24: Under the watch of Saint Christopher

The Lady is irritable.  She has had a complicated week.  She has had a complicated life.  The Lady is in her 30’s, but is older than the sum of her years.  Her face is tanned and aged.  Her heels are high, but her neckline is low.  She wears tight jeans with the cuffs folded up half the length of her shins.  She has a vest on and a shirt which shows off her shoulders and cleavage; her right arm is nearly sleeved with ink.  Her heels clack loudly on the travertine steps leading up to the forecourt at Saint Christopher’s.  The plaza is a great rectangle, nearly half a block long.  And in the middle is a great, rectangular reflecting pool, with a short seat-wall about its perimeter.  The end of the space is anchored by the ornate façade of the church, busy with filigree and niches housing lesser saints.  Chief over them all, centered on the building, a 20-foot tall Saint Christopher stands watch over the scene, the cool shine of the waters illuminating his marbled form with an ethereal azure glow. 

The Lady sits next to the pool and rifles through her purse for a cigarette and finds that she has none.  “Crap!”  The Lady examines the façade of the church, but finds no solace in the myriad spiritual codes engraved there.  From where she is seated, she can see the underside of one of the deep entry arches, painted vividly with panels from the life of the church’s patron.  One shows the saint learning at the feet of a wild-haired hermit, another illustrates his crossing a river with a holy child upon his shoulders, and yet another depicts Saint Christopher as a giant with the head of a dog.  The Lady fidgets anxiously.  The codes hidden within the images are arcane and unsettling to her.  She is startled when a figure steps from within the shadow of the archway.

The Figure is wearing a denim jacket with thick wool lining; a black hoodie hides the face, but the Lady recognizes who it is anyway.

“It’s about time,” she says.  The Figure is wearing thick-soled work boots which make no sound whatsoever on the travertine pavers.  “You have a smoke?” the Lady asks.

The Figure opens a gloved hand; within is a single cigarette.  The Lady takes the cigarette and the Figure in the wool coat lights it for her with a long-stemmed fireplace starter.

“Thanks for meeting me.  I just needed to talk, and I didn’t really feel like talking in Group . . . I think I’m going to lose my job again,” the Lady says, “Or rather, I think I need to quit my job again.”    She takes a forceful drag on the cigarette.  If it is possible to smoke angrily, then this is exactly what the Lady is doing.  “Yeah, yeah, I know – same old story, right?  I can’t help it, ok?!  Yes!  Yes, I slept with my boss – again!  And yes, it screwed everything up – again!”  The Lady stands and paces back and forth beside the luminous pool, puffing in smoke like a bookie at half-time.  “I can’t stop.  That’s all there is to it; it’s just that simple.  I’ve done all of the steps, you know that.  I’ve done ‘em, and done ‘em, and done ‘em.  It’s just not stickin’.”  The Lady considers her life situation, “You know what’s so funny?  Growing up, Madonna always told me that my sex was power, my girl-power.  So how come now I don’t feel powerful?  How come, actually I feel totally power-less?”  The Figure rubs her shoulder.  “I think I’m going to lose my apartment, too,” the Lady sighs, “Man, I’m tired all of a sudden. . . You know, I think Will was my true love.  But I couldn’t give him what he wanted.  First he wanted a woman with the body of a girl.  And then he wanted a girl with the body of a woman.”  An unpleasant thought occurs to the Lady and she looks down at her own breasts, “You know these are fake, right?  Fakity-fakey-fake.  I thought if I got them, I would be more powerful, get more men, all that.  Well,” she chuckles, “I was half right.  So underneath is a bag of silicone, and out here – out here is the rest of the world, and this part right here,” The Lady touches the top of one of her breasts, “This little sliver of skin, this little quarter inch of flesh?  Well, that’s me.  Ya see, I’m paper thin, see, just paper thin:  big-fake underneath, big-nothing out here, and little me in the middle, almost non-existent.  Hold me up to the light – I’m just paper thin.  Paper thin.”  The Lady puts rubs her temples and sits again on the short, white wall.  Ooh, I need to settle down.  My head is swimming.”  The Figure sits beside her.  The Lady begins to cry.  “I’m beginning to not believe that things can ever be different.  I’ve been working the Program so long now.  I’m so tired.  I’m tired of sleeping with people that will never know who I am.” Through her sniffles, the Lady looks at the Figure, and asks, “What if I can’t be fixed?”

The Lady is groggy now.  She is in more of a stupor than she even realizes.  She finishes her smoke and drops the butt onto the pristine floor, crushing it with the sharp point toe of a flashy shoe.  The Figure stands up and pulls a large, white something from within the denim coat.  The Figure drapes a linen garment over the head of the Lady.  The Lady chuckles in amused confusion, “Hey man, what is this?  Is it dress-up time?  Ooh la la.”  Her eyes are heavy, her tongue slow and thick as the Figure steps over the low seat wall and into the pool, breaking the placid plane of the waters.  “What are you doing?” the Lady asks, “What are you playing at?  This is a church.  Get outta there.”  The Figure grabs the Lady forcefully by the shoulders.  The Lady, surprised, attempts to swat the grip away and is surprised to find that she is weakened to the point of helplessness.  The Figure drags the Lady’s limp form into the shallow waters.  “No,” the Lady protests weakly, “No.  I don’t like this game.”  She fights futilely, a kitten in a sack.

The Figure arranges the Lady so that she is aligned with the Great Saint, her head facing his monumental outstretched arms.  “Wait, wait.” the Lady breathes out.  The Lady reaches up and touches the Figure’s face, and in barely a whisper, pleads, “You still love me, don’t you?  You do.  You still love me.  I know you . . .” The Lady’s supplications succumb to Saint Christopher’s holy waters as she is pushed gently down beneath their surface.  The Lady flails feebly, but not for long.  Tiny splashes lapping the walls are all that is heard throughout the plaza.  Forgetful ripples emanate concentrically away from the drowning, until shortly they subside and all is still again.  A vault of sacred silence falls over the plaza.

The Figure lifts the Lady so that her shoulders rest on the curb and stretches out the Lady’s arms, arranging her just so.  The Figure stabs a scalpel into the Lady’s breast and a cocktail of blood and silicone issue forth.  The Figure dips two fingers into the trail of blood and inscribes a large letter A across the wet gown.

The Figure steps slowly out of the pool and retrieves a satchel filled to capacity with tea lights.  Water streams from the soaked pants and boots across the beautiful plaza floor. The Figure takes a seat, and with the long lighter, patiently lights the tiny candles one-by-one, setting each puck afloat about the grand pool, until the now-dead body of Susan Campbell is bathed in a constellation of divine lights.