound like a frog."

"You would really be saving the day." He put his hand on mine. "Besides, you seem like you could use a spiritual lift."

I looked down at my mug. I hated it when Dad could see into my soul. It was like his own, special pastor superpower.

"I'll help," Charity said from behind us. She'd come in from outside with an armload of library books. "I can sing with you, Grace. It could be a duet." Charity gave me an eager smile. She loved to sing when she thought no one was around, but I knew her timid voice couldn't carry a whole solo in a crowded church.

"Thanks. I'd like that," I said to her.

Dad clapped his hands. "Charity never faileth," he said, and hugged the two of us together.

SUNDAY MORNING

I ended up sitting next to Don Mooney on the temporary choir benches behind the altar. Charity sat on the other side of me, wringing a bulletin in her hands. Don bellowed out "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" about two octaves lower than the rest of the choir. He sang with such exuberance and clumsiness that I found myself almost warming to him for the first time.

"It's a shame about them windows," Don whispered to me while Principal Conway delivered his biannual address. Don looked up at the clear glass windows above the crowded balcony, where the beautiful depiction of Christ knocking on a door used to be.

When a fire, a little over three years ago, gutted most of the balcony but left the stained-glass windows intact, they were celebrated as a miracle. However, we all mourned their loss when Dad reported that a misplaced ladder during reconstruction had shattered the windows. And since they had been crafted over a hundred and fifty years ago, there was no way to replace the stained glass on our budget.

"I dreamed I had a time machine and went back and stopped the fire," Don whispered. "That way they'd still be there."

Principal Conway glanced back at us. Don's whispers were more like a low shout. I held my finger to my lips. Don blushed and slumped on the bench.

"As I was saying," the principal said, "Holy Trinity Academy can offer hope and guidance to all teens from every walk of life. However, it is up to us to help less fortunate students to succeed. So I ask each and every one of you to ponder this question: what can you do, how much can you give, to bring grace and salvation unto even one soul?" Principal Conway patted his handkerchief to his lips and took his seat next to my father.

The organ keyed up, and I sat there wondering if someone's salvation could really be linked to getting an education from HTA.

Charity pulled on my sleeve. "It's our turn," she croaked.

We stood at the podium, and even though we'd rehearsed for over three hours yesterday, my hands started to sweat. I looked out to the audience. Mom, Jude, and

James sat in the front row, smiling at us. Pete Bradshaw had come in late but was now sitting with his mother a few rows back. He gave me a big thumbs-up.

My vision darted to the windows above the balcony and stayed there while Charity and I sang.

I imagined the stained-glass windows there, with Christ standing outside an old hardwood door. "Ask and ye shall receive, knock and it shall be opened unto you," my father had once told Don Mooney, and it had driven the giant man to tears. I remembered finding Daniel alone in the chapel shortly after Don's first arrival at the parish.

He'd looked up at the stained-glass windows and asked the same question I had only days before--why my father had forgiven Don even though he had hurt him.

"Shouldn't he have told somebody or called the cops?" Daniel asked.

I tried to repeat what my father had told me, but I was still so confused I'm sure it came out all wrong. "Dad says we have to forgive everybody. No matter how bad someone is or how much they hurt you. He says people do bad things because they're desperate."

Daniel screwed up his eyes and wiped his nose on his sleeve. I thought he was about to cry, but then he punched me in the arm. "You Divines never make any sense."

He shoved his hands into his pockets and limped up the aisle. At least his injured leg was getting better. It seemed like he could barely walk only a few hours ago when we picked him up for church. Daniel said he'd fallen out of the walnut tree the previous morning. But I knew he was lying. Yd been out front all day planting petunias with my mother, and I knew he hadn't come out of his house.