Authors: Jane Haddam
True Believers (13 page)
This morning, Edith Lawton did not get out of bed when Will did, or go down to breakfast. She heard the door to the spare bedroom open and close. She heard the sound of Will's heavy work boots on the carpeted stairs. She even heard the sound of the water being run in the bathroom for his washing up and his shower. He must have left the bathroom door open. The walls in this house were thick, made of plaster six inches through. Usually, she couldn't hear anything at all through them, and certainly nothing as minor as running water. She lay in her bed and closed her eyes and willed herself not to turn on the light. She didn't want him to know she was paying attention to the things he did, because she was convincedâconvincedâthat that would only make him more stubborn. The bedrooms were at the back of the house. If they hadn't been, she would have had a streetlight shining through her window to make shadows on the ceiling. Instead, she had to imagine her own shadows, the way she imagined music inside her head, to pass the time. By the time she heard the front door open and close, the heavy solid-core door banging into the frame, the metal latch catching to lock automatically as Will went out in the cold, she was so tense her muscles felt as if they were made of porcelain.
Now, over three hours later, sitting in her sunroom office, she was tense again, but for an entirely different reason. Not ten seconds ago, she had heard the thunk of the mail as it came through the slot in the front door. This street got its mail earlier than almost any other in this section of the city. She knew that it was lying out there in the little foyer space in
front of the front door, spread out across the round rug she had placed there to take the dirt from people's shoes. She knew, as well, that if she left it there, Ian would pick it up when he came in, and that would be anytime now. Nine-thirty. She checked the clock and it was almost nine-fifteen. Ian said there wasn't going to be any sex, but Edith knew he was lying. He always was. Now that she had become squeamish about doing it in her own soft bed, they did it on the floor in the master bedroom, with her bare back pressed into the scratchy green carpet and her head hitting into the wood underneath it. They did it on the couch in the living room, with the shades drawn only halfway. They did it in the kitchen, on the tile, until their nakedness was etched with tile lines and they looked as if some artist had plotted a pattern to break them up into collages of themselves. Edith would have thought that they would slow down, once Will caught them, but the opposite was true. They never seemed to be able to get enough sex now. They never seemed to want to do anything with each other but get naked and go at it. Edith wondered if Ian did as she did, sometimes, and, right at the moment of climax, imagined Will bursting in on them once again.
front of the front door, spread out across the round rug she had placed there to take the dirt from people's shoes. She knew, as well, that if she left it there, Ian would pick it up when he came in, and that would be anytime now. Nine-thirty. She checked the clock and it was almost nine-fifteen. Ian said there wasn't going to be any sex, but Edith knew he was lying. He always was. Now that she had become squeamish about doing it in her own soft bed, they did it on the floor in the master bedroom, with her bare back pressed into the scratchy green carpet and her head hitting into the wood underneath it. They did it on the couch in the living room, with the shades drawn only halfway. They did it in the kitchen, on the tile, until their nakedness was etched with tile lines and they looked as if some artist had plotted a pattern to break them up into collages of themselves. Edith would have thought that they would slow down, once Will caught them, but the opposite was true. They never seemed to be able to get enough sex now. They never seemed to want to do anything with each other but get naked and go at it. Edith wondered if Ian did as she did, sometimes, and, right at the moment of climax, imagined Will bursting in on them once again.
Edith went on making her way carefully through the letters that had been posted to her website. She had erased the one Bennis Hannaford had sent, but Bennis Hannaford was apparently not the only one who knew that there was something called Christian Humanism that had come before Secular Humanism. The trouble was that she herself had not known. She clicked through the essays on the page she called
Getting It Out of My System,
found the offending piece, and flushed. It wasn't fair, really. She must have read a thousand essays by self-important media pundits that were just shot full of holes, but nobody ever called
them
on it. They didn't lose their jobs. They didn't lose their chances. They just went on being “real” writers, and here she was, sitting in a sunroom in Philadelphia, unpublished except for her column in
Free Thinking
magazine and her deal with Freethinker Pressâand that didn't count. When she was honest, she admitted it. She brushed hair out of her face and tried to forget that she was, at the moment, embroiled in a huge argument with the two women who ran
Free Thinking
magazine, and that if that went on much longer, she wouldn't be published there anymore either.
