Unafraid – Novella Four - 1. Part 1: Kyrie Eleison

Novella Four

Unafraid

"We fear violence less than our own feelings.

Personal, private, solitary pain

is more terrifying than

what anyone else can inflict."

Jim Morrison

"Shadow is merely

an obstruction of the light."

Leonardo da Vinci

by

AC Benus

Part 1: Kyrie Eleison

The slip of my fingers in prayer tighten around one another.

I kneel alone in the seemingly vast and empty church of Saint Lazarus. My eyes are drawn shut, my ears are ringing from the crushing quiet, and my nose picks out flecks of the usual stale scents: of burnt incense, melted candle wax, and of a flame somewhere singeing a living wick.

I just don't know, and I don't expect my selfish prayer will receive an answer.

But, I make the motions. My hands are folded, and my head is bent so close that I can sense the presence of my labored breath upon them.

I may make the motions, but I just don’t know, and all the freshness of the spring morning beyond these walls seems a million miles away.

'Oh God,' I silently ask. 'Is it worse to try and deceive you, or lie to one of your priests?'

One week ago I was here; one week ago I was praying my pre-Confession entreaty to God. One week ago I went in to Father Strathmore and messed up, messed up big time. And so much has happened since then, that now – as soon as Stevie comes out – I must go in and face my priest again, but I don’t want to.

I lift my head and open my eyes. The light filtered and altered by the stained glass sends amber and crimson shards to crisscross my prostrate body. Even as I inhale and shift the weight pressing down on my kneecaps, the stale air and thinly-padded kneeler offers no comfort.

As members of Mr. Spencer's 7^th grade class, we sit on the south side of the nave. The church is beautiful, and the cornerstone has 1894 proudly chiseled into it. The large niche for the altar, known as the sanctuary, is ahead of me and to my right. Gothic arches picked out in ivory and gold form the ribs that separate the sky-blue ceiling vaults over the sanctuary. The angled walls to the sides of the back altar are shaded in a dark sort of pastel green. Two cryptic paintings are on these walls. The one to the south of the altar is of a palm tree, laden with ripe dates, and somehow planted on a craggy outcropping above placid water. Two stags also stand on this island and are rearing up with full racks of antlers to touch the upper part of the tree. The companion painting is the same size, but I have always liked it better. Another rocky promontory rises like an island, but instead of a tree, a plain stone column soars towards the painted sky. Coming from the top of the capital are sprays of six palm fronds – three to the left and three to the right. A rainbow connects the foliage and supports the image of the sacred host above it. Water streams from the base of the column and forms four rivers to the sea underneath. Instead of deer, two lambs rear up on either side of the pillar, and both of their breasts are pierced. Drops of ruby-red blood fall and mingle with the water from the base of the column.

As I look around, only one thought is there: 'Oh God, I feel so alone.'

I don’t know if my talk with Sister Jodie helped me this morning. I don’t feel connected to what she told me right now. Maybe I will later. It used to be 'the things' I knew and could apply to other people were a comfort to them and made me feel better too, but now that they apply to me, I struggle to feel a belief that the old, childish wisdom is right. I have tried to pray hard, and gain inspiration from the iconography, to clear my mind and be in touch with God before I have to go into Confession, but it's hard. If I think of what happened last week, I am profoundly shaken with apprehension. That feeling sinks into my gut with anything but a 'holy' presence.

I hold up my unlocked hands and gaze at them. This morning I have prayed with shut eyes and fingers clenched so tight that they have threatened to go numb with pale bloodlessness, but – though and despite all my efforts – I cannot link up with the goodness within me. Something is interfering.

Instead of being able to tap into the divine through cleansing prayer, I can only think about how hard this school year has been without my best friend.

I miss Dustin Day. I miss our time together; spending recess and lunch breaks down by the creek, which runs over our school grounds, or our idyllic swims in the waters of the River Kaskaskia. But as soon as we graduated 6^th grade, Dustin's dad and uncle bought a farm far from Judas Tree. They were going to make one last go at farming, and could not afford to keep Dustin and his little bother Nino at Saint Lazarus School anymore. Since the move, the Day brothers have gone to Sparta public school.

I haven’t seen Dustin in months, and I feel so alone.

He would be surprised too. For one thing, I've grown. I bet I stand as tall as he does now, and also, I don’t think he would recognize me.

Gone is the happy-go-lucky 'boy' that he knew would always have the energy to explore Nature with him, or simply spend recess skipping laps around the entire play yard by himself.

No. This 'new' Simon loiters quietly and becomes lost in himself. I'm thirteen now, and I prefer to sit on the steps of the gym, or on those near the swings and seesaws, and just watch.

