F Wilson - Midnight Mass

The other Lacey was a thinker, a questioner. She had doubts about religion, about government. She burned with an iconoclastic fire that urged her to question traditions and break with them whenever possible. She was fascinated by the old anarchists and dug up all their works. He remembered her favorite was No Treason by someone named Lysander Spooner. Instead of hanging posters of the latest teenage heartthrob boy band in her room, Lacey had pictures of Emma Goldman and Madelyn Murray O'Hare.

Joe's sister and her husband tolerated her views with a mixture of humor and apprehension. If this was the shape and scope of Lacey's teenage rebellion, they'd live with it. It was just a phase, they'd say. She'll grow out of it. Better than drunk driving or drugs or getting pregnant.

But it wasn't a phase. It was Lacey. And later, when she came out as a lesbian, they turned their backs on her. Joe had tried to talk them out of slamming the family door, but this was more than they could take.

"Who taught you to shoot?" he asked.

"A friend." She smiled. "A guy friend, believe it or not. It was a self-defense thing. He took me out to the range until I got comfortable with pulling the trigger. I'm not a great shot, but if you're within ten feet of me and you're looking for trouble, you're gone."

Joe had to smile. "Never let it be said you're not full of surprises, Lacey."

She laughed softly. "No one's ever said that."

They turned back to scrubbing the altar. They'd been at it for over an hour now. Joe was drenched with sweat and figured he smelled like a bear, but he couldn't stop until it was clean.

But it wouldn't come clean.

"What did they do to this altar?" Lacey asked.

"I don't know. This crud ... it seems part of the marble now."

The undead must have done something to the blood and foulness to make the mixture seep into the surface as it had.

"Let's take a break."

He turned sat on the floor with his back against the altar and rested. He didn't like resting because it gave him time to think. And when he started to think he realized that the odds were pretty high against his seeing tomorrow morning.

At least he'd die well fed. Their secret supplier had left them a dinner of fresh fried chicken by the front doors. Even the memory of it made his mouth water. Apparently someone was really glad he was back.

Lacey settled next to him. She'd shed her leather jacket hours ago. Her bare arms were sheened with perspiration.

"That talk about Custer's last stand and the Alamo," she said. "You're not planning to die here, are you?"

To tell the truth, as miserable as he'd been, he wasn't ready to die. Not tonight, not any night.

"Not if I can help it."

"Good. Because as much as I can appreciate self-immolating gestures, I don't think I'm ready to take part in a Jersey Shore version of the Alamo or Little Big Horn."

"Well, the cry of 'Remember the Alamo!' did spur a lot of people to action, but I agree. Going down fighting here will not solve anything."

"Then what's the plan? We should have some sort of plan."

Good question. Did he have a plan?

"All I want to do is hold off the undead till dawn. Keep them out of St. Anthony's for one night. That's all. That will be a statement—my statement. Our statement if you want to stay on."

And if he found an opportunity to ram a stake through Palmeri's rotten heart, so much the better. But he wasn't counting on that.

"That's it?" Lacey said. "One night?"

"One night. Just to let them know they can't have their way everywhere with everybody whenever they feel like it. We've got surprise on our side tonight, so maybe it will work." One night. Then he'd be on his way. "You shouldn't feel you have to stay just because you're my niece."

"I don't. But if I—"

"What the fuck have you done?"

Joe looked up at the shout. A burly, long-haired man in jeans and a cutaway denim jacket stood in the vestibule staring at the partially restored nave. As he approached, Joe noticed his crescent moon earring.

A Vichy.

Joe balled his fists but didn't move.

"Hey, I'm talking to you, asshole. Are you responsible for this?"

When all he got from Joe was a cold stare, he turned to Zev and fixed on his yarmulke.

"Hey, you! Jew! What the hell you think you're doing here?" He started toward Zev. "You get those fucking crosses off—"

"Touch him and I'll break you in half," Joe said in a low voice.

The Vichy skidded to a halt and stared at him.

"Are you crazy? Do you know what Father Palmeri will do to you when he gets here?"

"Father Palmeri? Why do you still call him that?"

"It's what he wants to be called. And he's going to call you dog meat when he gets through with you!"

Joe pulled himself to his feet and looked down at the Vichy. Suddenly the man didn't seem so sure of himself.

"Tell him I'll be waiting." Joe gave him a hard, two-handed shove against his chest that sent him stumbling back. Damn, that felt good. "Tell him Father Cahill is back."

"You're a priest? You don't look like one."

Joe slapped him across the face. Hard. It snapped the creep's chin toward his shoulder. That felt even better.

"Shut up and listen. Tell him Father Joe Cahill is back—and he's pissed. Tell him that." Another chest shove. "Now get out of here while you still can."

Rubbing his cheek, the man backpedaled and hurried out into the growing darkness. Joe turned to Zev and found him grinning through his beard.

" 'Father Joe Cahill is back—and he's pissed.' I like that."

"It'll make a great bumper sticker," Lacey said, her eyes wide with admiration. "You were great! I never knew my uncle the priest was such a tough dude. Maybe we've got more than a prayer tonight."

Joe didn't know about that. He hoped so.

"I think I'll close the front doors," he said. "The criminal element is starting to wander in. While I'm doing that, see if we can find some more candles. It's getting dark in here."

On the front steps he unhooked the left door and closed it. He was unhooking the right when he heard a woman's voice behind him.

"Father Cahill? Is that you?"

He turned and in the dying light saw a lone figure standing by a children's red wagon at the bottom of the steps.

"Yes. Do I know you?"

He heard her sob. "Oh, it is you! You've come back!"

Joe hurried down to the sobbing woman. "Are you all right?"

"I've been praying for your return but I'm such a sinner I thought God had turned his back on us all. But you're back! Thank God!"

Something familiar about her voice . .. but she kept her head down. Joe reached out, and tilted her chin so he could see her.

He gasped when he saw her tear-stained face. He barely recognized her. Her skin was pale, her cheeks sunken, but he knew her.

"Sister Carole!"

Impulsively he threw his arms around her and pulled her against him in a hug. He wanted to laugh but feared if he opened his mouth he'd burst out crying. Sweet emotions roiled through him, making him weak. She was here, she was alive. He wanted to tell her how he'd missed her—missed knowing she was in the neighboring building, missed seeing her walk back and forth to the school, missed the smile she would flash him whenever they crossed paths.

"It's so good to see you, Carole!" He pushed her back and looked at her, hoping to see that smile. But her eyes were different, haunted. "Dear God, what's happened to you?" Immediately he thought: Stupid question. The same thing that's happened to us all. "Why are you here? I thought you'd gone to Pennsylvania for Easter."

She shook her head. "I had to stay behind ... with Sister Bernadette ... they ... I had to . . ." She loosed a single, agonized sob. "How could I stay in the convent after that?"