Getting It Out of My System,
found the offending piece, and flushed. It wasn't fair, really. She must have read a thousand essays by self-important media pundits that were just shot full of holes, but nobody ever called
them
on it. They didn't lose their jobs. They didn't lose their chances. They just went on being “real” writers, and here she was, sitting in a sunroom in Philadelphia, unpublished except for her column in
Free Thinking
magazine and her deal with Freethinker Pressâand that didn't count. When she was honest, she admitted it. She brushed hair out of her face and tried to forget that she was, at the moment, embroiled in a huge argument with the two women who ran
Free Thinking
magazine, and that if that went on much longer, she wouldn't be published there anymore either.
She pushed her chair away from her worktable and stretched. She clicked at her mouse again and got rid of her own Web page. She ignored the rest of the e-mail. She didn't want to read another word about how Christian Humanism was just another name for the Renaissance, and anybody who had ever had so much as a freshman college course in Western Civilization should have known this.
Even “freethought” organizations weren't really all that impressed with “freethought” writers. When they held conventions, their stars were always people from the outside: Barbara Ehrenreich, Katha Pollitt, Richard Dawkins, Wendy Kaminer. Edith felt a wave of heat roll over her and took her hands away from her head. She had started to get hot flashes. She hated them.
The mail was out there on the carpet. It wasn't going to go away while she sat there. Edith got out of her chair. She hated the thought of going through the dining room, because the copy of
Vanity Fair
was still there, still marked at the place where Bennis's picture was. She solved this by looking above it, out the window to the side, and catching a glimpse of a police car parked somewhere down the street, its lights flashing slowly but its siren silent. It did not faze her. Ever since that fool man, with his dead wife and his religious faith that had done him no good but to make him crazy, had shot his head off at the altar in St. Anselm's, there were police cars in this street all the time. It was almost comforting. This was Philadelphia, after all. They could always use a police presence. Edith made a mental note to write a column about faith healing, something everybody hated, something she couldn't be made a fool of for writing. Then she realized that she was standing there in front of the mail slot with the mail at her feet, and that all the news was bad.
Vanity Fair
was still there, still marked at the place where Bennis's picture was. She solved this by looking above it, out the window to the side, and catching a glimpse of a police car parked somewhere down the street, its lights flashing slowly but its siren silent. It did not faze her. Ever since that fool man, with his dead wife and his religious faith that had done him no good but to make him crazy, had shot his head off at the altar in St. Anselm's, there were police cars in this street all the time. It was almost comforting. This was Philadelphia, after all. They could always use a police presence. Edith made a mental note to write a column about faith healing, something everybody hated, something she couldn't be made a fool of for writing. Then she realized that she was standing there in front of the mail slot with the mail at her feet, and that all the news was bad.
“First rule of real life,” Bennis Hannaford had told her. “When they want the piece, they don't send mail in your stamped, self-addressed envelope. They don't even use e-mail. They get on the phone and call.”
What was lying on the carpet in front of the mail slot was a little pile of her self-addressed stamped envelopes, four of them, from
Redbook, Mademoiselle, Good Housekeeping
and
Ladies Home Journal.
Edith picked them up and turned them over in her hands. She didn't know if it was good news or
bad news that there was no other mail. The bad news was that the mailman had had no other letters to distract him. He had seen these and probably knew what they were. The good news was that she couldn't miss one between the gas and the electric bill, where it would fall out and into the hands of Will when he came back from work.
Redbook, Mademoiselle, Good Housekeeping
and
Ladies Home Journal.
Edith picked them up and turned them over in her hands. She didn't know if it was good news or
bad news that there was no other mail. The bad news was that the mailman had had no other letters to distract him. He had seen these and probably knew what they were. The good news was that she couldn't miss one between the gas and the electric bill, where it would fall out and into the hands of Will when he came back from work.
She opened the first one and found a printed rejection slip. It started “Dear Contributor.” She opened the second one and found the same. She opened the third and fourth ones and barely paid attention. This was, she thought, all Bennis Hannaford's fault. If Bennis had really been interested in helping her out, she would have introduced her to some people, or made a few phone calls to the right people in the right offices, so that Edith's proposals would not have been coming in over the transom blind. Instead, all Bennis had ever really done was give her the kind of advice she could have gotten for herself out of
Writer's Digest
, and most of that was clearly worthless. Edith didn't believe for a minute that it was necessary to do as much research for a proposal as you would for an article. It was, in fact, just branding yourself as an amateur. When Bennis Hannaford proposed an article, she just got on the phone and asked.
