Black, furious, buzzing, pelting through the door, a cloud, aswarm, of humming, whirring, crawling,thingsflying at and around and over me. I can’t see, can’t hear, do the only thing I can think to and fling up my hands, shield my face with crossed wrists, and scream.
Bees.
A vicious, endless, swarm of bees.
THIRTY
CAL
The chapel is fullerthan I’ve ever seen it. But also emptier, somehow.
They’ve been keeping it open basically all the time these days. Right now, in the afternoon, the front ten or so pews are all occupied, small groups of people whispering—to each other, prayers. I can hear what sounds like someone crying, faintly.
And candles. So many candles lit, up at the chancel, around the walls, in the alcoves. For the sick. For…everything.
I shut my eyes. I’m in the back, farther back than I’d usually sit, but I don’t really feel like engaging with anyone right now. Except God, I guess.
Whether He’s listening or not, I don’t know.
I run the rosary beads over my fingertips. Lost my place, somehow. Instead of starting again, I just kneel there a minute, rolling the beads back and forth. Footsteps ring in the aisle next to me, and I open my eyes to see a girl I recognize from my Philosophy class, pale and practically shaking, her friend’s arm around her shoulders as they leave.
I dig the rosary into my hands and finish a Hail Mary.
Have mercy on us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
I always liked praying in English better. I know that’s not the Caliburn way, definitely not the way the White Brothers would want it. Even Father Mendez in CCD would roll his eyes anytime Vatican II came up. But I don’t know. I was never good at Latin. Regular English feels like I’m just talking to God instead of reciting something. I don’t mind having the words picked out for me—God knows I can’t come up with good things to say on my own—but I like them to be at least words I can understand. So I know exactly what I’m asking for. Getting into.
You have the faith of a child.
Grow up, Callahan.
Fuck. I clamp my hands hard against each other so hard I’m practically crushing my mom’s beautiful rosary and bow my head.
Maybe I do need my own words.
Let him be okay,I pray silently.
Let her be okay.
Let everything be okay.
My hands are shaking.
Please tell me I did the right thing.
I pray it until it stops sounding like words.
I hate that Lanz won’t tell me anything. Almost as much as I hate that Gwenna seems to tell me everything, things I don’t even really understand and definitely can’t help her with. I hate that neither of them seems to trust God, because if they don’t—if they can’t—then what amIdoing?
And yet I love them both so much it feels like it’s suffocating me.
Up towards the chancel, somebody coughs. The crying gets a little louder, more ragged. There are more footsteps in the aisle and I raise my head as someone shuffles into the pew ahead of me—not a student, I see, but an older man in a thick brownovercoat, gray hair close-cropped and broad black sunglasses wrapped around his face. I frown at first—it’s dark in here and almost dusk outside. Then I see his white cane.
Oh. He’s blind.
Still, self-conscious, I sit up straighter now that I’m not alone in the back. He settles in the next pew up, not scooting down to put any space between us—and I guess why would he, if he can’t see that I’m there? He bows his head slightly, murmuring something under his breath, and I decide maybe I should give him some privacy. I stuff the rosary in my pocket and get to my feet, and I’m just sidling my way to the aisle when I feel something cold and firm clamp my wrist.
Him. The guy in front of me. He’s turned around and grabbed me, his cool, wrinkled fingers around mine.