I fold my hands again.

'What is wrong with me, God? Why do I feel so sad all the time? Is this what you want for me..? I'm confused.'

Things have changed. I could use a friend like Dustin, my Nordic farm boy, to help me. I know he'd say the right thing, but he's gone. I am alone. None of the boys of my class like me. They barely speak to me since I chose Dustin over the rest, but I would do it all again just to restore my best friend to my life.

In one thing, Dustin was absolutely right. A year has made all the difference for me, but he doesn't even know that; he hasn't seen the hair that sprouted under my arms.

I just don't know. What exactly am I supposed to be praying for? Maybe I should echo the opening words of the mass.

I murmur out loud: "Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy."

Nothing.

I open my eyes, and wonder what is wrong with me. I wish I could go back one week and not tell Father Strathmore what I did.

I want to wipe the slate clean, or put the genie back in the bottle, but – like everything – I know that's not possible. So I must learn to live with the consequences.

It suddenly hits me. That one scent in the air that is not stale and stuffy, the one that sputters with life, is from the red candle in its special glass holder.

This candle is alive. It hangs suspended by three fancy brass chains, near the wall by the stag painting, near the back altar, for a specific purpose. It is the one flame never allowed to go out.

It is meant to show that He is present in the church, but as I watch it flare dully behind the thick glass, I think God's presence is crimson and moody. Or maybe that is just a shallow projection of the way I feel right now, for I don’t feel like myself at all.

I wish I could go back two weeks, before this all happened. Back to that Monday when after lunch I talked to my classmate on the gym steps.

˚˚˚˚˚

The first day back at school after the weekend was always blah, and it did not help that this April had been a wet one.

I had just finished lunch, put up my tray, and was aimlessly drifting down the corridor outside the cafeteria's standing-open double doors. I wasn’t really thinking about much, just what to do for the next 20 or 30 minutes before class started again, when I heard hard leather shoes pounding the nearby vinyl tile floor. As I got to the frame of the activities room, Sister Jodie strode out and eyed me. She had a bundle of sheet music pressed against her chest, which she held there by upraised arms.

"Simon," she said in her formidable, principal way. "Are you ready for music class this afternoon?" Her brass-rimmed Hippie glasses sparkled a half-second at me like a pair of opaque bicycle reflectors. Funny thing is, over the last few months, I had grown to be at her eye-level.

"Yes, Sister Jodie."

"Did you prepare your homework for it?"

She had stopped moving. From my 'tall' vantage, I quickly scanned her. Her simple habit – a navy blue kerchief of polyester fabric riding the back of her hair, and held in place by a white headband tucked behind her ears – glinted a bit holy-looking, because the fluorescent lights gilded its edges from above.

"Yes. It's fun to learn about the different keys, and musical notation. I think you know I enjoy your class."

Her face softened momentarily. It was as if a little, low-voltage lightening bolt had loosened all the muscles of her nun-face rigidity.

"Yes, Simon." She was completely honest, and real for a moment. "And you are good at it too."

She looked over my shoulder quickly, then around her own.

As she clutched her music closer still to her heart, she told me, "You have been gifted by God, Simon, with many fine attributes, not the least of which is openness."

As I was thinking what to say in reply, Sister Jodie slipped back into her Sisterly persona. "But young man, don’t get the notion that I have any favoritism to shine down on you."

"Oh, I don’t Sister."

"Good. In my eyes, all students are equal."

"Yes, Sister."

As her hard-soled nun shoes turned a squeaky pivot on the even harder floor, she called back to me, "Don’t be late for class."

"No, I won't Sister."

I stood there and watched her move towards the breezeway that connects this 'new' part of the school to the section with all the classrooms.

I liked Sister Jodie, despite how frightening her authority over my scholastic existence might have been, there was something in me that could trust her. Her Hippie credentials, and purely progressive nature, stood in sharp contrast to all the other, ruler-on-the-knuckle nuns I have known.

A low rumble of thunder woke me up, and in its wake I perceived the noise coming from kids at play in the gym off to my right.

I went down the t-intersection offshoot hallway towards it. The air was charged with that wet taste of metal I always get when a thunderstorm is bearing down. There is almost an oppression to the feel of the humid air when that happens.

Up ahead, I could see the bleachers were pulled out, and some kids sat around in small groups up the terraced flanks. On the gym floor, other collections of kids casually played toss with softballs, kicked beanbags back and forth, and one half of the court was set aside for about ten boys playing pickup basketball.

There were five steps leading down from the level of the hallway to the gym floor. I sat on the third one, and leaned my left shoulder against the wall. My head rested on the ice-cold metal handrail.

