The Blessed (34 page)

“Help me!” she screamed.

In the black spaces between the strobing flashes, Lucy swore she could see Sebastian, breaking through the media throng, trying to get to her. Lucy called out to him to no avail.

“Sebastian!”

She ambled awkwardly down the never-ending carpet, all
alone, on display, still scratching and still self-aware enough to realize that the photo editors just might get that humiliating picture they were looking for at her expense, when a frightning cry rang out.

“Oh, my God,” a blogger girl cried, pointing at Lucy’s knees.

Sanguineous drops stained her legs as they formed a puddle of plasma on the carpet beneath her. At first, there was a collective gasp of embarrassment. It appeared to them that she had gotten her period, but when she removed her hands from her face and looked up, the true source was revealed to them.

Her tears were of blood.

The flashes went into a frenzy once again.

The whites of her eyes shone bright red in the bloodstream. She gazed up at the white tent above her and felt it fall further and further out of focus, until she could barely distinguish the massive canopy.

“My eyes,” she said, over and over.

She could see nothing until she closed them. And then all she could see was him.

An older woman, a waitress at the gala, had seen enough and ran toward the girl she’d watched bear the brunt of this full-frontal media assault. She helped Lucy behind the backdrop, out of view of the photographers, where the girl collapsed in her sympathetic arms. The event personnel began to crowd around, more concerned with their potential liability than with Lucy. A single look from the waitress was enough to disperse them.

“Should we call an ambulance?” the minder asked as he backed away.

“No,” the woman said authoritatively.

She pulled out a white linen and lace hankie and placed it over Lucy’s face, absorbing the blood and tears into the fabric. As she removed it, she noticed that a replica of the girl’s face, outlined in her blood, had been transferred. The woman tucked the cloth in the front pocket of her smock carefully, respectfully, and proceeded to comfort her, wiping the matted hair away from her face.

“Oh, my head,” Lucy moaned. “It’s splitting.”

The woman gently took Lucy’s hand and ran her fingers along her wrist in the exact place where the chaplet had been, and began making tiny crosses as she whispered prayers in Lucy’s ear.

Lucy yawned.

Again and again.

“Good, let it out,” the woman said.

The pain seemed to escape through Lucy’s open mouth.

She relaxed as the woman cradled her head in her arms.

“What was that?” Lucy asked, after her headache vanished.

“A
fatura
,” the woman said in Italian-accented English. “The malocchio.”

“I don’t understand.” Lucy said, wiping at her eyes and face.

“It’s like a curse. The evil eye.”

“Oh, I don’t believe in that stuff.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you believe. The truth is what matters.”

“I don’t know what’s true anymore,” Lucy said, rising to her feet. “Thank you for helping me.”

“No,” she said. “I thank you.”

Lucy was flattered that she’d had such an impact on the woman. She never imagined her celebrity had trickled down so far, especially in her own neighborhood, where she tended to be the least popular and most resented.

She hugged the woman tight, as she imagined she would hug her mom if she ever saw her again. The waitress reached into another pocket of her smock and pulled out a gold charm in the shape of a horn of plenty and placed it in Lucy’s hand.

“Who are you?” Lucy asked.

“Perpetua.” The old woman smiled. “I live in the area. Near Precious Blood. I took him in after his escape, so they wouldn’t find him when they looked in the church.”

“Sebastian?” Lucy asked, stunned.

They lived in different worlds. Until now.

“One has overlooked you. Three can save you. You understand me?”

“Yes,” Lucy replied. “I think I do.”

“Then go back to him.”

3
“You must think I’m some kind of a psychotic, don’t you?” Agnes blurted out as she gathered her things and headed for the door, her paranoia reaching new heights, feeling as if she were being watched, even inside the house.

“I only know what I see,” her mother responded casually, showing neither disgust nor sympathy as Agnes prepared to leave her again.

“Do I look crazy to you?” she asked, trying to prompt some kind of reaction.

“You look like,” Martha said frankly, looking her only daughter up and down, “a girl with nothing to lose.

“I’m praying for you,” Martha called out to her as she walked out the door.

“No, Mother,” Agnes began, putting on her lambswool poncho. “I am the one praying for you.”

Agnes ran down her block and was stopped in her tracks at the sound of children playing and the sight of a little boy in the St. John’s schoolyard. It was Jude.

She hurried to the towering silver cyclone fence surrounding the playground and grabbed hold of it for dear life, hoping to get some acknowledgment from him—a smile, a glance, anything—without much luck. He was standing with a middle-aged woman, a nun, before a handmade hanging figure. Agnes wanted to scream out to him, but checked herself and listened in on his lesson instead.

“The seven points on the piñata symbolize the seven deadly sins,” the sister explained, pointing a thin wooden rod at each. “Greed. Lust. Pride. Despair. Wrath. Sloth. Envy.”

The nun raised a strip of cloth in front of the boy’s face, folded it over, and began to tie it around his head. Once it was secure, she gently turned him in a circle a few times, explaining to him the deeper meaning to be found in this traditional game.

Agnes swallowed hard. The image of the blinded child disturbed her.

“The blindfolded person represents faith. Turning symbolizes the disorientation of temptation.”

