"Focus!" Mother yells. "We are losing light! Where is the Archbishop? Why is the altar empty?"
She points her pen at the empty space where the officiant should be.
"Father O’Malley!" she shouts. "You are on!"
There is a shuffling sound from the sacristy. A thud. A muffled curse.
Then, Archbishop Patrick O’Malley emerges.
He is eighty-nine years old. He baptized me. He baptized Preston. He is a York family institution. He is wearing fullvestments, despite this being a rehearsal, and he is listing heavily to the left.
"I am here!" O’Malley announces, his voice slurred and booming. He grips the altar rail for support, swaying like a ship in a gale. "The Lord is... present! And so am I!"
"He’s drunk," Preston whispers to me. "He is absolutely toasted."
"I smell ethanol," I confirm, sniffing the air. "Approximately eighty proof. Likely communion wine fortified with brandy."
"Father," Mother says, marching up to the altar steps. "You are late. And you are... wavering."
"I am moved by the Spirit, Catherine!" O’Malley declares, blinking at her with watery, unfocused eyes. "The Spirit is heavy today. Very heavy."
"That spirit is 12-year-old Scotch," Rosa heckles from the pew. "Don't light the incense, Father. You’ll blow the roof off."
"Silence, heathen!" O’Malley points a shaking finger at a statue of St. Jude, mistaking it for Rosa. "We are in the Presence!"
"Please. Focus. The vows," Mother hisses. "We need to run the vows."
O’Malley squints at the vast cathedral. He adjusts his spectacles, which are currently resting on the tip of his nose. He looks at me. Then he looks at Jax, who has finally shuffled to the altar and is leaning against a marble pillar for support.
"Right," O’Malley says, opening his leather-bound liturgy book. He flips a few pages. A bookmark falls out. He ignores it.
"Dearly beloved," O’Malley begins, swaying. "We are gathered here today... to join this man... and this... person... in holy matrimony."
"Person?" Jax whispers to me. "Did he just call me a 'person'?"
"He is legally blind," I remind him. "You are a blur."
"And a handsome blur you are," O’Malley adds, winking at a candelabra. "Now. Who is the groom? Raise your hand."
I raise my hand. "I am Maxwell, Father."
"Maxwell," O’Malley nods sagely. "Good lad. Always quiet. And you..."
He turns to Jax. He squints. He leans in so close that Jax has to recoil from the fumes.
"You must be... Jennifer."
The silence that follows is thicker than the incense smoke.
"Jennifer?" Jax squeaks.
"Jennifer," O’Malley repeats confidently. "Lovely name. Sturdy. Biblical... ish. But wait..."
He pauses, frowning at the book. Then he frowns at Jax. Then he looks at Mother.
"Catherine," O’Malley whispers loudly. "This is... a man. Jennifer is a man."
"It is Jackson," Mother corrects him, her voice trembling. "Father. His name is Jackson. There is no Jennifer. This is a same-sex union."