I was just killing time.

It started to rain pretty heavy, and my eyes drifted up to the bright barrel lights suspended high over the gym floor. These hung on long stems from the exposed steel beams, above which, weighty drops dinged the steel roof like a million angry cat paws.

"Hey."

I looked up. It was my classmate. "Hey. What you up to, Jodie?"

She shrugged. "Want company?"

"I don’t mind."

She sat next to me, and instantly, I felt better. Jodie's a cool girl. She was like a ray of sunlight, and luckily – for some reason – she had decided to fall on me. Even from a couple of feet away, the shiny fragrance of her long blond hair was palpable. Girls usually smell nice, a lot nicer than the boys, but Jodie smelled extra attractive.

She smiled at my, no doubt, dumb look.

A flash of lightening filtered through the glass doors at three corners of the gym. The group of younger girls stopped slapping the wooden floor with their tandem jump ropes; they paused in suspended animation from their double Dutch to wait. A moment later, a peel of thunder rumbled everything and everyone around us. A round of screams mixed with "ooghs and ahs" pinged every metal corner of the gymnasium.

Scanning the crowd, Jodie and I laughed. Then I noticed that two of our 7^th grade classmates were sitting on the bottom step of the bleachers directly opposite us.

I used my head to gesture towards them. "You don’t hang out with Jerry as much as you use to."

"We do. After school."

"Oh yeah. You guys are neighbors."

"Yep. We've always been close, and I guess, always will."

I glanced at Jerry's companion. He was a farm boy named Ryan McKay. The two were sitting side-by-side, close, and bending heads over a car magazine.

They were pretty different from one another. Ryan was tall and slender, with medium-brown hair kept close-cut and regimental, while overall he operated with a workaday attitude. Jerry was about three-inches shorter, a little bit tubby, and had reddish blond hair. Swoopy bangs, polished clothes, a pearly smile, and an easy manner gave him the look of a young-teen Shaun Cassidy.

It seemed natural that Jodie and Jerry should be friends, for both had a city-slicker ease about them.

I held my classmate's pretty, confident and sweet gaze while I reminisced. "You two were always so close. I'll never forget that for our 4^th grade Halloween pageant, you and Jerry showed up as Raggedy Ann and Andy. You really seemed a matched pair."

"Our moms have always been good friends, so Jerry and I have been around each other our whole lives. And that won't change. I think we'll be close forever."

"Hey…" Her mood quietly darkened. "Let me ask you a question."

"Ok. Shoot."

"Why do you seem down all the time?"

I didn't want to tell her.

"In fact," she went on. "All the boys seem moody now, but with you – you used to be so bubbly. What happened?"

I was silent.

Her voice was somehow different nowadays; a low-toned mellowness had crept into her way of speaking since the 6^th grade.

"I mean, if you want to tell me," she added.

I heard myself involuntarily swallow. "I – I don’t exactly, know," I sighed. "I wonder if Sister Jodie or Father Strathmore can help me. Truth is a good policy, right?"

She shrugged, but I could tell she was less than disinterested.

I suggested, "Gospel means 'the truth,' so I guess it's always best."

"Um, Simon – maybe I'd advise you not to 'confess' anything you know in your heart of hearts is no sin."

"And how do I know it's not a sin?"

"Ask yourself this: does it hurt anyone; does it tell others to hurt and do damage to people; does it seek some sort of advantage over others? If not, then – whatever it is – is a matter between you and God. And you know Simon, God loves you. Right..?"

I couldn't help but feel sad. "I guess so." As more lightening burst, I heaved a big, cleansing sigh. "Oh, you're probably right. I just hate this new face-to-face Confession style. I mean, sitting on a chair, right next to the priest. Yuk. I prefer the old way."

In a flashing instant, she licked her peachy-red lips, and perked up her head and spine. She laughed at me as thunder rolled. "Being locked in a wooden box, and talking through a brass mesh?"

I frowned and raised my shoulders once quickly. "It feels more private that way."

"Private! Simon, this is the end of the 20^th century. What we need is progress, not little shut-off corners to hide our so-called 'sins' in. Don’t you agree?"

"Yeah, Jodie. I guess I do."

"Well, as I say, don’t confess anything you know God doesn't really care about. Okay?"

"Um. Ok. You're a good friend, Jodie."

She didn’t reply, but I glimpsed a little smile of pride play about in the corner of her mouth as recognition of a compliment. And in turn, it made me proud to have raised it. Besides, a grin like that made Jodie seem even lovelier than she normally is, which is very lovely indeed.