She placed the stick in Jude’s hand and instructed him to begin. Agnes was nervous for him. She’d played this game countless times at birthday parties. It was hard and he was not “typical,” from what she’d seen.

“Striking the piñata recalls the battle against evil. Defeat it and the reward is revealed.”

Heavy shit for a kid,
was all Agnes could think as she listened.

Jude held the rod in front of him and grabbed it with his other hand, steadying it. He tapped the piñata once, taking a measure of the distance between him and the suspended object. He drew the stick back up and over his head like a knight with a broadsword. Agnes could almost see how badly he wanted the candy inside from the grimace on his face as he swung at the piñata. He smacked it top and bottom, side to side. Agnes was surprised at how on target he was, but there was no sign of damage.

Jude was obviously frustrated and getting upset the longer the game went on. The nun removed the stick from his hand and struck the piñata herself, also without result. She handed it back to him.

“Again,” she said, counseling both patience and perseverance.

The boy swung and turned the stick over to the teacher, who did likewise. Over and over.

Agnes marveled that this was possibly the first combination of religious instruction and occupational therapy she’d ever seen. Other children began to turn their heads toward Jude, counting the strokes and licking their lips impatiently in anticipation of the sweets they hoped would eventually escape. For her part, Agnes was beginning to feel bad for the piñata.

The nun’s next swing was a productive one. She made a dent. But then Jude took his turn and cracked it wide open with a mighty whack. The candy spilled and children came running.

“See, Jude,” the nun said, kneeling to help the children collect their sugary treasure. “You can’t always do it alone. Everyone has a part to play.”

Agnes smiled, not just at the boy and his achievement but also at the thought of Sebastian, Cecilia, and Lucy that came to her in that moment. There was more than a lesson in the game, Agnes felt. There was a message. A message for her.

To her surprise, Jude removed his blindfold and looked directly over at Agnes as if he’d known she was there all along. She beckoned him, and the boy, taking the opportunity while the nun was distracted, ran over to her, forgoing the candy he’d earned.

“I told him,” Agnes said.

The boy kissed her through the chain link.

“There are snakes behind the rocks. You might not see them. But you know they’re there,” Jude said in a whisper.

Just then the nun ran over and grabbed Jude’s hand.

“You shouldn’t run away like that,” the nun said sternly, looking him directly in his eyes.

“I think he wanted to tell me something,” Agnes offered, hoping to keep the boy out of trouble.

“I’m sorry, but that’s impossible,” she said to Agnes. “He’s nonverbal. He doesn’t talk.”

13
Cecilia awoke to piss-warm rain leaking through the street grate above and onto her in the filthy, white-tiled corner of the subway station she presently called home. She opened her eyes to confirm that it was indeed rain and not some
pervert or bum getting his jollies by relieving himself on her. Or something worse.

She’d ducked into the subway for a nap the night before and had the eerie feeling she was being followed. The subway wasn’t exactly the best place to hide, but it was the brightest place at that time of night, and that was a plus. Turns out she wasn’t entirely wrong. There was a person, scrunched up in a fetal position, lying at her feet. Way too close for comfort.

“Hey,” Cecilia said, nudging the girl with her foot. “Get up!”

The girl just moaned, turning over slowly and rising to her hands and knees.

Cecilia recognized her immediately, even though her long straggly hair was hanging down obscuring most of her face.

It was Catherine. The fangirl from Pittsburgh. What was left of her.

“Was it you following me?”

“No,” Catherine said quietly, lifting her head into the harsh light.

She was obviously badly battered and bruised. Her hair was matted. Her clothes stained and weather-beaten. This clearly wasn’t her first night on the street. How long had it been since she’d seen her outside the club? CeCe pondered groggily. A week? Two? By the hollow look in Catherine’s eyes, it might as well have been years.

“Who in the hell did this to you?” Cecilia asked, taking the girl’s head in her hands.

“Does it matter?” Catherine responded through swollen lips, barely able to muster the strength to form words.

“Yes,” Cecilia said, already suspecting the answer. “Tell me.”

“Ricky’s band. They said I could sing a song in their set,” Catherine said. “They said we were going to their rehearsal space in Williamsburg. That I could stay there with them.”

Cecilia didn’t need to hear the rest. She knew.

“New York is not a place for someone like you.” Cecilia railed at the girl’s naïveté. “I told you. You need to go home.”

“I believed them,” Catherine responded sadly. “I’m so ashamed.”

Cecilia stopped preaching at her, stopped trying to solve her problem. She’d been there too once. Made her share of mistakes. It was like looking in a mirror. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped at the girl’s eyes and face. “We all put our trust in the wrong people sometimes.”

“What would you do? Would you really leave? Just give up on your dreams?”

Cecilia did not respond.

“That’s what I thought,” the weary girl said through cracked and scabbed lips. “That’s why you’re great.”

Cecilia unpacked her guitar, plopped a few coins into a used coffee cup, and began to play.

“Still wanna be like me?”

“What happened?” Catherine asked.

“Reality. Sucks, but life is full of it.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Cecilia asked, putting down her guitar.

“Yes, I still wanna be like you.”

“Why? So you can sing for your supper, live on the streets, and drown in all the abuse?”

“I can’t leave, just give up.”

Cecilia heard her words and thought of Agnes. She knew there was no way she could convince Catherine otherwise.