Writer's Digest
, and most of that was clearly worthless. Edith didn't believe for a minute that it was necessary to do as much research for a proposal as you would for an article. It was, in fact, just branding yourself as an amateur. When Bennis Hannaford proposed an article, she just got on the phone and asked.
Edith looked down at the paper in her hands and began ripping it all apart. Then, when it was a mass of shreds in her hands, she suddenly felt as if she were willing to do anything but stay in the same house with it. She didn't even want it in her own garbage cans out back. She opened the front door and stepped into the street. The police car was still there, parked in front of St. Anselm's again. It would be wonderful if it turned out there was more going on down there than just the aftermath of a suicide. Maybe the priest had been caught interfering with little boys, like the priests who had been part of the lawsuits had. Maybe one of the nuns was pregnant and had had an abortion. It was all hypocrisy and lies, religion was, but it was slick hypocrisy and lies. You had to work hard to expose it for what it was. She saw a policeman going down a little walkway to the side of the church, the one that led to the convent, the rectory, and the school. Then she nodded slightly to herself and went down the sidewalk to the trash can at the curb.
She was still throwing scraps of paper into the void when
Ian came up, driving, of course, because he drove everywhere. She stopped for a moment to notice how much more impressive his car was than Will's ordinary Jeep. Money mattered, and Edith had never thought it didn't. Ian waved to her and pulled his car into the narrow driveway at the side of her house. Will still wasn't using it. Edith had no idea why. She threw the rest of the paper away and went around the side to meet him.
Ian came up, driving, of course, because he drove everywhere. She stopped for a moment to notice how much more impressive his car was than Will's ordinary Jeep. Money mattered, and Edith had never thought it didn't. Ian waved to her and pulled his car into the narrow driveway at the side of her house. Will still wasn't using it. Edith had no idea why. She threw the rest of the paper away and went around the side to meet him.
“What were you doing?” he asked her, when he got back to the street. “You looked like you were doing the trash paper equivalent of sowing the land with salt.”
“I was just throwing out some junk mail,” Edith said. “What do you suppose is going on up there now, at St. Anselm's?”
Ian looked up the street along with her. “They're investigating a violent death,” he said. “It takes time. Even with what is clearly a suicide.”
“Was it clearly a suicide?”
“Well, something like six people saw him blow his head off. That's a pretty good indication, I'd say. I think you're going to have to let this one go. I'm all for crusading against religion, but sometimes you just don't get any kind of lucky.”
“I wish Will would be all in favor of crusading against religion.”
“As far as I can tell, Will isn't much in favor of anything. Are we going to go inside, or do you want me to stage a seduction right here on the street in broad daylight? It's cold as a witch's tit. My dick would probably freeze right off.”
It was cold. Edith hadn't noticed. She looked into the trash can and saw that the scraps of paper had disappeared from sight. They were down there in the muck of other people's rotting food and soiled Kleenex tissues. She looked back at St. Anselm's again and then at Ian. He wasn't really a very good-looking man. Seen in full daylight like this, it was clear that he was one of those people who had done well but not well enough. He had money but not theâauthorityâof celebrity.
“Well?” he said.
Edith turned slightly so that she could see Roy Phipps's place, with the white cross on the front door and the smaller one over the front window. Ian was doing a great deal better
than she was, even if he wasn't doing as well as Bennis Hannaford. He had things she could only dream about.
than she was, even if he wasn't doing as well as Bennis Hannaford. He had things she could only dream about.
“How far do you think someone would go, to make the Catholic Church look bad?” she asked him. “I mean, think about Roy Phipps. He thinks the Catholic Church is the Whore of Babylon. How far do you think he'd go to discredit it? The Church, you know. So that it didn't have so much influence.”
“Edie, please. The kid shot himself in the head. Let's go find a convenient spot and screw like rabbits.”
She didn't move. She wasn't a rabbit. Her breasts felt heavy and ugly and dull.
“I think I'd go a fair way,” she said. “It's so destructive, really. On abortion. On gay rights. On everything that matters. And with all the fuss they're having over there, you can't help wondering. Not that it won't get covered up. This is Philadelphia. The Pope could burn a witch in front of Independence Hall and the papers would hire six theologians to explain how it really was an act of great Christian love.”
“
Edie
.”
Edie
.”