My attention drifted back to Ryan and Jerry. They were now holding the magazine open on what appeared to be a single conjoined knee. Their entire flanks were pressed together, and clearly neither boy attempted the standard pullback when two kids realize some part of their bodies are in protracted contact.

An odd thought entered my head. Ryan McKay and Jerry were sort of like Jodie and me. Maybe outwardly different, but inwardly we've become attracted to one another rather all of a sudden.

To think specifically about those two boys, it was as if an unexplained mismatch was linking them. As friends, they were superficially not so alike, and never had been close before. But unexpectedly in the 7^th grade they began to spend lots of quiet, mysterious time secluded with each other and away from the other raucous boys of our class.

I leaned in and bumped shoulders with hers. My head nodded towards the boys and their car mag. "They make an odd couple, don’t you think?"

I laughed, but Jodie looked pretty serious. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I don’t mean anything. I guess, it's just that friendships change over time, right? Jerry and you used to be so close, and he's always been a sophisticated, city-boy type."

"And..?" She drug out the vowel sound.

"And, well – Ryan McKay has dirty fingernails. He's just an Irish farm boy who loves to talk about calving and what names they'll get."

She licked her lips again, this time I guess a bit defensively. "Well, I like Ryan. He's cool, and he has a difficult relationship with his father."

"Oh yeah?"

"You'll have to ask him yourself, and take a look at his hands. I think you'll see his nails are always clean these days."

I teased: "Clean for Jerry?"

Jodie slipped on a Cheshire grin as easily as a pair of sunglasses. She leaned back on her elbows. "Could be."

I reclined too, turning on one arm to look at her. I caught a hint of the perfume she was wearing. It was light and girly, but strangely enough, the musk fragrance did not hit my nose; it tingled on the roof of my mouth. I smiled at her. "Well, whatever the state of Ryan McKay's fingernails, I'm glad Jerry has left you alone."

"Why's that?"

"'Cause, it's given me a chance to slip into your friendship vacancy!"

Her knuckles stung out to strike me once in the chest. "You're silly."

My smile slipped off. "But, you do like me. Don't you?"

She waited a long while, in which time she sat up, crossed her legs, and looked moodier than she had a moment before. "Yes. You are a good person, Simon. I like you a lot."

She then over emphasized: "And, I like Ryan as a friend too."

"Yeah, I know you have a boyfriend, and it's not him."

She half rolled her eyes. "What I'm saying Simon, is that you and Ryan should hang out more."

"Ok."

"And besides…" She applied some pretend haughtiness by placing hands on her hips. "What do you know about my boyfriend?"

I considered that for a moment. I know the guy is tall, has medium hair, and walks like a god. I don’t how to describe it, but I can picture him as he glides past our school in his tucked-in polo shirt – with its upturned collar – and his pleated chinos with a woven buff-colored belt held by a friction slide. All the latest fashions I can see boys on TV wear, but not much around here.

When he walks, he's stately, holds himself tall, proudly, and barely ever swings his arms. Like I said, he gives the impression of being some sort of teenage god.

"I know he's a sophomore in Judas Tree High, and that he didn't go to Saint Lazarus."

"You're right; Terry went to J. T. Public School. But what you don’t know is that he's sweet and mellow, and that he's a great kisser." Her whole charming face shimmered from chin to forehead, and there was no sign of a blush from Jodie; no, not ever.

"Is he a drug dealer?"

"Where'd you hear that?"

I was sorry to see her smile go.

I shrugged: "Around."

She feigned informed ignorance. "I wouldn't know anything about that. You should ask him yourself."

"Ok. Maybe I will."

All of a sudden, I felt really sad, and it must have shown.

I perceived her dry hand with its delicate fingers nestle on my naked forearm.

"Simon, what’s wrong with you? You have changed this year."

I watched her hand on me. I supposed it'd be no big deal to tell her; somehow I trust Jodie, and like her a lot.

I said with genuine feeling, "I'm glad you have Terry in your life. I'm really lonely, Jodie. Do you know what I'm saying..?"

She squeezed my arm, comforting, "Lonely I know, don’t doubt that one, Simon."

"I think maybe you're the only one I can really talk to, right now."

"Is that true?"

All I could do was pick at my pant cuffs and nod slowly.

"Oh Simon, you don’t have to stay lonely. You are not alone. I wish you could see that."

"Hey," her tone totally brightened. "Wanna hear some of Terry's poetry?"

"I…"

"It's dirty."

My mood instantly picked up. "It's dirty?"

She grinned and nodded. "Come closer, cuz I can't say it too loud."

I noted the storm had passed, and the gym was awash with streaky sunlight from outside.

