Page 2 of Vespertine
He reached for the alb and began to pull it on.
“Cleanse me, O Lord, and purify my heartthat being made white in the blood of the Lamb I may have the fruition ofeverlasting joy.”
He reached for the cincture and wrapped it around hiswaist.
“Gird me, O Lord, with the girdle ofpurity and extinguish in my loins the desires of lust so that the virtue ofcontinence and chastity may ever abide within me.”
Jasper took the maniple in hand and reverently brought it tohis lips, the embroidered band of silk smooth against his mouth.
“May I be worthy, O Lord, so to bear themaniple of tears and sorrow: that with joy I may receive the reward of mylabor.”
He wrapped the stole around his shoulders.
“Restore to me, O Lord, the stole ofimmortality, which I lost by the transgression of the first parent: andalthough unworthy, as I draw near to Thy sacred mystery, may I be found worthyof everlasting joy.”
Jasper found himself sinking into a deeper peace when hefinally touched his fingertips to the chasuble. Vaguely aware Andrew hadalready left to oversee the choir and altar servers, Jasper closed his eyes andput the long garment on over his clothes. The sleeves brushed his fingertips asit settled into place. His voice came rough and far away and he swayed a littleon his feet.
“O Lord, Who hast said: ‘My yoke is easyand My burden is light’ make me able to bear it, that I may obtain Thy favor.Amen.”
The blood in his veins warmed, and the light behind hiseyelids brightened. Humbled and enlightened at once, he kept his eyes closedfor a moment longer, lingering in the presence of God. He was always there, butin this moment He felt closer than usual, almost as if Jasper could reach outand touch Him. Not that he’d ever be presumptuous enough to try, but that didn’tmean he couldn’t allow himself to bask in the possibility for just a littlelonger. Secretly he’d always been of the opinion that the rituals inCatholicism held a certain pagan tone, and he loved it.
Make me strong. Give me what I need to be a better priest; abetter servant. Guide me to the path You want me to take, O Lord.
A wave of goosebumps ran over his entire body, from hisfingertips up his arms, over his shoulders and down his back, until the hairson his calves rose and he shuddered lightly. Jasper opened his eyes and grinneda little.
“Showtime,” he whispered.
“Five minutes until showtime.”
It was hard to hear their manager’s words over the rhythmicstomping feet, clapping hands, and escalating cheers of the waiting audience.Nicky sat hunched on the floor in front of a glass coffee table covered withcocaine. His bandmates, Sez and Mick, knelt on the floor too, pushing razorblades around, playing with the powder.
“Did you hear me? Five minutes? Hey, Nico, wake the fuck up!”
“He’s awake,” Ramona, their drummer, called back. She sat ata wide, brightly lit vanity and mirror putting final touches on her face.
“He doesn’t look awake. He’s just staring into space like alunatic.”
She glared. “Leave Nico the fuck alone, Harry.”
The dressing room door slammed shut and Harry’s ugly, oilyface vanished behind it, leaving them to contemplate the nebulous roar of theiradoring fans.
Nicky hated the noise.
Early on, it’d been a rush better than any other to standbackstage when the lights went down. The thrum of thousands of strangersbeating out their need, their lust for Vespertine’s music had sent him sailingwild and high on vindication and a fevered hope. Being Nico back then had beenall he wanted to be. It was better than being Nicky. As Nico he had power. Nicocould bring people to their knees. Nico could change things.
He’d sustained a fantasy that his lyrics, screamed out bySez every show, would fly out into the night and find their way back to Maine,back to Jazz’s heart. Their sharpness would tear at his ex-lover until,defeated and sorry, Jazz would show up at some random auditorium on his kneesbegging, needing, wanting Nicky the way the audience did. The way he had before.It’d been a heady, stupid, youthful dream. Nicky hadn’t needed coke or herointo get through a day back then.
Things change.
Over the years, the audience’s call became a visceralinvasion. The steady beat pulsed against his skin, rattling his guts and bone.It made him itchy, twitchy, flighty. At age thirty-four-going-on-sixty, thereality that Jazz was never going to come back to him had settled in long ago.It hurt like a soul-burn, constant and steady, and as with the screams of thecrowd, he closed his eyes and huddled down deep inside himself, trying to numbit out, to drive it away.
“Showtime,” Ramona said. She ran her hands over herclose-cropped, fuzzy hair and double-checked herself in the mirror again,obviously pleased with her glossy red lipstick and shiny purple eyeshadow. “C’mon,boys. Snort your shit and let’s go.”
From his place on the floor, Nicky watched her grab herlucky sticks from her giant purple purse. Then he turned back to the glasscoffee table. It was still covered with small mountains of white powder and satout in the middle of the room presumably for the sole purpose of cutting up andsnorting blow. He wished it would somehow vanish. That it would just go thefuck away.
Ramona gave them all a stern once-over. “Don’t fuck it upout there, assholes.”
No one replied. The coke commanded Sez and Mick’s attentionas they cut and snorted, then snorted again.