Ian was the only one who had ever called her Edie. In the beginning, she had liked itâthe nickname she had not had in junior high school, the badge of belonging. Now it just made her feel tired, or as if she were being forced back into a childhood she hadn't liked much to begin with. She turned her back to St. Anselm's and headed for the house.
Sometimes she thought that this anger she had was not really connected to anything. It wasn't about Bennis Hannaford, or the Catholic Church, or even Will and Ian. It was just there, as it had always been there, all her life, rising up in her in sharp stabbing peaks, making her blind. It wasn't fair, that was what she thought, but now she couldn't pin down what it was that wasn't fair. Bennis Hannaford, who had been born beautiful and rich and talented and intelligent all at once. The Catholic Church, which could go on spewing hate and irrationality from one end of the earth to the other and still get dozens of new converts every hour. If there was any justice in the world, it would be Edith herself who was in
Vanity Fair,
and all the churches would be empty.
Vanity Fair,
and all the churches would be empty.
The front door had swung shut while she had been outside. Edith got her key off her belt and opened up. The foyer was dark. The entire house was dark.
If she had to screw like a rabbit, she might as well do it in the dark.
Mary McAllister had spent the last hour looking everywhere for Chickie George, in spite of the fact that it was the middle of the workday and he was supposed to be at his desk in the St. Stephen's Rectory. Now it was nearly ten o'clock, and she was fed up, almost as fed up as she had been when she first got off work at the soup kitchen. She had a full schedule of classes later this afternoon. She was fighting with both her roommate and her boyfriend. Even the rosary she had said in church this morning while Peter Rose packed the van hadn't helped, and that was the most disturbing thing of all. Mary McAllister had always been able to lose herself in the rosary. Sometimes she even felt as if the Blessed Mother was in the room with her, listening to her, pleased that she was saying it right. When she was very little, the Blessed Mother had always been in the air above her head. These last few months, she had been right there beside her, close enough to touch. Today there had been nothing. It had been frightening to stare at the polished wood back of the pew ahead of the pew in front of her, and to see only that and nothing else.
Now she swung around the stone walk that led from St. Stephen's back courtyard and stopped when she came to the church's front doors. She knew there was no longer any reason why she should not enter, or even take part in a service if she had a reason of courtesy to do so, but she always felt uncomfortable at the idea of being in a church that was not a Catholic church. She felt especially uncomfortable in this one, because she knew that the Reverend Burdock supported not only gay rights but abortion. The gay rights part seemed perfectly natural to her. In a church full of men like Chickie, there was very little else he could have done. In spite of the fact that the Catholic Church officially believed that it was possible for any gay man to live a celibate life according to the word of God, and Mary always tried very hard to accept anything the Church taught as true, in this one instance she secretly felt that somebody in the Vatican was seriously confused. Nobody could
meet Chickie George and not understand, in an instant, that whatever it took to heal him would be a lot more complicated than just saying “no” to sex. Not, Mary thought, that he needed to be healed of his homosexuality. It wasn't that. It was just that he needed to be healed from
something
.
meet Chickie George and not understand, in an instant, that whatever it took to heal him would be a lot more complicated than just saying “no” to sex. Not, Mary thought, that he needed to be healed of his homosexuality. It wasn't that. It was just that he needed to be healed from
something
.
She ran up the church's front steps and looked through the doors. She really had come a long way on this subject since she'd first started to come to St. Anselm's. Back in Wellesley, Massachusetts, where she had grown up, she had never doubted for an instant that gay men were sinners who needed to learn some self-discipline so that they could lead normal and not so dangerous lives. It seemed odd to her that her ideas on abortion had not changed in the same way. Instead, she had become ever surer of her original position. She had started out thinking of abortion as wrong. She now thought of it as a holocaust, the deliberate slaughter of children, no different from taking a sword to a football stadium full of infants in their high chairs and hacking away at them until they were nothing but pieces of flesh and oceans of blood on the ground.
She went through the front doors and into the church's vestibule. She went through the vestibule and into the church itself. Chickie was up near the front, fussing with what seemed to be a bouquet of flowers too large for the vase he had put it in. Gladiolas, Mary thought irrelevantly. Then she went up to the front.
“Chickie?”