"Ok." I scootched over. Her right hand went out to my right ear. She cupped it, came close with her lips, and started to singsong in her usual sweet way:

"Titty-sucking, fanny-fuckin'

Two-balling bitch,

Mother's in the kitchen cookin'

Red-hot shit.

Daddy's been hell,

Brother's in jail,

And Sister's on the corner

Yellin' Pussy for Sale!"

Our heads had to pull apart so I could look at her. I felt my ears color.

"Jodie!" I exclaimed. "That's…that's…Awesome!"

"I know, right?" Her eyebrows flashed up two times.

"Shea; yeah!"

"Terry's a great poet. He writes stuff all the time. You don’t say bad words do you, Simon?"

"Um, I don’t mind them. It's just finding the right occasion, I guess. But hey, that second line is gross."

"Mother's in the kitchen cookin' red-hot shit?"

"Yeah." I pulled a sour face.

"It's not gross. It's talking about speed."

"Drugs?"

"Yep."

"Oh," I said deflated. "I don’t get it."

"Cookin' means making it up, and shit means the amphetamines – the speed – cuz the pills are red. That's the red-hot shit. Get it?"

"Ohhh! Ok. Now I get it. Um…" I remembered I had my little 2½-inch square notebook with me. I leaned forward, and fished it out of my back pocket. "Could you write it down for me? I want to learn it."

"Okay."

I lifted up the green-splotchy-covered notebook with its black spine, and pulled out the Bic four-color pen from my shirt pocket.

"Hold on one sec." Jodie extracted a short tube out of her pocket. She opened it up, and I saw some clear liquid slosh in the bottom half of it. She used it and rolled on a shellac of lip-gloss before locking it up with its lid and putting it away.

I handed her pen and paper, and instantly smelled the sticky-sweet lip protection from her mouth: watermelon!

My classmate, and close friend, pulled up her knees and used them as a writing surface. She opened the notebook to the first blank page, and I wondered which color of ink she'd choose.

She held the Bic up, rotated it, and depressed the blue. 'Ah,' I thought. 'Nice choice.'

As she started writing, I peeked over her shoulder. From that position, not only could I see, but I could scent the intriguing allure of her clean-smelling hair. Boys definitely don’t smell like this!

The stream of blue ink flowed out smoothly and formed itself into a girl's lovely handwriting. It had little flourishes here and there that decorated the otherwise 'ugly' words. Us guys never bother with pretty little extras on our A, B, or C's.

As she wrote, she told me, "Terry has a hundred of these. He recites new ones to me when we hang out."

My thoughts returned to Terry's way of holding himself, to his 'grandeur,' I suppose. He looked so statuesque when he moved. I suddenly wanted to imitate his particular brand of cool in my own walk. I would have to remember to practice tonight as I went home.

I leaned back on my side and was suddenly over washed by curiosity. I hoped I wasn't blushing again. "Jodie, we're buddies, right..?"

"Um hum."

She was still focusing on her dirty P's and Q's.

"Will you tell me something, personal?"

"What?"

"How far have you and Terry, gone?"

She half shut me down, but kept on writing. "Yeah, that is kinda personal, isn't it, Simon?"

She halted her penmanship, clicked my pen shut, and looked me straight in the eye. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

I crossed my heart. "No, and if I do, I'll stick a needle in my eye."

She narrowed her gaze, asking wily, "And hope to die..?"

"And hope to die!" I confirmed with a straightened spine and head nod.

Nonchalantly, she found the blue, clicked it, and picked up back writing. "Terry and I mostly hang out in his bedroom, listen to music, hold hands, and kiss. You've heard of petting before?"

"Um…"

She glanced at my anxious puppy-dog gaze.

"We've French kissed, and he's touched my boobs, Simon – but only over my clothes. Does that interest you?"

Again, I knew I had become a towering inferno of blushes, which she half-acknowledged from the side of her attention.

"It's ok," she said, as she continued to write in my notebook. "You don’t have to tell me."

"I…"

She wrapped up writing Terry's poem and handed notebook and pen back to me with a grin.

"Thank you," I said not thinking about it, but about what I wanted to really ask next.

"You're welcome. Study it well."

"Can I ask you one more question?"

"Yes," she sighed.

"That stuff you told me, the stuff you do with Terry, is that something you'd tell Father Strathmore?"

She looked aghast. "You mean – in Confession?!"

"Yes."

"No, Simon. I wouldn't. You tell me what is sinful about mutual love? Nothing."

She had a point. "Yeah, that's right."

"Look, it’s this way. Terry and me, we mainly hold hands and talk." Her low tone resurfaced. "It's nice, Simon. And I wish you had someone in your life to do that with too."

She laid her hand on my arm again, only now it was sweaty and hot. "I really, truly, do."