Tiffany Reisz - The Saint

“Mom, he’s a priest. That’s gross.” The pillow was once more firmly planted on her face.

“And he rides a motorcycle.”

Elle pushed the pillow off her face.

“A motorcycle?”

“Yes.” Her mother smiled. “A motorcycle.”

“What kind? Not some no-thrust piece-of-crap crotch rocket from Japan, is it?”

Her mother shook her head.

“Something Italian.”

“A Vespa? Those are scooters, not motorcycles.” Elle giggled at the image of a priest in a collar on the back of a little Vespa scooter.

“No. Something that started with a D . Du-something.”

Elle’s eyes widened.

“A Ducati?”

“That was it.”

She knew about Ducatis but had never seen one up close. She’d kill to have a Ducati between her thighs. All that power. All that freedom. What she wouldn’t give …

Would it kill her to go to church one more day? One more hour? One more Mass? She could see the bike, maybe touch it, then get out again.

“Okay.” Elle threw off the covers. “I’m coming. But I’m doing it for the Ducati, not for God.”

Her mother slammed the door behind her and Elle got out of bed. Grabbing her uniform skirt off the floor, she headed to the bathroom. Mass or not, she would have had to get out of bed anyway. Her bladder had been about to explode while arguing with her mom.

She pressed her hand to the bathroom window and felt nothing but room-temperature glass. Good. A warm morning. She wouldn’t have to bother with tights under her skirt.

Her hair looked like it belonged on a crazy person since she’d fallen asleep with it wet. No amount of curling or brushing was going to tame it. She grabbed a bottle of tinted green hair gel and streaked it through her hair, taming the wild flyaways enough that she could pull it back into a high ponytail.

Elle shoved her feet into her black combat boots. Carefully she applied a thick swipe of black eyeliner around her eyes. She was short and her boobs were too big but at least she could pull off the makeup component of heroin chic.

In her bedroom she found her thickest flannel shirt and pulled it on over her Pearl Jam T-shirt. She layered her green army jacket on top of her flannel.

Elle jumped in the backseat of their old Ford and her mom barely let her shut the door before backing out of the driveway.

“I want you to say hello to the new priest if you get a chance. Father Greg had me doing the books since he couldn’t handle it. This younger priest might want to change things up.”

“I’ll say hi. And then I’ll steal his Duck and ride away into the sunset.”

“His what?”

“Ducks. Dukes. Ducatis. Never mind.”

“I’m attempting to be open-minded about the new priest. You could at least give him a chance,” her mother said.

“I’m going, right? But only for the motorcycle. I mentioned that part, right?”

Her mother gave a ragged sigh.

“You should be going to church for God, and no other reason.”

“I told you, I don’t even think I believe in God anymore.”

“God is everywhere. He’s in everyone. We’re all created in His image.”

“I haven’t met anybody who looks like God yet.”

“How many people would it take to get through to you? God told Abraham he would spare Sodom and Gomorrah if ten righteous men could be found in the city. Only ten.”

Elle thought about it, thought about the boys at school who were dicks in sneakers, the teachers who did nothing but punish, her father who couldn’t keep a promise to save his life, her mother who forced religion down her throat …

She saw God in none of them. Not even in herself.

“Ten? Mom, I swear I’d settle for one.”

If she met one single person who seemed holy, righteous, kind, self-sacrificing, smart and wise who kept his promises and gave a flying fuck about her? Maybe she’d believe then.

“Only one?” Her mother sounded incredulous.

“Well, one person and a little ‘St. Teresa and the angel’ action wouldn’t hurt, either.” Eleanor grinned and her mother shook her head in disgust.

“You know, all I ever wanted was a daughter who loves God, goes to church, respects her priest and maybe even respects her mother a little. You think that’s too much to ask?”

Elle thought about the question one whole entire second before answering.

“Yup.”

Once her mother pulled into the Sacred Heart parking lot, Elle jumped out of the car. Her mom could make her go to church, but she wasn’t about to sit with her at church.

Elle entered the sanctuary and took a seat on the Gospel side—the left side of the church facing the altar. A visiting priest had explained the difference between the Gospel side and the Epistle side, or right side, a long time ago. He was also the same priest who taught everyone that Amen was best translated as “so be it.” That had surprised her. Until him she’d always thought Amen meant “over and out.”

Her usual pew had already filled up by the time she got there so instead of sitting beneath her favorite stained-glass window, she had to sit on the aisle. That was okay. She’d be able to get a better look at the new priest from here. And if she didn’t like the looks of him, she could “accidentally” step on the train of his vestments. Oops.

She wormed her way out of her jacket, picked up her missal and turned to the day’s readings. From her backpack she pulled out her copy of The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty and slid it in between the pages. She’d heard some girls in her German class giggling over a copy of it. One of them had stolen it from her older sister. Gross, they said. Nasty, they said. So dirty. They couldn’t believe people actually did this, they said. So of course Elle stole a copy of it from the public library. Now on her third reading, she still hadn’t figured out why those girls in her class had called the book gross and nasty. Elle had fallen in love with the story of sexual slavery in a fairy-tale world of kings and queens. Even better, the main character—Beauty—was only fifteen, like her. Fifteen plus that one hundred years she’d been sleeping under the spell. Maybe Elle was also under a spell and didn’t know it. Maybe she’d fallen asleep and everything happening was a dream, a bad dream where her father was a thief and her mother wished she’d never had her daughter. Maybe someday a prince would come along and kiss her and make love to her, and she’d wake up to discover she’d been a queen all along.

As Elle turned a page the bells rang. She closed her books and rose to her feet.

A hymn began.

Elle looked back to the door of the sanctuary, and saw the new priest.

The dream ended. The spell was broken.

Elle woke up.

Eleanor

STRIDING DOWN THE AISLE BEHIND THE CRUCIFER and the deacon was a man—a man with blond hair and a god’s face. He looked forward with eyes so serious and solemn she followed his gaze to the altar to see if Jesus waited for him there.

As he stepped past her pew he turned his head and met her eyes for the briefest of eternities. The book within her missal fell from her hand and fluttered to the floor. She didn’t bend to pick it up. It lay there, forgotten, as forgotten as everyone and everything else in this world. Everyone and everything else but this man who now mounted the steps to the altar and stood before the church.

Underneath the collar of his vestments she saw the hint of black with the white square.

This man, this most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her life, this man who was the incarnation of her every hunger, every desire and every secret midnight dream … This man was her new priest?

“Oh, my God …” she breathed, but whether she addressed the God in Heaven or the God before her, she didn’t know.