Chickie turned around. When he wasn't pulling his fullblast act, he was an incredibly handsome man, slight and straight, with a face that looked as if God had revised it over and over again until it had reached perfection. Sometimes Mary wanted to grab him and say:
see what you are? see what you are? don't playact the way you do
. But of course it was impossible. As soon as he knew she was looking at him, he took it all back on again, the swish, the exaggeration. Mary sighed a little.
see what you are? see what you are? don't playact the way you do
. But of course it was impossible. As soon as he knew she was looking at him, he took it all back on again, the swish, the exaggeration. Mary sighed a little.
“Duckie,” he said. “How are you? I'm having the
most
awful time with these flowers.”
most
awful time with these flowers.”
“They're beautiful. I think you need a bigger vase.”
“I may need one, duckie, but I'm not going to get one. These were given by Mrs. Van De Kamp. It's her vase. And
you know nobody around this place is ever going to offend Mrs. Van De Kamp.”
you know nobody around this place is ever going to offend Mrs. Van De Kamp.”
“Maybe you could take out a couple and put them to the side or something.”
“Maybe I could. Although I wouldn't put it past the old cow to come and sit in a front pew and count the things. What's up with you, duckie? You look absolutely miserable.”
“I am absolutely miserable. Don't ask me for real reasons, though. I don't have any. I just seem to be in a worse and worse mood lately.”
“Is it all that fuss across the street?”
“With Marty and Bernadette? That didn't help, I suppose. But no. Not really. I'm justâout of sorts, I guess. Not satisfied with anything.”
“Maybe it's time for your fifteen minutes of fame.”
“I'll skip that, if you don't mind. I can't think of anything I'd like less than being famous. That will stand up on its own now if you'll let it.”
Chickie stepped away from the vase. It stood up on its own. “I suppose I shouldn't tamper with it. It isn't up to my usual standard, though. Gladiolas are such a perfect flower. Do you know they come in autumn orange with black streaks, like tigers? Why do people like Mrs. Van De Kamp always have to buy pink?”
“Maybe she likes pink.”
“All her taste is in her mouth, duckie, and she hasn't got much there. Last potluck, she brought a green bean casserole made with cream of mushroom soup. I nearly died.”
“Don't die. Make me some coffee and help me feel like there's some point in going to class this afternoon.”
Chickie walked around the flowers one more time, sighed, and stepped back again. “I suppose there's nothing else to do here. It's a shame, though. The people who have money never seem to have the faintest idea what to do with it.”
The was a small door at the back of the church that opened onto the courtyard. The rectory was just across the miniature quadrangle, and made of stone just like the church was. St. Stephen's always reminded Mary of a college, one of those ritzy little places the children of rich people went if they didn't want to enter the fray at Harvard. She let Chickie lead her through the passageways in the rectory to his office and settle
her in a big wing chair. Then she settled back and watched him get her coffee. Chickie always made real coffee. He did not use instant, or freeze-dried, or even those little coffee bags they sometimes gave out at the university cafeteria. He had a grinder right there next to his desk, and four different kinds of roast in bags beside it, and a real percolator with a glass bubble on top so that you would know when the coffee started to bubble.
her in a big wing chair. Then she settled back and watched him get her coffee. Chickie always made real coffee. He did not use instant, or freeze-dried, or even those little coffee bags they sometimes gave out at the university cafeteria. He had a grinder right there next to his desk, and four different kinds of roast in bags beside it, and a real percolator with a glass bubble on top so that you would know when the coffee started to bubble.
“So,” he said, “I hope this isn't about what's-his-name, the boyfriend.”
“Ned.”
“Ned. What a name. Ned. I hope you've been listening to your Uncle Chickie, though, and not letting yourself get talked into anything you don't want to do. You have, haven't you? Because it's like I told you, I've let myself get talked into enough sex I wasn't interested in having to know by now thatâ”
“No, no, it's nothing like that.”
“He hasn't beenâpressing?”
“Well,” Mary said, “he's always pressing, to one degree or another. But nothing unusual. No, it's not that. I'm just all messed up lately, that's all. I don't seem to be satisfied with anything. And then there's something going on over at the church. My church. I don't know what it is, but I can feel it in the air. Do you know how that goes?”
Chickie nodded, the mask momentarily gone. A second later, it was back. “Yes, I do,” he said. “It's happening here, too. Dan Burdock has got some kind of bee up his assâexcuse me. I don't remember where I am sometimes.”
“It's all right.”
“I hate being out of the gossip. I'm never out of the gossip. All I can think is that Dan is the only one who knows, and he's not saying anything.”
“Do you think they could be connected? What's going on over there and what's going on over here? I don't see how they could be.”
“Maybe it has something to do with the pray-in,” Chickie said. “Rick Luca had this idea that we should all dress up in prom gowns and go over there and pray in with you, but I don't think Dan is going to stand for it.”
Mary bit her lip.
“What?” Chickie said. “You think that's funny? Let me tell you, I'd look worlds better in a prom gown than that cow who was queen my senior year in high school. I mean, I know mammary glands are supposed to be attractive on a woman, but there really is such a thing as overdoing it.”
Mary laughed. “Not something I've ever had to worry about.”
“Listen, duckie, you've got the kind of body that would look perfect in Balenciaga. Don't knock it. Do you want a whole cup of this stuff or only half? I made it a little strong.”
“A whole cup. The thing is, though, the pray-in may be part of it. Part of what's going on, I mean. Because there isn't going to be one this year.”
Chickie put the coffee cup down on the little round table next to Mary's chair and raised his eyes to heaven. “It's a miracle! God has answered me! The heavens have opened, and a voice has come from the cloudsâ”
“Oh, hush,” Mary said. “No voice came from the clouds. It came from the chancery. Or at least that's what I heard. The Cardinal Archbishop put his foot down. No pray-in this year. No pray-in ever again.”
“The son of a bitch, really? Excuse me again. There I goâ”
“It's okay, really. You should hear some of the things Ned says.”
“Well, if he says them around you, he's a clod. And don't think I don't mean it.”
He did mean it. The mask was gone again, lickety-split, and back just as quickly. Mary drank more coffee. Sometimes she wondered if Chickie had friends far closer to him than she was, with whom he could drop the mask for hours at a time. It frightened her to think that he might never drop the mask except when he was alone. It said something about his life that she did not want to look at.
“You know,” she said, “I think it might have been Sister Scholastica. The new principal over at the school. She just hated the idea of that pray-in, the first time she heard about it. And she's not like Sister Harriet Garrity. She's still in a habit. She's very traditional, really. People have to take her seriously.”
“I take Sister Harriet Garrity seriously. I won't tell you as what.”
“Well, everybody takes her seriously as that. But it's true, you know. Nobody would listen to Sister Harriet about the pray-in because, you know, what would you expect her to say. And she doesn't have the Church's interests at heart. But Sister Scholastica is so committed, really, and soâI don't know. Mainstream, I guess. So the Cardinal listens to her. Sort of. Do you suppose, if there's no pray-in, Reverend Phipps will come anyway?”
“He will if he knows there's a television camera in the vicinity.”
“Mmmm.” Mary stood up. The coffee in her cup was gone. The way she felt, she wouldn't need another for a week. Chickie had been right to say he'd made the stuff very strong. Mary stretched a little and got her bag from the floor. “I'd better go. Thanks a lot, Chickie. I needed to be cheered up. I've got Intellectual History of the Middle Ages this afternoon. It makes my head ache.”
“It would make my head ache, too. Are you sure you're all right?”
“I'm fine. Really. I hope you are. You've been looking very tired these last couple of weeks.”
“I've been thinking. It wears me out. But you take my advice, you hear me? Never go to bed with anybody unless you really, really want to. Don't do it just because you feel sorry for this Ned person. Especially don't do it because you feel sorry for this Ned person.”
“I promise to wear my largest and bluest Miraculous Medal every time Ned and I are out on a date. Thanks again, Chickie. I'll talk to you on Saturday.”
“Drive carefully.”
“I'm not driving. I took the bus.”
Out in the courtyard, the day seemed to have gotten darker, and colder, and to have begun to verge on wet. Mary cut diagonally across the quadrangle and went out the side gate. Then she went around the front of the church and crossed the street so that she could go into St. Anselm's. At this time of day, there was no Mass. The next Mass would be at twelve o'clock. She had already been to Mass, and to Communion, at seven. Now it occurred to her that she might not have been right to go to Communion at all. She was feeling soâdeadâinside these days. Her praying wasn't doing her any good. She
spent a lot of time at Mass just daydreaming, and then when she came to she couldn't remember what she had been daydreaming about. Surely there was something about all that that rendered herâunfitâfor Communion?
spent a lot of time at Mass just daydreaming, and then when she came to she couldn't remember what she had been daydreaming about. Surely there was something about all that that rendered herâunfitâfor Communion?
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